Week 13 Summary (September 3-8, 2002)

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Vice strode through the medbay at a brisk pace. He was not allowed to leave just yet, but he just had to move about after being dunked for the better part of a day. Each step he took was one more step that he put between himself and his injuries, in a metaphorical sense. Eventually he was told to relax by Dr. Zelios, but he was having trouble just sitting in one place. Too much time had been spent relaxing in the healing gel.

"So you're Lieutenant Gilding, eh?" he said as he approached the pilots bed. "What are you in for?"

Alora Gilding met the man's gaze coolly, as befit her call sign -- 'Cool.' It was less about her bring hip or 'with it' than it was a description of her usual demeanor, Vice suspected. "I was injured on the retrieval operation for Corporal Durst, Lieutenant Gunther's wing mate," she answered without expression. Her long blonde hair framed her heart-shaped, attractive face, and Valkurie could see that the pilot wasn't enjoying her time in sick bay anymore than he was.

"Deadly boring in here," Gilding commented mildly, "when you don't have a parade of young pilots and mechanics stopping by to see how you're doing every three minutes."

"Ouch," Vice replied. "This is true though. With no one coming to visit me, I am forced to go out and find new persons to liven things up. What happened during the mop up and recovery?"

"We got jumped by the same Ryu that took out Dee Dee in the first place. Slippery bastard -- this thing wasn't moving like any of the Ryus I've taken on in simulations. It was much faster. That cruiser, the Tan, was also out there, so the marines had to deploy hot to retrieve the capsule as quick as they could. I found out pretty quickly that my Pathfinder was no match for the Ryu, but Cosby and I managed to combine for the kill -- which was lucky for Collins, because she'd accidentally put the Grouse right in harm's way. That girl's going to get herself killed, just so you know," Gilding said harshly. "Don't rely on her to get your back."

"I'll have to keep that in mind. I'm still not too sure about her, from what little I have learned from our conversations, but she does need some work," Vice said. "It could be that she just picked up some bad habits from another Lancer pilot that I know. Heh. Now that I think about it there area lot of similarities between the two of them."

Gilding allowed herself a slight smile.

"So what is your analysis of the other pilots onboard? Be honest."

Gilding shrugged. "You'll find our for yourself soon enough, but I suppose there's no harm in making you aware of their strengths and limitations. Lieutenant Spencer is a fine pilot. He's not the best commander we could hope for, but that's because he'd rather fly than do paperwork. Olivier, his wingman, is young. Eager and with some promise, but untested. I share my exo with him, and don't particularly care for his smell. Montreal is a good enough pilot, but he's more concerned with his looks and reputation than he is his job. Meltwater, his wingman, is a disaster. I don't know how he made it through the academy, frankly, and Montreal certainly isn't going to be one to help him learn even the most basic skills he's going to need to stay alive."

Sipping from her water, Gilding continued, apparently unconcerned by some of the cutting remarks she'd made. "Gunther's a blow-hard with exo-envy who can't keep it in his pants. Good pilot, though. A little reckless, but skilled. Dee Dee's green, but Gunther's teaching her everything he knows, which means she'll probably end up being a decent pilot who spends all her off-hours trying to get laid. The other two lancer pilots, Cortez and Collins, are like night and day. Cortez is a pro, all business. He's starting to get a little long in the tooth, but he's reliable. Collins is just here to flirt and party, from what I can tell. I suspect she's done Messier a few 'favors' to land the Grouse assignment."

"Cosby, my wingman, is a good guy. When everything hits the fan, he's there. I trust him with my life -- every time we're out on patrol. McLean, your wing, is similarly dependable. He's an excellent pilot, though I don't care much for his personality. You I haven't figured out yet," Gilding finished. "You've obviously got some ability, but I don't know if that comes from sound doctrine or you being a total nut-case."

Vice smiled. "I can see that you have spent some time around Gunther. He likes to call me a nut-case. A narcissistic nut-case to be precise. In any case I appreciate your analysis. I try to get an understanding of the other pilots in my squadron so that I have an idea of what to expect from them. The middle of a fight is no place to find out how reliable your wingman is."

