Author's Note: Thanks for the reviews guys! Sorry about the delay but I have V. limited web access at the mo, on top of which Chapter Six kept coming out wrong. Problem's fixed! Just a bit of a chat:
X-Over: I was wondering a bit about your suggestion to give Rev a power ring before he left: how'd that work? What ideas've you got? I haveta say, I dunno how a ring would take to a Magog, even a Wayist. Plus, I thought that when Rev left in 'Ouroboros' it came as a surprise even to Trance—so would she have known to give him a ring? And ultimately power rings are weapons—would he have accepted? Interesting idea, and I am looking into it. Fortunately Rev's departure is a way (no pun intended!) off so there's plenty of time. If you've got any ideas, contact me at . I need your mind!
The Mad Dragon: Funny you should suggest the avatar idea, as that was actually the original plan I had: Kyle shows up, near death, gives the ring to Trance and they somehow save his mind and he exists as a hologram (á là Dylan in 'Unconquerable Man') until Harper can build him an Avatar and then he heads for home again. However, there is a very good reason why 'The Gemini Lantern' has gone the way it has instead—firstly, it was way too similar to another 'Drom fanfic I'm working on, an AU by the name of 'Of Larvae and Love' (right here: ) and secondly I couldn't get it to work quite right, even after spending four hours or so solid. It kept coming out...well, duff, to put it mildly. Not a spectacular disaster, it just kept fizzling out like a very small firework in a torrential downpour. I still might be able to do something with it though, but I can't promise anything.
By the way, not that I'm objecting or anything, but what exactly do you mean by, "P.S. I am so glad you didn't use Hal Jordan."? Is it just that you prefer Kyle or something...sue me, I'm always interested in a good natter. And I'm also glad that this fanfic's appealing to Green Lantern fans as well as Andromeda fans. The reason I used Kyle instead of Hal was because, quite frankly I have quite a fair wack of info on Kyle's time as Green Lantern and I didn't want to send a power ring vulnerable to yellow into the Known Worlds of the Andromeda universe. Hell, I've got more stuff on Guy Gardner's time as a GL than Hal. (I bought a bloody huge stack of 'Justice League International's at a cheap rate) Ugh...no way was I sending Guy to be Trance's mentor! With Guy things would've gone to hell—or rather, Rambo—in two seconds flat. He's alright as Warrior though...well, as long as he's someone else's problem...preferably a long way off, like on another planet.
By the way, with this chapter I'm going to have to reclassify this fic as 'R' rated. The reasons for this should become apparent later...
Addition to disclaimer: I do not own anything whatsoever from The Lord of the Rings or The Hobbit. I'm probably being over-cautious, but I'd rather not incur the wrath of anyone with expensive lawyers even by mistake.
Further apologies for thus far mostly just rehashing the existing episodes for Chapters Two and Three, but I assure you I've got an absolutely bonza beaut lined up right here and ready ta rock your socks off. I actually wrote more than half the first chapter of this fabled 'pure original' (Chapter Four) before even starting Chapter Three (yes, I am very scattershot in my writing!) as I knew vaguely what would be happening in C-3 (namely Trance's battle with the Spirit of the Abyss and the generation of Rommie's ring) and what was on the cards to be going down in this, C-4 (the chapter, not the high-explosive favoured by the 22nd Special Air Service Regiment of Her Majesty's Armed Forces of Great Britain! Aw, dear, the weird ideas you lot get...! ;D) which consists of...
...oh, come on. You didn't think I'd ruin it for you, did you? What the hell do you take me for? Read on, you great big lazybones you.
Without giving much away, in these chapters I had quite a few things that I wanted to do, not necessarily in the following order. First, I wanted to get into Trance's mind and show her attitudes regarding the way her life's going what with getting the power ring and so on. (and any uncharitable types wanting to make rude comments about Trance's mind, vis-à-vis its size, levels of activity, or its state of existence, geddout now. I may not be some teary-eyed lovesick fanatic, but I am just a little bit tetchy when people start blazing characters despite knowing full well what they're reading and who's involved.)
