"LUNAR:  Starship Andromeda"

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LUNAR:  Starship Andromeda

By Jeffery C. Branch and Daryll Pung

Episode Eleven:  At The Brink

Rated: R

In standard orbit over Pollus 4, inside the Alpha Zone, 14 March 2740 

The SLS Andromeda

             As Andromeda’s Battlewing squadron hovered in defensive positions over the ship, their pilots watched as the twenty ship Pollusian battle group took up station near the vessels Andromeda had disabled.  No one liked what they were seeing.

            “Oh, man.  This is bad, really bad,” said Long John, a not so small note of worry in his voice.

            “No shit, Sherlock!  What gave you your first clue?” Falcon growled.

            “What’s wrong, Falcon?  I thought you said you lived for this sort of thing,” said Raptor, unable to keep from smirking at the stress he heard in the Italian woman’s voice.

            “Fuck you, Raptor.  I may be psycho, but I’m not stupid,” an angry Falcon shot back.  “Since each of those ships carries ten fighters, we’re outnumbered over six to one.  Gambler, what’s the next move?”

            “That depends on Fullmetal and if she can make the Pollusians happy campers,” Gambler replied.  While his voice exuded his typical calm, his stomach churned.  He then changed the frequency on his comm panel.  “Gambler to all pilots:  nobody is to do a damn thing unless we get orders from the bridge first.  I love a good firefight as much as any of you, but this is one scrap I can live without.”

            In the Chief Engineer’s office, Topper stroked his chin as he watched the video feed from the bridge of the Pollusian ships gathered on the monitor on his desk.

            Standing over the Greek man’s right shoulder was his assistant engineer, Lieutenant Veronica Cooper, a willowy blonde who wore her long hair in a ponytail.  Her arms folded over her chest, she whistled at what she saw.

            “I suppose now isn’t the time to mention the painfully obvious, that we’re in big time trouble,” she said in a thick New England accent.

            “Well, you’re only speaking the truth, Ronnie.  We are,” Topper grunted.  He then looked up at the woman with questioning eyes.  “How are we doing?”

            “RIFT and sublight engines are operational.  Powerplants are fully functional.  Shields are at ninety-seven percent, we’ll be back to one hundred in two minutes.  All hull fissures and damages from the first attack have been repaired.  Backup systems are ready to divert engine power to shields if necessary.  We’re as ready as we’re going to get.”

            Topper nodded.  “That’s good.  Get back up to the bridge.  Depending on what Sailor Eldrea does, or doesn’t do, we could be in for an awfully bumpy ride.”

            Doc Ellie had just finished repairing Leftenant V’lnova’s crushed wrist and was about to file her report on injuries suffered in the hangar deck battle when Doctor Ortega showed her the bridge feed of the Pollusian battle group on her desk monitor.

            “Delightful,” she muttered, her handsome face etched in a frown.  “How long have those ships been out there?”

            “Five minutes, give or take,” said Ortega, handing Doc Ellie a steaming mug of spiced Columbian coffee.  “Sailor Eldrea just called a yellow alert.  Hopefully, things won’t escalate to red.”

            “Me too.  We were fortunate not to have suffered any fatalities after Kestrel blew himself up earlier.  But this could seriously stretch our quota on good luck.  Are triage teams in place?”

            “Yes.  Everyone’s ready, Ellie,” Ortega replied.  “I don’t mind telling you this has me worried.”

            “You’re not alone, Manuel.”  Doc Ellie paused to take a sip of her coffee, but found it only mildly soothing, given her anxiousness.  “Even though we’re on a warship, I always hope we can turn swords into plowshares.  Perhaps that’s a naïve view, but it’s what I believe.”

            “I believe that too.  Otherwise, I wouldn’t be a healer.”

            Doc Ellie nodded.  “Well, let’s hope we won’t have to do any more healing on this mission.”

