🚀 go-pugleaf

[Continued From Part One]

     The 'Arterial Sever'-class Destroyer _Whoathat'sgottahurt_, silently
led a vast flotilla of Invader vessels on a mission of vengeance towards
Earth, no sound transmitting through the void of Glidspace. The captain on
board scowled at current fuel reports in the hopes that his legendary
facial expression would make them go away, preferably to hide behind his
chair and complete themselves so he did not have to do so. Sadly, this
effort failed utterly, forcing the captain to notrorize them and hand them
to a trembling aide.
     "What's wrong?" he rumbled to the aide, who paled at the question,
quaking in his polished-till-they-shone regulation Headstomper boots.
     "Your scowl... it fixes my cheaply shod feet to the floor in terror,
Captain N'nsense."
     "It's a good scowl, isn't it?" asked N'nsense, smiling at the praise.
Though he was, politely speaking, dumb as rocks the captain could almost
always tell sincere flattery apart from what the rest of the crew offered
to him. At least, he could when such was pointed out to him with visual
aids and a break for snacks and bathroom. "I've spent my whole career
working on it."
     "Really sir?" asked the aide, looking at the captain in honest
admiration. "Is that how you got as far as you did?"
     "Yes son, it is. I've managed to scowl my way up the ranks and it
wasn't easy. But son... let me tell you something: it's lonely at the top.
You find yourself grimacing or even making other facial expressions alone
in your cabin to your mirror more and more instead of to people."
     "But why?"
     "Because your scowl is no longer just a hideous look but a command.
Your every eyebrow waggle is obeyed without question. The curl of your lip
means throw yourself out the airlock because you've been a poor crewman.
Accidentally lost my second command that way when I developed a nervous
tic. But that doesn't leave a lot of room for friends."
     "So what do you do?" asked the aide, almost breathlessly.
     "Me? I took up placing cameras in the female shower stalls. Great
sport, occupies you for hours, low startup time and the materials cost is
pretty mild while you learn a valuable skill. You should try it sometime.
Son, what's your name?"
     "To'de, sir. First worker To'de."
     "To'de, do you know why we're on our way to utterly devastate Earth?"
     "No sir, I don't."
     "That's because you're a measly little undershipman whose lucky to be
in the information loop enough to have been told how to use a spoon in mess
when you're served your soup course, To'de. But because I find you slightly
less repulsive than the other underlings who aren't even fit to choke to
death on my laces while licking my boots, I'm going to tell you why we're
on this mission, son."
     "You... will? It's an honour, sir! I'll treasure the memory of your
exposition for the rest of my miserably short life."
     "Yes it is, now shut up and let me speak you worthless little piece of
cotton wadding."
     "Shutting up, sir."
     "Long, long ago, To'de, when the Invader race was first starting out,
we were filled with the lust for blood, glee of carnage, righteous anger
and pure hatred of anything that bore even a superficial dissimilarity to
us. We'd attack anything anywhere without warning and seize planets with
impunity for no better reason than to make someone's day worse than our own
had been."
     "So not much has changed, has it?"
     "No, we're civilised now. We allow our slaves one day a year that can
be marginally better than the one we're having."
     "Oh, right."
     "Now shut up again before I staple your tongue to a scratching post
and wait for my Dhakeese to sharpen its claws."
     "Shutting up, sir."
     "But our strength wasn't in being needlessly cruel, that was just
icing on the cake. We realised that in war, certain rules had to be
preserved and held sacred as universal truths which all civilised warriors
would adhere to."
     "Even if the conquered civilisation didn't know them?"
     "Shut up, they're self evident. And the chief amongst those is this:
it's okay to blow an enemy's brains out when he can fight back but if he's
in distress you have an obligation not to let the universe claim him. We
are warriors at perpetual war with one another... but we are allies against
the all consuming hand of entropy that would sweep us sentients from the
face of the galaxy given the chance. Do you understand?"
     "Um, no?"
     "Tough because this is the only speech they gave me to memorise and it
didn't come with annotations. These Earthers violated this principle. They
proved that they loved death for no reason instead of death for the
pig-headed belief that it's okay to slaughter others for the heinous crime
of breathing in and out. They didn't help us fight the universe and proved
for that reason that they are no better than savages!"
     "So what are we going to do?"
     "Blow their planet to pieces, of course!"
     "How's that different from what we normally do?"
     "Because we're going to have a raging keg party when all this is
done!" cried the captain, jumping up to shake his fist in the air.
     "I wish he'd stick to scowling," sighed the executive officer from his
station behind the captain's. Just to be on the safe side, he ran a check
on the escape pod nearest him.
