Fire Down Below

by Tiger5

1938. After Cape Susette's invasion of the Pandalas, Usland is a bit paranoid of a future attack.

5. Chapter 4

Chapter 4: Dining Among The Masses

It took a bit of work, but a person of Louie's ingenuity was always counted on to get something done when it mattered. But three hours was a stretch, even for Louie. Hiding a ship as massive as Sulaco, a wanted ship no less, and gathering enough fuel to fill it's tanks. And try and keep his patrons from informing others while they've landed... Running down the list of what had to be done, the crew sighed nervously. Kit and Baloo had plenty of trust of Louie's abilities, but pulling this one off was a bit of a serious stretch.

Two Hours Later....

"Unknown vessel, come to bearing 326 mark 35, and decrease speed to half." Louie's voice filtered through the radio's speakers. His voice now having a slight edge to it, not nervousness but just nerves. Sulaco was equipped with ECJs but Sinclair knew that lighting them up would cause more problems then not turning them on; If pilots around knew that they've been jammed, they've go for help. Doing so would cause more problems then solutions...

To the south of Louie's island, there was a cave, half-sunken by the beach and water, it's mouth covered by carefully-placed foliage and camo-cloths. Louie did an excellent job at keeping the cave well hidden; Sinclair and Johner, both trained soldiers in the past, whistled in admiration at such a job. It blended so perfectly, even their trained eyes couldn't tell for sure.

The netting were pulled away, revealing the gaping maw of the cave's mouth. Johner took to the controls and gently slid the ship into the dark maw. Earlier, Kit gave Louie a series of requests, hidden within their messages, mostly considered trivial by the casual eavesdropper. Then Kit gave the Sulaco's dimensions within a set of food orders. Louie understood them perfectly and acknowledge that he and his people will be ready by the time they arrived. Added that Louie had just restarted "Happy Hour" with the remaining pilots, complete with drinks, loud music, and even louder dancing, no one would be able to hear the loud rumblings of Sulaco's engines.

Everyone on board got to work almost immediately: Rebecca was dressing herself and Molly into a set of coveralls. Molly's was much too large for her but Rebecca was an adept with temporary sewing and stitched the longer sleeves to fit her small frame. Rebecca's hair was hidden under a large cap, her face smudged with grease. Molly's was the same, her hair ribbons long gone and now in her back pockets.

Everyone wore the same type of coveralls: Olive-drab in color, cotton fabric. The patches have been removed at some point, leaving behind dark shapes where they had protected the cotton material beneath from fading. All basically had the same shaped patches in the same areas. Baloo and Kit grimaced slightly, smelling the stench of mothballs and cedar chips embedded deep in the fibers. Johner fixed that problem by dumping the contents of a liqueur bottle over his front. Then he took a small sip from the neck of the bottle before dumping the rest over his back and hair.

Everyone joined in, dumping certain contents on their uniforms. Wildcat and Kit poured grease over their fronts, their faces smeared. Baloo had a nice odor from having a cup of sugar water spilled on him. Rebecca watched with a small smirk at seeing grown men dumping liquids on themselves; dispite recent events, it was nothing if not comical to her.

Sinclair stepped forward with a small spray bottle in his hand. Rebecca could see a yellowish liquid sloshing with. Sinclair gave her only that moment to look, when he pressed the trigger on her, sending her spiraling back in reaction. She tumbled over a small toolbox, sending her on the floor flat on her bum. Molly laughed and soon everyone joined in.

Molly stepped forward to help her mother up. "You smell like trees, Mommy." She complimented with childlike sincerity. Her hand grasped Rebecca's own and they both pulled themselves up.

Sniffing the cotton fabric, she smelled like pine cleaner, the same stuff she used often in her kitchen and bathroom. Sinclair sprayed her with pine cleaner! She looked up, staring daggers at him. Sinclair's reaction was that of confusion. Gently, he placed the spray bottle on the table nearby and walked off.

Johner and Baloo were still laughing; both bears as large as cargo crates, laughing their barrel laughs at her expense. Kit stopped when he managed, now intent on the checklist in his hands for tasks to do here.

"Everyone ready?" Demitri's once cleaned looks were completely gone. He looked almost the same as he did when Rebecca and her crew set foot on his island only the day before. His long hair, once combed back and neat, was now messy and tangled, matted. A large brim baseball cap covered his head and most of his face when he tilted it right. So far, he managed to look like every type of maintenance worker and mechanic from one end of Cape Susette to the next.

"I guess we are," Johner answered, surveying everyone around him.

"Anyone who wants to stay can do so," Sinclair commented, almost apologetically. "Johner and myself could handle the major stuff. And the Cunninghams does have that unreserved option of staying here where it's safer."

"We have to get some extra food supplies." Rebecca reported hurriedly. Oatmeal? She thought tiredly. He expects us to live off of oatmeal and Spam??!!

At this, Sinclair looked almost confused, then realization hit him. He let out a wide grin in acknowledgment and nodded in approval. Heck, he thought. They weren't military, they didn't know what it was like to live off that stuff for months on end...

And I like Spam, thank you!

"Let's go," Was all he had to say.

The cave was larger then Kit suspected. It fit the Sulaco perfectly, and gave it enough space to land on the rock and sand surface. They left via the rear cargo ramp. Kit looked around and saw a small fuel dump in one corner, far away from any craft. Wise decision.

He saw the bamboo walkways where Louie's men were now walking with. Only a few feet over the ground, they were still valuable if the ground became flooded and the risk of quicksand became great. They even made a good mock workbench if needed.

Some of Louie's mechanics were already on the scene, letting the Sulaco's image sink into their brains. They worked their trade once Demitri explained where the fuel intakes were located. Most of the stuff was standard and he knew that they'd find out eventually.

Louie's was a pilot's hub for parties and rest. Also a good place of commerce; traders and merchants frequently sold their trade here, usually during a good round of drinks. Louie himself never complained about it, except when the subject of illegal goods and guns come into the conversation. Louie was laid-back on the trading, but illegal goods were out as far as her was concerned. Demitri knew of the trading, heck; every good pilot knew about it. And would back the guy up if some arms dealer tried to press the issue further.

Demitri started to get to work, handing each member of his "Crew" a huge wad of bills. Mostly dog-eared fifties and twenties. The older the bills looked, the less questions would arose. He gave Molly's share to her mother for safekeeping. They gathered around in a gaggle, knowing that once they're at the bar, they'd separate and not make any type of contact with each other. Kit could see Demitri practicing a tired slump, the mark of a mechanic with a sore back. Johner was working on a drunken pose, complete with a slightly noticeable limp and a half-full beer bottle; the contents was only sea water, but as long as no one tastes it, they were fine. Kit tapped Baloo on his hand and pointed to the two. Baloo looked for a moment, not comprehending, then brightened at Kit's idea. He leaned down with a hunch, a shoulder tilted at an angle. Another result from not stretching in your seat after that "Long Haul".

The stairwell they climbed was another made of bamboo, the rails polished and wood-stained. They went to groups of three. Rebecca, Wildcat and Molly going first, then Baloo and Demitri, then Johner and Kit.

