Jagoroth - A Long Story

[Ciryaher]

“Computer,” said a man. He was in a light combat suit, and the markings on his shoulder indicated the rank of captain. “I would like to access the orders from General Kharmov. This is Captain Jagoroth Jorgamund.”
“Access denied,” said the monotone voice.
“Since when was access to my orders denied?” Captain Jag asked.
“Access denied,” the computer answered flatly.
“Can I see the directive orders?”
“Access denied.”
“What about a diagnostic report?”
“Access denied,” the computer said, as if it were the only thing it knew and wanted nothing more to respond to all questions with the same words in the same voice.
Jagoroth thought for a moment, “What about my personal files? Can I access them?”
“Access-“ The captain whipped out his blaster and destroyed the computer terminal, which was suddenly silent, aside from the crackling and fizzling.
“I’ll teach you to deny access to me, you God-forsaken machine!” he shouted at the smoldering pile of metal and plastic.

The outpost was fairly new, and implemented the latest sensors, computers, and defensive matrices, but the captain would throw it all in the atomizer to get some equipment he knew how to use and some stout soldiers.
“All I get is a bunch of green technicians,” he muttered to himself. The captain was officially codenamed Jagoroth, but most of his close friends and comrades called him Jag. All of the soldiers had codenames, and most took them to be their everyday name. The captain didn’t quite remember his real name.
Jag walked into the sensor lab and inspected the technicians at their posts as they monitored the space nearby this particular wasteland of a planet. He tapped computer a specialist on the shoulder.
“Malfunctioning computer in Section 2, Mr. Venga,” the captain said quietly, “I think it short circuited; looks burnt.”
The technician looked puzzled and rose warily, “Yes, sir. I’ll get right on it, sir.”
Jag nodded and the technician walked out of the room. He looked around at the various screens; computers & data, local sensor, near-space sensor, system sensor network, communications, outpost maintenance screens-all showing a jumble of information. That’s what civilians are for, I guess, the captain thought. He passed the communications screen casually, but ran back when he noticed a blinking light, which he pressed. The Fleet insignia scrolled up the screen and was followed by a transmission:

MARCONSTELFLTCOM

***PRIORITY ALPHA***

ZZ1590.22.234F

TO: ALL MCDF PERSONNEL

FROM: MARCONSTELFLTCOMINTCNTR

1. AESON ACTIVITY INCREASING MASSIVE ATTACK ON ALL FRONTS IMMINENT
2. EXTREME JAMMING AND ELUSION MECHANISMS IN USE BY AESON FLEET BE ON MAXIMUM SENSOR ALERT
3. PREPARE DEFENSES ON ALL OUTPOSTS COMMAND CENTERS EMBASSIES AND OTHER MARCON POSSESSIONS
4. STEGLOS AND TERRAN FEDERATION ALSO ATTACKED BUT HAVE PLEDGED FULL SUPPORT

ELFA-33b50.22.234F

***END TRANSMISSION***

The technicians had gathered around the comm. screen as the message crawled across the monitor. They became afraid, but the captain rose.
“Everyone needs to fit themselves with their armor and a weapon. If they come at us unawares,” he glanced at the sensor operators, “We must be prepared to defend ourselves.”
The local sensor technician spoke up, “Sir, I suggest we place more remote sensors and motion detectors, so we can catch anyone who lands.”
“Good idea,” Jag said, pointing his thumb up. Men who could think for themselves could save themselves. “Get some men to help you and go out-in armor.”
The technician saluted and headed out to get the other local sensor technicians.
“All right, everyone back to your posts,” Capt. Jag ordered, “if you have any other suggestions, promptly inform.” He started towards the equipment bays, and fitted himself in a medium suit of armor, and a full compliment of weapons. Then, he went to the vehicle bay.
The vehicles the outpost used were mostly for reconnaissance, but there were also two hover-tanks, a mobile point base, and a low-altitude bomber. Of course, he didn’t have enough real troops to man all of them, but a few of the technicians has some sort of training in their use, and could be called on in an emergency.
Jag climbed into the seat of a Falcon—a fighter with a sensor package attached to the fuselage. He powered up the engines and pressed the contact that opens the hangar door. The environmental shield (which maintains air pressure and redirects airflow) activated and surrounded the cockpit with a transparent field of energy. The large, steel doors slid apart with a hum and the icy airs of the planet swarmed in.
With a nudge on the controls, Jag slowly brought the craft out of the hangar and into the cold sunlight. The hangar doors shut behind him, and the sensor operator confirmed skies devoid of air traffic. He slammed on the boosters, and the fighter roared as it quickly gained speed.
Turning the nose upward, he climbed above the tops of the mountains and activated the solar filters to screen out dazzling sunlight and ultraviolet rays. There was a storm front away to the south, but the sky was perfectly clear, otherwise.
“This is Base,” the com-net said, buzzing to life, “Do you copy, Captain?”
“Jagoroth to Base,” the captain answered, “You’re loud and clear.”
“Sir, we think there may be something headed this way, there are some anomalies approaching the system, and at least one sensor has been knocked out.”
“What do the sensor operators think?”
There was a pause. “They say the probability that the anomalies are hostile vessels-“ he paused, and spoke to another person-“Is almost 99 percent, sir. Do you advise?”
“Yes. Set all non-sensor personnel out in combat gear, and have them convert the outlying turrets to anti-aircraft batteries, and the base turrets to electron-flux cannons. Set down motion and pulse sensors in all entrances, make sure you put some mini-turrets around the base, also.”
“Yes, sir. Might I suggest we have some cloaked scouts stake out the high points, and watch for landing parties?”
“Make it happen, Base. Inform me as soon as anything new develops. Jag out.”
“Will do, sir. Base out.”

The captain continued his search, but found nothing of interest, so he turned back. He flew low now, and skimmed the bottoms of valleys, the terrain passing swiftly by. Jag looked down on the cascades of frozen water as a glacier passed beneath.
The com-net came to life again, “We have detected landing craft, Sir! About…twenty clicks northwest of your position.”
“Scramble the fighters and bomber to rendezvous with me at these coordinates,” Jag said punching some numbers into a console, “Are the base defenses operational?”
“Yes, sir, the last of our scouts just now came in. The defensive matrices are ready, and all personnel are armed.”
“Ok, Jag out.” He pulled up on the controls and the ship veered up and right, rising above the mountains once again.

A few minutes later, at the arranged coordinates, three fighters and a bomber came into view south of the captain.
“Ahoy there!” came a voice over the com-net. A fighter drew up along side the captain; the pilots waved to each other.
“Ok, men. Let’s intercept the enemy at the coordinates the sensors last indicated,” the captain checked his systems to be safe, and began moving towards the beacon that showed the suspected enemy locale.
“Base to Jag, we have another ship entering the system. It looks like one of our Dragon armored landing ships.”
“Send them our coordinates and request assistance,” Jag ordered. It’s about time we got some soldiers around here, he thought to himself.
A few minutes later, “The landing ship notified us that we were its original destination anyway, sir, and they have just begun their descending orbit. They should land within the hour.”
“What are they carrying?” asked the captain.
“Their cargo manifest shows about one-hundred troops, some fighters, ten tanks,” the voice changed to one of surprise, “Even one of those new Armadillos.”
“Wow,” Jag laughed, “Looks like Marcon is giving good stuff to the outposts these days.” The Armadillo was a state-of-the-art mobile base with a Munitions Access Port (a device that teleported ammunition and weapons from a warehouse to be used on the field); heavy armor and shields; and was equipped with an ground-to-air, guided missile system. With the tanks and fighters (called Razorbacks and Falcons, respectively) to assist, ground forces could use the Armadillo to steadily advance towards the enemy position. Those tanks could batter dug-in enemy equipment, and the Falcons would harass and reconnoiter enemy positions.
Looking at his command relay system, Jag saw a few bogies on the edge of sensor range just a few clicks away from the beacon. He altered his course slightly and began closing in on the targets, dropping down closer to the valley floor. The other fighters did likewise, but the bomber remained at a higher altitude to avoid the massive explosion his payload would release when used.