"I don't deny that, but don't worry too much -- Fenris will be there for you," Gilding replied. "This has all been quite a test, and with very short notice. Still, it's great to see so much action. Patrols get old fast when you're out beyond Jupiter, which is where we were last year. I'm hoping this tour in towards the Belt will be a little livelier."

"So the patrols out beyond Jupiter were slow, eh?" Vice said. "I guess that shouldn't be too surprising but such inactivity really dulls a pilot's skills. I know how you feel. I have always tried to get assignments close to the Belt. Better chance to run into Pirates and the like. That's how I ended up at the Battle of Elysee. How long have you been on the Fierce?"

"Since she launched last year," Gilding answered, shifting to a more comfortable position in her bed. "What I'm really hoping is that we're going to get tasked with finding out what happened to the first Fierce."

Gunther nearly spit his supper through his nose as he let out a startled laugh. Pulling a napkin to his face, he tried to recover his dignity, coughing to clear his throat. Finally, he spoke up. "Wow, that was quite a leap," Gunther expressed. "Moving from why you seemed surprised about me wanting to sit with you to piloting a lancer being a waste?" Gunther looked stunned. "Now, this is an argument that I've gotta hear." He straightened up and placed his hands behind his head, looking Cyan square in the eye. "Explain how flying a capital ship is better then flying a lanc... no, a space fighter."

"It's not a leap," Cyan insisted. "You asked me why I looked uncomfortable eating with you. I may not know you, but I know your type. You lancer pilots walk around this ship just like you walked around flight school, acting like you're God's gift to space flight, when all you're really good at is zipping around in your little toys. It's the capital ships that get the job done out there. The capital ships are where the real flying happens."

Gunther came right back at the Cyan. "Real flying?" he gasped. "Let me tell you something, sister. The truth is that we lancer pilots are good and most of know it. Me, I'm damn good. You, well, you might be. I don't know. I haven't seen you pull maneuvers in a firefight yet. So far you've demonstrated that you can accelerate this ship at one gee and likely demonstrate decent navigational skill, my congratulations." Gunther pointed a finger right at Cyan. "Ha, you seriously think it's only the capital ships that get the job done?" He paused briefly as if to let her answer, but charged on indicating that he was merely catching his breath. "No, wait, I have a more appropriate question for our naive little Private. What is the Fierce?"

"I'm not saying that what you lancer pilots do isn't valuable, but when history gets written, and believe me... they'll write about the Fierce, it'll be the Fierce that gets written about, not its fighters. It'll be the maneuvers of *this* ship that get remembered. I don't doubt you and your pilots are good. You wouldn't have gotten this far if you weren't a capable pilot, Lieutenant, but don't you think you could do more for the fleet? Don't you ever feel like you're wasting your talents?" Cyan countered.

As the two pilots raised their voices and their conversation became more heated, other people in the mess began glancing their way. Orr, seated by himself at a nearby table, watched with interest. Either unaware or unconcerned about the attention they were attracting, Cyan waited for Gunther's reply.

Gunther snickered, seeing the crowd gathering. "You're blowing hot air, Private." He continued his press, unrelenting. "You didn't answer my question. What is the Fierce? What kind of ship is she?"

"Alright, Lieutenant, I'll play your little game. We're on a patrol carrier," Cyan growled. "Now, enlighten me with tales of JAF forethought and wisdom when they commissioned the Fierce. Go ahead, tell me how the existence of a carrier makes my point somehow less valid. Just because this is a carrier doesn't mean that the true test of a pilot isn't made at the helm of a capitol ship!"

Cyan stopped for a moment, surprised that she found herself trying to stifle a grin. As much as she hated to admit it, she was having the most fun she's had onboard the Fierce since she joined her crew. Well, aside from firing the main thrusters, this was the most fun, anyway...

"So, let's hear it!" she continued to demand. "Let's hear the wisdom of Lieutenant Gunther!"

He smiled, pretending to ignore her taunts. "You're correct Private," Gunther acknowledged, his voice seeming calm. "But you're making too much of a leap here." Gunther knew that would piss her off, but he was enjoying this far too much himself. Damn, she's hot when she's mad, he thought to himself before continuing. "The Fierce is a patrol carrier, and what do patrol carriers carry, aside from hot-shot lancer pilots like myself?"