All agreed not to pay any attention to each other once they were out in the open. Even if trouble were to arrive. Rebecca noticeably blanched at such a thought. The image from the hanger was still deep into her mind lately.

Rebecca though for a moment about their options, mainly the options where Demitri was not a variable. She could gather Molly and Wildcat and run away somewhere. But that meant leaving Baloo and Kit behind. And if she did, where could they go? Technically, they were wanted people. With bounties on each of their heads. So far, Demitri was playing fair, but only on his turf. And starting a mutiny against him would do far more damage then she'd hope to repair. If anything, to get out of this, she might have to kill Sinclair; but that alone made her shudder at such a thought. She was never a killer at heart; prayed that she'd never be one. And he'd made no hostile intentions towards Molly or her.

"Mommy," Molly whispered to her. "Is everything all right?" She tugged at her mother's slacks.

Rebecca managed her best smile, hoping that her daughter wouldn't see through it.

"Everything is fine, honey." She replied in a slightly confident voice. "We're just going to get some food; stay close to Mommy, all right?"

Molly nodded.

Louie's was busy as usual; busier since Louie had managed to distract and occupy every pilot in the area! Loud music was playing out and pilots from around the globe were dancing to the beat. Tropical drinks flowed like water and beer nuts made for artificial artillery!

Demitri walked in first, Baloo close behind. Johner looked at the scene and started to smile. He bobbed his head to the music. Demitri gave a sharp look to his friend, Look out for trouble. Note everything that poses a risk. He looked around and gave him a sympathetic look that said, "Don't trash the place."

Johner was well noted in several bars during the Wars for his tolerance for drink, massive bar tabs, and total destruction of private property. Most of which took place in the same bars he used to frequent! Demitri and his old gang watched one night as a drunken Johner literally slammed his fist through a door just to settle a bet. He dislocated a couple of knuckles but the money earned paid off a large tab at that bar.

Johner let out a grotesque parody of a smile at his boss and friend. Johner's affection to wild parties and wilder bar brawls were feared and admired during the Wars. If he wasn't on duty right now, that reputation would return with a vengeance!

Rebecca and Molly walked towards a known trader of foodstuffs and started to discuss business. Molly sat through it all, sharing a bowl of ice cream with Wildcat. Kit kept his eyes close towards Molly while still keeping up with the massive Johner. So far, so good. He thought.

Demitri and Baloo sat at the bar, careful to keep their distances from each other. Baloo sat next to a grizzled pilot, obviously much older and very tired. Whether it was from age or from physical fatigue was unknown. He looked at Baloo with runny eyes.

"Hey, brother," The man spoke in a slightly slurred voice. "Can you spare a vet a drink?" He tried to keep a good focus on Baloo.

Baloo glanced at the old man's coverall; they were much like the ones he and Demitri are wearing right now. And the badges were torn off as well. Except for a single one denoting a familiar bomber squadron Baloo read about in school as a child.

"You were a flyer?" Baloo asked.

The veteran drew himself up in pride and met Baloo's eyes; Baloo thought that if the man wasn't so drunk, he'd might give out a crisp, clean salute just for the question.

"Yep," He acknowledged. "Started out as side gunner for the old Broadsword bombers. Got myself a field commission and started to fly them myself. Flew 'em through it all: The Phoebus Wars, The Thembrian Boarder Skirmish, The Food Riots of '27."

Baloo whistled in admiration. If this was all just a figment of a drunken man's imagination, it was pretty impressive on at that. The Food Riots of '27 was even worse then some of the battles of Phoebus. The Regime blockading foods until several providences were literally starving to death. Usland responding by sending an invasion force of nine squadrons of bombers plus escorts. The battles were fierce and the bombers finally dropped their cargo: crates and crates of foodstuffs and Spam. The returning forces wasn't enough for one squadron. But the job was done and the locals overthrew the Regime out of sheer gratitude.

It was only a shame that the victory was short-lived. Three months and the Regime was once again in power.

"What happened?" Baloo asked.

The man noticeably deflated, making Baloo regret ever asking the question. "Didn't finish collage, no advanced education." The man sighed, breathing a fog of scotch into Baloo's face. "Got booted out along with my commission with the new 'reduction in forces' polices." He shrugged, feeling ashamed and humiliated. "I flew with the 37th for most of my career, never regretted it either. Never complain, never whined. We took part in the most horrible scrapes ever. That should've counted for something. Now the old base is used for scrap."

Baloo nodded sympathetically.

The vet leaned closer. "Hey, you don't know if anyone's taking on crew, do you?"

Baloo kept his expression neutral. "Sorry, don't at the moment." At the moment, He thought. Maybe Louie could pull in a hand.

The vet turned away. "If I'm bothering you or anything-"

"Nope." Baloo gave a comforting smile. "Just thinking about some things going on right now."

The vet nodded. "Don't mean to rattle on. It just that you give your life for something. One cause that seemed right to you, in you heart. You give everything for victory, then we get it. Then what happens? We get thrown out, a small pension and little else. If Lady Anya was still around, she'd rush into those generals offices and start her own holy fire right in front of them."

Demitri snorted silently, remembering those rare arguments they'd used to have. Between fighting an entire legion of hostile troops with a half- loaded sidearm or fighting with his spouse, he'd be forced to sit down and consider his option...very carefully.

"Holy fire" was a adequate term to describe her temper.

"You'll be fine," Baloo reassured to the vet. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the wad of money Demitri gave out, peeled off a fifty and handed it to the vet. It was a good enough amount, probably far more then this vet's been receiving, but it was enough to get him a good room, a shower and a good round of meals. He pressed the bill into the startled man's hands.

The vet tried to refuse it. "No, take it." Baloo reassured. "From one pilot to another. Lady Anya may not be here but we're pilots and we do try to take care of our own."

The vet frowned and reluctantly accepted the donation. "Thank you, buddy." He said, looking at Baloo for a long moment. "Maybe I can do you a favor."

"Maybe," Baloo answered and said his good-byes to the vet as he walked away.

Louie was nearby and Baloo was lucky to catch him. Louie was still in his party mode, but his eyes had a slightly nervous glint in them. The tray he was carrying was full of drink cups, both empty and full. They both knew what going to happen to them if they were caught in this. But Louie still did it, dispite the risks. They exchanged greetings and Baloo asked about the vet at the bar. Louie nodded and said that he'll do what he can.

He mussed silently, The RIF, Reduction In Forces, took more vets then any conflict to date. And the only saving grace that the Settlements problem might have was that most of these vets might be called back in action. Might. In a way, he felt a small sorrow at what've just happened. He'd just helped one vet while hundreds are out there. The sheer scale of it all...

His thought were interrupted by a loud crash. He turned to see the source of the commotion. He saw a blond bulldog-ish looking pilot in a dark flight suit, his chair knocked over behind him. He grabbed the veteran Baloo spoke too only moments earlier by the collar. Baloo didn't know what the deal was with this, but he did see the younger man give the vet a deliberate backslap across the face. The vet tumbled backwards and spilled over on the floor. The younger man stepped forward, kicking the vet across the ribs with his steel-toed boots, and kicked him in the stomach as he tried to get up.