[Ciryaher]

Black specks appeared at the far end of the valley, and the captain began firing. As he and the other fighters let loose a barrage of heavy blaster fire, a warning alarm began blaring: someone had a missile lock on him. He could see a trail of smoke lift off the ground right above the specks (which were now getting clearer and clearer). At the head of that trail of smoke was a glow, and barely visible was the missile itself. His muscles tightened with the deep fear of death, but his experience soon calmed him as his mindset changed to that of a warrior.
“Incoming missile!” his right-wingman yelled over the radio.
“It’s mine,” Jag said coolly, trying to suppress the intense rush of adrenaline flowing throughout his veins, “The shields will absorb the impact. Hold course and pin them down so they don’t get a shot at the bomber.” Jag held the control stick tightly and braced himself for the impact that would soon rattle the fighter. He squinted as the bright glow slammed into his protective shield and fought for control as the Falcon fishtailed wildly.
He opened his eyes just as he and the other fighters roared over the enemy troops. Looking back in the rear-view, he saw that there were about forty Aesoni in all; mostly lights, but there were several mediums and two or three heavies (these three terms referred to the armor classes used by basically all military forces in the galaxy). The Aesoni—short for ‘Aesoniphalophytes’…or some biochemical jargon like that—were the genetically engineered warriors of the old ‘Terran Empire‘. They had overthrown their masters after the Great Revolution and were now ravaging human colonies in the outer regions of the galactic hub. They were as ruthless as they were hideous, and took no prisoners; except of course those they saved to use for provisions. Aesoni were not very intelligent, but served their purpose of battle exceedingly well. Jagoroth thought of them with a grim expression on his face.
The fighters turned about and headed back towards the enemy troops, but just as they were fully around, the bomber passed over the soldiers. With a morbid grin, Jag watched the black cylinders drop out of the swooping Hellion bomber. The Aesoni looked up and tried to scatter, but the bomber had already passed over, and the bombs smashed into the ground.
The actual effect of the heavy high explosives could not be seen through the flames, but out of those cataclysms, rocks, armor, weapons, and Aeson body-parts came flying. The smoke was quickly blown away by the high winds of the icy planet.
Shocking Jagoroth out of his victorious trance, the com-net burst into a cacophony of shouts, explosions, and static. The captain could only make out one voice, “I repeat, base is under attack! Aesoni forces assaulting outpost! Need support-“ there was a pause and a burst of static-“They are in the base! Aesoni are in the base!”
The rest was a jumble of snarls, yelling, more explosions, and more static.
“Head to base,” Jag ordered, a troubled feeling well-masked by his years of command, “Full thrusters. Burn when you can.”
“Ten-four,” a wingman said. The aircraft turned back towards the outpost, leaving the smoking corpses of Aeson infantry behind.

[Ciryaher]

Captain Jorgamund sat up and rubbed his eyes. The lights in the infirmary had been dimmed for the night. His hand went to scratch his forehead, but encountered a bandage. He winced as he recalled the recent events.
As he and his wingmen arrived at the outpost, they encountered a barrage of chain-gun fire. His wingmen went down fast, but the bomber got to release a line of bombs before it was blown away by Aesoni wielding shoulder-mounted missile launchers. Jag himself had kamikazeed into a cluster of Aeson troops as a last ditch effort.
The captain had been pulled from the wreckage of the fighter, badly burnt and bleeding. The reinforcements had been delayed by an intense storm they had encountered, and made it in time to catch the Aesoni unaware that had been looting the outpost and dismembering the dead and wounded. They had overlooked Jag in the wreckage of the fighter, and so didn’t see him to hack his body to pieces.
Now here he was. Recovering in an MCDF field hospital. Well, Jag thought to himself, at least I’m alive. Yes, he was alive, but he longed for the battlefield again. His greatest thrill was to be at the controls of a vehicle, or at least at the good end of a plasma rifle.
Jag’s scorched armor had been removed and discarded, the thruster device having been rendered non-repairable.
A doctor entered the room and examined a screen above the captain’s bed.
“Well,” Jag asked, “When can I leave?”
The doctor glanced back at the screen and nodded. “You can go whenever you like. The dermal synthesis was successful, and your scars will quickly fade. You suffered a light concussion, but the cerebral scans indicate no problems,” the doctor turned to leave but stopped himself and pulled a data-card out of his lab-coat. “Oh yes, a military officer left this for you,” he said and handed the card to Jag. Nodding his head, he left the room.
There was a data-card reader on a desk, so he got up stiffly and inserted the card. He was prompted to put his face and fingers on the screen, which were scanned for identity confirmation. The emblem of the Martian Confederated Defense Fleet Command showed on the screen, followed by some encryption codes. A picture of Jag’s commander materialized, and began speaking:
“Message from MCDF Command for Captain Jorgamund from Commander Kharmov: Proceed to the Tau Station and prepare for full briefing. You will be piloting a fighter for the Fleet Carrier Manticore in an attack on Aeson territory. Command out.”
Jag removed the card and tossed it into the atomizer receptacle, watching to make sure it was completely disintegrated by the device. He put on the fatigues that had been left on a low table and clipped on his ID card.
The hospital did not seem to be very busy as he stepped into the hall. These military hospitals were scattered over most populated systems. A sign near the exit (or entrance, for some) indicated that this one was on Hectus Antalus IV, roughly 5.7 light-years from the outpost that had been attacked. The exit doors slid open as he approached.
Jag reeled backwards as a man nearly ran into him.
The soldier (judging by his fatigues) was equally surprised, but apologized while picking up the PDA and stylus he had dropped. “I’m terribly sorry, sir!” the broad soldier stood up to apologize but his eyes went wide with surprise.
“Ceror Dailem!” Jag exclaimed.
“Jag! Where the heck have you been?!” Dailem asked loudly.
“Everywhere, everywhere…but hey--is there anywhere we can get a drink?” Capt. Jagoroth asked eagerly, “I’m dyin’ of thirst.”
“We can go to the Rolling Keg, or there’s the Gregory--but that’s a more ‘uptown’ joint,” Dailem smiled, “I see that there is a lot to talk about.”
“Rolling Keg…sounds good. I suppose they have Galactic Bank outlets here?”
“Of course,” Dailem answered.
They stepped into a waiting turbo lift and were whisked down to street level.