"Inflated egos?" Cyan snipped. "Like yourself?"

Gunther's eyes widened with delight. "Oho," he moaned. "You just don't get it, do you? Man, if I didn't know better I'd think you were an exo-pilot." He pointed a finger right at her nose. "You think because you pilot the damn ship, that you're the important one, ha." He pulled his thumb to his chest. "Even an inflated ego knows better than that. It take a lot more than piloting skills to get in the history books, Private." He chuckled. "It takes brains and intuition. Something that you haven't had the time nor experience to build on, sister. That privilege is left to captains, aces and other experienced officers, not white-knuckled, piss-ant privates that think because they can pull hard on a stick and make a capital ship jiggle, they're god's gift to the JAF." He sat up straight, slapping his hands on the table. "But with you, that kinda talk just falls on deaf ears, doesn't it?"

Private Cyan should have known better than to continue to argue with a lieutenant, but something in her wouldn't let her back down, so she slammed her fist down on the same tabletop where Gunther had slapped his hands, and shouted back, "If you even think about comparing me to an exo-pilot again, you'll end up with a black eye you'll never forget!"

Gunther burst out laughing. "Oh, I'd like to see that. Maybe you could help round out my face, huh? Black eye to go with my broken nose," he laughed aloud again, mocking her.

Private Cyan tried to push herself up from where she was sitting, enraged to the point that she would soon find herself leaning over the table, pointing a finger in Gunther's face, but she forgot about the lashing she had used to tie herself down in the microgravity. So, instead of leaping over the table to put Gunther in his place, she just sort of nudged up a little, then sunk back into her chair. A little confused, she shook her head for a moment, and then returned to their argument with only some of the wind taken from her sails, and only the faintest traces of embarrassment visible on her cheeks.

"Anyway, it takes a hell of a lot more than pulling a stick to pilot a capital ship. This beast isn't one of your little, fragile lancers," she continued, her voice a bit lower now. "But I suppose you wouldn't understand that. With you lancer pilots everything is about how quick your reflexes are or how tight the techs have tuned your verniers. It's all twitch maneuvering and short-attention span thrusting. With a capital ship you need to plan ahead, you need to anticipate your captain's orders, you need to balance the needs of the ship's weapon techs with your own requirements for evasion maneuvers!"

The private wasn't sure where she was going with this, but she wasn't about to back down.

Still laughing but calming down, Gunther looked Cyan straight in the face. "You forget Private, I'm a lieutenant." He pointed at his lieutenant bar. "I know a lot more about strategic combat than you give me credit for." He frowned. "Still, that's all moot to you, isn't it?" He taunted her again. "Seems you've got Lancer piloting all figured out?"

"Don't I?" she roared in response. "All it takes to fly a lancer is some quick reflexes and some easy tricks!"

"Really?" Gunther contested. "Are you willing to put your money where your mouth is?"

By now all eyes in the mess were on the two pilots, and people's heads were shifting back and forth as though they were observing a tennis match. As Gunther finished his question, everyone turned back to Cyan.

"If you're man enough to try me, I'm game!" Cyan snapped back almost immediately. "What did you have in mind?"

"Your successfully completing a VR combat program that I've been working on for training my wingman," Gunther challenged plainly. "In a pair of lancers, you and I facing off against a Venusian exo squad during a bombing run on a pair of Senator-class vessels. You even survive, I give you a week's pay, my pay. You don't, you pay me a week's pay, my pay not yours... credit for credit." He paused, a cleverish smile crossing his face. "Plus one other proposition if you choose to accept."

Private Cyan fought to suppress yet another smile. Gunther had no idea she came from a wealthy family and a month of pay, even a lieutenant's pay, wouldn't put too much of a strain on her finances.

"You're on," she answered, her smile finally breaking to the surface. "What's this other proposition you have in mind?"

Gunther smiled like the spider that caught the fly in his web. "If I don't survive the simulation myself, you and I have a night on the town next shore leave, your treat."

"So, let me be sure I understand this," Cyan started. "All I have to do is survive to win? But, if I don't survive, I owe you a month's pay. Plus, if you don't survive, I owe you a night out on the town, as well? Hardly seems fair, but I don't plan on losing."