The music suddenly stopped and the crowd did as well. The dancing ended just as quick. Baloo rushed over to the scene, now realizing the implications he might be getting into. Demitri was nowhere in sight and everyone was under orders not to interfere with each other, even when in trouble. The dark man kicked the vet in the kidneys as Baloo approached. He grabbed the dark man and spun him around, slamming him against the bar.

"Enough," Baloo was starting to say. But the dark man rebounded almost as quick, his flight jacket whipped open. Baloo caught a brief glimpse of the man's name on the suit. But he also saw a brief glimpse of something shiny and silvery and acted totally on reflex.

The dark man pulled something from a hidden holster and flipped a switch. A ten-inch blade flicked open like magic.

"Switchblade!" Someone yelled out to his right.

Baloo's guts tensed immensely. He had little experience with knives, especially knife fights. And this man looked like an adept to the knife in his hands. He looked at the switchblade, and winced at the serrated-saw blade and the notches on the handle. He didn't waste a single moment questioning the purpose of the notches.

The man smiled, bringing chills to Baloo's spine. "Bad move, my friend." The man replied. "I don't like being touched."

A grapefruit separated the two for a brief moment. The man expertly slashed his knife at it, cutting it in two. His attention distracted for that single second. But it was enough for Baloo's advantage. He grabbed the man's wrist and twisted it enough to almost break it. The man flipped over but didn't let go of the knife. He hit the floor and jerked his legs forward, slamming his foot into the back of Baloo's knees. They both fell and Baloo lost his grip for a moment. The man got up and gripped the knife with greater determination. He was on top of Baloo, trying to plunge the knife into his chest. Baloo resisted, keeping his hands and his strength on his hands, which were holding the man's knife-welding hands.

"I don't like being touched," The man's voice was without emotion, without remorse. His cold blue eyes stared him down. "And I don't like people meddling into my private affairs." He drew the knife closer to Baloo's throat. "And now it's going to cost you."

He still had that feral smile, like that of a wolf who just caught his prey.

Suddenly, almost expertly and refined as a ballet dance, a larger knife was slipped into Baloo's view and placed against the man's Adam apple. The flat of the blade pressed against his neck. He saw the fingers of a very powerful hand grip the man's golden hair and the face of a very familiar fox hidden under the shadow of a wide brim baseball cap.

"Sorry, we can't have that here." Demitri Sinclair's voice was almost apologetic.

Johner saw the whole scene unfold in front of him. Kit was nearby. Rebecca, Molly and Wildcat were further away, still arguing over the prices of fresh bread and fruits. Baloo was good enough as a pilot but his fighting style reeked in Johner's professional opinion. Sloppy and unrefined. But his pushed that away. Baloo was a civilian, not a solider like himself and Sinclair.

But it still reeked.

"Are we going to do something?" Kit asked insistently for the fifth time. Johner kept his prose and replied again that their orders still stand: We don't get involved with the other group, no matter what.

"Is that the official word?" Kit's voice was dripping with sarcasm, something that would've landed him the brig for a two-week stay if he was under Johner's command.

"Like you'd listen," He shot back, remembering Kit's distraction with the grapefruit.

"So what do we do, besides wait here on our duffs?" Kit was inching to help.

Johner's voice was almost without emotion as he answered. "We wait."

"Call off your dog," The man's expression changed from that of amusement to barely-controlled rage.

"Be nice," Demitri admonished him like he would a small child. He press the edge of his knife deeper against the man's neck, and pulled it upwards. He felt the blade cutting into the skin, ripping into it. A small river of blood flowed down the cutting blade. Several droplets fell on Baloo's coveralls. Demitri pulled back the man's jacket, reading the nametag carefully. "I've killed a lot of people in the past, Mr. Sethler. And truthfully, I'm a little rusty right now. But I'm sure that you can put me back to speed." He made a sideward glance around him. "And if you don't call off your dogs, I'm going to spill out your throat all over this nice, clean floor. And believe me, I hate to stain such a nice floor."

There was a edge in his voice as he spoke. Calm, collective, even rational but the three could tell that Demitri was not bluffing. He would slice this man's throat as easily as he would slice a sandwich into halves. And with equal detachment.

Sethler's face started to redden some more. His face now becoming red as a beet. No doubt that he wanted to carve a piece out of Demitri as well as Baloo.

A gunshot rang out and everyone almost panicked. Someone screamed, several people ran out the door. Nearby, a figure wearing an identical flight suit as Sethler stepped back slowly. A large, smoking bullet hole almost touched her foot.

"What was that??!!" Kit nearly shouted.

"Beat's me," Johner replied at first. Then a small smile grew on his face. He called them. He wanted to laugh. After all these years, he finally called for them to help him. Yep, this was getting interesting.

Kit looked at him with an expression that said, "What drugs are you on??!!"

"I got your people surrounded in an elevated position." Demitri replied, almost hurriedly. "Now, safety that weapon, Goldilocks. Or I will." There was an edge to his voice; not nervousness, but nerves.

Sethler hands tensed then he complied. His fingers pressed a stud on the handle of his knife and the blade retracted. Demitri slowly backed away, his knife inching away from Sethler's bleeding throat. Slowly, Demitri eased the knife back, taking a brief look at the wound he had just inflicted. It was minor cut, something that would heal in a few weeks without a scar. But the point was made and that was enough for Demitri.

He was still within kicking distance of Sethler's feet. Baloo almost realized it a little to late, until Sethler whipcracked into action. His leg almost a blur. Demitri jumped it easily like a hurdle and brought his blade down on Sethler's head almost the same time he jumped the feet.

For a moment, Baloo thought he'd now see Sethler's blood and brains splattered all over the floor, his body laying dead with Demitri's knife embedded in his skull. But he never thought he'd hear a loud Clang and Sethler nursing his wounded head. Or Demitri's knife with no more blood then what it had when it touched Sethler's throat.

He hit him with the flat of his blade, Baloo thought in astonishment.

"Next time, I won't be so merciful." Demitri replied in a confident voice.

Sethler looked at him with burning hate. The side of his face was even redder from the blade's impact, a red triangle that made him look even uglier. "You're going to regret ever meeting me." He snarled.

"Too late," Baloo was concerned; that was not under debate. But Demitri looked like he was actually getting bored with this.

Sethler's face turned from Baloo's to Demitri and back to Baloo. "We'll met again. Count on it." And with that, he collected himself and left the bar, his comrades following close behind. Everyone gave a wide berth to this particular lot.

Demitri helped Baloo up and started to look him over. So far, so good.

"Let's make that quiet exit before we're recognized." Demitri intoned softly.

Baloo nodded and they left the bar and back into the hanger.

"Who was that with the gun?" Baloo asked.

Demitri smiled. "Some friends," was his only answer.

The hanger was still there as was everyone else. But there was more:

Baloo entered it and almost cried out in joy at what he saw. The Sea Duck was there! Somehow, the Duck was flown here and made it! His face lightened so much that he almost forgot that there was another crew flying it and now off-loading cargo from it to the Sulaco.