[Ciryaher]

The bar was filled with all sorts of civilians and soldiers. There were few non-humans, and those were clustered in a dark corner of the main room.
Dailem nodded to the bartender as he entered and led Jagoroth to a table near the edge of the elevated platform in the room. They sat down and ordered several drinks.
“What happened to your accent?” Dailem asked suddenly.
“Oh,” Jagoroth smiled, “I took a few courses in accent suppression. The Confeds used to get itchy over people with foreign accents.”
“I heard about the Aeson attack on your outpost. I haven’t seen much action since I got my last promotion.”
“You’re pushing a pencil these days? I’m glad they don’t trust me, otherwise I might be in your boat,” Jagoroth grinned.
“Yeah, well they pay is good, and my wife doesn’t have to worry if I’ll be coming home or not.”
“Wife? You and--”
Dailem smiled and raised his hand. Light glinted off of a plain golden band. “Yes, a few months ago. Just before they made me a corporal.”
Jagoroth stretched his hand over the table, and the two shook hands. “Well congratulations, man! Have any little ones on the way?”
“Not yet, but soon, most likely.”
A pretty waitress set their drinks on the table and winked at Jagoroth, then walked off.
“I’m guessing you still haven’t found anyone, then?” Dailem laughed, having noticed the gesture.
Jagoroth sighed. “No. I haven’t had time. Things aren’t looking good on the Fringe. The Aesoni have been planning some sort of assault. Luckily the Feds and Stegs are getting some of this action too, otherwise we’d be in for it.”
“Yes, the Brass was surprised the Feds came in on our side, but it makes sense. So you’ve been on the Fringe all this time?”
Jagoroth was silent for a moment. “No…I’ve been working on several projects; developing technology for our fleet, and so on. I have a Class A Weapons Research rating now; that work on the thermobarics really helped out with my job. Anyways, we’ve been working on new munitions and cannons, as well as two experimental drives. I have a hunch that is what my new assignment really is.”
“Where are you being stationed?” Dailem asked.
“Tau.”
Dailem’s face turned pale. “Tau?! That’s a death trap!”
The captain thought a moment. “What do you mean?”
“Tau is the anticipated objective of the Aeson assault! You’ll be crushed, believe me. They aren’t even reinforcing the place; they’re evacuating it.”
Jagoroth’s red eyes suddenly widened, and he turned a sickly white. My God! Surely they won’t use one of those experimental super-weapons! He thought anxiously.
Dailem noticed his friend’s reaction. “Hey, maybe I can get you reassigned. Even though I’m in the Attack Fleet, I’m sure the Defense Fleet will listen if I give them a good reason. Let’s--”
“No…that’s ok. I know what they are doing,” Jag looked around to see if anyone was listening or watching. He leaned towards Dailem and whispered, “I think they are going to try one of the new weapons. Ever heard of the Apocalypse Project; back during the late 21st century?”
“Yes…what about it?” Dailem suddenly looked uncomfortable.
“Well, they tried making a weapon that would create a gravity well: a black-hole to be used as a weapon of mass-destruction. Well, we have been working on with similar effects, but it doesn’t use a black hole. It causes a phenomenon that causes atoms to suddenly crumble apart into leptons and muons and what not. There is a massive sphere affected by this phenomenon, destroying everything within it. We stuck a prototype in a torpedo case and fired it at a comet. It worked, to say the least.”
“You mean the military is actually going to use this stuff?”
“Yes, I’m sure they will. That’s probably what’s going on at Tau.”

[Ciryaher]

A heavy hand was laid on Jag’s shoulder. “Leave,” hissed a voice from behind him.
Jagoroth turned around and looked up at the reptilian face of a Sstanni towering over him. “What’s that?” he asked, not yet sure of what was going on.
“I said,” the creature replied, “Leave.” Several similar beings were conspicuously drifting nearer.
“I am quite comfortable here, thank you. How about a drink to calm you, Sir?” Jag grinned.
The Sstanni was not amused, apparently, and became enraged. “Sir?!” it screamed.
Jagoroth recalled learning that only female Sstanniri were allowed outside their homes while he flew through the air. As he crashed into glasses and table ornamentations, he noticed the other Sstanniri drawing pistols and leaping towards him.
Luckily for the Captain, Dailem had been ready and released a blaze of gunfire from a machine pistol as he saw them begin to draw. Many rounds struck the assailants, but did not disable them completely. Other military personnel leapt up from their stools and chairs and plowed into the reptilians, using fist, bottle, chairs, or anything else that they could get their hands on to counter-attack. Most of the other bar patrons (the non-humans) jumped to the side of the Sstanniri, and a regular brawl/gunfight broke out in the room.
Humans were the dominant and most widespread species in the galaxy, and other races warily accepted their status at best. The Aesoni had a constant relationship of war with the humans, but others tended to switch sides as one gained the upper hand; most simply remained out of these conflicts altogether, though. In war, the Aesoni relied on the sheer vastness of their armies; those armies made brutal planetary assaults on any target they chose. The humans (often referred to as Terrans or Solarians) utilized their superior technology and determination. Though the human empires had many times been ravaged and beaten back to their homeworld, no alien army had ever set foot upon Earth.

Other soldiers who quickly rejoined the fight helped Jagoroth, dazed and bewildered, to his feet. Quickly regaining his senses, he drew the shotgun slung over his back.
In the past, it would have been unthinkable for anyone but the Military Police to carry weapons off duty and outside the base. Since interspecies stress had resulted in many deaths of personnel who were on leave, the soldiers began carrying weapons with them almost constantly. Most of them rarely used these weapons, but they had become a standard part of off-duty life.
The firearms themselves had made significant technological gains since the late 20th century and was no longer a simple projectile forced through a tube with weak explosives. Now, projectiles carried explosives, poison, or a homing system and were launched using ultra-refined compounds, electromagnetic propulsion, or pneumatics. The Captain’s weapon used fairly little of all this advanced technology, but few could argue with the sinister wallop of depleted-uranium buckshot.
Deactivating the safety and pumping a shell into the chamber, Jagoroth looked for a target in the open while another burst of do-or-die adrenaline coursed through him. He spotted a band of aliens making for the exit, and he dashed towards them; firing his shotgun repeatedly--without remorse. The fleeing bodies where pushed into the wall as the shockwave from the barrel hit them, and they were ripped apart by heavy projectiles, glowing white-hot from the tiny nuclear reaction inside them. The air was filled with the smell of alien blood, spilled alcohol, and smoke.
A bright light stabbed through the room and there was a shout (fortunately for Jag’s eyes, he was wearing his large sunglasses as always). Riot police were pouring into the room wielding electrified riot prods; using them against anyone standing. Jagoroth saw most of the soldiers drop to the floor and stretch out their hands—he of course did likewise, having been instructed for riot situations in his younger days. The aliens lacked this training and considered the splayed men as an opportunity to attack. They were kicking the grounded soldiers when the riot police began beating them with heavy clubs and shocking them with the prods.
The officers helped Jagoroth and the other troops to their feet while the aliens were beaten and roughly thrown out the building into waiting vans. “Are you all right, Sir?” a young-sounding officer asked the Captain, “Are you in need of medical attention?”
Jagoroth shook his dazed head, then reached up to touch and inspect a trickle of blood in his eye. “I’m alright, officer,” he said, and then slowly added, “Quick work with those aliens, eh?”
The officer nodded solemnly. “We have trouble with garbage like them all the time; always causing and instigating. You know how it is, since you’re military,” he shrugged and glanced at Jag's forehead, "Would you like some gauze, sir?"
The Captain nodded, and the officer fetched a small roll of surgical gauze out of a belt pouch bearing a stout, red cross. Jagoroth took the gauze with a faint smile and then gave a weak salute (which was returned crisply) to end the conversation. He looked around for Dailem, but the sight of the few aliens that hadn’t taken part in the brawl, or had even helped the men they had been beaten just like the rest, though, troubled his mind. Dailem was found sitting at their original table sipping at his drink, which was in a glass with the top shot off.