Arianna started to extend her hand to get Gunther to shake on it, but then she stopped, adding, "One little tweak... if you don't survive your simulation, you owe *me* a night out, and you have to wear a dress the entire time."

Gunther gave her a queer look. "You already agreed on what would happen if I don't survive. I can't not survive and not survive. My terms on not surviving stand as is," Gunther affirmed. "But, being the gentleman that I am, I will give you something you want if I do survive. How's that?"

"But either way, you win," Arianna pressed. "If you don't survive, I get your pay for a month. If you do survive, I get to take you out? How is that any kind of reward for me?"

"If I don't survive, you take me out, " Gunther corrected. Gunther humphed, seeing the confused look on her face. "You're cute when your confused, but let me try this again. You claim that you have what it takes to be a lancer pilot. That flying a capital ship is about coordinating with the actions and requirements of the rest of the crew, but lancer piloting is much the same. This simulation isn't some cruise through space; you and I will only survive it if we work as a team. You want to prove yourself as a lancer wingman, right? That's what you want to prove, right?" Before she had time to answer, he continued. "So, let me restate the terms."

"I never said that I had what it takes to be a lancer pilot," Cyan answered, "just that flying a lancer wasn't much of a test of piloting ability."

For a variety of reasons, she chose to ignore the "you're cute" comment.

Gunther sighed inside as he started listing out the terms. "One, if you survive; I give you a week of lieutenant's pay. Two, if you don't survive; you pay me a week of lieutenant's pay. Three, if I don't survive; you take me for a night on the town next shore leave. Four, you choose your condition if I do survive. Make sense?"

"It makes sense, it just doesn't seem very fair. If you don't survive your simulation, you still win, because I have to take you out, which is hardly much incentive for me to watch your back," Arianna frowned. She glanced around the galley, looking for a familiar face, and when she spotted Corporal Orr, she announced, "Orr can decide on new conditions. The bet surrounding your monthly pay still stands, but we can leave it to Orr to make it a little more interesting. Deal?"

Arianna held our her hand so the two could shake on it.

Hmmm, Gunther thought to himself. So, she'd like to go out with me? Interesting. Realizing he needed to stay focused on the deal, he shook the interesting thoughts of Cyan and him out of his mind. "Fairness is a word left uttered by windbags, not ace capital ship pilots," Gunther taunted. He shrugged. "Whether you feel incentive to take me out or not is entirely up to you. However, the third condition stands. As you said earlier, it's hardly much of an incentive for you to watch my back anyway." He smiled, looking over a Orr. "So, you want him to figure out what your fourth condition will be, huh?"

Orr raised his hands defensively. "Oh no -- I don't want any part of this!" he exclaimed.

"Coward!" Arianna snorted at Orr. Turning back to Gunther, she said, "Fine, the fourth condition is this... and it has nothing to do with surviving your silly simulation. I'll present you with a situation in a simulation that I'll create. Let's see if you can handle the stick on a *real* ship. Deal?"

Gunther thought of more to rebuff, but then realized that he shouldn't play his poker hand too long. "Sounds challenging," he replied, with a hint of disbelief. He stuck out his hand. "It should be amusing, for both of us." He winked at Cyan. "I accept."

"Good," Cyan answered. "This should be very interesting!"

"Movement again down there," La Rue declared, taking aim with her heavy rifle.

Private Ng set the grenade in his hand for remote detonation and tossed it down the narrow corridor they'd discovered to be mined. La Rue's weapon flashed once as Ng radioed, "3-2-1," before touching the trigger switch with his finger inside his gauntlet.

The hull shook once as the whole squad was illuminated by the grenade's flash, and a split-second later a full dozen more explosions reverberated through the hull.

"Looks like it cleaned them all out, but you'd better check it, Ellis," Ng said, inspecting his work.

Ellis moved awkwardly past the demo expert in the narrow corridor, bringing her sensitive sensor suite to bear when she was in the clear. A few seconds later, she reported, "Looks good, Sergeant. I think Ng got them all."

"Shit!" Brinks suddenly exclaimed, firing his armor gun rapidly.