Second, I wanted to show the reactions of various elements and groups to the presence of this 'ringbearer'. When working out how to run this fanfic, I felt (though I may have been wrong) that you lot wouldn't want to have to wade through rehash after rehash so I decided to just get on with things and only redo the really important stuff like Trance going toe-to-toe with the Spirit of the Abyss and absorbing (and later exhausting) a little of its power (more on that in a future chapter, okay? I will get back to that point). We will find out just how things went differently with 'A Honey Offering' and 'Starcrossed Lovers' and everything else, just without having to wade through the whole nine thousand yards when a couple of references and flashbacks and whatnot will do just as well.
I've read plenty of Andromeda fanfic over the course of the past year. Some of it is bloody brilliant ('Invictus', 'The Maru Diaries' and 'The Longest Shortest Day In History' to name but a few, there's about a couple of hundred that I love to pieces and naming them all would take too long), some of it is just good clean fun but not really that thought-provoking (admittedly I'm probably hardly one to talk on this matter, doing a crossover like this!) but there's something I intend to address in what you are about to read: Nietzscheans. This bunch, and the Drago-Kazov Pride in particular, are sadly all too often relegated to the 'shoot-on-sight-baddies' role, the 'evil-red-shirts' as it were, shorter on lifespan than they are on brain, or so they get portrayed.
We're talking about homo sapiens invictus here. Every single member of this species is supposed to be a scheming, wily individual potentially capable of being a faction all by themselves, making and breaking alliances as and when it truly suits them, constantly surrounded and enveloped in many-layered webs of ever-increasing intrigue. To be sure, there are, or in some cases were, Nietzscheans who had moral limits to their activities such as the Tarazed Nietzscheans and the Kodiak Pride respectively, but the point is that Nietzscheans are supposed to be intelligent. Of course they aren't always victorious, but surely the defeat of a canny strategist and highly-trained elite fighter is much more satisfying than the casual defeat of yet another fresh-from-the-factory minor nuisance.
Thirdly, I wanted to round up on some of the events of the last chapter. I suppose an explanation's in order for why Dylan remained in Medical whilst on the box he went gung-ho on the worldship. Considering that at the end of 'Its Hour Come Round At Last' he was not merely at Death's door but inside the waiting room, flicking through a sports car magazine and admiring the wallpaper and tropical fish tank, I've always thought it an example of dodgy plotting that in 'The Widening Gyre' he was conveniently patched up just so he could (cliché alert!) break his leg and get even more in the way of sympathy votes.
Yes, it's supposedly to show just what a medical miracle worker Trance is, but that's still beyond the pale as narrative devices go. I mean, if we'd seen her passing a glowing hand over his unconscious form in Medical whilst Andromeda tried to find out why her sensors in there were non-operational, I could've gone for that as an explanation, but that stuff never made it to the screen and instead we just get a throwaway line, admittedly well-delivered. So, in C-3, when Dylan got himself injured, he heals at a slightly more realistic rate. True, in this he's supposed to have been up and about for 'Exit Strategies' but that was set three weeks after 'The Widening Gyre'.
Now I dunno about you lot, but I'm interested in getting on with this (not that I don't enjoy sharing my thoughts i.e. rambling like a complete loon) so here we go...
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CHAPTER FOUR:
EMERALD SUNLIGHT
"Men in general judge by their eyes rather than by their hands;
because everyone is in a position to watch, few are in a position
to come in close touch with you. Everyone sees you for what you
appear to be, few experience what you really are. And those few
dare not gainsay the many who are backed by the majesty of the
state..."
—"The Prince" page 58, XVIII "How princes should honour their word",
by Niccolò Machiavelli
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The battered old cargo ship hung listlessly in space, manoeuvring thrusters feebly firing in an exercise in futility as the raiding vessel closed in. Alone, unescorted and barely armed, the slothful craft had been swiftly overwhelmed by the custom-modified gunboat.
The freighter's airlock slid open soundlessly in the icy cold of space. An emerald light shone from the hatch, and a figure clad in green and black streaked out at an impossible speed heading for the raiding craft, firing energy blasts from a glowing green ring. Behind her, the freighter suddenly powered up, surging along, point-defence-lasers blazing away.
The pirates' gunboat, weapons crippled under the barrage, attempted to make a run for it, to escape into slipstream.