[Ciryaher]

“I wonder what that was all about?” Dailem mused, setting his broken glass down.
“Do you think maybe they were working for the Aesoni?” Jag asked.
“Probably. The Sstanniri have been quite friendly to the Aesoni for the last several months. They’re probably in on the attack on Tau as well,” he had misjudged the look on the Captain’s face and quickly added, “Don’t worry; they can’t have eavesdropped. I have my sonic distorter with me.”
Jagoroth laughed and waved his hand in a dismissive manner. “That’s not it,” he said, gesturing to his pocket, “I have mine with me as well. I was thinking of when I was finally going to be able to go back to Earth…I left some people there, you know. I’d like to go back—soon—and settle down.”
“And leave the kind and gentle Void? You going soft on me or something?” Dailem chuckled.
The Captain ran his fingers desperately through his gray hair and sighed. “I’m tired of always being in the middle of things, Ceror…tired! I want to finally settle down; in the Old Country. My uncle says he can still get me a nice cottage near him in Augsburg.”
Ceror Dailem looked at him thoughtfully. “Don’t worry, I know how you feel.”
Jag smiled weakly. “What do you mean?”
“Don’t think I’m such a lump of asteroid smather, Heinrich! I know how you really are. You try and act like a grizzled warrior, but the few who really know you know what you try and hide beneath your seasoned hide.”
He looked up at the mention of his true name, but then ran his fingers through his hair as usual. “I…I really don’t want to go to Tau. I want out for a while, at least.”
“Then don’t,” Dailem said matter-of-factually, “Take sick leave or something. You need to get out.”
“I know, I know…” Jag trailed off and then muttered, “Maybe it IS time I took some of the sick leave I’ve accumulated.”
Ceror overheard him, “Of course it is! I’ll get the papers for you, and then you can sign them.” At this, the corporal pulled a personal digital assistant from his pocket and activated it. He then fetched a stylus and scribbled away for several minutes. Handing the PDA and stylus to Jag, “Sign on the line.” He pointed out the appropriate identification areas on the small screen.
Jag ‘signed’ the device (‘signing’ was a combination of writing your name and having your retinas and thumbprints scanned) and handed it back to Dailem, who made a few more scribbles and smiled broadly. “Do you realize that in over 15 years of service, you’ve never taken a vacation or sick leave?”
“Well…yes, I suppose so.”
Corporal Dailem laughed loudly. “You have 387 Standard Galactic Days of sick leave! In addition, you have four hundred days of vacation! More than two yeas of paid time off, man!”
The Captain raised his eyebrows and smiled. “Oh?” he stuttered, “Really?”
“Of course! Here,” he began scribbling again, “I’ve booked you on a luxury flight back to…Earth! All expenses paid, courtesy of the Martian Confederated Defense Fleet!”
Jag nodded approvingly. “But what about you, Comrade? Where will you be going?”
“I make it a rule not to go to Earth. I’m going to Ameldigar Prime in three days, but now that I have your Comm number, we can stay in touch.”

Less than an hour later, Captain Jorgamund found himself on a civilian, luxury space-liner bound for Earth Alpha—one of the five gargantuan space stations floating in geostationary orbit around Sol 3…Earth.
As he settled into his comfortable recliner, preparing for trans-light speeds, he remembered a particular person he had met in his youth while he still served in the Deustchestellargruppe—before he moved to Mars and joined the Confederates.
Jag smiled as the waitress brought him an adequate-tasting beer. He unsealed the bottle and took a long drink, then resealed it and placed it in a holder. There was a man obviously of Mid-Eastern heritage sitting across the aisle, and the Captain nodded to him in response to the broad smile the man beamed at everyone. A conversation was struck up with the man—who had a slight accent and happened to be marvelously rich. His name, Jag remembered was Hannahajir, but his friends called him Hajir.
Hajir was returning from a trip to Sentellicus IX, where he has successfully met with a buyer for one of his many family estates. The sale had gone well, and the well-dressed man was in an exceptionally good mood.
The signal for trans-light travel was sounded and displayed, and the two men said ‘Farewell’ and prepared for “The Jump.”
The last thing Jagoroth remembered was a humming noise; starting low and steadily rising to a high-pitched scream.

[Ciryaher]

Jag exited the terminal and entered the shuttle area, where he could get a ride back down to Earth. He spotted the Berlin shuttle and stepped aboard, placing his sea-bag (a title that no longer really applied, but remained a tradition) in the appropriate container, and then sat in a Spartan, but adequate, seat.
The shuttle was quiet, clean, well maintained, and comfortable. Shuttles to different nations varied greatly on their conditions, but Germany’s were known for their quality and comfort. Several minutes passed with only a few additional passengers boarding and taking their seats. The doors sealed, and the shuttle was nudged out of dock with a gentle, electromagnetic field.
The windows of the craft were large and offered a magnificent view. Taking the offer, Jagoroth peered out and watched the massive space station drifting slowly away. The structure was shaped like a giant, flattened torus with large blade-like towers rising at regular intervals. It was a beautiful work of art, architecture, and aerospace engineering.
The view changed, to the Captain’s dismay, as the craft spun about to begin its slow arc down through the atmosphere.
The vast blue sphere spread itself out before his eyes, and the beauty of the Earth moved him deeply. Sprawling clouds shrouded the green and white expanse of the North American continent, which was primarily compromised of the combined nations of the United States and Canada.
As they went still lower, the ancient, rolling Appalachians rose to caress the sky. Beyond that was the eastern seaboard and the cold, gray Atlantic.
Like a vision out of prehistoric times, Jagoroth thought he saw another, immensely marvelous continent below him, but he looked again only to see the ocean growing nearer as it flashed by.
The was a soft shudder as they began plummeting through the upper atmosphere, and the air conditioning unit hissed to life. He felt the braking engines begin to fire, and the shuttle slowed slightly as it continued its fall towards a great, swirling cloud. Lightning blazed around the hole about which the great wheel spun.
The altitude control jets fired, and blade-like winds stretched out to guide the craft; preventing it from flying through the tumultuous vortex below.
At last, the storm fled behind them to bother the scattered islands, and they resumed their dive towards the ocean. Always they slowed, and gradually the wings swept broader until at last they passed over the western coast of Africa and a sea of sand. They were now but six miles above the surface—the Captain, a pilot, estimated—and were veering northwards. Another blue-green mass was coming into view.
As the shuttle passed over the Mediterranean, Jagoroth looked intently to the north. He spotted the mountainous boot of Italy jutting out, as if to give them a mighty kick, but they soon passed over those long soles.
White-tipped peaks loomed before them, and the craft now quite slowly passed over them. The braking jets now fired constantly, and the wings were fully extended. Jag estimated the speed at 350 kilometers per hour as the shuttle shed more altitude over the forested province of Bayern. The land drifted below them, and the Baltic could get seen far off to the north as the shuttle began its final spiral to the spaceport in Berlin.