            “At least Wrajera was good to his word,” said Khatari, peering at his displays at the tactical station.  “Twenty destroyers, captain.  Just as he promised.  Their shields are up, weapons on stand-by.”

            Sailor Eldrea frowned as she stared at the conglomeration of ships on the main viewscreen.  “What’s our status?”

            “Shields at one hundred percent, captain.  All weapons systems show green,” the Isbanni replied crisply.  “We’re ready for combat.”

            “Thank you.”  Sailor Eldrea then turned to Setar at the science station.  “Setar, has the info G’denel and V’lnova provided us about the DK plot been encoded into the telemetry records for Wrajera?”

            The Vulcan officer nodded.  “Affirmative, captain.  He should have no trouble viewing them.”

            “Good.  In the meantime, indulge my Terran foolishness.  What would the odds be of our survival if we engage that battle group while doing all we can not to destroy them like earlier?  I already know the answer, but I want to hear yours.”

            Setar cocked an eyebrow.  “Realistically, captain, I would place our chances of survival under those parameters at no better than forty percent.  Against that many vessels, it would be impossible to disable them all without incurring some, perhaps massive damage in the process.  Almost certainly, we would lose most, if not our entire Battlewing force, since they would be overwhelmed by superior numbers of Pollusian fighters, technology gaps notwithstanding.  And that estimate does not take into consideration the possibility, if not probability, that one or more of those ships might opt for self-destruction as Kestrel had done as a last ditch attempt to destroy us, and have more success than the previous attempt.”

            The Senshi of Alchemy scowled.  “Andromeda, do you concur?”

            “Absolutely, captain.  In fact, I find the Science Officer’s estimate to be rather generous.  I would place our chances at no better than twenty-nine percent,” the AI replied simply.

            Sailor Eldrea turned to Khatari.  “Tactical?”

            “I’m afraid I must agree with Setar and Andromeda.  If push comes to shove, going full bore is the only way we can survive.”  Khatari paused and let out a sigh.  “Captain, I understand your desire to hold back because you want to save the Pollusians’ necks, even though they’ve caused us no end of trouble from the moment we arrived, but against that many ships, a passive strategy will only get us killed.”

            Sailor Eldrea’s temper spiked and she glared at Khatari who defiantly stared back, looking for all the world like a man willing to lay down his life for his beliefs.  The Senshi begrudgingly admired him for that.  While Sailor Eldrea ached to explode, she couldn’t as, in his annoyingly blunt way, Khatari spoke the truth.

            Blast!  He’s right!  They’re all right!  Like I really needed the confirmation.  Holding back is suicide.  I’ll have no choice but to drop the hammer and slaughter scores of Pollusians!  And all thanks to some half-assed scheme masterminded by the fucking Dark Kingdom who’s pulling all our strings!  SHIT!

            “Thank you for your opinions, gentlemen and lady,” Sailor Eldrea said.  Her body was rigid from tension to the point where it actually hurt as she felt the enormous pressure of her longtime beliefs against wholesale killing clashing with the more primal mindset of survival.  “Screw it.  Khatari, bring all weapons up to full power.  If the Pollusians decide to be stupid and attack us, you have my permission to send them straight to hell.  Kwan, have Flight Control alert Gambler; tell him the air wing’s free to engage the enemy should hostilities break out.”

            “Aye-aye, captain!” both quickly replied.

            “In the meantime, let’s employ our backup plan.  Kwan, put me through to Admiral Wrajera,” the Alchemical Senshi ordered.

            “Yes, ma’am!  On screen two!” the Asian officer replied.

            The screen winked on to show the stern face of Wrajera.  “Sailor Eldrea.  What can I do for you?”

            “On the contrary, sir.  I believe I can help you.  I have those telemetry records I promised you regarding our earlier confrontation with the first battle group,” the Senshi replied.  “What you’ll see should convince you that we did not start the battle, that Commander Kestrel instigated the hostilities and we were forced to protect ourselves while using mostly non-lethal tactics.  I only ask that you view these records in private before making your decision since they contain highly classified information about our vessel.”

