BLOGS

of my novels Immortal & Immortal II: The Time of Legend! Yes fam I'm still hyped about it -:). http://www.charlessaunderswriter.com/

Click "Recommended" and then "Immortality."

Shabu-Bakmen walked along the palace grounds, hands clasped behind his back. As usual of late he was not happy. He passed through the royal grounds casting an eye to a gardener who jumped at his sudden appearance. His brow furrowed at the man’s actions. The whole palace behaved this way now. From the administrators to the servants, everyone was nervous and on edge. It was really quite difficult to get anyone to remain on the premises for the past nineteen years—at least not of their own will. That was how long it had been since Akhita had come to power.

He looked down to the hawk insignia emblazoned upon the armor that covered his chest. The sign of a Maak: a guardian of the Royal Household. He had taken up the position as a young man, serving the old king whom he as well counted a friend. For the better part of that time he had his duties immensely. He enjoyed anything he was good at.

He was at one time one of the best swordsmen in the kingdom. An expert weapons master and guardian, he had risen quickly through the ranks. Appointed lieutenant at a young age, it was not too much later that he earned the title of captain. He had performed so well that instead of assigning him to an irrelevant position guarding some distant relative of the royal family—as he had seen happen to so many of his colleagues as they reached his age—he was made Imjer Per-ah Nesew, Overseer of the Great Royal House.

And so while many others had left once Akhita was proclaimed queen, he remained. Who was in power did not affect the responsibilities of his position. He was honor bound by a sworn and sacred oath to protect the royal palace itself. But sometimes, when he looked to see Akhita sit upon the throne, he felt that he had in some way broken that oath. The palace was not the place it had once been.

A young man walking by him stopped abruptly, dropping a hand in salute. Tall and bronze skinned, his youthful face matched his muscular build. Shabu recognized him as Asheru, one of the more fresh recruits to the palace guards. The front of his scalp was bare and painted dark red, while his remaining hair came together in a long plaited braid that hung down to the middle of his back. It was the marking of his dedication to the local gods of his family, who came from a city far north in the Lower lands. In the thousands of years since the earliest dynasties, more peoples than could be counted had been absorbed into the kingdom—bringing their local beliefs and customs with them. All proudly named themselves citizens of Kemet, but many never completely abandoned their old ways.

“Peace be upon you, Imjer,” the man said with a deep bow. “May the life giving light of our holy father keep you in health.”

Shabu winced slightly at the greeting. It was quite common to show a man of his rank and age such respect. Still, it was disconcerting to be treated like those entering the time of the setting sun. Did he possibly look that old to those still touched by youth?

“May you also be in great peace,” he replied. “And let wisdom continue to fill your heart.”

The young man looked up, the dark eyes above his sharp nose glittering with pride. He gave a final bow and walked away, seeming quite pleased with himself.

If not for his foul mood Shabu might have laughed. He remembered when he was that young, a ripe recruit trying his best to impress those of higher rank. Such a compliment would probably have filled him with similar emotions. He supposed his graciousness was needed, if only to help lift the spirits of those under his command. In these troubled times, morale was a precious thing.

Excerpt, The Ankh of Ausar, Book 1

I was late for my sensitivity training class, two weeks after I joined a new company. It had been a while since I'd worked and was simply grateful to have a job.

I went to Human Resources to complain about the guy in the next cubicle who, even though he had been at the company for a while, he still had not grasped the idea of personal hygiene. The smell wafting from his cubicle was a mixture of homeless Vietnam vet and unwashed train-hopping hobo.

With state water rationing preventing all but the most necessary water use, at a premium price, no less, I could understand a little body odor. We all have that problem these days, but there is still a line no one working in the public should cross.

The smell got so bad one day, I had to sneak into the AC closet and turn off the air conditioning because the vent blew the stench up from his cube and down to mine. I had to give him credit, the guy always seemed to put in a twelve to fourteen hour day, so there were no complaints about his dedication.

I hadn't had a job in two years, so I wasn't about to give this one up. I had no idea when the next one might come calling. Corporate work was drying up everywhere, being shipped overseas for slave wages, sent to the 'cloud' or 'double-booked' on some poor bastard who thought he was lucky to still have a job. Today, I was prepared to be that poor bastard.

When I went to HR and complained, I was told that I was insensitive to 'Tod's special needs' and that he had a medical accommodation for his issues. So I was sent to a sensitivity training course in order to improve my awareness of his situation. Starting my ninety-day probation off with a human resources sensitivity class. Way to make a good first impression.

The only upside to this situation was the opportunity to pass a tiny bit of heaven working the desk downstairs outside of HR. Her name badge said Penny. "Hey, Penny. Which way to the sensitivity training?" I was trying to sound cool and only semi-interested. The truth was, I had been dreaming about this girl since I got here. I had only seen her once or twice, but her flame red hair, ample bosom and well-dressed derrière were hard to miss. Only a dead man couldn't find her interesting.

"Hey, Dave. It's down the hall, turn left, second door on the right. I like your tie, something new?" she inquired. I did my best to not stare down her blouse. Meaning I had a minor seizure, my eyes rolled into my head and then I pulled it together.

She noticed! "Yes it is. My nephew gave it to me as a graduation gift a few months ago, but I wanted to save it for a rainy day. Since we don't seem to have those any more, I figured I am going to this class after only a month of working here, so I guess this will do."

"You look great, don't worry about it. There has been a lot of training going on here with the recent acquisition. I'm sure its not a problem. They say this position has gone empty a couple of times a month as they hire new girls for positions upstairs. I am hoping to graduate to one of those jobs, too."

As I listened, I was simply lost in her shiny green eyes and I could barely tear myself away from her lips. Her magnificiently supple lips… "Dave? Dave, you're gonna be late."

"Right, right, thanks. I'll talk to you later," I stammered and ran off.

When I got to the classroom, I walked in and noticed the room was lit with a bright green glow from the ceiling instead of the florescent lighting used in most of the company.

"Glad you could make it, Dave. You're the last one, today." The speaker was a tall, squarely built Black man with a set of thick, but well groomed dreadlocks. His face was sharp and angular, and he had a penetrating stare that fixed on me for a long second. Then he lidded his eyes like a serpent might, it was just the angle of his head that shifted and for a moment I felt like a mouse confronting a snake.

He came to meet me at the door and shook my hand. He smelled of cinnamon and other spices like a pumpkin pie. The smell made me want to sneeze and before I knew what happened, I turned away, covered my nose and sneezed, really hard. He had not let go of my hand yet and when I sneezed, his grip on me tightened and he breathed out a subtle, whispering sigh. He then let my hand go and turned back toward the room. He had a huge smile on his face and his teeth gleamed in the green light.

The strange lighting in the room which at first seemed a little too green and a little too bright, seemed less of a problem after I opened my eyes from my very juicy and uncomfortable sneeze. I found my handkerchief, cleaned myself up and sat down to read through the boring pamphlets about social tolerance and cultural acceptance.

The speaker, one Dr. Mbenga wore a mixture of modern clothing and some kind of tribal acccents. His shirt was long sleeved but of a dark fabric, I couldn't place. There was a long colorful sash he wore over one shoulder which drapped nearly to the floor. He moved around the room with a smooth gate and a stylish flourish while he lectured. His shoes appeared to be made of leather but had an unusual grass-like sole. He seemed a decent fellow, but his accent was so thick sometimes, I could barely understand him. This only added to the surreal never-ending quality of our first lecture with him.

This first day, the training was done in the evening and after two hours, we were allowed to go home. He mentioned we would have some exercises the next two days and the last day was an all day session. A sigh eminated collectively from the participants as the realization of the last day being the longest. We filed out like men condemned to a firing squad, heads hung low, backs bowed. Penny was already gone, but the smell of her perfume lingered and stood out over the BO of whichever of my unwashed colleagues had left after she did.