The craft screamed as it slowed to zero forward, and began dropping straight down. A person unaccustomed to such travel would be ridden with terror, but the passengers now aboard merely buckled themselves into the seats as gravity began tugging at them. At last, with a tremendous roar, the shuttle settled down on the landing pad and her engines began going back to rest. An enclosed ramp stretched out to mate with the main exit hatch.
Jagoroth unbuckled himself and fetched his sea-bag from its storage bin, then exited the craft and strode up the cool ramp. A flight attendant smiled and waved to the passengers as they left the ship and entered the terminal of the elegantly designed Berlin Aero-Spaceport.
He passed through an intricate “hostile-detection unit” and nodded to the guards operating it while he retrieved his firearms from the military weapons-inspector. All he needed was to flash his military ID and he could enter any establishment friendly to Terran authority with his certified firearm. It was an unnecessary precaution here on Earth—whose crime rate had been drastically reduced after the long Terror War ended and space travel began—but was a tradition not to be lightly cast aside; safe or no.
He passed various restaurants and shops, heading straight for the exit of the complex. Suddenly remembering he had no place to stay, he stepped over to a holographic communication unit—usually called a ‘holocom’—and punched his uncle’s number on the keypad. There was a brief pause in which a soft melody played and then Jag’s burly uncle appeared in front of him with a shocked expression on his face.
“Ach! Ist das meinen Neff?! Ah, forgive me!” the man chuckled, speaking in a strong accent, “I forget that you do not speak Deutsch as much as you should!”
Jagoroth laughed. “It is good to speak with you again, Uncle Helmut!” he said, “I am on shore leave for quite some time, and I was wondering if I might reside with you for a while, until I make other arrangements at least.”
“Of course, Heinrich!” answered Helmut, using Jag’s civilian name, “You may stay as long as you desire!”
“Thank you very much, Uncle. I should be there before sunset,” Heinrich said smiling, “I’m going to buy a motorcycle and head down there right away! I see that the new Autobahn was completed while I was away, and so I must break it in!” he finished and roared with laughter.
“Careful, son, or it will break you!” Helmut jokingly warned amidst his resonant hilarity, “You should see how the children drive these days!”
They both laughed and then said their goodbyes. The Captain stepped out of the booth and exited the complex, still grinning. He took a taxi to a nearby dealership, where he purchased a brand-new, high-speed BMW motorcycle. Out of curiosity, he asked the dealer if he could see the balance on his credit-chit; he must have accumulated a bit of money since he had never spent any of it in all the years he had served.
Heinrich nearly knocked over his new bike while staggering about in disbelief. “Six million?! Six million! Ha!” he screamed.
“Yes, Sir!” said the dealer with an Italian accent, and then grinned, “Are you sure there isn’t anything I could add to your purchase?”
Capt. Jorgamund shook his head in the negative and straddled his new vehicle. With a nod he shot off, and a minute later, he veered onto the new Autobahn and experienced the speed attainable when you have a 400 horsepower engine.

[Ciryaher]

A few hours after setting out, Heinrich pulled into his Uncle Helmut’s driveway in Augsburg and stepped off; his face was drawn back and spit was dribbling out of the corners of his mouth.
Helmut himself tumbled out of the door and shuffled down his garden path shouting. “Hallo, hallo! You’ve have a pleasant ride, doubtless!” he chuckled at his dazed nephew, “Come in and have a drink to—“ he made a twisting motion with his wrist and laughed— “Drive away your weariness!”
The Captain shook hands with his uncle and was led into the large house, which was in the classic Bavarian style of architecture. He walked through a hallway of closed, wooden doors and then stepped through one that suddenly opened beside him.
Aunt Mina crushed him into her bosom with large arms, then proceeded to pelt him with hearty kisses. “You are finally back, Heinrich!” she exclaimed happily, and virtually dragged him into the dining room.
Laughing, they all sat down at the table that was laden with meats, vegetables, bread, cheese, and full krugs of dark beer. After saying grace, the family proceeded with the meal through which Uncle Helmut asked about the military and Aunt Mina asked about the worlds the Captain had visited, and if he’d found a special person in all of his travels.
“No, Aunt Mina,” Heinrich said reluctantly, “Nobody yet. But how have things been here, in Germany and on Earth.”
Helmut spoke up after a long pull from his krug. “It goes much as it always has, Nephew. The economy goes up and down; we hear news of the wars out There,” he said, waving his hand vaguely at the sky, “But things are good here. Certainly better than they were when your Aunt Mina and I were younger, by any measure. The brewery has been doing very well, to top it all off. You enjoyed the samples we sent you, yes?”
Heinrich laughed. “Yes, and so did my comrades in the outpost! It—and this as well,” he said lifting his mug, “Is quite satisfactory. One of the ‘Secret Family Recipes?”
Helmut and Mina smiled simultaneously. “Of course,” answered Aunt Mina, “Handed down from your grandfather’s, grandfather’s, grandfather; and so on. Not to stray from this talk of brew, might I ask what you are planning on doing during your long break?”
Shrugging, Heinrich said, “I don’t really know, Tante. I was thinking of going over to America and seeing some old friends. No solid plans yet, though.”

So the talk went on, until all were quite satisfied with their meals. They then cleared the table and removed themselves to the richly decorated den. Dark wooden paneling reflected the soft glow of the fireplace. Bookshelves, antique guns, and several mounted heads lined the walls; the wooden floor creaked as they walked upon it. Uncle Helmut and Aunt Mina sat down on a couch opposite of a recliner, in which they directed thief nephew to sit.
The discussion continued on lighter subjects for some while; there were also the long-winded tales and stories of Uncle Helmut from back in “The Day.” The fire died down a bit, and as a few more logs were tossed onto the greedy coals, Heinrich staggered sleepily off to his bedroom.
Although it was the same room he had used for years, he did not make it into the sheets before banging into the door and stubbing his big toe on the solid base of the bed. At last, he was nestled into the numerous down-filled blankets, and he fell into a deep slumber full of vivid dreams.

[Ciryaher]

Heinrich woke to a grey dawn and a torrential downpour. Rain, he thought, It's been so long since I felt real, clean rain… He slipped out of the bed and gasped as his warm feet touched the icy, wooden floor. After diving into his house shoes, he threw on a robe and crept out of the room quietly. Reaching for the doorknob, his hand brushed a piece of paper, which he read sleepily:

Heinrich--
Your aunt and I had to go to the brewery early. Drive the Volkswagen if you need to go anywhere in this rain. We will return around 20:00 this evening.
Liebe von deiner Onkel, Helmut

Heinrich slipped the note into his pocket and trudged into the bathroom. Obviously, Aunt Mina had been up rather early and had already set out everything he needed. Smiling groggily, he undressed and turned on the shower. Waiting for the water to get warm, he rubbed his face and looked into the mirror.
Grey hair…I look old when I don't shave…hmm.
A buzz signaled that the water was at the requested temperature, and Heinrich stepped through the field of blurred energy that served to keep water and privacy in their respective locations. A brisk lather and a quick rinse later, he deactivated the shower and stood in the steamy air. He deactivated the "curtain" and dried himself off with a towel. Finishing his morning routine of hygiene, the kitchen was the next order of business.
Trudging into the dining room, he saw his meal sitting on a hotplate and slowly sat down, then ate his breakfast with no big hurry. Seeing that he had nothing better to do, he dressed and went outside.
The sun was shining warmly overhead; a perfect day for a ride. Straddling his motorcycle, he kicked it on and sped off towards the Autobahn. Finally, he thought, A day with no schedules…no worries or wondering if I'll be shot and killed. Wind whipped his jacket as he sped down the wide road.
A built-in screen on the motorcycle flashed and made a beeping noise inside his helmet. Heinrich pressed a spot on the screen and a face appeared on the monitor.
Agent Jorgamund, the uniformed man on the screen said, This is sergeant major Bhudhovsky of the VKGB. Now that you are back on Earth, I'm sure that you are in need of something to do with your time. We have arranged things so that you will be given honorable discharge from the Martian Confederated Defense Fleet, so long as you become active in the VKGB once more. What do you say, Heinrich? We need men of your calibre and skill, and you are the most qualified man in existence.
Heinrich thought to himself for a moment, then spoke into the microphone, Yes, sir. I would be most eager to join you again. When do I start, and where will my orders be?
You'll need to take a trip to Vienna, Austria to their Intel Bureau. Welcome back to the VKGB, Heinrich. The screen winked off and folded back down.