            Wrajera frowned slightly, then, after several long, protracted moments, he nodded.  “Very well, I will comply with your request.  I no more wish to engage in a senseless battle that will only result in death and destruction than you do.  I am sending you the frequency to my encrypted, private channel.  One only I can view.  You can send the information there whenever you are ready.”

            “Setar?”

            “I have the channel, captain,” Setar replied.

            “Very well.  Transmit the information, please.”  And let’s hope by the Mother of Serenity that this works.  Or Armageddon is next on the menu!

Pollusian Military Headquarters, Marquis City, Pollus 4, inside the Alpha Zone, 14 March 2740

            As Counselor Ventura remained in a tight crouch, pressed against a wall, right across a broad, tree-lined boulevard from the headquarters of the Pollusian Military Command, her mind couldn’t help but retrace her steps from the Royal Hall to her present location while chasing after the traitor Mularen.

            No passers-by, no bystanders, absolutely nobody at all, she thought idly.  That’s rather odd.  Not to mention, Mularen himself knows nothing about countersurveillance. 

            Ventura knew she wasn’t exactly an expert in that department herself, but she did know a few things; one of her former relationships had been with a LISA agent.  And how did I pull this off to begin with?  Okay, I was trying to be stealthy, but gorgeous, dark-skinned Lunarians like myself are not exactly common here on Pollus.  Another example of Pollusian overconfidence, maybe?

            Then there was the matter of Sailor Siryn’s behavior.  Why so insistent about joining me here?  Why so… manic, even?  Granted, Infiltrators are dangerous; but…  I don’t understand Fiona.  Not one bit.  Yesterday, she wanted to tear my head off and shit down my neck after I insulted the bridge crew during that drill, now she’s disobeying strict GM protocols, abandoning the council that she’s in charge of, just to ride to my rescue, as if I need saving.

            The sudden heavy thud of booted footfalls behind her snapped her out of her reverie; she whirled around in time to find a quartet of rifles pointed right at her, in the hands of four rather stern-faced Pollusian soldiers.  Ventura stared at them for a moment, rather like a deer caught in the headlights; they stared hard right back, unflinching.

            Oh, hell, she thought.

            “Get up, Lunarian bitch!” one of the men barked.

            Ventura gulped, startled out of her momentary indecisiveness; anger began to creep in amidst the panic.  The adrenaline was still flooding her system; her heart pounded amazingly hard; her throat was dry.  She raised her arms.  How did they…?

            “May I ask how you discerned my location?” she managed to get out, her voice amazingly level, probably due to her diplomatic and psychological training.

            The lead soldier stepped forward, and in one smooth movement, reversed his weapon, and rammed the butt, brutally, into her stomach.  An involuntary retch and a gasp of pain came out as she collapsed to the ground in a heap. 

            “That is none of your business, offworlder,” the soldier said roughly.  He turned, and motioned to two of the others.  “Secure the prisoner.”

            Ventura felt herself being roughly hoisted upright, a pair of arms under each of hers.  Her vision began to blur, and movement only made her dizzy through the haze of pain.  She was conscious of the fact that she was being dragged across the thoroughfare to the HQ building… but little else.

            How inconvenient.  Perhaps I need saving after all!

            As her senses began to clear, Ventura felt herself pushed roughly into a chair; she slowly shook her head, trying to clear the cobwebs.  A dull throbbing came from somewhere in her midriff, and for a moment she wondered how badly she’d been injured… might she even be bleeding internally?

            She pushed those gruesome thoughts aside, and forced herself to concentrate as a semi-familiar voice spoke up.

            “I’m telling you, holding her hostage is a very bad idea!”

            She raised her head, vision clearing, just enough and in the nick of time to see a Pollusian general viciously backhand the traitor Mularen, who fell backwards against a console, a stunned look on his face.