The Duck was now being pulled into the read launch bay. The only bay on Sulaco that could hold here without a problem. He saw the simple wench working her into position. Wildcat moving it with a mother's touch.

Kit and Molly stood nearby. Johner was talking to some of the newcomers, laughing and joking with every word. Baloo looked at the crew and saw the equipment they carried. Tool and equipment belts hung from their hips and shoulders like bandoleers. Some carried side-arms, there holsters hidden for the sake of the children around them.

"Still making that shot, Sara?" Johner joked to a petite feline brunette in front of him. She smiled politely and responded with a good-hearted slap in the face. That made him smile harder for some reason.

Demitri stepped in view, making everyone stand at attention. Whatever they had in their hands, be it a tool, a burger, or an expensive piece of machinery, was now dropped in the water as they stood at attention.

"Don't do that," Demitri moaned.

Molly stood nearby with Kit, her attention was on the scene in front of her. Kit worried that all this would do her some harm. He tried to pry her attention to something less destructive but failed. Molly was anything if not persistent. In a way, she could be even more determined then her mother, a thought that had never set Kit's mind at ease.

"We take off at night fall," Demitri reported. "That's a couple of hours away. Until then, get aquatinted with our transportation. Not the plane you took, of course. But the pilot beside me," He looked pointedly at Baloo. "Is thankful that you've retrieved his plane."

Baloo couldn't disagree.

"Now get some chow, and we'll speak later."

The crew dispersed almost as quickly. There were five in all, including Johner. Some looked almost non-threatening. But that would never get past Kit; he had a second sight about who was a danger and who wasn't. And from his expression, they're all dangerous.

Sulaco now felt alive and no longer a ghost ship. Molly continued on with her puzzles inside, eating the sandwich her mother prepared for her. It was fresh bread with some cold-cuts but she did what she could to make it look appetizing. The galley was now stocked with fresh foods and smelled like the produce section of a supermarket. She hoped that this situation would be resolved and they could go home but so far, Demitri kept to his word that no harm would come them all. It was ironic that she had to depend on a word from the same man who is keeping her and her daughter a prisoner. But under the circumstances, her other options weren't so good either.

She bumped into a large woman who was hauling a box of tools.

"Sorry, ma'am." The woman replied softly to Rebecca. "I have to check the wiring real quick before we go." Rebecca nodded her head and backed away as the woman reached up and pulled down am overhead access panel. She set it gently on the counter, careful that the noise wouldn't disturb the child in the next room . She moved with a careful air, quiet and almost nervous. A bit different from other people her size. Rebecca looked at her large golden mane and large paws, almost large then Baloo's and saw that they've moved with a slight precision and attentiveness. She moved up the counter and shimmied her way up the maintenance tube. Her left leg was caught on a burr of metal on the hatch's cover. She jerked it to the right and her left leg fell down and hit the floor.

For a moment, Rebecca was going to let out a startling scream, seeing a leg fall down and hit the floor in front of her; that was the appropriate response. But only the dull, wooden sound of the leg slamming down saved her.

A wooden leg stood idly by, complete with a work boot and the appropriate attachment fittings on it typical for an artificial limb. She looked up at the woman, who gave a sorrowful expression.

"I'm sorry," She apologized. "Can you hand that back to me."

Rebecca did with numbed fingers. The woman took it and made to disappear inside the Sulaco's workings.

"Wait," Rebecca called out. "I didn't get your name. I'm Rebecca."

The woman looked at her for a moment, then told her name after a long sigh. "It's Sawyer." And she then disappeared.

Rebecca didn't see her until the next morning.

The others were more forthcoming. There was Rollins, who worked the radio and radar. There was Sara, who was the Cargomaster. And there was Winston, who worked as a Medic. Then there was the elusive Sawyer, who was a chief engineer. All worked at their stations almost like it was molded just for them. Some tapped controls or worked some dials, some even tampered with the switches, making it work better for them. Kit manned the navigator's station as usual. Demitri didn't argue the point, and neither did Kit. They needed a navigator and Kit was the only one available.

The matter of convenience didn't escape Kit's nor Rebecca's mind at that point.

Wildcat still helped out; moving stuff here and there with Molly tagging along. So far, she was almost enjoyed the Sulaco. Hitting decks with her shoes to see which deck was the loudest, dangling from the overhead pipes (Which brought a concerned admonishment from her mother), and the occasional calling out into the ventilation ducts: "Hark, who goes there?"

Wildcat didn't complain about Molly's highjinks. He pretty much let her loose, getting involved only when she might be at risk, like from hanging on pipes.

Rollins was a ferret-like individual who had an constant, arrogant look on his face. He had the face of someone who would always have the upper hand on something. Kit naturally disliked him.

Sara was petite but still formidable; She handled the placement of cargo like a expert. Kit watched in amazement as she calculated the weight placement of each cargo crate to stabilize the ship's center of gravity. She even worked out where and how to place them. She wore a small baseball cap on her head backwards like Kit. Her hair was now hidden underneath.

And then there's Winston. Winston was different from most doctors. While doctors were trained to be outgoing and warm, Winston was slightly cold and aloof. His canine instincts were superb in finding out a person's ills but lousy when dealing with social skills. Quiet, rarely speaking unless it was important, he was not considered to be the life of the party. He carried a large-caliber pistol with his medical kit, he insists on it.

They checked the wiring and the equipment for most of that time. Sabotage was a business not to be taken lightly. They started to check every piece of wiring they could find; Demitri took the lead with Wildcat helping out. Wildcat ruffled through the official blueprints while Demitri dug his hands inside his jotted notes he kept on the project. Kit saw several dinner napkins, one cloth covered in marker; a couple of paper bags used to describe the wiring; and a wrinkled mass of newspaper that was littered with more thick, black marker. Demitri was excellent at inventing things; it was his filing "system" that brought nightmares to others.

"Mr. Sinclair," Wildcat called out to him. "I can't find that main power trunk anywhere."

"Hold on," Demitri sifted through his stack and pulled out a wrinkled cigarette carton. "It's to your... left, I think." Then Demitri turned the carton over, realizing he had the diagram upside-down. "Yeah, it's there; right above the emergency water piping."

"Found it," Wildcat confirmed.

The cockpit was just as busy. Kit worked out his navigational genius to the maps in front of him. A slide rule and a clean legal pad was his friend at this moment. Johner was checking the instruments to make sure that nothing would go wrong. Baloo was getting orientated with the flight controls, reading the hand-written manual in his hands and testing out the controls while he could. Molly and Rebecca were busy themselves; Rebecca was teaching Molly about the intricacies of using the radio and she was trying to master the radar controls. The power ratings on the radar array was almost double that of most military planes and vessels. Add that to her over-powered engines and her awesome display of weaponry, Sulaco was not to be taken lightly.