When I got home, my cat and dog were thrilled to see me, and after taking Max, my German Shepard, for a walk, Mini, my Maine Coon curled up in my lap for another great evening of TV dinners and Law and Order. I was kind of peckish though and had another TV dinner and a pint of Ben and Jerry's afterward. Before I went to sleep, I saw a stock report on the news about a relatively new company providing green lighting to businesses. This new lighting could store energy from the sun and transmit it inside of buildings, for no costs. Rancol Incorporated had just split its stock, making its shareholders even richer. The only drawback was its slightly greenish tint that workers said they hardly noticed after a time. The age of florescent light appeared to be at an end. I thought I should get some stock in this company. I would call my broker in the morning.

My sleep was rough and uneven. I had the strangest dreams as well. Something to do with eating some food that I was not particularly fond of but my father kept telling me to eat it. He was the law when I was a kid, so ate it I did. I remember fighting the food down, nearly gagging on every bite. I just remember shoveling one mouthful after another until it was gone. Then to punish me futher, he would have me clean up after dinner and my dream completed our ritual. It felt like hours, but my rest seemed to have only been a few seconds. I woke exhausted and in a cold sweat but a hot shower soon fixed that.

I took Max for his morning walk but he seemed skittish and unhappy and when I came back and filled Mini's dish he did not come running. Maine Coons take meal time very seriously. Something about needing to maintain that bulk being one of the biggest housecats known to man. I figured he was under the bed or hiding in a closet, as is his habit some mornings. I simply didn't have time to deal with him. Mini understood if he didn't eat in time, Max would have two breakfasts that morning.

I rushed to get dressed because I knew I was going to have to deal with doing my job and another half day of sensitivity training, so I knew I needed to be on time. Before I could even finish getting dressed, I was racked with abdominal pain like I had known only once. As a kid my appendix ruptured during a football game. All I remember was the screaming and the white-hot poker tearing through my side. This was worse than that. Through all the pain was the urge to go to the bathroom.

There are no words for happened next. I kept flushing and filling the bowl. Only after the fourth flush did the stabbing pain subside. When I looked in the bowl, there was blood everywhere. But the pain subsided almost as if it never happened. I took a shower, cleaned up. I got ready to call a doctor but by the time I was dressed, for the second time, I felt great and except for my missing cat and the queer looks from the old couple next door, I had never felt so energized. I threw away all of the remaining TV dinners from my fridge. Never eating another one of those things ever again.

The next day of sensitivity training had half as many people as the day before. We started with ten and were down to five. When I asked what happened to the others Dr. Mbenga gave me some smooth and plausible sounding answer and though I thought I wanted to argue, once he had said it, the urge to argue passed. Today, I had less difficulty understanding him, he seemed to be making a greater effort to enunciate. Perhaps someone had talked to HR and told him to speak slower and clearer. I was bored out of my mind by lunch and though we were told these exercises were important, I could barely see why. He had drawn a number of formulas on the board, something about statistical variability and cultural dispersion on the planet, blah, blah, blah. Lunch could not come soon enough.

"Hi, Penny," I was so happy to be anywhere besides that room.

"Hi Dave," was her morose reply. My goddess of cheer and sunshine was less than happy. This could not be.

"What's the matter? my curiosity overcoming my good sense.

"I am getting a transfer tomorrow. I will be going upstairs."

"Uh, I thought you would be happy, isn't that what you wanted?"

"Yes, but I..." she stuttered. "I was hoping I would get to see you before I went upstairs. They said I would be leaving here first thing in the morning, so I have to pack up this afternoon."

"Do you want to have lunch?"

"Yes," was her timid reply. But I was on top of the world.

"Let me do one more thing. See that exec over there, the one with the red tie clip? I was typing something for him and I want to make sure he gets it."

As the executive was moving down the hallway, most of the workers shied away from him, making every effort not to look at him and shuffled off as quickly as possible. Penny handed him the sheaf of papers, and he gave her a completely lecherous stare. His eyes all but undressed her, folded her clothing and proceeded to tie her to his office chair. Sensitivity training? Here was a guy who obviously had not been invited yet. As he grew closer, I felt a bit sick, but Penny ran ahead of him and grabbed my arm on the way out.

Needless to say, lunch was great. It was Penny's favorite restaurant so I would have eaten there no matter how I felt. I thought I wasn't going to have much of an appetite after this morning but by lunchtime, I'd changed my mind about eating. Under normal circumstances this place would have made me just shy of nauseous but today I was a beast. I ate a steak sandwich, slathered in onions and cheese and whatever other sundries they could pile on top. Then I ate two more. Penny had a healthy appetite, a hearty laugh and we enjoyed lunch like two old friends who hadn't seen each other in ages; and had starved the whole time. Outside the office, our mutual awkwardness was gone. We rushed back to the office and she ran back to her desk but she gave me a hug and a peck on the cheek. I covered my excitement with my briefcase until I could make it back to my seat.

There was more boring lecturing around social sensitivity to the disabled but I was listening more intently to Dr. Mbenga's voice. There was a transcendental quality to it, as if he was speaking directly to my soul. While what he was talking about had no substance, or perhaps I just didn't give a damn, the sound of it moved me, choked me up and I every word was sheer rapture. The rest of the afternoon sped by.

Penny was gone again when I was leaving but it was less traumatizing than yesterday. I had been able to spend a whole hour with her at lunch. Magnificent. I had to stop to get something to eat on the way home and I stopped into this dive, a place I normally can't even stand the smell of normally but I was just so damn hungry. I don't remember anything about the food other than the quantity of it. It seemed as if I could not get enough. There was something on the news about some outbreak, probably a flu or something. I couldn't concentrate on it so I quickly finished and rushed home.

When I got there, Max was positively ballistic. It took me twenty minutes to calm him down enough to get him on his leash. He ran around the apartment, jumping away from me as if he didn't recognize me. I wasn't feeling all that well, so this whole meltdown was the last thing I wanted to be bothered with. I was certain I was running a bit of a fever and wondered if I had overdone lunch and dinner. I was beginning to think maybe a call to a doctor might not be a bad idea. I sat down hoping it would give Max some time to calm down. After an hour, I felt like I might be able to complete a walk. Max had come and lay down next to me, eyeing me as if I was someone he wasn't sure he knew. I moved gingerly and gathered his leash and then led him to the door.

Once we got outside the building, he pulled at the leash as if he were trying to get away. I pulled back and tried to shorten the leash. As I gathered it, I took my eye off of him. In that moment, he bit my hand and ran away, faster than I had ever seen him run. I took off after him but after only a few seconds realized he was a dog and I was never going to catch him. I went in and bandaged my hand.

I am a bit of a wimp when it comes to alcohol application during any kind of personal first aid. Strangely enough, though the initial bite was painful, the alcohol didn't bother me at all. WebMD said I should see a doctor, in case of rabies, but I figured since Max was my dog, rabies wasn't likely, with him having had all of his shots. Surely it could wait until tomorrow after work.

The next morning I felt positively awful. I was sluggish and sick and thought I might be hung over, until I remembered, I had not had a drop to drink. Then I thought, it's that flu. Suddenly I was overcome with the urge to vomit and before I could take a step, I did, everywhere. It seemed like it would never stop, but finally it did. I went to the phone to call in and tell them I wasn't coming to work, but they put me on hold.

It felt as if my world was covered in a fog, the entire room was blurred, hazy, and indistinct. The room smelled atrocious, like someone had died right in my house. As the scent registered to my brainstem, I almost dropped the phone.

Dr. Mbenga's voice cut through the fog and fuzz in my head as clear as the first sunrise after a six month Alaskan night. "Clean up dat mess, take a shower, put on some clean clothes, and bring a change of clothes with you in your gym bag. Bring your ass to work."

And just like that, I was able to clean up the vomit, shine the floors, iron a shirt and slacks, pack a gym bag and head off to work in record time. Halfway to work, the energy faded and I felt myself slowing down. Puking up one's guts is likely to be hard work so, maybe that why I was suddenly wasted. The train ride seemed interminable, every second stretching off into infinity.