The emerald figure closed in on it, grappling lines springing into existence and snaring the ship even as the slip portal opened.
As Fleet Marshal Cuchulain Nez-Pierce sat back in his supple leather seat, he laced his fingers in thought as he stared at the drama unfolding upon the screen that adorned his desk. The Andromeda's team had done a truly wonderful job, he mused, in their placement of the sensor beacons. Of course, it had taken the uncomfortably intense interests of the Sheherezade media to motivate them to do so in the first place.
Despite never having personally encountered such an organisation—he privately shuddered at such a prospect—he could well understand their reasons. Either they would have had to set things up themselves, or risk some over-excited journalist ruining their carefully-laid trap for the piratical band.
As he watched, the scene changed to show a close-up shot of the one known as 'Green Lantern'. The purple girl's delicate features were contorted with strain and exertion as she hauled on the cables pinning the corsairs. She was aided by the power of a ship, simplistic in form, which was also generated by the ring, dragging the hostile vessel away from the portal and pinning it in place. A pair of enforcement ships from the drift that had been a victim to the vessel for several months emerged from slipstream, launching their own cables.
At last, the ship was captured, and the screen turned to the coverage of a news conference. The First Director of Sheherezade Drift was shown greeting her guests, shaking hands with the captains of the constabulary ships and the Andromeda crewmembers.
How troublesome that particular pair had been. Perhaps not so great a threat as their hopelessly deluded leader Hunt, but a great menace nonetheless.
He sighed and idly stroked his left-foremost bone blade as he saw Captain Valentine presented with a glittering golden medallion, forcibly smiling for the benefit of the press. Had she been anyone but an enemy, he would have almost considered sympathising with her situation. Though he would happily see her tortured to death by his hand or command, he still regarded her as a capable and efficient foe who was never to be underestimated.
Then there was the other annoyance.
The Green Lantern.
He liked to think of her as an opportunity rather than a problem. But there were times when even the great philosopher's writings could not inspire him to do so.
Almost five months ago, he had attempted to take Elssbett Mossadim and thus prevent the union of the Jaguar and Sabra Prides. It should have been most feasible, to the point of being almost easy. Elssbett and Hunt had managed to slip away from Andromeda, and whilst it was true that he had needed to continue the pursuit for a good half hour whilst his engineers had prepared the drones to supplant his squadron, his plan could—indeed, should—have succeeded.
His assault at Skee Var Ten would have succeeded if it weren't for Hunt, and certainly the flotilla he had sent to lurk on the borders of the Jaguar home system should have turned that dilapidated wreck of a cargo hauler and its passengers into wreckage no bigger than his sidearm's ammunition clips. Caught between the two formations, it should have been so very easy.
The universe, it seemed, had had other ideas that day.
He glared at the screen as the Trance Gemini, now no longer wearing her mask but regally resplendent in a Green Lantern uniform cut along similar lines to those of the High Guard, smiled innocently and graciously bowed her head as the First Managing Director hung the heavy medal about her neck, then presented her with the key to the station.
("—a slipfighter is emerging from slipstream, sir—")
"—get me that cargo ship!—"
("—sir...the fighter's pilot is ejecting!")
(—that green glow streaking across the starscape, shielding Elssbett's transport and disabling his fighters—)
"—the Green Lantern. End your attack, or I will have no alternative than to use lethal force."
("—is Captain Dylan Hunt. I have your future Grand Duchess, Elssbett Mossadim, First Daughter of the Sabra Pride. We are under heavy attack from the Drago–—")
"—more than enough ships to deal with the Jaguar, and we can intercept you long before you reach their homeworld."
"Attention all Drago-Kazov ships, this is your final warning! Stand down or you will be destroyed!"
("—Fleet Marshal, the Green Lantern has opened fire!")
The battle had been a complete disaster even before the Jaguar and Sabran fleets had engaged his forces. That enigma had crippled the weapons systems on a significant number of his ships and damaged their engines, leaving several crews unable to continue the attack—or defend themselves. His forces, off-balance and scattered, had been easy prey for the Jaguars and Sabrans.
