Predators
Chapter Six: Why We Fight
I don't own Bioware
"The citizen to defend his home will, by necessity and inclination, fight with more valour and daring than a mercenary paid to accomplish the same task."
-Niccolo Machiavelli
SOMEWHERE IN THE ROCKIES
COLARADO, USA
DECEMBER 24th, 2000
"Hey there Captain what do ya see? This little run ain't shit to me!" Staff Sergeant Carlos Estevez sang out as the column slowed down to a walking pace. Twelve miles, with a fifty pound pack, fully loaded combat webbing, and personal weapons. The pace had been torturous, but no one had dropped out. Cogson, the sadistic PT instructor, was looking worn to the bone. The others were swaying about; the M16A2 in Carlos' hands felt like a chunk of pig iron.
The only one who didn't seemed fazed by the marathon was that damned CIA rep. Alice was breathing slightly harder than usual, and had broken a decent sweat, but was otherwise rock steady.
'How does a woman hit fifty and be able to run men three decades her junior off their feet?' Carlos privately wondered. Were all the tales of CIA experiments true? Or did she just do spirit crushing jogs like these for personal recreation? The second was more likely, but harder to accept.
"Hit the showers, then grab some chow," Toland finally recovered enough breath to issue his next set of orders. "You can hit the sack early if you want to. We won't be doing any drills tonight. Anyone who feels like a bit of extra pistol practice can join me on the firing range after dinner."
They'd all join in of course. In the regular infantry, pistols were just for show. The real work was done with the business end of a rifle, carbine or machine gun. In the Special Forces however, pistol marksmanship was something to be desired, attained and perfected. No kid ever really forgot the John Wayne movies of childhood, and the youthful wish to be as good a shot as 'The Duke'. Never mind that the actual handguns of the Old West had been woefully inaccurate, and that the actor had done his shooting with blank rounds and a few stuntmen.
Special Operations troopers knew that there would eventually come a time, sooner or later, when the bullets in your primary weapon were exhausted. When that happened, you would need to use a secondary weapon to allow yourself to disengage from the enemy, or finish off a cowering opponent. The members of the strike force using M9 Beretta's knew how to fill the air with the 9mm projectiles, discharging the fifteen round magazines in seconds. Toland, Pixie and Bulldog favoured precision, sending .45 and .357 rounds downrange with almost as much accuracy as you would expect from a sniper rifle.
Alice, however, had shown herself to be more than anyone expected. With an assault rifle, she wiped the floor with the disbelieving riflemen. With a sniper rifle, she had thrashed Bulldog's ass up and down the firing line. And with her eight inch Smith & Wesson .44, she had scored a perfect fifty out of fifty, besting Toland by two points. It was the first time he had lost a pistol match since Warrant Officer Howe of Delta Force, had taken him all the way on the firing range at Mogadishu.
The Green Berets were now mounted firmly on the edge of the knife, honed so fine that a thread draped across it would sever. The Colombians had earned back the swagger that had been beaten out of them over the first month of training. Every operator was at his peak, fully prepared in body and mind. There was nothing left to prepare for. Explosives, camouflage, stealth, they had practiced every kind of warfare by night and day. A full week had been spent polishing up on escape and evasion techniques. They were completely acclimatised to high altitude conditions.
Living, breathing instruments of precision violence.
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"You leave in two days." Major General Waters informed Toland as he exited the shower. Colonel Toland and Samantha McInery were waiting behind him. "You're inserting via high altitude drop. The Colombians have asked that we don't use military aircraft, so you're going to jump out of the luggage bay of a Pan Am 747."
"That's going to be a tad uncomfortable," Bob finished doing up the buttons on his fatigue jacket. "That was how they eventually got me, Strikeout and Shepard out of Tibet, crammed down there among the suitcases. Security precautions?"
"The pilot's ex-Air Force, and the luggage handlers for that flight will be from CIA," Sam answered. "It'll be about a four hour flight till your jump. We don't have any option but to try for a HALO insertion."