Jorgamund leaned back and felt the air rushing around him. I'm surprised every day... he thought to himself, Well...I'm already heading in the right direction, so I might as well just keep on driving.
He sped onward, ignoring the impacts of the rain on his leather jacket and helmet.

[Snaga]

Very good stuff Cir.:)

It reads very easily, so the length is not a problem at all. The dialogue is crisp, and the pacing whisks the reader along very nicely. It seems as though the later parts were really starting to get inside Jag, which I did feel was needed. My only pointer would be to have a little more of how he feels about the combat/action he is involved in: that will help develop the readers understanding of him as a character, and build empathy.

But all in all, I like it... keep going.:)

[Ciryaher]

Thank you, Snaga :) I made some changes in the second part of chapter 1. I'll look through the bar-fight and see what I can do there.

[edit]

Ok, I made some changes in the bar-fight, and added on to the end of ch. 8

[Ciryaher]

Heinrich looked disdainfully at his partner, who was puffing on a cigarette. With a heavy Slavic accent, he muttered, "Zo…Heinrikh…vat do you zink?"
The other, having slipped back into a slight German accent, replied harshly, "Sergei, I zink you schood stop schmoking zat damn seegarette!!" He yanked the object of his anger out of the Russian's mouth and flung it out the window. Hissing, Jorgamund added, "And don't call me zat! I'm Yagoroth; you fool, do you vant efery damn person in ze city to hear?"
Sergei waved his hand dismissively. "Nobody heard, comrade! Anyvays, ve are supposed to be at ze…" he pulled out a note and glanced at it, "Ah, Angeleen Myoozeek Hall; tomorrow afternoon. Vat ees zis place, anyvays?"
"Angeline Music Hall…it is a famous…place in zis country. Come!" Jagoroth said and opened the door of their temporary apartment. They stepped out into the hall and Sergei locked the bolt while the Captain adjusted his dark-grey Cossack robe. Taking a quick glance in the large mirror on the opposite wall to adjust his ushanka, he followed after his partner into the elevator.

Down on the streets, they began making their way through the dense metropolis towards their destination. Jagoroth had never seen so many people in his life. There had been huge military exercises, but nothing like this; people laughing, carrying their goods, smiling…
He suddenly felt very lonely, and his chest hurt in a way he was unaccustomed to. "Sergei," he said weakly, "I…I need a drink."
The other slowed and looked at him, then peered beyond his shoulder. "You are in great forchoon, comrade! Zere is a pub right behind you," he said, grinning. Slapping Jag on the back as comrades do, the Russian led them into the pub and pushed the dazed German into a chair before taking one for himself.
The Captain's head lolled forward so that his ushanka fell off and rolled across the table. His world went dim, and he seemed to be slumped over for some time before he heard a voice that seemed to clear away the darkness in his mind.
"Um…are you sure he hasn't already had something to drink?" the voice asked.
Sergei's voice rolled out an answer, "I do not know vat ees rong vis zat man…but, no, he has had notzing to dreenk."
A soft hand was set on Jag's shoulder, and his mind leapt into wakefulness. He looked up slowly and stared, open mouthed, at what he thought was the most beautiful thing his eyes had ever beheld. No wonder of the universe could compare to the sudden burst of feelings that he felt in his heart and mind. His gaze was drawn to the pair of lovely brown eyes watching him from behind thin glasses, with a faint smile on her lips.
Sergei watched his partner with a raised eyebrow. Realizing what it was that was happening, he thought, Is he crazy?!
Jagoroth's eyes drifted over her form-fitting shirt and read the nametag on her chest…Marille…he was already repeating it over and over in his mind. She was rather tall, which he could easily tell as his eyes continued down, down, down her legs.
Marille obviously noticed this and tried not to blush too brightly. "Can I get you two gentlemen anything?" she asked, her eyes moving slowly towards the quiet one.
Looking at the two, Sergei spoke quickly, "I vood like a…vodka, please. First, zough, let me to introduce. I am Sergei Tupelov, and zis ees my friend, Jagoroth Jorgamund."
The waitress blinked repeatedly and smiled, "Pleased to meet you. Where are you from?…"
The German licked his dry lips and sat up, suppressing his accent. "I am from Germany, and Sergei here is from Russia…I think I will have a glass of wine…may I see your wine list, please?" He caught her eyes for a brief moment before she looked down. She brought a large plastic card out of her apron and held it out to Jagoroth. His hand reached for it and brushed against her fingertips.
She dropped the list onto the table and he was barely able to control himself. They both quickly regained their composure and Marille half-whispered something about being right back to take their order. To his distress, Jagoroth found that all the wines were named "Marille." He put down the list and sighed. "What is happening to me, comrade?"
Sergei grinned and leaned back in his chair. "Ah-ha! I zink you haf fallen for ze pretty brown-eyed vaitress zat vas jast heer! Fallen veddy hard, eef I am not mistaken (and I nefer am)."
The Captain stared blankly at the wine list.

A minute or so later a different person came to take their order, a male. He was a typically charismatic man with light hair and a cleft in his chin. "Well gentlemen, it looks as if I'll be taking over for Marille this evening. My name is Trent, and if you two gentlemen are ready, I'd like to take your order!" he flashed a very genuine smile and held his datapad and stylus ready with an eager stance.
The Russian thought momentarily while browsing through a menu, and then looked up. "I vill haf ze...vodka--straight--and alzo an order of ze," he looked determinedly at the menu and silently mouthed a word.
Jag whispered, "Buffalo vings, comrade."
"Ah yes! Ze buff...buffa...ze vings. Zank you!"
The waiter jotted this down with a grin and then beamed at the German. "And you, sir?"
"Ahh...I vill have the Riesling, please, and ah...mushrooms vith a sharp, vine cheese," he finished slowly and handed the list back to Trent.
"The Riesling! Excellent choice, sir. Luckily we have plenty on hand and I'll be right out with your drinks," the waiter bowed slightly and then walked swiftly back towards the bar.

After receiving their orders, they talked about a great many unimportant things as they sipped their drinks and tasted their food. However, a growing desire welled up inside Jagoroth to at least see that waitress just once more, and it was troubling him.
Sergei had ordered several vodkas (and one whiskey) since they had first begun, and was too far past caring to pay any attention to his melancholy friend. Instead, he waltzed over to several colorful women and began telling his usual stories about wrestling bears and carrying submarines on his back.
Jagoroth sighed just as Trent returned and layed down the check and a slip of paper with a wink. "You bill, sir...and something from Marille," he said, smiling, and then walked off to another table.
Looking over the bill first, the Captain picked up the piece of paper and read it to himself, and then grinned. He glanced over at the doorway leading to the kitchen and saw her standing there with a quiet smile. She mouthed the words 'Call me' and then ducked back into the kitchen; out of sight.
With a grin and a whistle, he stood up and placed his credit chit in the slot on the bill. Trent stepped back to the table and picked up the bill and chit, then led Jag over to the register and ran the chit and bill through. Handing the chit back, the waiter smiled and then left to return to his work.
Sergei sauntered up with two women of obvious occupation hanging on his arms. "All paid? Let's go!" he said and staggered out the door and headed back towards the apartment.
Heinrich stayed behind for a moment, and then left the small pub, heading for the music hall.

