Second Lieutenant Zechs Marquise brought his situation map onto his heads-up display. He only half-listened to the speech playing over the radio, more concerned with what would happen when the speech finished.
"In this year, After Colony 193, we, the Earth Sphere Alliance military, begin our biggest set of training exercises ever. In this engagement…"
I know, I know, let's get on with it, Zechs thought impatiently. I may live my life as a soldier, but battle brings no joy to my heart. Let's get this over with.
He continued to ready the console of his Leo land-battle mobile suit. To his left and right, the three Leos under his command took up positions around him. Though only a Second Lieutenant, Zechs had already proven himself a master pilot, and had three pilots under his direct command.
He brought their data up on screen. He'd made the utmost effort to get to know his men and learn who they were and how they fought. Two were unresponsive, thinking of Zechs as a meddler. Their minds were on their careers and both were bucking to fly Aires instead of Leos. The other, Otto, appreciated Zechs as more than just a talented commander. Otto wanted guidance, and Zechs found he wanted to give it.
"For this exercise, each Leo will be fitted with multiple targets. We're using blanks, but they will mark the targets. If three targets are hit, your on-board computer will shut down your Leo and leave you helpless. This is to let you know that, in a real engagement, you'd be dead. Certain officers will be armed with simulation beam sabers that will instantly defeat you—but these are mostly cosmetic, as we do not expect the combatants to get close enough to use these weapons effectively. Rely on your guns."
I have heard all of this before, let's get on with it! Zechs thought, then shook his head and breathed deeply. Stupid of me to lose composure. I am Zechs Marquise. I have infinite patience. I can wait as long as necessary to accomplish my goals.
That was the ideal he'd adopted for himself. He tapped his helmet and mask, his constant reminder of who he was. He continued tapping it, a silent prayer he fell into, reminding himself of the existence he'd adopted.
I am Zechs Marquise. I have infinite patience, but I will not be denied. For now, I will wait and count the transgressions as they add up. When the time is right, I will collect due payment—but for now, I wait. I am a soldier in the United Earth Sphere Alliance military. My time will come.
He looked at the situation map. An astonishing number of mobile suits, into the hundreds, had been gathered for this exercise, simulating a full-scale battle. Of course, given the monolithic nature of the Alliance, who would we be fighting in a battle of this size? Zechs and his team were deployed on the extreme left. Their goal was to flank the enemy and roll them up.
If we can get into position properly. If the enemy doesn't notice us and flank US. If, if, if. No proper commander issues a battle plan this vague. The high command still doesn't grasp how to use the mobile suit in combat.
"27th team," he said to his unit, cutting off the speech, "let's move into position."
One of the pilots, Mora, talked back to him. "Sir, shouldn't we wait until the general finishes?"
Zechs didn't care for Mora, and he knew the reverse was true. As a pilot Zechs might dismiss that, but as a commander he couldn't tolerate it. The hint of insubordination, the tone of self-righteousness, all were typical of Mora—and all were out of bounds.
"Mora, I'll speak to you after the battle. And no, we're not waiting. We're not going to engage the enemy until the battle starts in earnest, but I don't intend to let the enemy plan for us. Follow me."
He moved out, using terrain to mask his unit's movement as much as possible, until he was just outside range of the enemy. A treeline stood between him and the enemy flank—thin, yes, but if the enemy wasn't looking for him, it would be enough.
Now we have the initiative. We decide when to begin the battle, at the time and place of our choosing. We have total surprise and a flanking position. Our enemy is far too careless.
Zechs switched frequencies back to the speech. "And so," the general said, his voice swelling up dramatically, "I say to you, to all, good luck and success! BEGIN!"
Mora took a step forward, but Zechs waved his Leo's hand. "Wait, Mora," he said. "If we attack now, we're the only target the enemy has. We'll be dead before we can do anything significant."
"Sir, why'd you move us out before the exercise begins if we're just gonna wait?"
"Because the enemy wasn't expecting it. He won't look for us. We'll begin our attack when he's fully engaged, and expects it least, and will feel it most."
Mora stepped back, and Zechs shook his head, feeling the antipathy from his soldier. How does he expect to buck for Aires if he can't even follow orders? Aires pilots are known as hot-shots, but they must be fundamentally sound soldiers first. His thoughts soured. Yeah, as if the Alliance cares about such things. He may make Aires after all. Then he turned his attention back to the battle.