***
     Graham relaxed in his comfortable bungalow after a hard day's work and
sipped a beer. Another day done, another job accomplished and another
chance that Earth was facing complete and utter annihilation from the next
in a long line of alien hopefuls. Still, there was no reason why he
couldn't stretch out for a while before the armada reached the planet. He
flicked on his television and immediately flicked it off again. If he had
to meet his maker there was no way that he would admit he'd spent his last
hours watching reruns of 'Punky Brewster'. He decided to find something
more meaningful with which to occupy his time.
     An hour later, the phone drew the First Sergeant's attention away from
his jerky maker. Abandoning his efforts to produce a snack that bore more
than a superficial resemblance to his uniform belt, he reached over to
answer.
     "Yello."
     "Hello, is this Sergeant Graham?" asked an all-too familiar voice.
     "You've got him, who's this?"
     "I'm insulted. You heard my voice every day for months and then you
just forget it like that? Graham, what happened to that steel trap mind?"
     "Jo--Doyle? Arthur Doyle?"
     "Absolutely right. How have you been?"
     Graham shifted the phone to his other ear. "Doing what I can to get
by, keep busy."
     "Very busy from what I've heard. You were overseeing the watch that
spotted something on our DEWs?"
     "Sorry Art. I can't say anything to you."
     "No, no, it's my fault. I forgot you didn't know that I've had my
security clearance restored. At any rate, the news will keep until you can
swing by the Beanstalk."
     "The Beanstalk?"
     "The Beanstalk. We're going back into business and I need someone to
reform a STOP-like division. Transfer orders are pending your saying yes."
     "But... I'm not an officer, Art."
     "Doesn't matter. None of the reactivated troopers outrank you and
you've got something that no officer has."
     "K.P. duty when I mess up?"
     "Better. You've got experience. We need to whip together a fighting
force in days instead of months, so those people who actually have
experience with how Aurora works are getting called in first. That means
you, Graham."
     Graham grinned. This was much better than jerky... possibly topping
even beer nuts. "I'm there. I am so there. When do I start?"
     "You already have, First Sergeant. On your flight over I want you to
compile a list of every piece of equipment that you're going to need and
every organisational change that you plan to make. You won't have time to
do that when you get here because that's when you get to implement them."
     "Hm. Won't make too many changes to the organisation, then. Our people
already knew the three-person unit; changing that would take time to
retrain. Hey, Art? Am I leading reg or mechanised infantry?"
     "Mechanised," replied Doyle, his voice carrying just a hint of amusement.
     "Hunh. Not going to ask how you managed to pull that one off."
     "Oh, ask away. We're going to be short a few suits until we can bring
our reserves out of mothballs."
     "Why's that?"
     "We... ahem... issued a recall order on our Tornado suits. We even got
a lot of them back, though some got dinged up by their interim owners. And
a lot are either destroyed or being hidden from our prying eyes. We did get
a strange note claiming that the new owner of one suit owed nothing to we
filthy two legged humans and we could go suck on an acorn. So we're going
to be short-handed for a day or two."
     "I can deal with that... this is going to be great!" exclaimed Graham.
"I'm not going to let you down Doyle. No way, no how."
     "If I had any suspicion that you would, I wouldn't have called. See
you soon, Graham."
     Graham hung up his phone and paused for a moment to shoot the air a
'yes' gesture. Gnawing on some jerky of celebration, he rushed off to pack.
***
     Peter Kent hadn't expected to be able to hide out forever. He had
expected to spend a month or two in a miserable hotel watching cable until
his eyes fell out while waiting for an assassin to track him down for
claiming that he knew 'something' about the people who had infiltrated
CAUTION - one of the late Task Force Aurora's branches. According to
ex-CAUTION agent Dow, this would somehow help locate said people. Kent had
decided to think comforting thoughts and realised that his death would also
help out a good number of otherwise starving worms. Despite turning his
thoughts to such ecologically minded matters, he found that his mood had
yet to improve.
    But rather than having taken an expected bullet in the head, Kent had
faced a much bigger pain: a three month hotel bill with daily charge for
clean sheets and soap in the dish. After seeing what had been levied
against him, Kent's bank account suggested that he find that friendly
assassin somewhere, fast. Ignoring it, he had returned to his home to
miserably await the end. Unfortunately, pessimism didn't pay the bills so
he had decided to find light repair work while awaiting said end. Now,
months after his return, the end still had not come and Kent couldn't tell
whether he was relieved or insulted that he hadn't been important enough to
be shot. Meanwhile, Dow had yet to contact him and Kent wondered if his
fate had been somewhat more gruesome than his own.
     "Dow?" asked Kent as he picked up his ringing phone. He had gotten
into the habit over the last few weeks and this had paid off exactly once,
when a large chemical organisation had called to shake him down for
donations to hide yet another water-table leak.