"HALO's a big risk on a job like this," Toland turned to face her. "Somebody breaks a leg and we're stuck down in that jungle until Strikeout gets there with the chopper. I'd feel better going in by submarine. Not much can go wrong with a sub insertion."
"Too slow," Sam countered. The woman was brooking any BS from a Special Forces meathead. "All our assets are in place for you to go in on the night of the 26th. Strikeout is flying his Blackhawk down to Panama tonight, the flight time has been set in place and the Colombian Attorney General just countersigned his agreement to the operation with the President."
"Fine," Bob was curt with his answer. "You have that list of targets?"
"Our local assets and satellite imagery shows various airfields and mobile drug mixing areas in a sixty mile AO," Sam passed him a map. "Your choice as to what you hit first. Any planes you don't destroy on the ground, our Air National Guard boys will get."
"One more thing," Toland directed his voice to Waters. "I want to fly my men back to Bragg tonight. I want them to have at least forty eight hours off."
"Absolutely not," Sam shook her head. "We can't risk breaking operational security."
"These men been in isolation for two months, they're going into the field for at least another four. The least you could let them do is spend Christmas with their families," Toland continued, undeterred by Sam's protests. "They know to keep their mouths shut about the mission."
Waters hesitated for a second, and then nodded. "Alright Captain. But they have be ready for duty come morning on the 26th. Because that plane leaves the tarmac at 2230 hours, with or without your team."
"Understood," Toland snapped to attention and saluted. "Thank you General."
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NOS ASTRA SPACEPORT
ILIUM
"How long will it take to get to this planet anyway?" Sitris grumbled as he took his seat on the Triune Enterprise transport. "Because I get very nervous when I'm cooped up in tight spaces."
"I'll flush you out the airlock if your suffering becomes too unbearable," Kalki snarled at the salarian. "Is space big enough for you?"
Selv giggled at her brother's words. "Indeed salarian. I hear that space walking without a suit is a very...liberating experience."
T'Livia and Wrex sat toward the back of the transport, the asari sharpening her swords, Wrex cleaning his shotgun. Xidam had asked to sit in the cockpit, eager to learn how to fly himself. Now it was time for two old friends to finally have a few seconds to themselves.
"How are your daughters Nicky?"
"Alia has just been accepted for the University of Serris," Nicias smiled proudly. "She will be studying xeno-biology. Serali is still happily tending to her garden. How wonderful it is to be young in these times."
"I was sorry to hear about your mate," Wrex shifted uncomfortably. "He was a good fighter. For a salarian anyway."
"Serali misses her father a lot," his friend's face saddened slightly. "Gatsin was at peace when he went. At the funeral, Alia stood up and said he was the best father she could ever hope for. Shocked his family no end. His dalatress never approved of our marriage, but his sisters were very sweet. He was never in line for a breeding contract, so they were glad he had children of his own to care for."
"He was more honourable than that bitch who ran off and left you nursing Alia, too ashamed to claim a pureblood as her own child," the krogan snorted. Hanging out with asari for one too many centuries had given him a slightly unique insight into their culture. "Gatsin worshiped the very ground you walked on, ever since that first firefight on Omega."
"Maybe in a few centuries, I'll be ready to find another mate," Nicias held one of the blades up into the light, examining the edge. "Until then, I will continue to raise my children the best way I know how."
"I shouldn't have asked you to come. This hunt might get dangerous."
"It's alright Wrex," she sheathed the sword in one clean stroke. "Retirement gets slightly monotonous at times."
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Up in her private room on the transport, Kalya'Zorah was chatting with Keira. "Yes ma'am. I have the first batch of footage coming in from our scout ship. The mini-camera drones work perfectly."
"Fantastic!" Keira clapped her hands together. "We can launch the pre-season trailers immediately. I'll get them put together right now. Take care darling."