I realized I was at the halfway point before I started feeling better. Suddenly I was hungry. Normally, riding the subway was a total appetite killer, the crowds, the noise, the stench, but today all I could smell was pork chops. My stop came and I got off the train and went upstairs into our office building. I kept smelling pork chops all the way into the building. I figured there was someone who worked in my office who was bringing in their chops from last night's dinner. Lucky bastard, they smelled outstanding.

When I got upstairs to the meeting hall, the good doctor Mbenga escorted me to a smaller conference room on the same floor. Sadly Penny was nowhere to be found. I missed her already. He took me into the conference room and sat me down. His outfit was his traditional Black, with a white sash around his waist. He wore a silver ring with a large skull, each eye filled with modest-sized diamonds. I had never noticed it before. "Wait here, someone will be here shortly," his voice, I could easily liken it unto a heavenly choir, reverberated within me and I could nothing but obey. I sat. He placed his hand upon my head and I felt myself fall into a deep slumber.

When I woke, I knew a hunger unlike anything I had ever felt before. Hours passed, each one more excruciating then the last. I looked up and noticed the Roncol light was on and it had been very bright. It was so bright, how could I have missed it until now. Then I realized why I hadn't been aware of it. It was getting dimmer. The softer the light grew, the stronger my hunger became.

I called out. I shook the doorknob. I banged on the door. No one came. The hours passed. By the fourth hour, I had turned over the chairs. I used them to bang on the doors. I could barely make sense of what was happening. Imagine your favorite piece of music turned to the highest volume you could stand. And then double it. This was my hunger. I screamed myself hoarse. No one came.

I threw myself at the door, again and again. My body, now bloody smacked wetly against it. My pain momentarily overcame my hunger.

I sat down in a corner and waited. I rocked back and forth, my movement had become the heartbeat I could no longer feel in my chest. Then I heard the click of a key. I wanted to rise and did so with a snarl, the remnant of my voice. A light seared its way into my febrile brain and along with it a primal wave of fear, a desire to be anywhere in that moment but there. In the silhouette of the terrible light was a female shape but it was a man I heard.

"Wait here, Penny," said the voice of the lecherous executive from yesterday, and the light, that terrible light, I had to shield my eyes -- came from his tie clip. I wanted desperately to claw my way through the wall to escape.

"It stinks in here," was her reply.

She was pushed into the room and the door closed behind her. With the lights out and the terrible glare from his tie-clip gone, I could almost think again. But I was hungry. Maddeningly hungry, crazed with hunger. Pork, pork, pork, it's all I could think about. Make it stop, make it stop, make it stop. Penny heard me groan, and came toward me.

I knew what would make the hunger stop.

"Dave, is that you?"

"Yes, Penny. And you smell so, so... good."

Thaddeus Howze © 2010, All Rights Reserved

The Chandliss residence was a modest size house, 20th century traditional, with a huge acreage of lawn bordered by a white wooden fence. Beyond the immediate property lay an expansive valley of rolling grassland and tree dotted hills, striated by streams that fed into a far off lake. The house was somewhere in Kansas . Which was to say it was in the middle of nowhere. Montgomery's closest neighbor must have been leagues over one of those distant hills, because I didn't see any sign of human occupancy other than a Secret Service guard post within visual range of the house.

Montgomery and I were riding in an armored rover with a Secret Service agent the control. A swept-winged, unmanned spotter flew past us doing an overwatch. The driver veered off the main road onto a narrower path leading to the house's driveway. At the end of the driveway was a woman I recognized from pictures as Montgomery's wife.

Maureen Chandliss, like her husband, was not a regen recipient. I could tell. Anyone could. Regen treatment eliminated wrinkles, reversing the sags of age, ironing out the skin to the point where it became smooth as plastic. Maureen's youthful pallor, enhanced by a dazzling smile, was clearly the result of healthy living, aided by prize winning genes. She wore a plaid shirt and green khakis. Her gray-streaked auburn hair flowed freely past her shoulders. Montgomery was out of the vehicle the instant it came to a stop. He rushed to his wife and embraced her with a fierceness that advertised his affection to the world.

"It's about time you dropped by," Maureen teased.

Montgomery stroked her hair. "I can't stay away from your fabulous home cooking for any length of time."

"That and something else."

I don't think Montgomery's wife meant for that last inuendo to reach my ears. She put a hand to her mouth, clearing her throat before shining her attention on me. "Hello, Nola. Mont's told me all about you."

"It's an honor and a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Chandliss,"

We shook hands. Then Maureen pulled me closer. "Listen, I'm not one of those DC elitists. It's a first name basis with me."

"Yes Maam."

"And none of that maam stuff either," Maureen hooked an arm through my elbow and we both started up the walkway toward the front door. "Don't worry, we'll get you loosened up with a good meal."

"I hope you whipped up some deviled eggs," Montgomery called out from behind us.

Maureen threw me a wink. "See what I'll have to put up with after he retires?"

My boss became conspicuously silent.

Montgomery introduced me to his two sons when we entered the house. Mason, with his strong jaw and squared crew cut was the spitting image of his father in his early adult years. McIntyre, the younger sibling, was a little shorter, a bit less imposing with a softer face that took after his mother's. As I looked around the house I marvelled at its quaintness. The furnishing was mid twentieth century at the most, complete with a mantle and real fire place.Other than a projection screen in the living room and an environmental regulator mounted next to the front closet, the interior was achingly bereft of current tech. The place was a little too period peice for my taste.

"This is such a beautiful house," I said, directing my praise to Maureen. "The entire area is so scenic and peaceful. I can understand why you chose not to move to Washington."

"And I'm all the saner for it." Maureen gestured to a decadently plush sofa next to the window. "Please sit. Would you like a glass of lemonade?"

"Her lemonade is a taste of paradise," Montgomery declared heartily. "Made from fresh squeezed lemons...none of that synthetic crap."

"Mason, don't just stand there like a rock embedded in packed dirt," Maureen admonished gently. "Bring Nola a glass."

The elder son withdrew to the kitchen with an audible sigh while Maureen sat next to me on the couch. "Anyway, I work more effectively from the peace and comfort of home than in some distracting urban pressure cooker."

"What kind of work do you do?" I asked.

"She's a chemist," Montgomery answered, plopping down in a love seat across from us. "World renowned."

"So I'm told." Maureen waved the comment away. "But accolades are meaningless to me. My work is what counts. I've been designing chemical agents for use against the collabs."

"I think you'd be intersted in her research," said Montgomery. "Maureen has created some nasty airborne stuff that, under ideal climatic conditions, can wipe out the population of a small city in a matter of seconds."

A creeping chill settled over me. Evidently, Maureen was no ordinary politician's spouse.

"Our effort aginst the collabs is a family affair," Maureen revealed as Mason entered the living room and handed me a cold, clear glass of lemonade. "Mason is a Marine Recon lieutenant. He'll be departing on the expedition."

I looked up at Mason. "Is that so?"

"Yes, Maam," the Marine replied in a clear, precise voice. "I'll be shipping out with the first wave."

I turned to McIntyre, who was perched on the edge of the sofa. "How about you? Are you in the military?"

The younger brother's boyish features expanded into a dimpled smile. "No maam. I'm a graduate student studying geophysics. But I will be part of the geologic team assigned to survey the Traitor's Planet's mineral resources."

"Yeah, we clear the planet of its infestation and you worms come in behind us to loot," Mason jabbed.

"No Mason, we don't loot," came McInyre's playfully condescending reply. "We find the loot for others to take. Get that through your thick grunt skull."

While the two brothers exchanged ribbing remarks, Maureen retreated toward the kitchen shaking her head, wearing a boys-will-be-boys expression. "Come on, Nola, what say we check on the food and leave the adolescents to their antics."

I made a show of trying to hide my amusement as I followed Montgomery's wife out of the room.

Ten minutes later we were sitting at the dining room table chowing down on roast hen, dressing, mixed vegetables, biscuits, and gravy. I barely had enough room in my crowded stomach to accomodate dessert, which consisted of a warm, oozing slice of the best apple pie I had ever tasted.