"We've got a pair of exo-suits coming up this tunnel," La Rue added, firing jolting blasts from her weapon as well. "They've put down a smoke screen -- switching to infrared. Looks like a pair of Martian rigs -- Stalkers. I think-"

The big marine's comment was cut off as a rocket-powered projectile raced up the corridor, missing her by a matter of centimeters. Far down the passage behind La Rue and Brinks, the rocket exploded in a flash of intense light. Both marines quickly moved to cover, La Rue to the tunnel going right, Brinks to the left near the rest of the squad.

Harry flinched inside his suit as the rocket flew past and exploded despite his best efforts not to. Swearing under his breath he open the squad channel. "Move it!" he ordered. "Ellis, Brinks, get up front if you can. Ng, have you got anything we can leave behind to slow these bastards down? La Rue, get ready to run. I'll cover you."

La Rue signaled being ready as the squad moved out and Ng moved in behind Mandrake. Hefting a squat, gas-powered canister launcher, Ng nodded. "Yes sir, but I need a few seconds to swap in the right ammo."

Harry unslung his grenade launcher and leaned around the corner. Making out a couple of vague heat sources in the smoke down the corridor on his thermographic display he fired two grenades, hoping to make the enemy exo-suits seek cover. "Go!" he shouted to La Rue over the radio, grenade launcher ready to fire at any sign of movement from down the passageway.

As the grenades exploded down the larger corridor, La Rue moved with speed and precision, exposing herself to fire for no more than a half-second. She barreled into McGregor on the other side and grabbed the woman to keep from knocking her down. "Sorry about that, Lieutenant," the tall marine said, releasing the JAFI officer and spinning to cover Ng and Mandrake.

"Set," Ng announced, locking a six-shot drum into place on his weapon. "This'll slow 'em down for sure -- incendiary mines," the man said while peeking around the corner. His weapon shook, and had the trace atmosphere in the tunnel been thicker, the squad would have all heard the telltale 'bomp' of the launcher. Six times Ng pulled the trigger, loading up the corridor with the magnetic mines. As he fired his last round, the bulkhead behind Ng suddenly dented, sporting a perfectly round hole at the end of a wispy trail of smoke that lead back down the corridor.

Lurching and stumbling back down the side passage, Ng was caught by Mandrake as La Rue covered the intersection. "Gauss weapons, too," Ng radioed, getting back to his feet.

Ellis and Brinks had moved past the area where Ng had cleared out the mines. "Nothing further down here so far," Ellis reported, and we're almost to the next intersection. I've got us going right down that major branch for almost two hundred meters. We won't be far from the command center at that point."

"Keep moving," radioed Harry, "we're right behind you." Twisting around, he fired a smoke grenade into the corridor behind them, hopefully giving their pursuers pause as they checked for more mines.

A squeal on the radio made the whole squad pause for a second before Tucker's voice cut through the static. "We've got issues here, guys -- I think McGregor was right. We've run into-"

Tucker's voice suddenly dropped, leaving nothing but static on the line. Mandrake and Ng exchanged armored glances before Tucker's voice came back on.

"Jesus, we've just lost Mitchel! We're pinned down -- it's a Tanuki all right -- it's a goddamned tank! The 10mm rifle can't touch the thing, and Mitchel had one of the armor guns. We've also seen signs of lighter exo-suits moving around behind us. World of shit here right now, guys..."

"We're coming in," Duran declared. "Try to hold tight until we get there, Sergeant. Mandrake, move on that command center!"

La Rue's voice came over the squad-only channel. "Fuck that! Sergeant Mandrake, sir -- Duran and his Falconers won't make it in time even if they can fit their sorry asses in here. We need to go bail them out ourselves!"

Harry's reply was swift. "La Rue, no. One, we have our orders, as Duran just confirmed. Two, we can help them out more if get the sled's security systems under our control. Three, Jackal squad is on the opposite side of the command center from us anyway. Now move it."

La Rue pounded the side of the corridor with her armored arm. "Fuck!" she said angrily, before adding, "Let's go then. Let's kill some of these bastards and get some of the heat off of Jackal squad."