[Aerin]

Very nice story, Cir. I liked the building of Jag's character; he seemed to have real personality and a 'human-ness' to him. :)
Good job! And get the next part out soonly! :D

[Ciryaher]

**I added on to the end of IX and changed Radio City Music Hall to a different place, just to let you all know! :)**

The doors to the hall were unlocked and Jagoroth walked right in. There were a few people walking around and admiring the ancient and sacred building. The lighting was dim, and the air had an old smell to it that the Captain found strangely pleasing. He stepped lightly up a flight of carpeted stairs and unlocked a door with his nanomechanical pick. Inside this was a ladder, which he ascended to a locked trapdoor. He picked this as well and climbed through.
The vast attic was dark and warm, and the air was rather musty. Lowering the small door first, he crawled over a long catwalk until he found a bank of computer-controlled lights and the hole through which they would shine.
There was a case there, sitting next to the lights, that clearly was not part of the setting. Jagoroth knew what this was and sat up, placing the long case in his lap. Using an electronic key, he opened the case and began putting together the parts contained within. Finished, he held up a deadly sniper-rifle and ran his fingers over it. Tomorrow, he thought, and put the completed rifle back in its case. He crept out of the attic and pushed through the doors, walking back into the night with his coat flaring about him.

Jagoroth slept deeply through that night and part of the next day. His dreams were a conglomeration of horrifying images that he couldn't understand...falling stars...fire...chaos. The captain leapt out of his bed gasping for air, then realized where he was and calmed down a bit.
The room was dark, and he stubbed his toes and bumped into countless objects before he reached the curtains. There was a burst of light as the sunlight poured in, revealing Sergei in a heap on his bed. The captain grinned slightly and went about preparing himself for the day. He pulled on his underclothes and geared up into a light armour-suit, then threw on his cossack robe to cover all. Into a small bag he put his helmet and a pistol, and then hoisted the strap over his shoulder.
Sergei grumbled and turned over. "Comrade, are you already making ready?" he asked groggily.
Jorgamund turned to him and nodded solemnly. "Yes, Sergei. Hurry up and get ready to go. I am sure there is already a crowd vaiting to enter the Hall. If ve vish to make our date vith the Senator, then you will have to make all haste!" He sat down and worked on his datapad while Sergei struggled through his hangover to get dressed.
At last, they closed the door of the apartment behind them for what might very well be the last time. Jagoroth took a deep breath and the pair headed out of the building to accomplish their set task.

[Ciryaher]

There was already a crowd surrounding the red-carpeted entrance of the music hall. Limousines hovered up, deposited some smiling celebrity, and then hovered away to be replaced by yet another vehicle.
Disgusting, thought Jagoroth to himself. He nudged Sergei and they began pushing their way towards the security entrance. With a wave of falsified security passes, they were allowed into the building to take their seats. The moved out of the flow of guests and Jagoroth looked around. "Alright, Sergei, this is vere ve part. Be ready!" he said, squeezing his partner's shoulder.
"Ya! Ya! I vill be making ready! You just go and get up in zat attic vithout being caught!" the Russian scolded and then saluted before rejoining the flow of human traffic into the hall itself.

Jagoroth watched Sergei leave somberly, then turned and followed the same path as the night before. With a quick glance at his wristwatch, he determined that he had a little over one and a half hours before the senator came up to speak. The guards were not even in their places yet; no surprise to the captain. He once more ascended the ladder and crawled to the bank of lights where his rifle lay.
Opening his bag, he holstered the pistol and put on his helmet. Taking out the rifle, he ran his fingers over the black metal and considered it in his hands. With a sigh and a shrug, he pulled out the ten-round clip and inserted it, making a soft clicking sound. The weapon was set aside, and Jorgamund--agent of the NKGB--rested his head on his hands and watched the proceedings of the evening.

Down among the hundreds of guests, Sergei was talking casually with a congressman from Alabama.
"So, you zink zat your Visky is superior to ze finest Vodka of Rassya?" he questioned loudly.
The man spoke in a heavy southeastern accent. "I do believe so, my good man! I've tried them all, and nothin compares to--"
The lights dimmed and an announcer proclaimed that the Senator was taking the stage. Sergei's world instantly narrowed and his mind was filled with details of what would soon happen. He sat down quickly and began fingering a round object in his pocket. It all comes down to this...

After much applause, the Senator raised his hand and smiled with infinite charisma. "My fellow Americans, thank you for being here this evening. We've come here because we are part of the growing number of people that call for a Change!" There was a pause as the crowd applauded loudly, "A Change in the way that America and Earth does its business. We are the enemy of all races. We are distrusted and hated. Why? Because we interfere and meddle with the affairs of ALL the galaxy!" Aggreeing applause, "The Caucus for Terran Affairs, and I, believe that in order to move away from the militaristic stance that Earth has taken for so long, we must pull back from the Fringe Worlds; stop prying into the lives of every nonhuman in the galaxy. We must..."

At that point, both Jagoroth and Sergei stopped listening to his words and nodded inwardly. While the Russian awaited the loud signal, the German was picking up his rifle.
Captain Jorgamund pulled back the bolt of the rifle and watched the twenty millimeter projectile slide upwards, and as he pushed the bolt forward, it slid into the firing chamber. He locked the bolt with an ominous sound and took a deep breath. The world was in slow-motion as he rested the bipod legs on the catwalk and peered through the scope, down into the hall. His view shifted around until a cross rested on the Senator's forehead.
Watching the man's mouth move noiselessly was strangely fascinating, but Jagoroth blinked and remembered his task. Slowly, slowly; his finger moved to rest upon the trigger. His heartbeat was deafening, and visions began to dance before his eyes. He began to squeeze the trigger.

There was a shout from from behind Jagoroth's prone body and a loud noise was accompanied by a muzzle flash. The projectile tore through his leg as the rifle made a deafening boom. The shot was off and the Senator's arm exploded in a cloud of red.
Jorgamund rolled over and whipped the gun around, leveling it at the assailant's chest with one hand as the other worked the bolt and put another bullet in the chamber. There was another boom, and the man flew backwards in a crimson vapor.
Jagoroth jabbed upwards with his gun and knocked open the hatch. Scrambling out onto the roof, he layed on his back and awaited the hover-chopper to pick him up.

As the first shots simultaneously cracked through the air, Sergei leapt to his feet and pulled out the grenade and pistol in his pocket. The Senator's arm was viciously mauled by the sniper-round, but he was still alive. The Russian tore the pin out of his handheld explosive and counted.
1...bullets began whizzing past his head, and he could see several men running towards him with their pistols blazing.
2....he aimed his own pistol at them and fired several round before ducking down.
3.....now or never. He stood quickly and aimed his throw at the crowd of guards dragging the Senator away from the pulpit.
4......projectiles slammed into his body and pierced through, he began to topple to one side.
5.......there was a tremendous explosion and he smiled with the satisfaction of victory as seven more rounds penetrated his skull and chest. But the guards' and their activities were in vain, for the Senator and the congregation around him were blown into violent oblivion.

There was utter chaos in the Hall below, and as Jagoroth heard that final explosion, he clenched his eyes shut. Seconds passed and he was dragged into a hovering air-chopper. With all the available haste, he was flown to safety; words of congratulations being whispered in his ears.

[Ciryaher]

Back at last!!! I will soon add a new chapter, so be on the lookout :)

[sauronbill]

Hey excellent story.....I hope there is more coming

[Ciryaher]

Ack! I'm very sorry to anyone who actually enjoys my story, but I have a bit of a writer's block and I only have part of a new chapter written. As soon as I figure out the next step, I'll write it with much haste (yet no less care) and post it here for your enjoyment and criticism!

[Ciryaher]

In the vast urban hive that was New York City, confusion and fear were pushing the people to the edge of panic. An assassination had taken place on their own soil, and a group labeled by the government as “terrorist” was blamed for the act. Immediately, and secretly, an agent was hired by the Central Intelligence Agency to find the second assassin while the bureaucracy made its talk of revenge upon the renegade VKGB.