Her mind tracked back to Anya's recorded words back on Demitri's island. Her pleas for help and her husband's determination to get her back. She saw photos of Anya; everyone in Cape Susette did. She could look elegant in either off-the-rack designer clothing to that of simple peasants. Some admired her, many loved her, especially the pilots. Other people would press their point further when they were justified in the end. She knew that part well; Baloo would've written it in the skies if he could! But Kit's fears were almost on the mark. And sometimes, that was scary enough...

Everyone kept to their own council, talking only to exchange a vital tidbit of information or a small cutting comment. Kit knew this sort of comadre before while he was still with the Pirates. But the people he was now with were true professionals in every sense. A small slap here and a pointed elbow in the ribs there; Dobermans at play with small roughhousing. Even Winston was seen throwing a box of bandages at Johner.

Dinner-time was agreed to be at six. Demitri asked Rebecca earlier and she agreed. Molly usually ate at six; he inquired if they wanted to be separated from the rest of the group. She asked if there was to be profanities at the table. He promised that were would be none.

A simple question turning into a session of Twenty-Questions. Both had head-aches but at least they tried to smile about it.

Demitri offered his services in the galley. Rebecca reluctantly agreed; so far, he meant well. He certainly tried to be polite, almost nervous, around her. He certainly trusted her enough to give her some options; options where she could've picked up Molly and left quickly. Or was he truly a cunning person at heart?

They exchanged small talk while preparing dinner. There was a brief rattle in the overhead pipes but Demitri commented about the others washing up. She looked at him for a moment as he chopped vegetables, dressed in a clean apron. If she saw him now for the first time, she'd mistake him for just about every loving husband or newlywed she'd seen in the past. Him chopping vegetables, sometimes whistling a forgotten tune, his wedding band glinting with the harsh lights mounted under the cabinets.

But then there was the person she already knew about; the person who acted at the firefight on his own island. The man who held a knife to another man's neck without pity nor remorse of his actions. She saw that cold steel in his eyes. That total dislocation from morality or ethics or mercy. And yet, he gave her a couple of options to escape him. Even before the hanger incident, he said that he no longer needed her and promised an endorsement.

Or was that the whole issue? Was he that cold; to murder his own people to get back his beloved? What if she had to go against him? What would he do? Accept it and let her be on her way? Or force her co-operation with the life of her daughter?

Who are you? She wondered.

He looked at her from where he was standing, his chopping resuming like he was still watching. She watched as he chopped his salad expertly, without a wasted movement nor any of his visual attention. He stared at her and she returned the stare. Their eyes locked for a moment. An uneasy silence between them.

Finally, Demitri spoke: "Stew's boiling," He commented and returned to his vegetable, whistling that same unnamable tune.

Dinner in the mess hall was a good experience in Johner's past. Smelling that great food and then tasting it. Then making some cutting remark on the quality and the cook who made it. The usual banter of overtly dramatic missions, boasts and deeds from his fellow soldiers. In a way, he felt sad that he could never go back to those things again.

He took a chair and looked at the sitting around him. Typical military- issue food trays with bowls of stew in the middle. There was platters of cornbread and salad and a few others as well.

The others gathered as well; except for Sawyer. They were all hungry and an invitation for food was not to be denied without a fight! It was a long night and they haven't even departed yet!

"Chow down, grunts." Johner called out. There was a roar of laughter from some.

Demitri started to pass the food platters from the galley, which impressed Rebecca in some strange way. Of all the rich and successful men she knew, none of them could handle a frying pan, much less cook and serve food like a chef! She watched from her corner as she started to clean up the galley as Demitri balanced a couple of platters on each arm to the table, knelt down and slid them on the surface. No doubt, she was impressed.

He returned, "Sit down, eat something." He replied to her. "I'll finish up here. After all this, I'd think you'd want something to eat."

Rebecca was hungry and found it hard-pressed not to argue with him. She left the galley and sat at the empty seat next to her daughter.

Molly was so far all right with the transition. She was far more adaptive then most children her age; whether that was good or bad, Rebecca never could decide on. Kit was on the other end, cutting up Molly's steak with his knife.

"Look at them," Kit whispered to Molly. "It's like he had a long-lost brother."

Molly's head perked up. "Who?" She whispered.

Kit pointed his eyes towards Johner and Baloo. Molly watched them for a few minutes then giggled to herself. She tugged on Rebecca's sleeve and pointed them out. Now they both started giggling!

Kit felt like laughing and sighing at the same time. It was so true, it had to be funny:

Johner and Baloo were eating like....well, like they usually did when they were hungry. Demitri and Kit could've compared "war stories" based on failed diets, horrific calorie counts, and that thing known to some as "Dieter's Armageddon" which was seeing them fight their way into a chained pantry.

Johner reached for a piece of corn bread, which was immediately snatched by Baloo's hand. Baloo reached for a salt shaker, which was immediately seized by Johner. Baloo made a attempt to capture a chicken leg, which was thwarted by Johner.....

It was like a Chess Championship Tournament combined with a buffet! Both players trying to gain new ground, but unwilling to give up their own (Rebecca had a comment about that at Baloo's expense).

"What's this stuff supposed to be?" Rollins replied disgustingly about his food.

"Eggs," Winston replied simply.

"I know it's eggs, collage-boy." Rollins pointed to the flat yellow square on his plate. "I'm talking about this flat, greasy cube on my plate."

Winston picked his head up for a better look. Sara did also. Sara was the closest to Rollins so she poked at the yellow substance with the tip of her fork. Her tongue was rolling around the insides of her cheeks at she investigated.

"It's cornbread....I think." Sara hesitantly concluded.

"You sure?" Rollins replied. "Because I'd like to know what I'm eating."

"It's food," Johner spoke through a mouthful of food. "That's a good enough for me."

"Johner, you'll eat anything that can be digested easily." Rollins shot back.

Johner didn't reply but struggled with his free hand with a bowl of mashed potatoes that was being held by Baloo.

"Mommy," Molly whispered. "They're hungry."

"I know, darling." Rebecca replied and started to eat her meal.

"So what can we expect in the Settlements?" Sara asked in her no- nonsense voice.

Demitri called out throughout the galley. "Lots of political problems, a huge blockade, possible bombing of civilian targets-"

"Huge sandy beaches," Rollins interrupted with a gleeful tone. "Fruit cocktails by the barrels, parties and celebrations from Heaven and beautiful women to match."

Sara had a disappointed look on her face. "Gee, that leaves me out."

Winston's head perked up as he leered at her. "Say's who?"

Sara threw her sugar packet at the grinning medic.

Rebecca ate her food in silence. Kit and Molly soon followed, with Molly having a slightly sullen tone to her face. They were all exhausted, and emotionally drained by today's actions. But if they were to work well with these....people, they had to reach a common ground. Somewhere.

"How did you find us?" Rebecca asked politely, hoping to break the ice.

"We figured that there was no other place you could go," Sara replied. "Your flight route was through several mountains, which basically made radar tracking impossible. Your were tracked for several minutes heading for the Typhon Sector, then made a massive course correction elsewhere, which lead to another set of radar-evasive terrain. That lead to a certain direction where Louie's was located. So we thought that there was trouble and you had no other place to go. And we did hear that the folks of Hire for Hire was going to get involved but where heading home due to a change of heart."