"Don't worry Keira," Kalya laughed. "I'm not the one going on the hunting trip. I'll be sitting nice and safe up in orbit."
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CITADEL
C-SEC HEADQUARTERS
CHIEF INVESTIGATOR'S OFFICE
Romus ran a three clawed hand over his fringe. This was pointless. Unless Triune had done something to directly piss off the Council, there was no way to touch her. Intergalactic extradition laws needed a complete revision, but there was no judge brave enough to touch that particular issue.
Vakarian glanced at his wall clock. Well after the middle of night shift. Chali would be in bed by now, after waiting up several hours for him. So would Darik and Pel. His family life was being destroyed by this case, but he couldn't let it go. There was too much investigator's spirit in him. His wife and sons would have to understand the need he had to bring this injustice to a stop, before she started sending her hunters after something other than primitives.
On an impulse he flicked on his holoscreen. There she was again, prancing about, dressed like a cheap whore you might find in the Lower Wards. Probably had the same set of morals too.
"Yes folks," she rambled on. "Just a few more days before we begin our hunt. But before that, let's explore the lives of our prey. This next feature is brought to you by Sharis Images, the best in high resolution videos."
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FORT BRAGG
MARRIED PERSONNEL HOUSING AREA
DECEMBER 25TH, 2000.
0023 HOURS
Carlos slipped in the front door of the modest one story building that the army leased to him and his family. Elizabeth, Little Maria and baby Rosa would all be asleep by now. Maria Estevez would have chased the children away from the Christmas tree and the presents she was wrapping. She stood there now, gazing in bewilderment at the miniature racetrack set before her. Just as beautiful as the day he first met her. Him a high school dropout hanging out around the skate park, her a senior, determined to get her college degree despite the poverty of the outer Los Angeles suburbs.
The only one who had seen past the tattoos and the wannabe tough guy personality that he hid behind. Eternally faithful, patient and so kind to him. The one who held him when he woke up screaming, roaring the name of a long dead friend, gunned down in a drive by, or in a slightly justified, but no less illegal, insertion into foreign territory. Hers was the only voice that soothed him; hers were the only hands that calmed him. And oh, how he loved her for that.
Lowering his bags onto the floor without a sound, Carlos sneaked up behind his wife, spun her around and seized her in a passionate embrace, his mouth meeting hers in a passionate embrace. At first she struggled, surprised by his sudden appearance, then she melted into him as she realised who he was.
"Bambino," he murmured as he slid his hands up the back of her shirt, feeling her shiver slightly as his cold fingers sought the sensitive points on her spine. She was the only woman for him. He could never swap her, never cheat on her. He would sooner eat a bullet than betray her like that.
"Carlos, not in the living room like this," Maria had to stop herself from purring with contentment. She still had all these toys to assemble after all. "We'll wake the children up."
"Let them wake," Carlos nuzzled his mouth against the join of her neck and left shoulder. "There is nothing wrong with their parents being in love."
"Always so romantic after your trips," she teased. "Getting practice with someone else?"
"How is it possible for a man to sleep with a gargoyle when a goddess awaits him at home?" Easing her back onto the couch, he untucked her blouse and slowly undid the first button at the bottom of the garment. "Two months in isolation does not turn a man into a monk, but it does give him time to rehearse."
She pushed him away with a giggle. "Unfortunately my Romeo, you have chosen to return on a night when other marital duties must be carried out." She pointed at the still unwrapped pile of toys.
"In that case, first we shall attend to this," Carlos flashed one of his shining grins as he began to encase a 'Skiing Barbie' in a sheaf of colourful paper. "And then we shall attend to that."
"And here I was worried I wouldn't get anything special for Christmas."
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TWO BLOCKS AWAY
Angie was already asleep by the time Chris arrived. Removing his uniform, he slipped into the bed beside her. The bulge in her stomach had grown while he was away. The baby would be coming in less than two weeks. Almost immediately, he felt guilty. He wouldn't be there to see his son being born. Would he always be one of those fathers? So devoted to serving his country that he forgot to serve his family?