Harry switched to the command channel and gave his update. "Hyena squad reporting, we've cleared the mines and are closing on the command center. We have two Sand Stalkers somewhere behind us but are not currently engaged."

Reaching the next major intersection, Ellis poked her boom around the corners to check for hostiles as Duran's voice sounded back in Mandrake's helmet. "Roger that, Mandrake. If you can hit the command center hard, that might take some of the pressure off of Tucker and her team."

"Yes sir, we'll make all possible speed," replied Harry.

Ellis voiced her findings with a tinge of frustration in her tone. "Movement in the right passage, the one we want." As the rest of the team caught up to her, La Rue bringing up the rear again, the young private lowered her boom and readied her rifle. "Looks like a few tangos in space suits," she declared. "I think Brinks and I can take them down before they know what hits them, sir."

Brinks patted his rocket-boosted armor gun. "Damn straight," he said confidently.

At that moment, the walls and floor of the passageway buzzed and vibrated slightly several times in succession. "That's my mines," Ng explained.

Beside Ng, McGregor nodded her understanding. "Too bad, though. I was hoping my suit had massage pads in the boots."

"Just a second Ellis, can you give me exact numbers and armament?" asked Harry.

Ellis stood half-crouched, ready to spring into action as her suit's computer ran weapon IDs and displayed the results. "Three contacts, sir, lightly armed. Two have Katan 7.5mm submachineguns, one has a gyroc -- an AR4, I think."

"Okay, shoot to disable if you can. Might as well try to take them alive." Harry nodded for Ellis and Brinks to make their move and positioned himself to give them support if necessary.

Ellis nodded, gave Brinks a hand signal, then scaled the wall. Perched in an inverted (in relation to the rest of the squad) position, Ellis radioed, "Go!" to Brinks and the two of them moved into the intersection as one, her high and him low.

Ellis' rifle rattled as she fired down the hall, and Brinks lit the scene several times with thunderous blasts from his armor gun. A few seconds of furious firing later, it was over. "Got them," Ellis reported, lowering her rifle and bringing her sensors back up.

When she reported that it was clear, the rest of the team moved into the intersection and then right, into the larger passage where the firefight had taken place. As they came upon the first downed spacer, he was falling gently aft towards the squad, his faceplate cracked open by one of Brinks' rounds. Brains and a ghastly cloud of blood, plastic and bone followed behind the man, all leaking and spreading from the ragged hole at the back of his helmet.

"Pa always said he was the brainy one," Brinks joked morbidly in an old west accent.

Coming on the other two, the squad saw that both leaked streams of blood from a variety of 10mm bullet-holes. One struggled slightly, obviously dying, and running out of air.

"Shoot to wound," La Rue recalled Mandrake's directive. "Good idea, sarge."

"Let's move out," Mandrake commanded. Ellis took the lead again, La Rue the rear. The team moved swiftly along until Ellis called for a stop with a gesture and a curt radio request. Ahead, in the T of the upcoming intersection, a person had appeared on her sensors.

"One contact," Ellis said evenly. "Wearing a light vac suit, unarmed. Coming straight at us."

"Keep moving," said Harry, loading a magazine of night glue grenades into his launcher and bringing it up to aim down the corridor.

The team proceeded, but stayed to the sides of the corridor to give their sergeant a clean shot. Harry fired as the suited figure entered his sights. The grenade sailed down the corridor and exploded in the intersection behind the figure, spraying the entire area with thick, black adhesive.

McGregor patched into Mandrake's private line. "If you're thinking what I'm thinking, Mandrake, we're going to treat that guy like a suicide bomber, right?" she asked, nodding in the direction of the entangled person.

"I don't know what's going on here," replied Harry "But if they can't see and they can't move then I'll be happy enough for the moment. We can deal with it after we've accomplished our objective."

Harry switched channels to contact their sensor specialist. "Ellis, you picking up any explosives on this guy?"

"No sir, he looks clean," Ellis replied.

"Hmm, any explosives inside the suit could be screened by its radiation shielding. But how much explosive could you fit inside anyway? Let's move, just don't touch the damn thing."