"Yes," Rebecca was getting this so far. So did Kit.

"But." Sara pointed up with her fork. "If you did leave for Cape Susette, then why was your plane still on the island? What happened to the crew? And due to the recent news that they couldn't find Demitri's body... well, too many questions that made us unsettled. And the course change did lead to Louies; not directly, but it was good enough. So we got there first, took some positions and waited....and there you were."

It made some sense to Rebecca, but she turned her head a bit to catch Kit's reactions to the explanation. It was usually neutral, but she could tell that he was reluctantly accepting it. And that was close enough for her.

"And there was that deal with the radar," Sara continued.

"Radar?" Kit asked.

"You kept well below the radar network to be detected; but that meant that you also couldn't see around you too well. So you got up around 700 feet and went active for a few seconds, then dipped down below the network and did it again 20 minutes later."

"Yes, we did." Kit was impressed. Very few pilots could notice such a trick. It was a common one used by smugglers and pirates alike, ones who didn't want to be seen or have people know where they were going. His mind flashed to Demitri's office, at the huge map where smuggling routes were clearly and neatly detailed. It made Kit wonder about how much Demitri knew about certain things and where he learned them.

"Some military groups use that trick for deep-insertion into enemy territory." Sara finished and continued on with her meal. She stabbed at a wad of eggs in front of her.

"What kind of groups?" Kit asked, not wanted the question to go unanswered. He stared at Sara, at the small scars around her arms and hands. The kind of scars caused by infected wounds and grabbing at shrapnel cords and barbed wires.

She returned the stare. Not caring that there was now an uneasy silence in the room. Winston and Rollins looked around, subtly worried. Johner and Baloo paused eating, a turkey leg stopped just in front of Johner's lips. Baloo had a piece of french bread in his hands.

"The ones that not too many people know about." Sara concluded and looked away to her food.

Kit knew what that meant, and so did Sara. And they both silently agreed to end that discussion fast!

Talk afterward was subtle but friendly. Sara and Rebecca talked for a few minutes, speaking about backgrounds and family and all that. Sara's were "long gone" from her and she seemed pretty fine about that; Rebecca sympathized; Molly was now her family as were her friends. If not in blood then in souls.

Winston was once a front-line doctor who won the unfortunate nickname of "Gash" during his first year on the front lines. His hand got cut badly with a can of Spam and it got worse, requiring medical attention.

"You have not lived," Johner put in. "Until you see a grown person in the hospital for a 'Spam-cut'." Baloo laughed, asking why would they want to live off of that stuff.

"We didn't have choice," Rollins said through mouthfuls of food. "It was either eating Spam or eating the bugs around you."

That pretty much summed up their options at the time. Baloo's face made that noticeable.

Winston was once a promising medical student who easily became a doctor. Full of promise and energy, he was dependable and considered a example by his teachers. And because of which, he had a choosing of wherever he wanted to go for his tenure. He chose one of the field hospitals in Phoebus. Less then two years later, he found himself serving a brief stint on Suicide Watch, for running into the recovery ward with a pistol aimed at his own skull. His career was over and he no longer cared much about anything. Then Johner came by and offered a position for him. A man who was about to be booted out for trying to kill himself was about to be given another chance! Winston said no, but Johner told him he didn't have that option. The transfer was official just yesterday.

Rollins was a prodigy to some, an irritant to most. While Kit's skills were on navigation and Wildcat's were on engines; Rollins was on most weaponry and explosives. An IQ that reached no lower then 180, he was arguably the smartest person in the group, but no more unstable. Growing up in the ghettos of Cape Suzette's North Zone, he learned very early the rules of Darwinism. Frail and bony, due to his drunken mother selling his food for rent and another drink, he survived off of various bugs and whatever plant life around him. His military specialty was, ironically, "Urban Combat". He fabricated his first firearm when he was only 8. Learned the process of home-made explosives when he was only 11 and blew up a children's brothel as a "test site".

Most of the details he kept from the "civvies" in front of him, especially out of sake for the children. The boy looked like he could hold his own at the news; but the subject was out for the girl as far as he was concerned.

Kit looked at Rollins as felt a kindred soul in some areas. He looked like a guy who rarely seen daylight with his pale complexion and sallow, sickened face. But he knew how to hold his own in a fight. If it was within arm's reach, he could find some way to fashion it into a weapon. When he wasn't working on Demitri's R&D projects, he taught at Cape Susette Military Academy's "Unconventional Warfare" Classes.

"How did that court case hold?" Winston asked.

"It fell through," Rollins grinned. "But I can tell you that it'll be the last time someone will come near me when I have math compass in my hands."

"I'm surprised that kid lived throughout it." Winston replied.

"You give a guy a D- and he goes berserk," Rollins shook his head sadly. "But at least he got away with only a small limp."

Demitri walked in. His hands were clean as usual. Rebecca noticed that he had a slight compulsion with keeping his hands clean. The galley he'd just left was now much cleaner. The counters wiped and the pans scrubbed. The dishes were something he'd do later, maybe in the morning, but right now business was the priority.

"I'm sorry that some of you have to get involved in all this," Demitri started out with a apology, a pretty sincere one at that in Rebecca's opinion. "But I believe that you all know the current situation with the Settlements and Usland. Right now, the blockades are still in force. No ships are entering or leaving them. Khan Industries have donated a portion of their resources to the blockade. Now so far, they've been keeping out of the light; supporting capital ships and re-arming them, but little else."

"What about the news about Khan's stockpiles of weapons?" Sara asked.

"Unknown at this time." Demitri's voice was changing to a business-like tone. No emotion, no tone. All business. "Khan does have an impressive stockpile of munitions and replacement parts, but he's always kept them in reserve. So the theory of him hoping that we got to war is on shaky ground."

"No one wants a war," Johner said through his napkin as he wiped his mouth. "The Settlers have put on more then their fair share during the Wars. Most of the major technological advances in the last decade were done by Settlers: The polio vaccine, penicillin, the transistor-"

"The Mk V ship-killer torpedo rockets," Rollins interrupted again. "The semi-automatic rifle, twelve of the nine-teen variants of plastic explosives, the colony defense networks."

"They're a tricky bunch." Baloo put in. All eyes fell on him and he started to gulp air. But he continued on regardless. "They are inventive. But they would never start a fight unless they have a good enough reason."

Everyone nodded their heads in agreement and they all knew the basic truths about most Settlers: They don't start fights, they finish 'em.

"What about the Senate?" Rebecca asked. "They don't want a war, especially with our neighbors. Settlers have contributed much to our way of life. Much of Usland's society wouldn't exist if they didn't contribute."

"What kind of opposition can we expect?" Winston asked. He looked down at his coffee cup with a dull expression.

Demitri sighed for a moment. Most of what he had to say was not of public knowledge. In fact, most have been deemed very sensitive material. No civilian was supposed to know about what he was planning to tell them. Hell, he wasn't supposed to know about it. He opened his mouth to speak:

"During the Phoebus Wars, the Settlers got an offer from Usland Military Command. We never contemplated a war of that magnitude at that time, nor did we expect too. The Regime, which were our enemies at that time, took over several key sectors of our territory and we had not enough manpower to deal with it. and we were already on the verge of losing.