Afterward, we gathered in the living room for an evening of idle chit chat that died down when Montgomery turned on the projection screen. Montgomery was a news junkie, which, I suppose he had to be, given what he did for a living. The broadcasters didn't have anything new to report beyond the ordinary. Jihadist terrorists, tacitly supported by the Caliphate, blew up a mosque full of Shiites in an embattled central Asian state. Bolivarian government forces were cracking down on separatists in the Guyana Province, and the Russian president was fending off (open secret) accusations of drug abuse and corruption. The remaining coverage focused on the hunt for suspected collabs on Earth, tying that in with the ongoing preparations to invade the so-called Traitor's Planet.

It was time for me go, for which I was glad. That ridiculously comfortable sofa was beginning to lull me into a doze. I thanked Maureen for the delicious dinner, scrumptous dessert, and the wonderful hospitality. I bid farewell to the brothers. Montgomery walked me to the rover that was going to take me to a waiting flyer. He gave a list assignments that he wanted me to tackle when I returned to Washington and sent me on my way.

"How long will he be at his home?"

"Three days, that's why I must do this now. The window is perfect."

"We wanted a more...public venue."

"Opportunity trumps desire. I have an opportunity. I'm taking it. This is my call, but I would appreciate your authorization as a formality."

"I don't know..."

"I'm going in with or without your blessing. I'm just giving you the courtesy of notifying you. Do I have your authorization?"

"Very well."

I switched off my encrypted link and blew out a slow, meditative breath. It was time.

Night in this part of Kansas was a multilayered opacity that seeped into your pores as if you were submerged in a sea of black ink. I know. I had to shut down key functions of my stealth suit after completing a drop from the cloaked suborbital pod that I used to secretly ferret myself to these coordinates. I landed softly along the bank of a creek, fifteen miles from the Chandliss residence. The approaching aerial spotter would have detected a trace signature from the conversion unit that powered my suit's night vision and mobility boosters. The suit's stealth mode operated on a separate feed that required only the tiniest tendril of energy to sustain the inversion field that made me invisible to active and passive sensors. The spotter could not detect that energy charge. I still had stealth, but at the expense of sight. And without my boosters, covering fifteen miles at a unaugmented pace, made for a comparatively slow and laborious trek. Navigating through this pitch black darkness was not as difficult as it could have been only because I had studied a topographical chart of the path I was on. That didn't mean I was nessesarily going to avoid every swell and dip. I didn't. But having a smidgeon of foreknowledge was preferrable to total ignorance any day. Just because the spotter failed to detect me didn't give me license to ignore the drone when it glided overhead like a prowling raptor. I still dropped, hugging the ground, doing my best to mimik a statue...a prone statue. Because even though the spotter could not see me directly, it would have caught sight of disturbed grass, drawing an inference that ruled out wind as a cause of the motion. Maybe it would have assumed an animal of some sort was scampering through the field. An assumption the spotter would not have neglected to investigate. I didn't chance doing anything that might draw its attention.

Each time the spotter's red running light receded in the distance I jumped to my feet and ran, maintaining an even pace to conserve energy. It seemed like I had been on the move for hours. But when I came upon the structure that resembled a giant, antiquated outhouse, I realized how close to the objective I actually was. I unholstered my Visionary 26 auto pistol and skulked like a panther toward the Secret Service guard post. My eyes were adjusted to the dark well enough to spot a guard approaching the post building. He must have been on foot patrol. Had he noticed me, he would have transmitted and a rapid response element from a nearby location--I didn't know where--would have pounced on me like a tsunami. That is if didn't he killed me first. It was a simple matter of making sure the guard didn't see me. I advanced quickly, raised my pistol and placed pressure on the trigger. The pistol recoiled gently. A kularium tipped spike hissed from its narrow barrel, drilling through the guard's head with a muted thunk. The guard's body barely hit the ground when I sprinted to the post building and kicked the door in.

Three guards, sitting at consoles turned in my direction, stunned. My V26 whispered before they could react. I shot each guard once in the body. Then I shot each one a second time, a spike per head for good measure. I rushed to the nearest guard, pulled his corpse out of his chair and stood over a blood-smeared console. I knew the guard post procedures. The guards worked in rotations, sending a signal to the spotter, letting the machine know that all was secure at the post. A signal was supposed to be sent every fifteen minutes. Failure to transmit at the appointed time would alert the drone that something was amiss. The drone would then alert that rapid response element that I had absolutely no desire to confront. I tapped the right keys on the signal transmit panel. Then I did something extra. I inputted a command, ordering the spotter to do a patrol sweep for suspicious activity 25 miles to the north. Opposite of where I was heading. After that I proceeded to deactivate every security sensor surrounding the Chandliss estate. A gridded console screen displayed white blips, indicating where each sensor was located. There must have been over a thousand of the detectors, all buried maybe an inch or two beneath the ground. The blips went dark like fading stars, clearing me to step foot on the Chandliss' property without triggering an alarm.

I departed the guard post and double timed it toward toward the objective.

A rover was parked in front of the house. I turned on my night vision, adjusting it to the lowest setting. Two secret service guards sat in the vehicle. Immediately, I shut down the NV before its faint power output could be picked up by the spotter. I waited a moment for my eyes to readjust to the darkness. Then I moved, making a beeline toward the vehicle. I edged toward the driver's side, squatting down until I reached the driver's side window. I popped up, stuck my pistol through the open window and blasted a hole through the driver's temple. The second guard flinched, made a move to reach for his sidearm. A move I interrupted with a shot that left a bloody socket where his right eye used to be. I rounded the rover and scurried to the house, leaping up the front porch. I took out a stylus and picked the antique lock, then eased the door open. The living room was dimly lit by the glow of the projection screen. Mason was lying on the sofa. He had begun to stir from his sleep, due I'm sure, to my quiet entry. He was definitely an elite soldier. Elite soldiers were light sleepers. He opened his eyes, muttered groggily, then tensed when he saw me. I raised my pistol and put him back to sleep, permanently. I raced up the stairs to the second level. I didn't scout the upper floor, but I was sure that's where the rest of the family was located. A bedroom to my left. I entered the room, heard heavy snoring and saw someone lying in a bed too small to accomodate an adult. McIntyre was obviously a restive sleeper. The bedsheet was interwined around his fetally positioned body like a giant tapeworm. It was an endearing sight. I put a spike in his head. The snoring ceased.

I slipped out of McIntyre's room at the same instant that Maureen was emerging from another bedroom at the far end of the hall. She must have been headed to the restroom. Maureen saw me and gasped. Then she let out a shriek and tried to retreat back the way she had come. I opened fire. An auto burst from my weapon cleaved a gash from her lower left waist to the upper right shoulder blade. She spun to the floor.

At that second I heard a rustle in the room Maureen came out of. "Maureen?"

Montgomery's voice. "Maureen, what's wrong?"

The door opened.

I braced myself.

Montgomery stepped out into the hall in a T shirt and pajama pants. He saw me. His body went stiff, his eyes flaring wide in astonishment. Then he looked down. The sight of his wife's blood soaked body brought him to his knees. He gripped her shoulders, lifting her into his grief stricken embrace. A heart wrenchingly pitiful cry of sorrow, punctuated by gutteral rage rippled from the depths of his soul. I had my pistol trained on him but I swear the God I could not press the trigger. A perverse sense of guilt had stayed my hand, freezing me in place. I stood there, conflicted when I shouldn't have been, feeling a strain of sentiment for a man who murdered hundreds without a thought and called for the deaths of tens of millions out of cold, unreasoning hate. But that was the inhuman part of Montgomery. There was another all too human aspect of his personality. An aspect of warmth and generosity. There was humor and laughter and concern and commitment. It was to that aspect that I felt I owed something. I decided that Montgomery should at least see the face of his executioner. I stepped forward,stopping within five feet of my former boss.

He glared up at me through tear stained, hate-filled eyes. "You son of a bitch!" He growled shakily.