“So you think you can do the job, Detective?” asked one of the suited persons at a half-circular table.
The detective stood with authority. “Yes, I can do the job, and then some. You’ve all seen my record, and you all know that I’ve never failed.”
A female member of the panel shuffled through a sheaf of papers. “Yes, Detective Gerra. You do realize that you’ll be going up against an experienced assassin, who is also one of the Martian Confederation’s best soldiers, correct?”
Gerra nodded. “Correct, and I am totally confident that I can accomplish the task without problem.”
The panel consulted with itself for a moment in hushed voices, then a man with jet-black hair stood. “You will be briefed immediately. Come this way,” he said, and the detective approached, “Welcome to the Agency, Detective Gerra.” They shook hands and both walked briskly to the briefing room.

-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-

Heinrich, in the meanwhile, was lying on an uncomfortable bed in a hotel in Montréal. Staring at the ceiling, he pretended that the room was spinning to amuse himself in the darkness. Such a long day…he thought to himself.
He rolled onto his side and looked over at the holocom. Pulling a slip of paper out of his pocket, he examined the numbers written on it. Jorgamund bit his lip momentarily, and then staggered out of bed, twisting his back; causing it to make various popping noises. Walking over to the communication device, he slowly punched in the numbers written on the paper.
The air around him hummed for a moment, and he could feel himself being examined from every angle and sent hundreds of miles away. He waited while words “Waiting for Receiver” floated in the air before him. Just as an image began to appear before him, Heinrich noticed that the clock read 04.27. When Marille’s image stood before him, he grinned sheepishly. “I…I’m sorry to call you so late,” he began, nervously, “I didn’t realize the time….”
She smiled sleepily and rubbed her eyes. “No, it’s alright, don’t worry.”
Jorgamund made a strange, nervous laugh-like noise, “Ok…well, I’m Heinrich…from the pub in New York.”
Marille raised an eyebrow, “I thought your friend said your name was Jagoroth?”
He shook his head. “That is a…nickname. I…I was wondering if you’d like to have dinner some time.” He scratched the back of his neck unsurely.
She smiled and answered after a short pause, “That would be great. When were you thinking about meeting?”
After a glance at a clock he thought for a second, “How about…this evening at 17? It’s some time from now, still, after all…”
“Sounds wonderful,” she seemed to brighten considerably, “Where shall we meet?”
He grinned, “I’ll pick you up outside your apartment building.”
Marille’s eyebrow raised again and she smiled, “I obviously have a lot to learn about you, Heinrich. See you this evening!” She waved and her image faded from view as the connection was broken.
Jorgamund just about floated back to his bed and immediately fell asleep. Although he did not dream, he wore a perpetual smile in his slumber.

-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-

”I just don’t see the point of it all, Jarav,” commented a short man in a brown suit. He rolled a cigar around between his fingers and looked gloomily at the rising wisps of smoke.
Jarav was a tall, lanky chap with a mess of long, moist hair hanging down around his face. “I’ve already explained it to you, Durl, God knows how many times. Gerra, why don’t you try and explain it,” he said, motioning to a black-haired man behind a desk.
Gerra was sitting in his luxurious office chair, and looked back and forth betwixt the two. “Here’s the plan, Durl,” he said with slow gesticulations accompanying sound, “I will arrange for the delivery; Jarav will make the pick-up; and you will be in charge of storing it after we bring it to you…It’s a very simple concept.”
Durl flicked his cigar with his index finger, dropping ashes on my floor—Gerra held back a complaint. The little man spoke in his whining voice, “But that puts me in the most dangerous position. I’ll be the one taking all the risk.”
“My pistol you will!” Jarav shouted, plucking the cigar out of Durl’s mouth and throwing it in the atomizer. “You just make the arrangements and we’ll get the merchandise for you. You can’t back out now, you fat excuse for a man! The only way you get out of an operation like ours is in a box.”
Durl opened his mouth to speak, but Gerra interrupted him. “Now, now—both you shut up right away. I’ve arranged for the acquisition; Jarav here will make the pick up, and then he will deliver it to you, Durl to keep safely. Can you do that?”
The short man hesitated, and then looked at my hit man’s trigger finger. “Alright…I’ll do it. It’s not like I really have a choice, anyways.”
“Excellent,” Gerra said, and pulled out a checkbook, “You’ll get fifty now, and seventy-five when the goods are secure.”
He sighed and nodded. “How many will there be? I need to make sure my warehouses can hold it.”
Jarav handed Gerra the portfolio and he examined the printout within. “About a dozen of the Mark XIV Fusion generators have been selected for acquisition. They’ll be transported directly to your facilities.”
Durl sighed. “Alright, everything will be ready. I’ll get you what you wanted in return.”
“You know what to get, right?” I asked, glancing quickly at Jarav.
“Yes, twenty metric tons of crystal trupyne are on their way right now.”
Jarav nodded slightly to me, and then opened a door in the back of my room. “Mr. Durl, if you’ll just step inside here, we’ll fill out the final paperwork and you can be on your way.”
Durl began to sweat. “Paperwork? How do I know you’re not going to take me in there and put a bullet through my head, Gerra?”
The dark-haired man laughed and waved his hand. “Don’t worry yourself, Durl! Just get them filled out as quickly as you can.”

While Jarav and Durl filled out the “paperwork,” Gerra received the message indicating that the shipment of narcotics had slipped into the private hangar. He drew his pistol out of its holster and held it under the desk.
Durl stepped out, and Jarav closed the door as he followed. “Ahh, well I guess that wasn’t so bad, after all,” he commented skeptically.
“Oh, it was worse than you think,” Gerra said and pointed the pistol at him through the thin front of the desk. The completed check he held out over the desk, but intentionally let it drop to the floor.
The man bent over to grab it like a greedy child to a piece of fallen candy. Gerra pulled the trigger on the pistol.
In an instant, most of Durl’s head was scattered over the opposite wall. Jarav had drawn his pistol and stepped aside should the other have happened to miss, but it was fortunately of no need.
“That was easy, but after all, rich drug dealers are so foolish,” Jarav commented haughtily while looking at the body.
“Yep,” Gerra said, kicking his feet up on the desk as several agents entered to room to take away the evidence, “All in a day’s work.”
“You enjoy this too much, Gerra.”
He just laughed. “Maybe! Have you heard about the new assignments?”
Jarav pulled several crumpled pieces of paper out of the pocket on his black trench coat. “Umm…well, there is one I liked in particular. A kraut that served for the Martian Fleet needs to have an eye on him. He is a weapons expert who was supposed to be out on the front but took leave and got out of it. The Feds and the Confeds are both wary of him.”
“Yes,” Gerra said, “That’s that one that I am thinking of. The Feds just assigned me to take him out.”
“Let’s get on it, then. Do you know where he is?”
The other pressed a contact and looked at the screen that had appeared. “He’s on his way to New York. The sick bastard must be going back to look at the mess he made.”
Jarav made a face and rubbed his stubbly chin and cheeks. “I’ll call for the chopper. What are we going to take him out with?”
Detective Gerra spun about in his chair, ignoring the question for a moment while admiring his pistol. “Ahh!” he said, standing suddenly, “Let’s take these pistols and some assault rifles. He’s a criminal, so we might as well give the people a show!” His companion grinned and left to make the necessary arrangements, but he remained, a scowl crossing his face as he finished off his cigar. He stubbed it out in an ashtray and then shambled out of the room.