            “Fool!  I’M in charge here!  I make the decisions!” General N’mlota roared at Mularen.

            N’mlota turned, the look of deep annoyance changing into a wicked leer as he examined Ventura.  He brought his hand up, revealing a nasty-looking knife; he placed the flat edge of the blade, cool and lethal, against Ventura’s cheek.

            “Up close and in person instead of on a monitor screen, I must admit that, for a Lunarian, you’re a passably attractive female,” N’mlota sneered.  His free hand reached over and tapped a button on the desktop; the main wall display in the room changed to reveal Ventura pressed against the side of the building she’d been caught at, peering about.  “That’s how we discovered you, my dear; the buildings for blocks around are wired with cunningly concealed video capture devices.  Now, on to more important matters… who are you?”  The knife was pressed against her soft flesh with a bit more force.  “And don’t make me ask again.”

            She slowly straightened up in the chair, annoyance beginning to overcome the shock of capture.  The knife moved with her, of course, and her anger flared at the insult to her dignity.  When she spoke, her voice barely sounded human.

            “Lieutenant Gabrielle Ventura, Golden Millennium Royal Star Navy, oh two seven seven three alpha one one zulu,” she stated in a robotic monotone.  “And may I remind you that as a prisoner of war, I have certain rights under the Polaris Convention Protocols of Warfare of 2278, and I request that I be accorded those rights at this time.”

            N’mlota chuckled.  “Indeed.  That would assume that I prescribed to such nonsense.  Furthermore, Lieutenant, none of that gibberish would really apply right now… because at the moment, there is no war… yet.  This would mean you are not a prisoner of war… but a hostage.  And who says hostages have rights?” 

            N’molta grinned nastily as he used his free hand to caress her other cheek.  He then moved the knife, the smile disappearing from his face as the tip of the knife went under Ventura’s chin.  She winced as pain and liquid heat trickled down her throat let her know the tip of the knife had just pierced her skin.  “It would be a shame to permanently mar such a stunningly beautiful face, but I’ll do just that, and more, unless you tell me everything you know about our plans.  Trust me.  I’ll kill you without a second’s hesitation unless you talk.” 

            Ventura met his gaze, her own eyes hardening, all trace of panic and indecision gone.  She shrugged.  Amazing...  Backed into a corner, no way out, and I’m pretty much doomed, and all I want to do is rip this asshole’s throat out, she thought idly.  Guess I know how Senshi and Sorcerers do what they do, now. 

            “Then I guess I’m fucked, because all I know is what Carnus revealed before Sailor Siryn kicked his sorry ass.”  From some well inside her, anger and bravado swelled up, and she narrowed her eyes, figuring she didn’t have many options, so… hell, it’s worth a shot.  “Sir, I’m going to tell you what I told Mr. Mularen back at the Royal Hall:  killing me will result in the most terrible repercussions imaginable.”

            N’mlota snorted, and then laughed aloud, clearly amused.  “Well, well, aren’t we a bold one.  I like that.  Let us be honest here, Lieutenant.  No one is coming to your rescue.  Therefore, you cannot possibly make good on that threat.  And once our plans come to fruition- soon, oh, so very soon- here on Pollus, and war breaks out…”  He leaned in, and dropped his voice to almost a whisper.  “You will be nothing more than just another casualty.”

Royal Hall

            “General, how go the preparations?” asked an anxious Ryvvius to the Pollusian military leader.  In Sailor Siryn’s absence, he, as her immediate subordinate, was technically in charge of the council.  He tried not to dwell on that.  Temporarily commanding a starship was one thing, running a planet’s government was quite another, and he didn’t like it.  “Has the building been secured against a possible attack?”