I lifted my face plate and when Montgomery recognized me, his jaw unhinged. "Nola?" He shook his head, lowering his dead wife to the floor. He stood and repeated my name. "Nola? It can't be...who sent you? Whose payroll are you on? The Russians? The Caliphate? The fucking Europeans? Or is it the West African Alliance? Is General Tunde your handler?"

"None of the above," I replied softly. "My allegiance is not to any nation on Earth."

He stared at me, his eyes narrowing. "You...you're a collab?"

"Yes, Mr. Secretary. I'm a collab."

A few seconds of silence hung between us. Then Montgomery started to laugh. It wasn't his usual light hearted chuckle, but a harsh and bitter dissonance. His body heaved in a convulsion of grim merriment. "Goddamn it to hell. I'm supposed to be the fucking Secretary of Security and yet I let a fucking collab infiltrate into my staff, under my very fucking nose. How many more collab infiltrators are out there?"

"You would be surprised," I replied.

Montgomery straightened, his mouth twisting into a sneer. "Well, it doesn't matter. You people are going to die and your planet is going to burn. In a generation, you traitors to your species will be less than a footnote in the glorious march of human history. So go ahead and finish what you started. Kill me. It won't change your fate."

I pressed the trigger. Three spikes punctured Montgomery's chest, rupturing his heart. He flopped backwards hitting the floor hard. With his arms spread wide and his head lolled to one side, he looked like Jesus on the cross. I immediately shook off the association and removed an eight inch utility blade from my thigh sheath.

As I stood over Montgomery's body, I was beset by another bout of hesitation. However, this was brought about not by sentiment, but revulsion. For what I was about to do ran counter to the humanity I still clung to in spite of my chosen...profession.

But I had to act fast. The spotter would soon be returning from that goose chase I sent it on.

This was going to be difficult...

World News Network...This is Hastings Willoughby, WNN, reporting live from the residence of Cabinet member and Secretary of Security, Montgomery Chandliss. The secretary and his family were found dead at an early morning hour by a Secret Service Rapid Response element. This is a truly horrible development...Secretary Chandliss, his wife and two two sons, according to the latest update I've received, were discovered with fatal gunshot wounds...more horrific, and again, this is yet to be corroborated, but the report I'm getting is that their bodies were disembowled and their throats slashed...six Secret Secret guards were also found dead on or near the premesis...

American News Service...The manner by which the secretary and his family were killed and mutilated closely resembles the methods used by the Caliphate-backed Soldiers of Jihad, a terrorist group that has been committing a spate of atrocities in Central Asia in an effort to impose strict Wabbahist-style regimes in the region...

Global Broadcasting Company...Mamud Mansur, the emir's senior spokesperson has issued a statement denying the Caliphate's involvement in the grisly slayings of Secretary Chandliss and his family...

Washington News Circuit...this just in, a CIA (Continental Intelligence Agency) surveillance sattelite picked up a powerful burst of static on the night of Secratary Chandliss' assassination. The static, which was catalogued by the satellite's core processor and relayed to data anlaysts at Langley, was discovered to have contained a hidden carrier signal. The signal's point of destination has been determined to be somewhere in the midwestern United States. The analysts have not been able to specify an exact location. However, they were successful in tracing the signal's origin to Riyayd, Arabia, where the headquarters of the Caliphate Security Intelligence Directorate is based. It has been substantiated by reliable sources that the CSID provides training and assistence to the terrorist organization Soldiers of Jihad...

World News Network...Another world leader has fallen at the hands of assassins. Chairman Olu Alaba, leader of the West African Alliance was killed Tuesday afternoon when his motorcade was hit by portable launched missiles...

American News Service...Two simultaneous attacks by American forces were launched against the CSID headquarters in Riyadh and a suspected Soldiers of Jihad training camp in northern Turkmenistan. The Riyadh attack was orbital based in what may be, if confirmed, the first use of the newly developed Epoch orbital weapons system...

Global Broadcasting Company...Caliphate space fighters attacked an American research station on the moon an hour ago. Casualty data is still coming in, but at last count, there are over three hundred fatalities. This is truly a tragic culmination of recent events. The clamor of war drums has drowned out the reasoned voices of calm and diplomacy. The people of Earth stand helpless as two of the world's most formidable powers clash in humanity's first massive internacine conflict since the withdrawal of the Opakular.

I boarded a transcontinental unirail bound for Luanda two days after the USNF and the Caliphate went to war. By that time, the Nola Monroe that I had been in Washington had submitted her resignation to the Cabinet. The reason being her inconsolable distress over the death of her former superior and mentor. My work was done. I took my assigned window seat and withdrew an image pad from the media slot next to my arm rest. I tapped the screen to ON mode and proceeded to make my programming selection. I clicked NEWS and a talking head appeared on the screen giving the latest update on the war that I sparked.

Another passenger boarded, a tall, broad shouldered African god with a bald head and a well trimmed goatee. He moved down the aisle with a small travel bag in hand. Our eyes met in the briefest instant of contact as he headed toward a rear seat. That instant communicated volumes. He had done his part in West Africa. Taking out Chairman Alaba using a stealth missile launcher, which Alliance investigators still had not uncovered, was a much more efficient, not to mention, hands off method of neutralizing a target than the up close and personnal butchery I had to perform. I was having nightmares that invariably concluded with me on the verge of drowning in a crimson, gore-strewn lake. Having to relive night after night of that horror was rough. But framing a blood thirty terrorist orgnanization, required a bit more effort than simply fabricating an incriminating signal hidden in a static stream. The crime required a shock element so provocative as to drive the American people into a vengeful fury. Was it worth it? Well, with the USNF and the Caliphate at each other's throats and the West African Alliance riven by civil war in the wake of its leader's death, Earth was in no position to invade another world. Utopia was safe for the time being. Under the circumstances, I had no problem enduring a few restless nights to reach that outcome.

My first name really is Nola. I was born on Earth, on which I lived for the first two years of my life before my parents boarded the last evacuating transport to Utopia. We barely escaped the mass slaughter that GD24 unleashed on real or imagined collabs.

To hear it from the common person, who tended to parrot the propaganda generated by Earth historians, the Opak occupation was the most calamitous event in human history. In actuality, the period was a golden age. Make no mistake, the Opakular were conquerers in the tradtional sense. They made that plainly clear when their ships arrived in the Solar System bearing a message proclaiming their intent to establish authority over Earth. The human race could either take heed and receive the Opaks without resistence or face dire conseqences. Earth's leaders chose the dire route. It took the destruction of Earth's most powerful militaries before humanity had finally taken heed. Once the Opaks settled into their role as our overlords, they revealed another side to their character. The Opaks were intensely altruistic. It was an integral part of who they were, an element deeply ingrained in their culture. They truly believed in the concept of uplifting a species. Under the Opak's non-repressive, non-exploitative rule, humanity benefitted enormously. Wars were eliminated. Of course that was a given. A single Opak battle cruiser was an ample enough deterrant to human conflict. The miracle of Opak medical science had wiped out all diseases. Opak technology transformed deserts into lush valleys, cleansed the air of pollutants, repaired Earth's ozone layer and restored damaged ecosystems. Their climate arrays regulated the weather, moderating dangerous storm systems. Hunger and poverty vanished. Crime became practically nonexistant. The Opaks shared their altruistic philosophy with the same giving spirit that they had shared some of their technology. Many humans latched on to this philosophy, absorbing its life affirming principles. Unfortunately, there was a large cross section of humanity that continued to resent the Opak presence. That segment passed along its animus toward the aliens to successive generations. These were humans who had never come to terms with the fact that theirs was no longer the dominant species on Earth. Religious fanatics, racists, anarchists, nationalists, extremists of every stripe held tightly to their depraved allegiances, clinging with an addict's obssesion to petty, outdated grievances.

Toward the end of the third century of their occupation, the Opaks began drawing down their forces throughout the solar system. The Opaks had never been very talkative about matters regarding their empire. But there had been rumors floating about that the Opaks were at war with another species on the far side of the galaxy. That apparently explained their eventual withdrawal. Perhaps they needed to prioritize their resources. Thank God the Opaks didn't abandon their supporters before they left. They knew there would no place on Earth for collabs in their absence, not with so many reactives and regressives chomping at the bit to reclaim their planet.