He felt Angela's hands grip his then press them against her stomach. Glancing into her merry brown eyes, he could see them glisten slightly.
"He always sleeps better when you're guarding him."
"I've got to cancel the mission," Shepard tried to get out of bed. "I can't just leave, not now."
"Shh, baby," Angie shook her head reproachfully. "What you're doing out there? Keeping that stuff out of our son's life? That's the best form of fathering you could ever do. You'll be back in a few months. And then you can hold him."
"What'll we call him?"
"Gerry, after your brother," she replied without hesitation.
"I love so much, sometimes it hurts," Chris admitted. Joy, hope, sadness, pain. All crammed together on this, the happiest night of the year. So much promise for the future. He had to stay alive down there. He had to come back for his son, for his wife.
"And don't ever forget that. Merry Christmas babe."
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WEST VIRIGINIA FARMLAND
"Grandma!" Robby sprang from the porch and ran to embrace Alice as she stepped out of the government car.
"What are you doing up so late?" Alice reproved the four year old as he looked down at the ground with some guilt.
"Me and Uncle Alex were just hoping to see Santa," he admitted. There was a grumble as Alex Bailey revealed himself. Alice and Tom's three children had been born across fourteen years of marriage. Alex had been the ring boy at Kylie's wedding, and almost like a big brother to his nephew.
"Didn't you know? Santa's fully qualified in stealth and reconnaissance," she swept her son and grandson up in a hug. "You'll never catch him just by manning an OP."
"But he's wearing red Mom!" Alex protested. Still young enough to believe in Santa, but old enough to be suspicious. "How could we miss him?"
"That's just a story he likes to spread around," Alice walked up the steps of the house. "He actually wears camouflage fatigues to stay hidden. Now, back to bed with you."
Twenty four year old Kylie and eighteen year old Jacinta were waiting in the kitchen with Tom. "Hey Mom," her eldest daughter pecked her on the cheek. "How was your 'business trip'?"
"Went well," Alice had given up trying to hide what she did from her daughters when they had called her 'office' at a Washington insurance agency and discovered that she didn't actually work for Goliath Insurance and Capital Investment. That and the assault rifle hidden in her closet had probably clued them in. "Did some very rigorous training for an upcoming company field trip."
"Oh?" Tom was pouring out a glass of red wine. "Did you talk business with the boys?"
"Yeah, we decided it's time to launch a hostile elimination of elements that might cause instability in the market," she slipped her jacket onto a hook. "Specifically in the pharmaceutical area."
"When?" Kylie enjoyed the double talk. As a sworn agent of the Secret Service, she and her mother sometimes engaged in playful 'turf wars' regarding her semi-employment with the CIA. Alice was proud of all her children, but Kylie was the shining star. Graduated Harvard college, age nineteen, with a major in criminology. She had gotten married, entered and graduated from the Secret Service academy, gotten pregnant and gave birth all within the one year.
Kylie now worked closely with the Treasury department, tracking down counterfeiters. She had even drawn her SIG P226 on a suspect who had resisted arrest. At the first sight of the weapon, the college student, more used to bouncing fake twenties off bar owners, than tall, angry women with handguns, had wet himself.
Jacinta had been accepted to enter the Naval Academy at Annapolis, starting in 2001. She intended to fly F-14 fighters with the US Navy after graduation. Tom, once a Marine, always a Marine, had almost had a heart attack when he found out his daughter wanted to be a 'squidhead'.
As for Alex? At only ten years old, he already proclaimed his intentions to become a 'Devil Dog', just like his father. The pleased smile that Tom had had plastered on his face never quite faded for several months.
"I leave tomorrow night," Alice answered Kylie's question. "Someone very high up wants this dealt with."
Kylie raised an eyebrow. At the level they were talking on, her mother could only mean the President. Well, she wouldn't shed any tears over druggies. "Take care of yourself Mom."