            Drocargh, Ensign McDowell beside him, nodded.  “Yes.  The fortifications are complete.  We are as ready as possible, Commander.  Your Ensign McDowell was quite helpful with suggestions on how best to fortify the building and deploying our forces to maximum effect.  Troops have been stationed around the building.  I wanted to have the fleet establish an air perimeter of fighters around the building as a precautionary measure, but Admiral Wrajera said he couldn’t spare us the use of a squadron as the fleet is currently on red alert.”

            “My guess is something’s up with Andromeda,” McDowell added, his expression dour.  “Makes me wonder if we’ll even have a starship to return to after this debacle’s over.”

            To the RSN personnel in the meeting room, those words gave everyone a shudder.

            “I must admit you’re not alone in that chain of thinking, Ensign,” Ryvvius replied.  Activating his communicator, he spoke into it.  “Ryvvius to Sailor Siryn with a status report.  Come in, please.”

            No response.  Only dead air.

            “Captain, respond, please.”  Again, nothing.  Ryvvius frowned.

            Is Sailor Siryn running silent?  Or just ignoring me?  Fiona’s behavior is puzzling, at best, reckless at worst, the Cygnian thought grimly.  Why was she hell-bent on rushing to Ventura’s side while abandoning her more important duties as new head of a council whose world is coming apart at the seams?  That’s a serious dereliction of duty that could get her relieved of her command, maybe even drummed out of the RSN if the current situation continues to deteriorate.  And yet, she still left.  Damn it, Fiona!  What is Ventura to you that you would possibly throw away your career?

            “Commander?  What are we going to do?” a worried Miriele asked the Cygnian.  Her slim body shook ever so slightly from nervousness.

            Ryvvius gave the Vegan girl a kindly smile and gently placed a hand on her shoulder.  “Above all else, Cassandra, we do our duty.  That’s why we’re here.”

            Miriele returned Ryvvius’ smile and her worries melted away.  Being with the veteran officer, whom she began to see as a father figure, gave her a strong sense of security.  Something she never had while growing up a lonely, war torn orphan.  “Thank you, sir.”

            “What?  Are you sure?  Well, order them to stop!” snapped Drocargh into his communicator.

            “What is it, General?” Ryvvius asked.

            “A huge mob of citizens, armed to the teeth, are storming the front entrance!”  Drocargh pressed a button on a console on the table that activated a large viewscreen on the far wall.  What the assembled group saw were hundreds of angry people, young and old, male and female; all dressed in the dull gray robes of the Pollusian church, and toting all manner of primitive weapons, from clubs to axes and pikes, rumbling towards the building in a huge, flesh and blood wave.

            Kodos, wide-eyed and shocked turned to one of the remaining church represenatives.  “Jertanic!  They’re all Anonists!  Is this your doing?  Did that bastard Zhitenn plan this?”

            Jertanic, a rail thin, sweaty older man, looking just as shocked as everyone else, vigorously shook his head.  “No!  I- I have no idea what this is all about!  That’s the truth!”

            “What is this?” a puzzled LeClerc asked.  “A palace revolt?”

            “That certainly seems to be the case, Ensign.  But what could’ve sparked it?” Ryvvius wondered.  As he watched the screen, he saw several men, dressed in regular clothes sprinkled among the crowd and toting what he thought to be video recording devices, his eyes widened as he quickly put two and two together.  Oh, those clever DK bastards!  I know what they’re up to now!

            “Drocargh!  It’s a set-up!  We’re being goaded into a confrontation!  Under no circumstances are your men to use lethal force on that crowd!” the Cygnian yelled at Drocargh.  “What we’re seeing down there is a damned show!  A show being broadcast live to who knows how many millions of Pollusians!  Spill any blood and this powderkeg will blow sky high!  Issue that order, man!  NOW!”

            Just as Drocargh activated the intercom, some of the Anonists hurled rocks at the soldiers, who then opened fire, touching off a riot.

Pollusian Military Headquarters

             General Rakasgh scowled, openly annoyed and impatient.  “Dammit, N’mlota!  Would you cut the crap, stop playing games, and kill the bitch already?  We still have to finalize our plans for the conquest of Pollus.”