     "No, this isn't he," said the voice on the other end of the line. "Is
this Kent?"
     "Yes, it's... Doyle? That's you, isn't it?"
     "You were expecting someone else?"
     "Someone sheathed in black with a scoped rifle, actually."
     "Remind me never to attend one of your parties and I look terrible in
black. Kent, what are you doing right now?"
     "Talking on the phone to you, I think."
     Doyle sighed. "No, I meant job-wise."
     "Doing freelance garage work for any superguys who need it."
     "Is that it?"
     "Well, I drew 'Timmy' but the art school still hasn't got back to me."
     "Good," said Doyle. "Very good. Because Kent, I need your help."
     "There's something I haven't heard in a long time."
     "Well you're hearing it now. How'd you like to be chief engineer of a
large organisation again?"
     "I um... was, for a while... didn't do so well, though."
     "Yes? What happened?"
     "You remember the 'Virtual Boy'?"
     "No?"
     "Thank god, I'll take your position then. Where is it?"
     "Oh, I think you'll enjoy this Kent. We're reforming Aurora and we
need a science and technology department. You're head. Get over here
immediately and on the way decide what you want your department to look
like."
     "Buxom blonds from wall to wall?"
     "Will that in any way improve your efficiency?"
     There was a long pause.
     "I... can't think of how, no," replied Kent, sullenly.
     "Too bad then. I'll expect to see you soon, Kent."
     "Right... what about one buxom blond and she can have the station
right next to mine?"
     "Good _bye_, Kent."
     "She could have a science degree!"
     *click*
     "...bye."
***
     Footsteps rang against a hard metal floor outside of a comfortable
private room which had been set up as an elaborate hospital room. The
elderly man within stared at another page of his book, lost in the world of
literature. As the footsteps ceased to sound he looked up at the visitor in
his doorway.
     "How are you feeling today, Mr Treis?" asked the newcomer, smiling at
the prematurely aged man. Treis carefully set aside his book and sat up,
nodding to the visitor.
     "Extremely well, merci. I feel fit as can be."
     "I'm extremely glad to hear that. Still, mustn't rush things. Our
doctors want to keep you here just a few days longer."
     "Then I may return home? I haven't had news from there for months and
I'm anxious to hear how things are."
     The newcomer smiled. "Oh yes, Mr Treis. I have a feeling that you'll
be going home very soon indeed. But until then, please enjoy our
hospitality."
     "I am, very much. I feel so sloth-like here, surrounded by so much luxury."
     "It's nothing. Since you must remain in exile while you mend, why not
make that exile as comfortable for you as possible? It pleases us to do it.
Again, think nothing of this service."
     Treis mustered a smile though he was beginning to feel the tugging of
his aged body again. It wanted sleep and had just announced that it refused
to be denied.
     "Allow me to express my gratitude at least. You hid me away when it
seemed that nowhere was safe. For that I am forever in your debt."
     "Oh, pishaw. This was the only logical choice of location to hide from
your enemies, for even if they deduce your location they simply cannot get
to you. They're everywhere, even when you cannot see them."
     "Agreed."
     The visitor turned, pausing in the doorway. "Do you require anything
else? I could have an orderly fetch it for you."
     "Non, I am quite comfortable as I am. Thank you again, however."
     "Of course. Bon nuit, Mr Treis."
     "Bon nuit."
***
     "G'afternoon," said the answering machine, as Doyle attempted to reach
Colleen. "I canna come to the phone at present as there is a hostage
situation in my home. Lea' yer message a' the tone and I'll get back tae ye
as soon as it is resolved. Oh, an' if ye hae even a dram o' sense, CALL THE
DAMNED POLICE! *beeeeeep*"
      Doyle blinked in confusion. "Hostage situation?"
---
     Colleen sat with back to the back of her couch, listening to every
sound in the room. The last shot had been fired almost ten minutes ago...
had her assailant run out of bullets? Small chance of that, she realised.
He was probably waiting for her to get confident and move from behind
cover, but she wasn't going to fall for a trick like that.
     "Ye may as well gie up," she called. "Sooner or later yer going tae
lose yer attention or get drowsy and then I'll hae ye right where I want
ye."
     "Yeah, right lady," growled a voice from in front of the couch. "They
don't call me Jim 'Chronic Insomniac' Keens for nothing."
     "They called ye thae?"
     "It was either that or Jim 'That Guy With The Brown Hair' Keens. Which
sounds snappier?"
     "Aye, I cin see yer point."
     "Now don't get any stupid ideas in your head, lady. You even make a
move for the dial and I'll fill you so full of lead that they'll use you to
shield nuclear piles."