"I always do," the older woman reassured her. "Now, if someone wants to guard the bedroom door, we can get these presents sorted out."
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SUMMER RAINBOW RETIREMENT COMMUNITY
NORTH CAROLINA
ROOM 021
"Travis," Jenny Lowerson sat up in her bed as Ducky came in the door. "What are you doing wasting your Christmas Eve on an old woman like me?"
"Where else would I be?" Ducky leaned forward to embrace his mother. A lifetime of hardship and determination had caught up on his mother. At eighty years old, she was a shade of her former self. She had always been so strong, just like Dad. When cancer had claimed his life twenty years ago, she had begun to fade. It broke his heart to see her like this, reduced to sitting in bed, reading all day. "I'm sorry I've been gone for so long."
"Son, you come round every day, whether you're bone tired from endurance training, or covered in mud from swamp missions," Jenny laughed. "I think I can excuse you for being gone a few months. Besides, Daisy brought the kids over the other day. I'm not a forgotten soul."
"I've been thinking about retiring," Ducky sat on the edge of the bed. "I've put in twenty years Ma, I can retire on my pension and savings, get the farm back into shape and you can move back there."
"Absolutely not," her words carried the authority of a judge. "You're not a nurse Ducky. You're a soldier. And you could be a hell of a father too, if you stopped beating about the bush and asked that lovely Nurse Holloway out on a date."
"Ma!" Travis blushed. "I'm forty three Ma. Not exactly a teenager looking to score."
"She's thirty nine, she's attractive, she likes you!" Jenny spoke bluntly. "What's the problem?"
"Ma, don't get excited..."
"I'll get excited if I want to!" Jenny relaxed despite her words to the contrary. "Sonny, I'm not some tyrant that wants all her serfs close to her. I'm just a frail old woman, who is happy that she raised such a fine son, and wants to see him happy as well. It's time you started stepping out of your own shadow. You don't need to be my sole companion anymore. Daisy lives close enough now that she can bring the kids to visit every week. And Billy's new job brings him to Carolina twice a month, and he always stops in to see me. So tonight, don't sit here reading with me. Go take Miss Holloway for Christmas drinks as the NCO's club over at Bragg."
"But Ma..."
"Ma knows best," Jenny leaned back into her pillow. "Now get along with you Ducky."
"Okay Ma," Travis chuckled as he headed for the door. "Merry Christmas."
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FAYETTEVILLE
NORTH CAROLINA
HIGH STREET
"What am I doing here?" Bulldog muttered to himself as he walked down the snow covered road. It was after midnight, Christmas Day. Staff Sergeant Chester Clifton III had no family, no girlfriend, lived on base housing, ate at the base mess, drank at the NCO's club. His whole life revolved around being a Green Beret. He should be there right now, slamming down drinks with Sean, Mike and the Colombians. Not wandering through the streets of Fayetteville, wrapped in a black trenchcoat as snow began to fall.
He hadn't been troubled by self doubt for a while. Sure, he had joined up because he thought it'd impress his friends and the girls back home. Then he'd become a Green Beret because being a clerk was boring and the folks back home weren't all that impressed with a uniformed typist. But after going through the meat grinder of qualification course, then training...he had found his niche.
His parents were decent people. Hardworking landowners who ran a series of farms, both for their own use and for rent. They were easygoing, fair on the newcomers, friends with the old timers. But they had grown up in a time when the Army was not popular. The photos coming back from Vietnam had been less than flattering. Towards the end, the media had decided to 'withhold from view' all the images that depicted the courage and comradeship of the South Vietnamese soldiers and the American GIs. That same dislike had permeated into the adult lives of Chester Clifton II and Andrea Bond.
They had been sternly disapproving of Chester when he first signed on for the Army, but had understood the youthful need for rebellion. "As long as it doesn't last," his father had said.