            N’mlota stepped back, frowning.  “I suppose you’re right.”  He readied his knife.

            Ventura tensed, ready to throw herself to the side, to the floor, anything; her throat went dry.  This can’t be how it ends!  I won’t let it happen this way!

            Then, her hearing picked up something that made her relax; and in a split second, she realized everyone else in the room heard it, too:  an eerie wailing, soft, but steadily increasing in volume.

            The three generals and the four soldiers shared looks of puzzlement, and even as General Horos turned to snap an order at the soldiers, he paused, watching in amazement as a terrified Mularen scuttled under a desk.

            “Speak up, scum!  You know something!  What is that?” Horos demanded.

            “He can’t talk, probably because he’s about to soil himself,” smirked Ventura, wickedly.  “He’s heard it before.  Right before Carnus bought the farm.  You were saying about how no one was going to come to my rescue?  Wrong!  Gentlemen, time for you to pay the piper.”  She dove out of the chair, and rolled under the holographic mapping table in the center of the room.

            Just in time.

            An instant later, the massive window overlooking the room shattered into thousands of shards, and a blast of pure penetrating sound slammed full force into them all, carrying with it the surreally glittering lethal storm of the window’s remains.  The seven standing Pollusians were viciously lacerated and bowled over, smashed against desks, chairs, and walls as hot fluid splashed about in accompaniment to howls of shock and pain.

            And some of that fluid was black ichor, Ventura noted.  She glanced up to see Sailor Siryn floating into the room, landing majestically in the center of the space.

            The rather shocked Pollusian soldiers began to react according to their training, scrambling to combat positions and raising their weapons.  Sailor Siryn noted this, and her expression hardened.  Anger radiated from her, almost palpably, and her vocal cords tensed nearly of their own accord.

            Another powerful scream burst within the chamber; desks and chairs were splintered into polycarbonate and plasteel fragments, weapons went flying, glass shattered all over, and the four soldiers and three generals were buried a full ten centimeters into the far reinforced wall, battered senseless, with the air driven completely out of them; the very atmosphere in the room rippled with the sonic power of the ruthless, unceasing, bonecrushing assault.  The scream ended, and silence finally fell, as dust and debris settled in a cloud all around.  Sailor Siryn smirked smugly at her handiwork, satisfied that none of them were a threat any longer.

            The Sonic Senshi turned and strode towards where Ventura was crawling out from under her improvised cover.  She gave the black woman a warm smile, extending her hand to help Ventura to her feet.  “Hi.  Sorry I’m late, Gabrielle.”

            For her part, Ventura was rather relieved and pleased to see Sailor Siryn, and couldn’t help smiling right back.  “I forgive you, Fiona.  Better late than never.”

            Sailor Siryn’s gaze darted down, reassuring herself that Ventura was okay, and she blinked, her eyes widening in horror at the sight of blood on Ventura’s cheek, throat, and the collar of her uniform.  She clenched her fists, and a red haze seemed to cloud her vision as rage spiked through her.  They hurt her!  THEY HURT HER!  That tears it!  I’ve had it with these bastards!  Damn them all!  “Who hurt you, Gabrielle?  WHO?” an incensed Sailor Siryn roared.  “Point out the miserable motherfucker so I can kill him!”

            This is madness, a stunned Ventura thought.  Fiona disregarded RSN regulations to come after me; now she’s ready to kill because I’d been hurt.  Why?

            Mularen, for his part, was terrified.  All too clearly, he could well remember Ventura’s words.  They had seemed incredible, disgusting… a fib, a means to escape… but here and now, seeing the maddened Senshi, they seemed all too true.  He slowly began crawling away, trembling, trying to reach the door…

            “That’s far enough, Mr. Mularen,” Ventura suddenly said.  He spun to see both women glaring at him; and then the ebon-skinned woman’s gaze shifted, eyes widening slightly.