Although his unit was using only passive sensors, the enemy Leos rumbling past were making no effort to hide and were obvious to everyone. Order was disintegrating as the individual mobile suits bobbed and wove evasively, and the neat lines of enemy Leos were becoming one big mass. If anyone was trying to command the individual squads, they weren't trying hard.
The great mass of enemies clashed with the great mass of friendlies, and that was when Zechs shouted, "Now!"
He was already moving, his mobile suit reacting naturally to his commands. He plunged through the treeline and saw the enemy spread out before him—each and every one of them facing the other direction.
"27th, engage at will but stay by me!" Zechs targeted the closest enemy and laid his crosshairs over his victim. Zechs scorned the fully automatic fire so many Leo pilots favored; his quick bursts were far more accurate.
He squeezed and released the trigger, one, two, three.
Enemy Leo down.
He moved on immediately, targeting another Leo and blasting at it. One, two, three. Enemy down.
Utterly mechanical. This brings me no pleasure—just the cold satisfaction that no one does this like me. I do it because it's necessary.
He continued maneuvering as he fired, bringing down another Leo. Now the enemy was noticing, and although his unit was racking up kills left and right, the enemy was sure to start devoting serious firepower in his direction.
He used the limited thrusters the Leo offered him to spice up his evasive maneuvers and kept up his murderous, accurate gunfire. He scanned the battlefield around. Although most of the Leos around were enemies, friendly forces were taking advantage of the disruption and damage Zechs was creating and pressing the attack. This flank was caving.
Blank bullets streaked by his main camera. Zechs turned to fire in retaliation, but it was a friendly Leo firing by mistake. Even as Zechs turned his attention back to where it belonged, his command couch shuddered beneath his spine—he'd been hit.
Outraged, Zechs launched a flurry of bullets at his attacker, right at its camera. As he suspected, even though the bullets did no damage, they spooked the pilot into jerking away instinctively. Before he could recover, Zechs finished him off.
"27th team," he barked over the radio, "we're coming under friendly fire. Pull back to assess and redeploy."
He walked backwards, a skill few pilots could manage properly. Even fewer pilots could do it while firing back, as Zechs continued to do. "I said pull back!" he shouted. "Mora, that means you!"
Mora was exchanging fire with two enemy Leos and not pulling back—he certainly hadn't mastered walking backwards, a skill an Aires pilot had no use for. Disgusted, Zechs covered his ally, claiming one of the Leos himself. Mora sprayed fire at the remaining Leo and hit it twice more, shutting it down. Only then did he turn and obey Zechs.
As they retreated, friendly units filled their positions and pressed the attack. Zechs scanned his squad's data. Pilot four had gotten two kills but was already disabled. Zechs shook his head, pitying the weakling. Mora had gotten five kills, impressively, but he'd been hit twice in so doing. Otto, on the other hand, had shot down only three Leos, but had completely evaded damage and followed Zechs' orders perfectly.
Hmph. Without my covering him, Mora would be down completely. I'd rather have one Otto than two Moras.
Zechs himself had gotten nine kills at the cost of one hit. That was why they called him the Lightning Lieutenant.
Now he glanced at the situation map. All attempts at stealth and tactics had been abandoned now and the battle was a general melee. The air battle between the limited numbers of Aires on each side was a total stalemate, as both sides had wiped the other out. This left the land battle to determine the winner. The left flank, where Zechs had struck, was completely in Zechs' favor; the enemy was collapsing totally. The right flank was much more even, but friendly forces were breaking through steadily and the enemy was cracking. The center, however, was a disaster. Despite fire from three sides, the center of the enemy formation was solid and intact.
That's unusual. The enemy's forces are rallying around a single point. Although both flanks are collapsing on them, the point is holding firm. Is there a single suit in there leading them on like that?
An interesting thought—probably untrue, but interesting.
Now, the business at hand.
The best way to end this decisively is to break the enemy's rallying point. Therefore, we'll wade through the battle to that point. I'll finish whoever is leading them and our forces will sweep them away.
"Team, follow me to nav point 87 at the head of the enemy's formation. We're heading into the thick of it."
He was already moving himself, his Leo running at high speed. The sooner he did this, the greater the enemy's disorganization and the greater his side's chances of winning.