Utopia is a beautiful Earth like world, positioned perfectly within its system's habitable zone. The Opaks gave us the technology to carve out a life for ourselves on this virgin planet they selected. They also gave us an arsenol. The Opaks knew that sooner or later Earth would find us and that it would dispatch forces in an effort to wipe out humanity's greatest experiment. What was the experiment? That humans could live together in mutual respect and understanding. That we could exist side by side in a spirit of love and selfless devotion. That we could resolve differences without resort to violence...that we could maintain this state of peace in the absence of alien oversight. That experiment proved a complete failure on Earth, which had already reverted to the misery that it had been prior to the Opaks' arrival. It was only a matter of time before the little brushfires of discord that arose when the Opaks left flared into a much bigger catastrophe. That eventuality would have occurred without collab instigation.

By contrast, the experiment on Utopia had been a resounding success. However, we cannot grow complacent. Despite its internal turmoil, Earth remains a clear and present threat to our way of life...to our very existence.

I was going to be sure to include that little editorial during my debrief when I returned home. I'm a weapons expert. I witnessed first hand Earth's growing military capability. Utopians simply could not make do with the weapons the Opaks rendered to us. We had to expand our armaments, produce and innovate just like the Earthers were doing. Otherwise, the next time Earth pulled itself together enough to mobilize for an invasion, Utopia would find itself at a serious disadvantage...

Good grief. Too much thinking. I needed to relax, clear my head. I turned off the image pad and put it away. I would be debarking in Luanda in four hours. From there, it was on to an isolated outback somewhere in Namibia where a stealthed shuttle awaited. After that, home.

I shut my eyes and thought about home. It wasn't long before I drifted off into the first nightmare-free slumber I had experienced in days. I dreamed about apple pie.

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Our flyer lifted off after the pilot had performed the usual checklist procedures. Montgomery nestled back in his seat, interlacing his hands behind his head.

"I take it you like what you saw?" I said, inputting a few journal notes into my palm reader.

"All that ass-kicking hardware? You better believe I liked what I saw." Montgomery's face was lit like a child who couldn't wait to get into some mischief. Except the mischief this overgrown prebubescent anticipated involved plenty of unchildlike death, mayhem, and destruction. "I'm almost bold enough to believe that the U.S.N.F. can undertake this mission unilaterally."

At my dubiously upraised brow, Montgomery quickly added, "of course, I'm exaggerating. We're definitely going to need the rest of world on this one. The nations may not agree on lot of things, but the one thing we do have a consensus on: no human regime set up by long departed alien occupiers should be allowed to stand." My boss reached for his bottled water. He was a compulsive water drinker. "The collabs will think they were hit by the hand of God by the time we're done with them."

I had a bottle of orange juice at hand. I scooped it up from my armrest holder and held it in front of me. "Hear, hear."

We clicked bottles in a celebratory toast.

We arrived in New York City an hour later. The flyer was capable of getting us there in less than ten, but Montgomery told the pilot to slow it down so he could catch a nap. He wanted to be, as the old saying went, bright-eyed and bushy tailed for the meeting of world leaders at the UN headquarters. The flyer descended toward the landing zone. I peered out my window. One of the jets in our escort maintained an undiviating vigil on the flyer's flank. Coming into view below us was the UN building. Not the building that existed before the Opaks came. No, the original UN building had been leveled by a fusion bomb some 90 years into the Occupation. In fact, so complete was the destruction that nothing remained of the building but a radioactive mound . Earth historians celebrated that act as the first blow for freedom struck by the Worldwide Liberation Front. The WLF targeted the UN building because it housed the Earth Council, a human assembly created by the Opaks to be a world government. The attack revealed a horrendous security breach. The Opaks let their guard down, thinking that all humanity had accepted their rule. Even those humans still in opposition were not considered by the Opaks to pose a dangerous threat. That error in judgement led to the deaths of thousands of humans, including every member of the Earth Council. Ninety six Opaks also perished. The Opaks rebuilt the UN headquarters in record time, erecting a shell-shaped, amber-glazed splendor out of the ashes of its predessessor. They insulated the new building beneath a security blanket so stifling a mosquito couldn't have buzzed within five miles of the surrounding air space without getting zapped. By the Opak fatalities alone, the resistence had gotten extremely lucky. They would never be that lucky again. From that day until the withdrawal, not a single Opak died at the hands of a human. And it sure as hell wasn't from lack of trying. The Opaks' overwhelming weapons/armor advantage was simply too much and too lethal for a mostly ill armed, uncoordinated rabble of amatuers to contend with. So the WLF switched to soft targets: other humans. Preferably unarmed collabs. That was the unremarkable extent of the valiant human struggle against alien occupation.

Since I had done my job of evaluating the weapons churned out by Midwest Works, I thought my boss would have no further need of me. As a result I could return to being the bottom totem poller on his staff. Wrong.

Montgomery asked me to sit in on the UN meeting. That meant I would be mingling with the high brow advisors in his circle who were accustomed to being in the presence of higher brow foreign dignitaries. Even if Montgomery's request didn't sound like a cloaked order I couldn't possibly refuse.

I took my seat with aides and advisors from other nations. We were in an elevated row, overlooking the main conference space where a huge oval table, surrounded by black cushioned chairs rested. A pair of jumbo screens took up most of the flanking wall space. The remaining walls were covered with those geometric engravings so beloved by the Opaks. There was talk of removing the engravings. In fact plans had been afoot to renovate the interior, give it a more human look. But those plans had been scuttled and a bolder, more ambitious undertaking proposed: the construction of a new headquarters. But not yet. Not until a more important bit of business was taken care of.

The leaders of Earth's great power blocs entered the conference space, heading to their assigned seats. They were all there, representing the most formidables polities on the planet. Greater Russia, which spanned half of Europe and a great chunk of Asia. The Arabian Caliphate, which claimed to represent the world's Muslims, branched out from the Arabian pensinula, into North Africa and the Near East. The Republic of India, encompassed the sub-continent, Sri Lanka and parts of Indo-China. The Asia-Pacific Sphere was jointly led by China and Japan in a partnership that bore a harmonious face to the world, but broiled with tension underneath. The spirit of Pan-Africanism that arose in the wake of the Opak withdrawal should have unifed all of Africa. Instead the Sub-Saharan region was split three ways between the West African Alliance, the East African Cooperative, and the Central-South African Axis. Western and central Europe were united under the Second European Union. Bolivaria was the name bestowed upon the super state that covered the entirety of South America. And then there was the United States of North America.

Montgomery walked into the room, his stride, rangy and relaxed, his manner confident as always. My boss would have felt at ease in a room full of vipers. Which, when I thought about it, the analogy wasn't far removed from reality. Each of the world leaders had his or her own interests and agendas. And each one would have happily undermined the other, if could it have been done without provoking a war. Post-Occupation Earth brimmed with propaganda espousing world unity. But that was verbal cotton candy for impressionable children and pipe dream-addled adults.

"Shall we begin?" Karim Abdullah, the dark turbaned, heavily bearded emir of the Arabian Caliphate announced to the gathering.

Head nods and verbal ascents drifted from around the table.

"I would like to start off by asking all of you if we are in readiness?" That question came from Yuri Petrovich, the President of Greater Russia. "Because my forces are prepared. My spaceborne divisions just completed a very successful lunar exercise."

"That is good," proclaimed Olu Alaba, Committee Chairman of the West African Alliance. The chairman's tone was more scathing, less complimentary. "I'm sure your spaceborne divisions are highly competant, but that will not matter very much if they are not in coordination with the rest of the forces slated to participate in this campaign."

"Russian soldiers will coordinate just fine," Petrovich replied testily. "They will not, however, be subsumed within someone else's command structure."