            “My condition is of little importance right now, captain.  We have more pressing concerns at present.”  She nodded her dark head; and Mularen and Sailor Siryn both followed her gaze to where four astonished and revolted Pollusian soldiers were staring at the three former generals… who had increased in size, and whose hides had thickened into dark gray.  Massive claws and fangs adorned the horrors.

            Sailor Siryn snorted, unimpressed.  She bared her teeth, like a wolf, at the trio as they fully regained their feet.  “Infiltrators.  Why am I not surprised?”

            “Yes.  Like Carnus, we have been entrenched on Pollus for years,” snarled one of the monsters, the one who had been impersonating N’mlota.  “All part of the grand plan for this world’s takeover.  Now that you know who we are, you must die!” 

            They moved suddenly, charging; the one on the left grabbed the remains of a desk and flung it aside to where it smashed into the door; the one on the right cleared the holographic mapping table in a single bound.  All three snarled quite bestially as they closed.

            Sailor Siryn’s throat was already glowing.  “Wrong!  The only ones dying today are you fuckers!”  Nearly insane with rage at the indignity heaped upon Ventura, not to mention the rest of Andromeda’s crew, Sailor Siryn opened her mouth and unleashed her fury.

            Ventura immediately clapped her hands over her ears, eyes widening.  She thought she’d seen Sailor Siryn’s power before; she was mistaken.  This was even more incredible.  This blast of pure sonic force was so powerful the floor not only rippled, but also cracked; the walls shattered outward; and the very foundation of the building shuddered as if in an earthquake… or a powerful, continuous sonic boom. 

            The concentrated blast of sound energy smashed full on into the attacking Infiltrators, and all present watched in horrified fascination as they managed to stand in place for a split second, their flesh shredding away, their bones shattering, before being blown off their feet and out the window.  As the assault ended, with wind blowing in and debris fluttering about, Ventura crept to the edge and glanced out… and wished she hadn’t.  Three piles of organic mush were literally all that remained of the Infiltrators; they’d literally been reduced to goo, splattered all over the street and sidewalks below.  She swallowed, her mouth suddenly dry; she found herself unable to believe what she’d just witnessed.

            “Who’s next?  Speak up!  Who wants to die?”  Sailor Siryn roared at the four soldiers, still gripped by her fury.  They were quite clearly cowed and stunned at what they’d just seen, as was a whimpering Mularen.  For a long moment, nobody moved.

            Serenity’s crown!  Her rage!  It’s inhuman!  Fiona’s become an angel of death!  Why does that… excite me? Ventura wondered.  Her mind was in a tumult; it was all just too much to handle at the moment.

            Sailor Siryn spun, and in a few powerful strides, reached Mularen, and clamped one hand around his throat, hoisting him off of his feet.  “Your turn, shithead!  That communicator you have!  Give it to me, or I’ll fucking kill you!”

            Mularen was too terrified to resist; tremulous, he meekly and obediently reached under his robes and produced the Dark Kingdom communicator.  He gasped for breath as he was disdainfully thrown aside; Sailor Siryn poked at the thing for a few seconds, and then muttered a curse.  “The code, you traitorous bastard!  Give me the damn code to unlock this thing!”

            Mularen gulped, and despite the terror that was overwhelming him, managed to form a cohesive sentence, forced together out of some lingering derision for those of other than his own species.  “No; it doesn’t matter.  It’s too late.  Their endgame has already begun.”

            Sailor Siryn growled, and took half a step towards him, when the building began to shake again; a deep bass rumble filled the air.  Disregarding Mularen and the soldiers, Sailor Siryn and Ventura rushed to where the wall had been.

            They were quite stunned to see over a dozen hovertanks, bristling with plasma cannons, moving up the street in single file, billowing up a cloud of dust and grass debris in their wake.  Their destination was unmistakable:  the Royal Hall.

    

TO BE CONTINUED...

 

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