My side, their side… what I really want is to get closer to the Alliance's leadership. To do that, I've adopted the way of the soldier, and I'll be the truest soldier I can to accomplish that.
His body rocked in motion with his suit. He was attuned to it, making it an extension of his own body, guiding it forward as naturally as he might jog. He led his unit laterally behind the battle, moving to the key point in the conflict. Stray bullets buzzed by, but none were a serious threat—there was nothing to be done about them, anyway, and firing back was pointless.
I'll finish this with my own hands.
"Team, we're going in. Follow me and shoot first."
Zechs followed his own advice. Two Leos standing next to each other were almost too easy; he caught them both in practically the same burst. Scanning left, he saw another Leo maneuvering crazily. Zechs actually had to fire five bursts to finish it, rather than his usual three.
He saw an enemy team coming from another direction. "Otto, Maro, evasive!" he shouted. They scattered as bullets flew. Zechs took the leader almost instantly, then went full evasive to evade crossfire.
Maro downed his opposite number, but Otto hit his target only twice and was hit in return. Zechs finished it off before it could fire on Otto more.
"Gotta do better, Otto!" shouted Mora.
Otto turned his Leo towards Mora. "Hey! What are you doing?!" Mora called indignantly. Otto fired several times in Mora's direction.
"Otto, what—" Zechs stopped because he saw. A Leo was almost upon Mora, but Otto's fire brought it down right before it took its shot.
"How's that, Mora?" asked Otto.
You just wasted the goodwill you earned from me, Zechs thought, shaking his head sadly. You were perfect right up until you taunted him.
"We don't have time for this, either of you! Now form up and follow me!" He tromped past them, firing at the next set of enemies.
Zechs was in the eye of the storm, but he couldn't find its centerpoint. He was racking up a deadly toll, but the enemy remained unbroken.
Where is your center?
As he looked left, he saw two friendly Leos struck down. He fired at their aggressor, only to watch stupefied as it evaded him smoothly.
Physically it looked like any other Leo, save for the simulation 'beam saber' in its hands. As this was a training exercise, the 'beam sabers' had virtually no cutting power, but the computers were programmed to treat a hit by one as lethal.
The movement of the Leo, on the other hand, marked it as something special.
Leos were notorious for their choppy handling, but this one was moving smoothly, easily, naturally. And very trickily; Zechs fired a few more bursts, but this pilot was evading him totally. The enemy was making maximum use of the little maneuverability the Leo gave him, the tiny thrusters flashing almost constantly. Zechs couldn't even slow his target down; despite his covering fire, it slipped through and swept up to another Leo.
One hit was enough to shut a Leo down, but this pilot then hit his target twice more—once across the back of the shoulders, and again across the mobile suit's hips.
Zechs almost laughed out loud.
He's not simply beating them—or rather, he's not only beating them. He's instructing those he defeats, literally schooling them.
I find that I like this man.
"You are my target!" he shouted triumphantly. "You are the enemy's center! Your skill and will is all that's holding your allies together! If I defeat you this battle is won!"
Zechs gave in to a most unusual impulse.
He fired three times—not at his target, but over its head, getting its attention. Then he tossed his rifle aside and grabbed for his beam saber. He flipped through the radio channels to his suit's loudspeaker. "Enemy commander, I am calling you out! Friendly mobile suits, stay away from this battle and engage other enemies!"
The enemy commander leveled his beam saber at Zechs. Zechs involuntarily settled backwards in his command couch. "I accept your challenge. Friendly mobile suits, attack other targets and ignore this battle."
A thrill ran through Zechs' body. I feel alive! This is a fight I will remember—it's more than mere drudgery. Something about this battle is RIGHT!
Zechs advanced first, swinging down overhead with his saber. The enemy didn't even deign to block—far faster than Zechs expected, it sidestepped and struck back with the saber. Zechs barely got his own saber back up to deflect the attack, moving it just enough that it grazed his shield rather than pierce his shoulder. Zechs quickly stepped back to reevaluate.
The enemy gave him a few moments, but then struck back furiously. Zechs found himself totally defensive, frantically blocking his enemy's strikes. But the more he blocked, the faster the enemy seemed, the more it pressed him.
Am I in danger of… losing?
That very thought seemed to travel to his enemy's suit, for it responded with an even more aggressive assault. Zechs strained himself to defend as his enemy's saber came close enough to Zechs' Leo to increase its surface temperature.