But when their twenty one year old boy had come home from Fort Bragg, proudly dressed in his uniform, with a green beret perched atop his head, and a Special Forces dagger patch sewn onto his sleeve, they had lost it. Their only son? An agent of the covert forces of the government? One of the same meatheads that had caused so much destruction to the peaceful North Vietnamese people? The argument had escalated. Murderer, his father had called him. A traitor to his family.
Bulldog had endured his father's ranting, right up until the moment when Chester Clifton II snatched the green beret off his head, hurled it on the fireplace and sucker punched his son in the face. Bulldog had reacted instinctively, with the same precision that his instructors had taught him. Catching his father's next blow in a wrist lock, he had delivered an open palmed strike to the old man's chest, sending him crashing into a piano and breaking three of his ribs.
He had taken the bus back to Fort Bragg that same night.
A scream shook him out of his reverie. Looking up, he saw a figure dashing toward him. A high pitched voice across the road called out:
"That man took my bag!"
Instinctively, Bulldog stepped in front of him. "Drop it punk," he commanded, holding up his hand. The kid looked to be about seventeen. Probably grabbed the bag for a quick buck.
"Get lost," the boy snarled, a switchblade appearing in his hands. Bulldog was almost amused by the two centimetre knife. His own left hand disappeared into his coat pocket, and came out holding a USP .45. The kid's reaction was almost comical. "Hey man, what's with the piece?"
"Knife and the bag, on the ground now," Bulldog gave the barrel indicative wiggle.
"Okay man, just be cool," the kid threw away the blade, then put the bag on the pavement. The woman ran across the street, retrieved her property, gave Bulldog a grateful nod, then scuttled toward her parked car. Chester returned his sidearm to his pocket.
"What the hell are you doing snatching bags off women on Christmas?" he demanded. The youth looked ashamed instead of sullen.
"Don't have a choice, haven't eaten in two days," the boy mumbled. "I'm trying to get to New York."
"Why New York?"
"My brother lives there, he's a cop," he scuffed his worn shoes against the sidewalk. "Dad died a week ago, car accident. He was stone drunk. Bank took the house, I had nowhere to go."
"Does your brother know where you are?"
"Kinda. He sent me some money to get myself up to him. I bought a bus ticket, but I got off for a few minutes to stretch my legs...some guys roughed me up, took everything I had. Been walking ever since."
Bulldog was a cynicist. He was inclined to disbelieve everything, then apologise if he turned out to be wrong. But this kid wasn't lying. Alone, lost, out of his depth, and desperate. "Well sonny, I can tell you one thing for sure, you ain't gonna get ahead by sticking up ladies in the middle of the night. It's a sure way to wind up in jail though."
"I know," he was embarrassed. "I'm sorry. You gonna turn me in?"
"Nah," Bulldog indicated the boy to follow him. "There's a diner down the road and I'm hungry. We'll have something to eat, and then I'm putting you on the next bus to New York. This time, don't get yourself mugged."
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Midnight Mass had ended at the cathedral, the children filtered out, forming into a rough choir and singing out Christmas carols. It was here that 1st Sergeant Jack Andropov found his family. Lucy, Jack Jr, and Frank immediately broke from their ranks and charged toward him as soon as they caught sight of him among the crowd. The older children, Kate and Brian hung back, but their grins at seeing him were unconcealed.
And Helen, her embrace was the warmest. His wife whispered her own Christmas greeting into his ear. His family, his wonderful family. His rock to tie himself to, in the all the death and suffering of warfare.
"How long are you sticking around this time?" Brian's voice was emotional. All military kids lived in the knowledge that every day their parents spent away from home, was another that increased the chance of not coming home at all.
"Not for long," Pixie put a hand on his eldest son's shoulder. "Which is why we need to enjoy the time we've got now. Who wants to sing some carols, and then go get ice cream?"
"Jack," Helen was jokingly reproachful. "It's way past their bedtime."
"It's Christmas," Pixie lifted Lucy up onto his shoulders as the carol singers resumed their music. "As head of this family, I declare bedtime to be nonexistent tonight."