     "Nice line," said Colleen, admiringly. "Snappy, yet pertinent tae my life."
     "Thank you, thank you. I try to tailor all of my threats to the
individual. That's why I avoid bank robberies like the plague, you know?
Not enough time to really get to know every single person that you're
holding at gunpoint. You wind up learning about just one and the rest get
shortchanged with things like 'Don't move or I'll splatter your brains all
over the wall' or 'Hands in the air, you son of a bitch'."
     "Isnae thae effective?"
     "Well yeah, but does that really do anything for you as a victim? Does
it give you any memories after you've recovered from the Helsinki syndrome?
Now yours referred to something from science. Something you know about. I
want you not to think of me as a maniac with a gun who's ready to ventilate
your body the moment that he sees you, but as someone who's ready to
ventilate your body the moment that he sees you who's taken an interest in
your life."
     "I hae been held at gunpoint many times before, but I must admit thae
the hands-on approach makes this something I'll naer forget. Kudos."
     "Thank you, you're making me blush. Now come out where I can see you
or I'll tie you down by your damned hair and set fire to it!"
     "Where's the relevance again?"
     "You're red-headed, remember? Firehair? Okay, maybe the reference is a
little obscure but if you have to work at one or two of these you just
appreciate them all the more later."
     "Oh, o' course. My fault entirely."
     "No, not at all. If you have to explain the holdup line then it wasn't
really successful now was it? Anyway, I've got the frickin' couch covered
and if you don't come out it's going to be blown all the way to Hell(tm)!
Sorry, I wasn't too inspired on that one."
     "Twas nae yer best piece o' work, I must admit."
     Above the room a solid hologram projector whirred to life, allowing
Arthur Doyle to appear in front of the couch. He clutched his chest as a
cluster of three bullets entered his virtual form.
     "You never had a ghost of a chance!" yelled the gunman, as Colleen
took the moment of distraction to rush from her hiding spot and grab the
fire axe which hung on her wall with which she entertained travelling packs
of religious fanatics come to show her the 'true way'. With a hearty swing
she brought it down on top of her television, which sparked and exploded.
     "I... coulda... been someone..." groaned the gunman, as his image on
the television turned to snow and died. Colleen dropped her axe and
breathed heavily for a moment.
     "What... in the name of heck(sm) happened here?" asked Doyle as his
lightform expelled the bullets and ran a refresh on his image.
     "Was watchin' an old 'Rockford Files' an' I went tae change the
channel. Sadly, the antagonist took exception tae thae. Why I ever invented
Interactive TV is far beyond me."
     "Interactive... no, I'm not going to think about it."
     "Thae's whae I say tae ethics committees on the subject o' my latest
experiment. Now, tae whae do I owe this unexpected pleasure, Art?"
     Doyle smiled, mostly because he was glad to see Colleen in the flesh
again but partially because it was easier than trying to think about what
had just played itself out in the living room.
     "It's coming together again, 'leen," he said, taking her into his arms
happily. "The organisation. It's all coming back together."
     Colleen's eyes widened. "Ye mean..."
     "Yes!"
     "Wonderful, I was wonderin' how we were goin' tae pay for this extra
usage of the holoprojector!"
     Doyle sighed. "Aaaand?"
     "Oh... aye! T'will be a pleasure tae join again."
     "I was hoping you'd say that," replied Doyle, grinning and giving her
a quick hug. "I need you to get to work activating all Tornado suits
that're currently in mothballs."
     "Me? Why me?"
     "Because it's a very intensive engineering job?"
     "Tis nae a thing o' the sort! Ye just hose them down an' the chemical
smell goes right away!"
     Doyle covered his face with his hand. "No... no... no... I mean I want
you to replace the fuel units, charge the batteries and give them tuneups
or whatever you do to make suits ready for action."
     "Ye couldhae said somethin' like thae..."
     "Colleen?"
     "Aye?"
     "Let's _never_ talk shop again, okay?"
     "Okay!"
     "I have three more people to call. In the meantime, I need you over in
the 'stalk. See you there?"
     "Ye know it. I'll hae those suits ready tae move before they're done
repairin' my laboratory!"
     "Um... you lab's already repaired, Colleen. It was fixed just before I
called on you."
     "Aye, so?"
     Doyle sighed. "Never mind. I don't understand science... I'll leave
that to you and the fire department. See you soon."
     Colleen grinned and leaned up for a kiss. "See ye very soon."
     Doyle winked and faded out. Colleen turned to the destroyed television
and looked at it with some regret.
     "Ah well. At least he died quickly."
     The television sparked once. Colleen immediately set to it with her
axe again.
***
[Continued In Part Three]