The unarmed spacer was stuck to the wall like a fly in a spiderweb as Hyena squad approached the intersection. Brinks leveled his weapon at the struggling figure. Much of the person's spacesuit was covered by the inky goo; he clearly weren't going anywhere. Ellis stepped delicately over a few puddles of the substance, also avoiding thick strands of the stuff that still hung in the air. Extending her sensor boom to it's full extent, she couldn't quite peek fully around the corners. "Looks clear right to the airlock, but I can get a good look with the glue in the way," she said.

Ng produced a stubby, pistol-like weapon from his backpack. "Want me to use some solvent to clear us a path, sir?" he asked.

"I should clean up after my own messes, Ng," replied Harry, producing his own spray gun. Being careful to aim away from the figure on the wall he sprayed a cloud of solvent into the intersection, rendering the floating night glue inert.

"Sergeant Mandrake," Officer Duran's gruff voice sounded on the comm. "We're in, but we haven't reached Tucker yet. I don't know that we're going to be able to in our Falconers. We might have to ditch the shells. Have you heard from her since that first call?"

"No sir, but we've been a bit busy with our own problems," Harry replied.

"Alright, leave it to us, then. What's your ETA for the command center?"

"Should be no more than five minutes, as long as we don't run into any more major surprises. We're coming up to the airlock now."

"Thizz izz Tuczzzzerrr," Sergeant Tucker's badly distorted voice came on the line. "We're on zzz mvvvrrzz. Found a way arrrzzz zzzeerr Tanuki, but if the airllrkkzzzz izzz lkzzz wrrrzzz zzzcrrrddd..."

"Tucker, repeat!" Duran commanded. Static sounded on the channel, and Duran cursed under his breath. "Mandrake, you get any of that?"

"She said they'd found a way around the Tanuki, and something about an airlock but that was it," said Harry as he adjusted his radio controls. Tucker's voice, however, did not return.

"Let me know if you catch anything else, and if you can get word to her, tell her to fall back to this intersection," Duran returned, bringing up a map inside Harry's helmet and highlighting the area in question. "That's as far as we can penetrate without going soft."

"Will do. If we can get control of the security system from the command center we should be able to locate her fairly easily. Mandrake out."

With a narrow passage through the glue cleared, Ellis was able to check the corridor that their own t-boned with more confidence. "Coast is clear, Sergeant," she transmitted. "The airlock is maybe fifteen meters down this right corridor. That room looks clear, but there are two entrances to it other than this one."

"Mandrake," McGregor said on his private channel. "I don't want to hold things up, but if I can get maybe 30 seconds with this character..." She gestured over her shoulder at the helpless figure still bound in glue. "...I think it could potentially be worth it. Your call."

"We're kind of in a hurry here, Lieutenant," replied Harry as he unslung his assault rifle and moved to check the intersection for himself. "You've got thirty seconds and that's it. Try not to have them explode on you."

"Well, it's not on my task list today..." she replied, stepping towards the figure. Touching her helmet to the other's on one of the few patches not covered by the night glue, she addressed their captive. "Can you understand me?" she asked. In German, on the off-chance that the occupant might understand that if not English, she repeated, "Kannst du mich verstehen?"

She went on, "You're in a world of trouble here, and I don't have much time, so let's make this quick: you've obviously fallen in with a bad crowd -- I understand that, you understand that, the courts will probably understand it. You don't need to go down with Marduke, do you? I guarantee he wouldn't care a damn for you. So tell me: how do we get into the control room and what can we expect once we're inside?" She repeated the questions in German.

End Week 13 Summary (September 3-8, 2002)

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ALL SYSTEMS GO is set in Dream Pod 9's Jovian Chronicles universe. Jovian Chronicles, the Jovian Chronicles logo and Silhouette are trademarks of Dream Pod 9, Inc. Exo-armor, Jovian Confederation, CEGA, Silhouette and all other names, logos and specific game terms are (c)1993, 2002; all Jovian Chronicles art and designs are Copyright (c)1994-2002 Dream Pod 9, Inc. No challenge to these copyrights and trademarks is intended.

Except where noted, all original content is copyright 2002 John Guilfoyle, Alistair Gillies, Chris Schaller, Robb Neumann, Dennis Kirkpatrick and Bryan Lee. Page last updated on September 30th, 2002.