"Several times, the Settlers offered their services to replace our diminishing manpower; in return, we'd give them a certain portion of our fleet. And we did. After the war, most of that fleet 'disappeared'. Enough capital ships and their escorts for two task forces. Well enough. At least two carriers. That's not counting on what they might've built in that time."

Kit mussed over that thought. The Settlers were inventive, almost ingenious, with what they had to use around them; which was to say they didn't have much to work with. They did create some great running aircraft, mostly modular to keep the same craft to be reusable, and it was easier to refit and upgrade. And they were almost dirt-cheap to build. A fighter could be fitted as a interceptor; a bomber could become a gunship. The Usland Military was thrown into fits on what to classify most of them. They had a blocky, sometimes angular appearance. Kit saw a few of them and saw their engine specs and was immediately impressed with the straightforward design. It was designed so each part can be interchangable with each other, each strut, engine part, even entire sections of fuselage can be easily changed and interchanged with each other without much trouble.

Rollins whistled. Kit realized that he knew that same thing, maybe more.

The Iron Vulture was huge but it was no match for the Settlement Concordia-Class Dreadnought. Most Usland cap-ships wouldn't either. The Concordia class was a variant of their decommissioned carriers bought as a freighter. Which meant that all of it's armaments and military-issued equipment was stripped out; the Settlers bought it, refurbished it, and turned it to something much better then what the she was initially designed for.

"So we can disregard the basic specs?" Kit mussed, mostly to himself.

"Disregard everything about the specs." Rollins put in. "I can think of at least twenty different things they can change just on their freighters alone. These people are tricky. I've seen them convert simple cargo planes into full-fledged escort bombers and gunships."

"So what is the game plan?" Sara pointed out impatiently.

"My contact inside Kahn Industries has assured me that we can get safe passage through a blockade." Demitri explained. "I got some codes that'll identify us as a recon plane, so hopefully we won't run into too much trouble. Now, we are in harm's way. I'm hoping to drop off Mrs. Cunningham and her child into friendly territory along the way. But my only concern is to get my wife back; anything else other then what I've just mentioned is secondary."

They chewed at that notion for almost a minute. Rebecca mostly. She knew that their was no safe place for them, her or Molly, for the moment. Her mind flashed to that firefight at the hanger; knowing that whoever they were, they'd have no hesitation to kill her and her child then they would kill a prominent figure like Demitri Sinclair.

"I arranged the shifts so they and us and work closer together," Demitri continued. Rebecca noticed that he was referring to her friends and herself. I got it listed so I hope it'll not be too much of a problem. Johner, you'll take the first watch with Mr. Baloo, is there and problem with that with you two?"

Both shook their heads.

"I'll take the morning watch with Mr. Cloudkicker," Kit noticeably blanched at that notion. If Demitri reacted to his expression, he refused to show it.

"Mrs. Cunningham, what is your flight rating?" Demitri looked at her with quiet eyes.

"Class-2," Rebecca responded automatically. Class-2 was a rating for most cargo planes and haulers. She just got her license re-verified only a few months ago, and failed to see the logic of going above her current flight rating.

"That'll do," Demitri's eyes looked quiet, but slightly dead inside. Like his eyes were no longer anything alive but replicas forged of glass. "Sara, can you get her qualified on the dropship?"

"The shuttle?" Sara asked, pondering for a second. "Yea, I can. It'll be easy."

"All right," Demitri eyes scanned the whole group, seeing everything and nothing at once. Seeing nothing worth mentioning, he walked out of the room quietly. Soon, everyone else joined his discussion, leaving behind empty plates and dirty dishes.

"Hate to see things go to waste," Baloo replied and made out with three loafs of french bread tucked under his arm.

The "dropship" that Demitri was referring to was located in the starboard launchbay. Rebecca and Sara stared at it for a moment in shock and amazement. While most planes had a streamlined appearance for aerodynamics and possible aesthetics, this new design totally lacked it: It was blocky, hardly any angles to begin with. it had the resemblance of a metal brick that had chips in certain angles around it. Only the strange V-shaped rudder and the stubby ailerons gave away it's use as an aircraft.

The dropship was locked in an overhead caddy, hovering over the closed bomb-bay doors under it. To the front, Rebecca could see a smaller craft hidden in a similar caddy. The launchbay smelled of familiar smells; mostly oil, grease and lubricants. Tools hung neatly on a peg board on one wall. The pegs were much larger then what she was used to seeing. Some of the tools were even locked down with small latches. She took a brief moment to remember that every cabinet and drawer on the Sulaco had a similar arrangement. She brought the subject up with Sara.

"This ship was designed for high-speed maneuvers. Mostly with breaks and turns and such. She could outrun and outmaneuver most ships today, but that comes at a price."

"What would that be?" Rebecca asked.

"The ship was meant for it. But the tools, the equipment and the people aren't. She can easily pull a near 45-degree change in any direction at high speeds but that means that everything will start flying around. That's why we got so many safety harnesses on the seats. The beds, both in the bunkrooms and the medical facilities, have straps. Even the bathrooms." She giggled at the notion in a very immature manner. Rebecca smiled.

The interior of the dropship looked even worse. Parts and tools laying haphazardly around the cargo bay. They entered through the left door, seeing the cots and the seats pushed up against the wall like some tray tables on civilian airlines. The walls were dank and smelled faintly of gun- oil.

"The dropship was meant for a quick retrieval and dropping of cargo; like people for example. No frills; nothing. Just a engine and a cockpit and a place to drop your cargo. Little else." Sara replied in a scornful tone.

"Looks it too," Rebecca commented.

They spent the next hour working out the details on the cockpit controls. Rebecca was still used to the flight manual, chapter and verse. Baloo joked about that often, at her expense, but she tried not to be visible with her emotions on that issue. She never wanted to admit that Baloo was actually right!

Sara was patient with her; a far cry from the persona she thought she'd seen in the mess hall. Seeing her come back with a verbal jibe and a few playful hits on the arm. They worked out the hydraulic controls and the engine controls. And that strange device that replaced the control yoke.

"The Sulaco has several redundant systems. A pilot could fly it himself and manage a torpedo run on a cap-ship. He could basically fly it in a combat situation, be it a bombing run or a land strafing. It'll be hard on his senses but I hope we'll never have to find that out in real life."

Rebecca agreed wholeheartedly.

"But this dropship doesn't have that ability. But the one thing they do have in common are these miniature devices at the end of each handle. See it?"

Rebecca saw them immediately. There was one on each end of the handle. See could see a couple of buttons in front, where her fingers would be placed.

"One researcher called them 'joysticks' for some reason. You moved the 'ship around with them. The joysticks give precise controls if you want to make a high-angle break or want to hover around. The buttons toggle certain things you'll need; like the radio, the emergency beacon and such."