"Silent night. Holy night. All is calm. All is bright."
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SAN DIEGO
CALIFORNIA
Kerry Smith knew the familiar rumbling of the sports car as it pulled into the street. Bob Toland's 1986 Corvette was his pride and joy, and although it was an entirely impractical car, it made it easy to know when he was around. Taking care not to wake up her husband, she slipped on her dressing gown and slippers, then carefully made her way to the front door.
Bob was waiting on the front steps. "Hey Kerry."
"Well look what the cat dragged in?" she crossed her arms, her mood suddenly improving. "I knew you'd make it for Christmas. Come on in, I have the bed in the guest room made up, and you can surprise Beth in the morning when she's opening her presents..."
"Kerry," Bob gently interrupted her. "I'm not staying, I just stopped by to give you this."
In his hand was a thin envelope. "It's just in case I don't make it back. It has some things that need to be said..."
There was a resounding crack of skin against skin, and Bob raised his hands defensively, the side of his face on fire from his sister's slap. She glared at him. "Don't you dare do this again Bob. Don't you run off and leave your baby girl without a father."
"It won't be for long, three or four months at the most," Toland turned away.
"It'll always be three or four months, here and there," Kerry followed him. "Right up until the day they ship you home in a pine box!"
Toland swung around. "That will never happen!"
"You say that now but you don't know for sure! You keep rolling the dice, sooner or later, they're going to come up snake eyes!"
"Daddy?" a small voice from the top of the steps interrupted their argument. Beth Toland stood, rubbing sleep from her eyes and clutching at a well loved, well worn teddy bear. "Why are you yelling?"
"I'm not yelling sweetie," Toland mounted the steps again. "Auntie Kerry and I were just having a disagreement."
"Why are you leaving?" tears began to well in her blue eyes. "Don't you want to be here?"
"More than anything in the word Beth baby," Bob hesitated. "But Daddy has to go and do his job."
"You're always doing your job," Beth backed away. "Why can't you come home?"
"Because his home's wherever the battlefield is," Kerry's voice was ice cold. "Come on Beth, it's way past your bedtime. Bob, I think it's time for you to leave. Don't come back unless you plan on staying."
There was more Bob wanted to say, so much more. But right now, it couldn't be said. Simply nodding, he donned his beret and walked briskly down the steps, out the gate, and up the sidewalk, heading for where he had parked his Corvette.
Kerry began leading Beth back inside, but she broke away and chased after her father, bare feet slapping against concrete. Toland turned around at the noise, and as he turned she flung herself into his arms, sobbing helplessly.
"Daddy, please don't go," she cried into the shoulder of his uniform, her tears dripped onto his captain's bars. "I don't want you to leave. I don't want you to die. Promise you'll stay!"
Bob felt his own tears falling. "Shh, shh baby, don't cry," he stroked her hair. He had an idea. Reaching inside his collar, he pulled out his dog tags. "Do you know what these are?"
"They're supposed to identify you when you die," Beth stopped crying in surprise as he pressed the cold metal into her palm.
"That's right," he said encouragingly. "And if I don't have them on, that means I can't die, 'cos nobody would know who I was. And that means that I'll have to come back to get them. Do you understand me Beth? I'll be back."
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"That honourless bitch!" Romus swore as the footage ended. That asari was playing for ratings now. What could be more poignant than showing men spending time with their families, a father bidding his daughter a tearful farewell, and then having a krogan kill them?
This could not stand. It would end at these 'humans', Romus was sure of it. Somebody had to stop it, good people had to take a stand. Somebody had to save the lives of Captain Toland and his men. And if nobody else would do it, then Romus was more than prepared to accept the challenge. The law was the law and duty was duty. He shared that trait with this 'Toland'.
"May the spirits watch over you Captain," he whispered. "May they light the path back to your family. And if the worst comes to past, may they accept you into their embrace."
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A/N: Dammit, I made myself cry writing this chapter.