Coward! Coward, corward, coward! You will never ever win with defense alone, you must attack! Don't hesitate, just strike him down!
There! Zechs spotted an opening. Small, unlikely, difficult, but it was an opening, a chance to attack, to do something significant.
To make a difference.
Zechs seized it.
With a primal cry, he planted his suit's back foot and swung as hard as he could impress upon his Leo, turning his block into a thrust. Suddenly the enemy suit was defensive, and jetted back out of range.
Zechs was about to renew his attack when a barrage of bullets caught him. Although he immediately went evasive, he was hit again. His entire suit shook, and static overtook his HUD before clearing again.
"Otto!" he cried.
"Got him, sir!" was the immediate response.
Zechs landed and furiously searched for his enemy. But when he found it, it was standing right where it had been before. It hadn't reacted when Zechs came under fire.
Zechs laughed.
I've known you for minutes, and you've taught me more about battles than I ever learned at the Lake Victoria Military Academy.
Zechs felt his soul fill up with passion. "You are more than the enemy commander," he said as he raised his saber again. "You are the soul of battle itself!"
He charged.
"I am honored to fight with you!"
The enemy waited for him, its saber at the ready. The two suits clashed together—and both shut down.
Zechs couldn't restrain his laughter. Exactly as I expected. How could I defeat you?
Although his suit was down, his HUD continued to function. Just as Zechs had thought, without its center, the enemy formation collapsed and was swallowed up by Zechs' comrades. Lacking Zechs' covering fire, Maro was hit seconds after being released and spent the rest of the battle in ignominy, stuck at eight kills. Otto survived the battle entirely and ended up with a very impressive twelve. Zechs, naturally, had finished with twenty-one, counting the enemy commander, the highest total on either side.
Movement from the commander's mobile suit caught Zechs' eye. The commander was opening the cockpit. Out onto the boarding deck stepped an extraordinary man.
He wore, not a combat uniform, but a dress uniform, complete with full regalia and cape. His hair was decidedly non-regulation, long and swept back with a few renegade strands hovering over his face. And his eyes—contemplative, calculating, the sort of eyes you could stare at and fall into their depths, yet alive and active at the same time.
I would follow this man.
The enemy commander snapped his heels, came to attention, and cracked Zechs a crisp salute. Zechs was greatly embarrassed and rushed to do the same. Judging by his insignia, the man saluting him was a major—hardly whom one would expect to first salute a lowly, and despised, second lieutenant.
They stood there, saluting each other, and, despite his mask, Zechs couldn't help but feel exposed, as if this man was probing him.
The man dropped his salute. "Do not go to your debriefing," he said. "Come with me. We shall talk about the future."
"Yes, sir," said Zechs, for lack of anything better.
Zechs began to wish that he'd had the chance to change into dress uniform. To be underdressed in front of this man was… embarrassing.
Embarrassment. An emotion Zechs would never have felt in this situation with any normal officer, nor that he normally felt ever. But here, now, in this company… things were different.
The man sat in his chair, those eyes searching deep into Zechs again. Zechs resisted the urge to squirm.
"We were not properly introduced," the man said. "I am Major Treys Khushrenada."
"I am Second Lieutenant Zechs Marquise." No matter how flustered he became, he would never forget that.
"I know who you are. I was waiting for you there in the center of the battle. You fight well," Treys said.
"Thank you, sir." It was décor and fitting to return the compliment, but Zechs had a personal policy to never, ever flatter a superior officer.
"I noticed that you inflicted more damage than every other pilot, including myself. Also, that your team combined for more kills than the next three teams combined."
Zechs hadn't been aware of that latter statistic, but he was more proud of it than his personal kills.
"More importantly, your team inflicted that damage at crucial points in the battle—the collapse on the left was almost entirely the result of your doing, and your destruction of the enemy's center sealed your victory. And, when the time came, you did the hard thing and sacrificed yourself to win the battle."
It only then occurred to Zechs that that was what he'd done. It was a simulation, yes; but in that simulation, he was dead.
I died for people I secretly hate. What powers does this major possess?
For starters, the power to make battle righteous. He caused me to sacrifice myself and make it seem the perfect solution. That alone sets him apart from every other man I've ever known.
"Take off your mask."
"No," said Zechs, instantly.
"Are you defying a direct order from a superior officer?"