"This operation will be jointly commanded," said Wu Xienge. The Chinese leader, like Montgomery, was the spokesperson for a council equally divided between a Chinese and Japanese membership. "The blocs are well represented among our senior officers. In fact, even as we speak, they are discussing strategy."

The face of each speaker was displayed in ultra vivid relief on the huge jumbo screens.

"He's right," agreed Montgomery. "There's no need to worry about who's commanding what. We need to discuss a timetable."

"In five days, our new stratos fighters will be ready to go," reported Jomo Gacoki, Prime Minister of the East African Cooperative.

"We are still having some alignment issues with our bombardment arrays," Martin Heinrich, Assembly Speaker for the Second European Union said with a heavy frown creasing his long, deep socketed face.

"Let us not forget logistics," reminded Augustin Estavez, el presidente of Bolivaria. "For a seven to nine month journey across a vast gulf of space, we had better have enough rations to sustain a million troops."

"Well, I am sure that very important detail is in the hands of our military planners," Karim Abdullah said, his hands raised in a gesture that looked like reassurance. "And of course when our forces reach the Traitor's Planet, there will be plenty of plunder to be had."

The Traitor's Planet. No self respecting Earth person deigned to call the collab-settled world by its real name: Utopia.

Prime Minister Sarah Nkosi of the Central South African Axis, and the only woman among the leaders, spoke. "Will we have enough transports to accommodate the troops? I was looking over the latest force disposition report and I am not encouraged by the numbers. Twelve thousand Dove Class transports seems a bit short of the ideal projection."

"Two thousand more have just been released from the Polar Orbital Shipyard into service over the past three days, Madame Prime Minister," replied Montgomery. "All is well in that area. Now back to the timetable. I realize we all have some tweaking to do here and there as far as our personnel and equipment are concerned. But nothing so drastic as to cause a huge delay. So I propose that we move against the Traitor's Planet in three months. I believe our military planners will have no problem with that timeframe. It should provide them enough time to finalize their strategy without saddling them with undue pressure."

A thoughtful pause ensued. Y J Harigopol, President of the Republic of India was the first to break the brief silence. "Three months is reasonable given that we have been preparing thirty years for this event." The Indian looked around the table. "Am I right?"

Martin Heinrich raised a finger. "I am in agreement. Three months."

"Three months," Olu Alaba repeated with a nod.

The Russian president gave a smirk and a shrug. "I have no problem with that. As the esteemed President Harigopol alluded, the time is now to punish these vile traitors."

The remaining leaders verbalized their consensus.

Montgomery looked to President Petrovich. "With regard to your statement about punishing the traitors, I think that is a most fitting segue into the next issue I would like to bring up: the fate of the collabs after we have defeated them militarily."

"I see tremendous labor potential once we have pacified the population," Wu Xienge declared with what seemed to be a dreamy smile.

Prime Minister Gacoki's contrasting scowl was etched in obsidian. "I am not quite as quixotic on the matter as you are, Honorable Xienge. You see labor potential, I see a hostile population."

"My point exactly," Montgomery said. "The collabs will never submit to us as occupiers. They will forever remain intractably defiant. Centuries of alien conditioning have convinced the collabs that they are better than us. Even worse that conditioning has led them to deny their own humanity. Those of us here who fought them during the Liberation War know what I'm talking about."

Chairman Alaba and President Petrovich, both veterens of the War, uttered notes of agreement.

"Having said that, I offer another proposal. We should apply General Directive 24 to the Traitor's Planet."

"Exterminate the population?" Martin Heinrich asked by way of clarification.

"The entire population."

Heinrich cast down his gaze for a few seconds. Then he looked up. "Genocide is no light matter."

"Niether will the casualties our forces will suffer in the long term be a light matter if we don't address the immediate aftermath in a swift and final manner," Montgomery rejoined.

Montgomery's use of the word 'final' in the presence of a German while explaining the nessecity of genocide did not go unnoticed by my internal history buff.

"I do not like this," Karim Abdullah protested. "To kill off an entire people."

My eyes did an involuntary roll. The emir's concern was certainly not raised out of any semblance of compassion. Utopia's population was sixty million at last estimate. Depending on what zone of the planet the Caliphate planned to seize or negotiate for in the aftermath, something on the order of three to five million potential converts to the True Faith awaited. I could almost see the emir's brain chugging like the gears of an antique mechanism to tally that figure. The faith the Caliphate would have imposed on part of Utopia would not have been the conventional Islam, but a harsh puritanical strain. Religious terror transported beyond the Solar Sytem. Any subjected populace might as well have been dead at that point.

"Emir." Montgomery addressed Karim Abdullah in a tone I knew all too well. It was low and urgent with a drop of that folksy appeal that tuned out the rest of the world while drawing his listener into his confidence.

"I realize that you believe the collabs can be rehabilitated. Unfortunately, they're too far gone to be brought back into the fold of humanity. The Opaks have tainted them, corrupted their minds. They're nothing more than Godless, soulless, reflections of their departed alien masters. They will fight and die to the last to preserve this heresy they have morphed into. It's better to remove them as a worry now, than have to deal with a full blown insurgency in the future, one that will be costly in lives and materiel."

"I could care less the fate of the collabs in the aftermath," el presidente Estevez interjected. "As long as Bolivaria gets its share of the Traitor Planet's mineral wealth." He threw up a dismissive hand. "Let us do with those maggots what we will and be done with it."

A flurry of agreement wafted from the other leaders.

Abdullah planted his elbows on the table, his thick brow knitted. "So be it. In the spirit of cooperation the Caliphate will acede to your proposal, Mr. Secretary. I suppose it will be for the best."

Later that evening, the world leaders and an assortment of delegates, staff, and guests, whom I could not place, but were very likely spies, assembled in the UN banquet wing for a post-meeting get together. The wing was an impressive columned room. The gold fluted trim and accented grayish marble walls and floor lent the hall a Greco-Roman flavor at odds with the usual Opak decor elsewhere in the building. I walked around with a thin stemmed glass of champagne, weaving through knots of people. I smiled cordially at other guests, shook a hand or two in passing, but refrained from intermingling...

"Excuse me, Miss."

...Until now.

I turned to face a rotund man about my height, wearing an olive green miltary uniform, bedecked with medals and ribbons. Behind him stood a much taller man, bald, broad shouldered and quite appealing. His goatee was flawlessly trimmed and he wore a well fitting civilian suit.

"You are on Secretary Chandliss' staff?" The short fat man inquired.

I pulled my attention away from the fat man's companion to the fat man himself and forced another cordial smile. "I am. I'm one of his aides, Nola Monroe." I extended a hand and the fat man took it. But instead of shaking it he held it like a slab of bacon in his meaty paw.

"Pleased to meet you, Miss Monroe," I am General John Tunde, senior advisor to Chairman Olu Alaba.

The general made no effort to introduce me to his tall goateed companion. An indication that the man must have been a bottom totem-poller like me.

"So what is it that you assist the secretary with?" Tunde asked me with a broad smile that brought to my mind a piranha about to participate in a feeding frenzy.

I gently disengaged my hand. "Mostly matters of a technological nature."

Tunde's brow raised. "Ah, that is very good. Secretary Chandliss is a brilliant man, so of course the people he would have around him would not be slouches. And you, Miss Monroe, are evidently not a slouch."

I cocked my head. "Evidently." I was trying to formulate an escape plan. "General, it was nice to make your acqai..."

"Miss Monroe, we could use smart people like you in the West African Alliance."

"I...I beg your pardon?"

The general went on. "Chairman Alaba is calling out to all diasporic Africans to return home and contribute their talents to building a stronger Africa. The motherland could use your talents. And the compensation package, of course, would be generous."

I grinned at the general's pitch. "I appreciate the offer, sir, but...well, I can't."

Tunde's smile lessened. "Pity. Well, I would ask you think on it. President Alaba is a firm proponent of African unity. Should you change your mind, there will be a place for you in his administration."