They went through it again, almost chapter and verse. She grimaced at the thought. "Chapter and verse," all that money spent on that flight manual and it didn't do much except as an expensive paper weight. What Baloo might've done with it would've been even less humane.

The cockpit was almost the same, with Baloo and Johner. They talked it through a couple loafs of French bread and bottles of soda. The air was a bit freer there, mostly with the two swapping stories between a few instructions and a practice session. Johner was impressed with Baloo's style and confidence. Kit was in the Navigator's station, plotting courses with a slightly dull expression. His hands were the only thing that was moving, his left working the slide rule from time to time, sometimes thumbing the radio dial; his right was intent on writing fuel consumption ratios and changes to fuel reserves if they had to make a course correction. But so far everything seem quiet, almost serene.

So far...

With the dishes completely washed and the galley scrubbed, Demitri found that he had almost nothing to occupy his time. Time on a ship tends to draw out like a blade, and was likely to cut your mind badly if your mind wasn't occupied. The galley work took his mind off of the things around him; mostly with what he'd just done with the Higher for Hire crew and Zatherias.

Funny. All that time he lived with Zatherias, he never asked why he chose to stay with him until that last moment. It was amazing that deep down, it didn't hurt as much as he initially thought. A quick look over of his injuries and a brisk shower and he was almost fine with the fact. Slip into a clean uniform and he'd look like a new man; no one would've guessed that he left his friend behind to die alone.

Do something, idiot. He heard the faint voice of his old drill sergeant from Basic. Doesn't do anybody any good if you start to freak out before the real fighting begins.

The mess hall doubled as a rec area. And so far, no one was inside. That suited him just fine; he was never a social butterfly at heart. A few dinners, often at Anya's persistence, and maybe a gala or two but that was it. Other then that, he was almost always alone with the exception of Johner, Anya, and Winter.

He worked the latches on the drawers, opening them and taking a quick look at the contents. Puzzles? Rollins' idea most likely. Coloring books? Johner did have his childish moments. A bear as large as a Grecian column coloring with crayons! He shook his head sadly, wondering if his insanity was starting to leak around the people around him.

Finally he found what he wanted: a fresh tablet of unlined paper and a box of pencils. He grabbed them almost excitingly and immediately started to sharpen the first pencil to fall from the box.

His first invention, which helped to save untold numbers of pilot during the Phoebus Wars, was an engine modification sketched on a dinner napkin when he was first dating Anya. Conversation was a bit spicy at first, starting with a few jokes first bantered about in the mess halls, then a bit somber. Then it became dead. He remembered seeing her in a nurse's uniform, sewed and changed around so it'll look more formal then it was originally designed for. He wore a shirt and dinner jacket that was three sizes too large for his frame. The collar hung down to his collarbones. Luckily, Winter was around to help with the sleeves but the oversized collar couldn't be helped and he went anyway, feeling like a bum and looking the part in some ways.

He sketched the idea while Anya was in the washroom; he was nervous, it showed with his shaking fingers and that fidgeting right foot of his. Johner stopped by to offer some advice and left to who-knows-where. Anya was in the washroom, even more nervous then her date and trying to cram all the romantic advice that Winter and Clara were trying to drill into her.

"Be yourself," Winter repeated again and again. "Be casual."

Clara nodded at the advice. She was dressed in a simple waitress outfit. The hem of the skirt was almost down over her feet but she didn't complain. She'd go and serve drinks and ask the customers if everything was allright while watching Demitri and Anya try to converse. Then go to the back and tell Winter of whatever they passed off as "progress". Winter who was dressed as one of the kitchen staff, listened intently as she stirred stew and told her to continue. Johner was dressed as a valet, parking official cars and taking some pocket change from the ashtray, even a cigarette if one was to be found. Demitri would have a fit; he'd been trying to get Johner to quit for almost a month then!

Johner was almost the same with his advice. "Be yourself; we're talking now. That's considered normal conversation. But personally, I don't find you that much attractive. And you'd make a lousy dance partner."

Demitri didn't look up from his sketching but replied with a hidden finger gesture with his pen. Then took a sniff of the air around Johner. Johner just grinned wolfishly and left, but not after he took a basket of fresh buns from a buffet table. And a bottle of pine cleaner from the cleaning closet.

Anya came back and they tried this again; she looked down at his napkin and asked what was that. He said it was something he was working on with the engines. She asked him to continue and the night went almost too fast for them to believe.

That was what he was doing now: sketching. It came almost naturally for him. Sketching a tree or a wall or a person. It was something he enjoyed in his youth, seeing his niece, Clara sitting by her window as Demitri sketched her features on a piece of butcher paper.

"What are you doing?" A young voice interrupted his thoughts. Demitri looked down to see Molly Cunningham standing near him. Her hair was now back in ribbons and she was back in her matching blue coveralls. Her hands were clasped behind her back, like she was about to recite a poem or report in from of her class or something.

"Sketching." Demitri managed. As a soldier and businessman, he had little experience with children. As a soldier, children were frightened things with rags for clothing and a dulled expression of mute shock and horror. As a businessman, children were reported to be a liability and a nuisance, meant to be shipped off to one boarding school or another; brought into this world only to keep "the family business". Demitri never knew that for a fact; Anya and him never had children. He had little to work with other then the experiences he shared in his past with Clara. He worked as much as he could right now.

He pointed to the cabinets on the far wall with his pencil. "I'm trying to sketch that wall. See it?"

She did and replied with a nod. The she started to walk on tip-toe, energetic on seeing his work. "Can I see?" she asked politely.

Demitri lowered his tablet to her level and she saw the sketches. Some were a bit sloppy-looking thumbnail sketches on the corners of the papers, with the general outline and texture work done around the center.

Molly was impressed so far. "How do you do that?" She asked.

Demitri paused for a moment; the question never came to his mind before. "It just....happens." He answered after a moments pause.

"Do you draw anything else?" She asked.

Demitri succeeded in repressing a sigh. He knew that the answer would be if he told the truth. If he lied, then he'd have to suffer that "guilt- thing" Johner sometimes called it. He hadn't drawn people in a long time, especially children. Not since Clara...

Don't think it, His mind roared. Block it out before it's too late!

The Kipple...

"I used to draw...my niece." Demitri replied in a careful, controlled tone. Like he was talking to a volatile maniac instead of an innocent child. Then he replied almost before he could catch himself: "I could draw you."

Molly's expression was so genuine that Demitri was immediately able to dismiss that Molly had been planning this conversation from the start. At least from the moment she saw him with a sketch pad.

"Really?" She squealed in joy, "Would you really?"

"I would if you'd sit over there on that chair," Demitri found himself smiling in spite of himself. "Right under that light. Just sit still a bit." She did as he asked. "Turn you head to the left....the other left, please."

As he continued on, his hand worked deftly on the paper.

Less then two hours later, the Sulaco left Louies and set it's course for the Settlements. As far as they knew, nothing was predictable. The future was as blank slate, almost like the pages on Demitri's sketching tablet. They were alone, flying into the night with little to go on except a compass direction and a set of course co-ordinates. But as far as they knew, no one was watching them.