"Yes, sir." The worst they can do for insubordination is dismiss me, but if I remove my mask I'm a dead man.
"I'm glad."
What? How can that possibly be? This man makes no sense to me.
"Do you want to fight for me?"
What?
"Sir, I don't know what that means," said Zechs truthfully.
"Just as it sounds," said Treys with a smile. "Do you want to fight under my direct command? As my knight in battle, the champion of my forces?"
Knight—an archaic term. Champion, even more so. And this was still more unlikely given that Treys was a superior pilot himself. Yet there was no hint of sarcasm or duplicity in Treys' voice. What was he after?
Before Zechs could question further, Treys turned away from him in his chair and faced away. "I would, of course, promote you, and put you in an Aires. You're wasted as a Second Lieutenant in a Leo."
Zechs felt contempt—but there was no way Treys was truly serious. "Sir, I'm not the kind to respond to bribery."
"That's good. I'm glad," said Treys without turning around.
"I believe, sir," said Zechs carefully, "that if you believed me to be the type to respond to bribery, we would not be having this conversation."
"That's quite correct."
His voice isn't like mine. Mine is flat, cold, as emotionless and steady as I can manage, a reflection of the self-control I hold so dear. But his voice—it's quiet, but the power in it is frightening. Not like he's controlling it, but as if he doesn't need to turn its full strength on me.
"Do not think that our fight was coincidental. I went into it looking for you. I've followed you for some time, and you've quite intrigued me. I arranged for both of us to participate in this exercise because I knew that you and I would end up fighting if I did. I would have been quite disappointed had you not survived to defeat me. I've sought you out, Lieutenant, for this purpose: I want you to fight for me."
Zechs didn't like being manipulated—especially by someone as obtuse as this Treys person. Yet why would Treys put so much effort in to tracking Zechs down? Why would someone like Treys do that?
I must figure this out, even if I end up fighting with him to do so.
"Lieutenant, if it came to the point where only your life would guarantee victory, would you be willing to give it up?"
Zechs hesitated. "Only if you were my opponent, sir."
Treys turned back to Zechs, and though his voice was steady, his eyes shone with excitement. "That's an unusual answer. Please explain yourself."
"When I was fighting with you, I began to feel as if the battle itself had intrinsic meaning and value. That is… abnormal. The battles I fight for the Alliance are empty; I do not fight for it because I believe in it. I am an Alliance soldier for a very different reason, and I cannot allow myself to die until I have fulfilled that reason."
"And what is that reason?"
"I can't tell you, sir."
"What is that reason?"
Zechs gave a mental shudder. He could feel the power of Treys' voice ensnaring him. He shook his head. If I tell you, it will be because I want to tell you.
"Our future depends upon it, Lieutenant. Think carefully. You say you cannot die yet. There's a reason for that that you refuse to disclose. I can assure you that nothing that is said will be repeated or heard elsewhere. Do you wish to take my word for it? Do I strike you as the kind of person the Alliance would use to bait you?"
Half of Zechs wailed not to trust anyone; the other half was captivated by Treys. And the fact remained that Treys was unlike every other officer in the Alliance; the Alliance would never be creative enough to make a spy like Treys. Zechs decided to phrase it as delicately as he could manage and reveal no specifics if possible.
"I served a country that was demolished by the Alliance. I desire revenge for this blatant abuse of the Alliance's power."
"That is a good starting point," Treys said. "Do you know why the Alliance abuses its power?"
Zechs hadn't given it much thought. "Because of the people in it, sir. Because of certain individuals' actions."
"That is only partly true. The real reason is the same reason you only feel justified fighting with me. The Alliance has no ideal of battle."
"Ideal, sir?"
"The Alliance views war as a means by which to assert control and exert power. It lacks an understanding of the nature of war. They dismiss the notion that war has any intrinsic value, and in this they are wrong. When a soldier is totally committed, to the point where death is perfectly acceptable, he is a thing of beauty and awe. This is counterbalanced by the sadness that one feels when such a person actually does die, when that beauty is both completed and destroyed. Yin and yang, perfect and equal. Tragically, the Alliance denies the existence of such beauty and thus cannot mourn it. For this reason, their soldiers are miserable and their wars are miserable, and everyone suffers as a result."