I pretended to be touched. "Thank you, General Tunde." I brushed past the general, concealing my disdain. I knew all about Chairman Alaba's brand of unity. It entailed the unity of Africans under the banner of his political party and no other. Anyone who did not subscribe to that unity frequently found themselves at the wrong end of a firing squad. The state of post-Occupation Earth was elevating my cynicism into overdrive.

I spotted Montgomery conversing with a trio of dignitaries.

He excused himself from the gathering and approached me. "Another admirer?"

I scrunched my face in distaste. "You could say that, sir."

Montgomery chuckled. "I noticed these types of functions don't exactly fit you. So, I'd like to invite you to a genuine affair that'll be leagues less pretentious than this hoity toity circus."

"Really? Where?"

"My house. I'm inviting you to have dinner with my family. I decided to stop at home for a few days before returning to Washington. And because I know you're anxious to get back to your real job after gallivanting with me, I've arranged for a flyer to pick you up for transport to the capitol after dessert."

I was thrown for a few seconds. It's not everyday one gets a dinner invite from a member of the Cabinet. "Since you already know I won't turn down your invitation, I guess I'll be accepting."

Under Construction

Under Construction

There was a reason why Montgomery picked me to accompany him on this little tour we were on. Someone had slipped him my file and he liked what he saw. Especially the part about me being a weapons expert. It was true. Off the top of my head I could give a detailed rundown on every modern weapon created by the hand of man or Opak. I could also field strip an MT 89 Fieldsweeper blindfolded with a hand tied behind my back. Given the resources and a day or two, I could build one from scratch. That's no boast. It's a fact. Amazing how a little knowledge on a specific subject could elevate one from an anonymous low-end-of-the-totem-pole functionary to a trusted top level advisor to the most powerful member of the Cabinet.

Jacob Linox led us down a wide vast corridor. The white walls were spotless, the tan vaulted ceiling decorated with geometric indentations. An Opakular architectural design quirk. Post-Occupation Earth had endeavored to wipe out any lingering visual traces of an Opak presence. The attempt was not completely successful.

Jacob stopped at a door marked Viewing Room. He removed a silver card from his inside blazer pocket and waved it over a matching verticle silver strip at the center of the door. A soft ping sounded and the door slid open.

"I think you will be pleased with the progress we have been making so far, Mr. Secretary." Jacob looked back at my boss, revealing a tight smile. Then he glanced at me with that same wan show of teeth.

My eyes narrowed with borderline loathing. The man reminded me of a rodent. He must have picked up on my disdain because his face dropped and he turned away from me as quickly as rodently possible. We entered the viewing room, a medium size space with theater style seating facing a blank wall. Jacob the rodent was about to treat us to a movie.

"You should have brought the popcorn," Montgomery whispered to me as we took our seats in the front row.

"I'll be sure to remember that next time, sir," I whispered back.

Jacob, his entourage, Montgomery, and I spent the next half hour viewing footage of weapons demonstrations. We saw a battle tank the size of a small building demonstrating astounding speed and mobility. The vehicle glided along a tract of grass-covered real estate at an undisclosed location. It's top turret smoothbore spun 360, halted at the one o'clock angle, and unleashed a blinding fusillade of directed energy that sheered away the face of a mountain 75 miles distant. Secondary turret guns pulsed streams of solid rounds in the opposite direction. Five square shaped targets covered with bright red bulls eye markings disappeared in a blaze of high explosive rounds. The targets were a little larger than mid size trailer trucks and had been placed one hundred miles away. Each target was forged out of kularium, a human name for a composite metal created by the Opaks. The aliens might have fashioned harder metal, but on Earth and its immediate vicinity, kularium was the hardest substance known to humanity. The kularium targets were scoured to nothingness as if they were made of tissue paper. The Mega-Avenger--that's what the tank was called--had placed its shots on each target with unerring precision, all while moving at near supersonic velocity. Whoever named that tank the Mega-Avenger, by the way, must have been raised on a steady diet of comic books and old grade B sci-fi flicks.

Other weapons systems shown were equally impressive...as human weapons go. The Epoch Cannon was an orbital attack system that harnassed cosmic radiation, channelling the lethal particles into a destructive beam of light. We viewed footage of an EC platform unleashing a radiation beam from high orbit into the Earth's atmosphere. The scene switched to a sea going vessel of the same dimensions as a pre-Occupation aircraft carrier. The vessel sat stationary in the midst of an undisclosed body of water. The next second a linear stroke of man-made lightning punched through the center of the abandoned ship. The whole thing went up in a whirling firestorm. Nothing was left in its place but a massive column of bubbling black smoke arising from an expanding patch of flame lathered debris.

I peppered the CEO with questions relating to the weapons we viewed. A few he was to able to answer, others he deferred to the engineers in his entourage. We discussed yields and variances and targeting sequentials and a range of technical minutiae in a dialogue only techheads could grasp. Montgomery remained silent throughout. But the mildly upturned corners of his mouth advertised his satisfaction with all he'd viewed so far. He had reason to be. The weapons shown to us were human versions of Opak weapons. In fact every weapon in Earth's arsenol was a copy of an Opak original. Small arms were much easier to duplicate than montrous affairs like Mega-Avenger tanks. This was because during the Occupation the Opak allowed humans--those loyal to them--to manufacture handheld armaments, and to a limited extent, light armored vehicles. The Opak had not yet deemed humans ready to build or operate their heavy weapons. It was their policy to keep the designs for such weapons out of human reach as well. But humans are persistent bastards when it comes to pursuing secrets that don't belong to them. Over the centuries, a modest number of Opak secrets managed to find their way into acquisitionist sapien clutches. Not enough to turn Earth into a universal power. It would take untold centuries for Earth to even imagine reaching parity with the Opakular. But for the upcoming grand enterprise, as Montgomery termed it, human built heavy weapons definitely passed muster. The Opaks never brought their truly big weapons--I'm talking mass destruction, extinction level event-generating big--to our part of the galaxy. Which was just as well. Humans might have blown up the solar system trying to duplicate one of those.

The next leg of our tour took us to parts of the complex where smaller weapons were being designed and manufactured. We stepped into an indoor test range thrice the size of a football field. On one side of the range soldiers were testing anthro-armor suits. Bulky, man-shaped, chrome plated figures pranced through an assortment of obstacles, blasting pop-up targets using rotary wrist guns or chest mounted lasers. The suits were not as streamlined as Opak suits nor were they as quick or agile. But again, they were adequate for what their creators--or replicators--intended them for. Jacob led us to the far end of the range, past urban warfare mockups and randomly placed target posts. A black garbed soldier was firing an assault weapon at a cluster of moving baseball size drones.

My eyes fixed on the gun the soldier was holding and my heart fluttered with desire. "An MT 89 Fieldsweeper," I whispered. My favorite assault rifle.

"We've upgraded it," Jacob stated, smiling impishly at the swoon on my face.

"What are the specs?" Montgomery asked.

The black garbed soldier was kind enough to let me hold the MT while Jacob gave us a rundown of its modifications. "Enhanced target selectors, enhanced multispectrum target imaging, micro-grenade launch feature..."

The CEO's words were muddled background noise as I hefted the rifle to get a feel for its weight. Then I sighted down the firing range. The imager fed targeting data directly into my brain, acquiring one of the drones and bathing it in the red aura of a target lock. I pressed the firing stud. A feather brush of recoil nudged my shoulder as a blue white sliver of particle incandescence flared from the MT's narrow barrel. The drone vanished in a molten mist. I incinerated two more drones before reluctantly handing the rifle back to the soldier. I could've stayed on the range all day at that point.

The soldier regarded me with professional admiration. "Impressive."

"I did a little training with MTs in the Continental Guard," I explained understatedly. I quickly shifted the center of attention from me back to the weapon. "It handles nicely. Accuracy is much improved." What I didn't say was that the upgrade MT was still inferior in quality to the Opak-made original. I've handled an Opak MT and the experience was...well...it was rapturous. Still, the human version, in its upgrade form, was suitable for the task it was meant for. Montgomery beamed. Jacob looked ecstatic, which, in my estimation, made him appear more ratty than normal.