"You would change this," Zechs said. "Your aesthetics and ideals make war both gorgeous and abominable to you—you love warriors and hate war. War brings out the best in soldiers, and then kills them."
"And at the same time, the cause of war must be something the soldiers can believe in, something for which they would want to offer their lives. War is no mean exercise, and to treat it as such is to devalue the lives of the soldiers who die. Naturally, the Alliance will never be able to convert itself to this mindset; it is too conservative. More importantly, the very basis and meaning of its existence is for the exertion of power, not the exaltation of the warrior. This necessitates that the Alliance be dismantled at its basis and reborn as a far different creature with a different mind and soul."
There was silence; Treys' final words echoed in the room.
"The die is cast," said Zechs, a smile creeping uncalled for to his face. "If we were overheard, we'll both be executed for treason."
"You needn't worry about that. But, consider this. I told you that I wanted you here to talk about the future. This is the future I am going to create, one in which battles and soldiers have meaning. My question to you is, will you fight for me? Or rather, will you fight to create this future that I have envisioned? This naturally coincides with your own goal of revenge, and does it one better: by removing the ability of history to repeat itself. Well? What say you, Lightening Lieutenant?" Treys smiled unfathomably as he said Zechs' nickname.
Zechs turned his head to escape Treys' stare. "Can it be done? A transfer, I mean."
Treys continued to smile. "My dear Zechs, if I may call you that, the plot to destroy the Alliance begins within it. I may only be a major, but I have considerable influence and prerogatives. After all, you know as well as anyone that, as far as the Alliance is concerned, talent and position do not directly correlate. Other methods of influence have brought me thus far, and will carry me further in the future. For something as minor as a personnel transfer—for a Lieutenant whose performance is threatening to his superiors—it is not a difficult task."
Zechs turned back to Treys. "If I know someone who would help our cause, could I bring him with me?" I have no intention of betraying Otto.
"Naturally, I want no one to join me against their will. That being said, the reason for this effort is to affirm the value of humanity. Anyone who wishes to join this cause I will welcome. We need all the friends we can get."
Zechs smiled. "For some reason, I get the impression that you knew how I would answer before you started talking to me."
"I had my expectations. I was certain before I told you of my plans. I knew that opening myself to you would be the only way to earn your loyalty—and that your loyalty would be well worth the price."
Zechs laughed lightly. "So a major and a lieutenant agree in conspiracy to conquer the world? That shouldn't be too difficult."
"I agree," said Treys without irony. "You are a pilot without peer, and I have the resources to do it. I became an officer in the Alliance to fulfill my ambition. I will reveal the full extent of my connections to you soon; I will show you everything. With you as my knight, I can not fail."
Treys walked to a cabinet and emerged with two glasses and a bottle of wine. As he poured, Zechs said, "I'm not a pilot without peer. You matched me."
"Zechs, don't be so modest. I only got nineteen kills in that battle. You got twenty-one—before you awakened your passion. You will get still better after this." Treys handed Zechs a glass. "I can pilot well, but it is not my true vocation."
"What is?"
Treys eyes flashed with excitement—an excitement tempered only by the absolute certainty in Treys' voice. "To rule," he said.
Silence ruled the room, and the two men stood, motionless. Treys raised his glass and stared wistfully into the wine. "I may be more demanding of you than you realize."
"How so? I don't see how that could be."
"In actuality, I need more than a knight. I need a friend, someone whom I can trust with anything."
Zechs hesitated just a moment, then moved. He set his glass down carefully, brought his hands to his head, and removed his helmet.
He shook his head lightly, feeling the air free upon his face, his vision unfettered. He revealed to Treys his true face—the face he could never show anyone else, or it would destroy his only chance for revenge.
"There is the possibility," he said, with mirth, "that this was all an act to get that helmet off of me."
"The possibility does exist," said Treys, smiling. "But, for what it's worth, you can have my assurance at least that there are more important things at stake here than the true identity of a great knight."
"And here I thought that I was doing something monumental," Zechs said, taking his glass again.
"A toast," Treys said. "To the rebirth of the world."
Zechs raised his glass. "To the downfall of the Alliance."
"To our friendship."
Clink.
Disclaimer:
This story contains characters and situations that belong to persons other than
the author, including but not limited to Cartoon Network and Sunrise.
This story is copyrighted Sam Durbin, a.k.a. Bryon Nightshade, and is bound by
all applicable laws and statutes.