And now those Prides were united. His gaze wandered away from where Sheherezade's First Director was making a long-winded and clumsily-worded speech of gratitude to their Commonwealth allies and the well-wishing of all in general, and alighted upon the handful of flexis stacked neatly upon one corner of his desk. According to the Intelligence Corps, their fleets were gathering and their shipyards constructing at least two entire battlegroups of warships. And there could only be one possible target for an immediate military campaign of such a vast scale.
He had listened to the Corps' reports confirming the authenticity of Hunt's warnings of the approach of this 'Magog worldship', but he doubted the Jaguars and Sabrans would be preparing quite so early and certainly not with such speed. The war he had tried to prevent was indeed coming, only fiercer and more powerful than it would have been had he not attempted and failed in the removal of Elssbett. By rights, those Prides should have wiped each other out by now, or at least one line would lie in ignoble extinction and the other in tatters.
Ataturk and the others had been impressed by the reports the Corps had passed on concerning the properties of the ring that the purple girl wielded and the abilities it gave her. Khonsu, in his usual manner, had seemed calmly gracious in his reception of the compliments that had been quietly and in some cases grudgingly showered upon himself and the Corps.
Cuchulain knew the ring and its bearer far better than any of them could from mere reports. He knew what he had seen her do in battle.
He also had his own little information network. Khonsu and his Corps were useful to him, a group of fools and amateurs led by a truly woeful fool and amateur to be sure, but still undeniably useful. As pawns. Cuchulain preferred to rely on his own means where possible, and independent sources where these failed.
Such as was the case in this instance.
Unfortunately.
He looked over to his office door, where his guest had no doubt been standing for at least a second and five minutes ago. "Must we always go through this same routine?" he growled.
Carmagnola Pertinax, Alpha of the Scipio Pride, smiled widely and openly as he emerged from seemingly nowhere. "Come now, my dear Fleet Marshal. You knew I was here two minutes ago—rather an error on my part I fear. Besides, you know what it is I bring with me. I had rather expected a more...polite...reception. A certain gladness to see me, even."
Cuchulain's rage grew, although he fought to contain it. As usual, Carmagnola was playing mind games with him. As far as he was aware, he hadn't detected the renegade until just now, so Carmagnola's claim that he had indicated either that the mercenary was in error, Cuchulain had only subconsciously noticed his entrance and his visitor had noted that, or—most likely—the bastard was just trying to addle his mind with its own natural and usually healthy paranoia.
He wasn't even going to think about the ramifications of Carmagnola, easily the most devious and cunning of Nietzscheans ever conceived, had admitted to a mistake. To do that in full would require at least a day, and as for analysing his motivation for such an admission...
"It is genuine?" he sighed, exasperated.
Carmagnola's smile grew broader, but Cuchulain refused to allow himself to be baited. The wily spy was most infuriating in how effortlessly he could manipulate the strongest and most conniving of minds, and it was something he undertook in this cavalier fashion during his audiences with all his Pride's usual clients and associates. And that was an extremely long list indeed, easily encompassing most of the higher-born and influential Nietzscheans in the Known Worlds.
"You truly doubted my word?"
Cuchulain snorted. "The last person to accept your word—for his personal safety, I believe it was—ended up dead eight months ago. Slain by your hand, along with his wives and all who bore his lineage."
The muscular mercenary chuckled lightly, shaking his head and running a hand through his veritable mane of gleaming golden-blonde hair as he drew up a seat and planted his booted feet arrogantly on Cuchulain's desk. "Ah, yes. Dionysus. What can I say: he was a...most inconvenient individual."
"He was the second son of the old Arch-Duke of the Jaguar Pride and one of the finest generals and greatest warriors that the entire Nietzschean species has ever produced." Cuchulain glared pointedly at the black leather boots. His guest seemed to ignore him, but Cuchulain knew him far better than that. "Brother to the current Arch-Duke."
Carmagnola shrugged, sitting back lazily in the chair and placing his hands behind his head, bone blades out of sight as usual beneath the impossibly narrow sleeves of his black leather jacket. "I'm intrigued, Cuchulain. How do you know that it was indeed I to whom the honour fell of being known as the man who removed such a magnificent breeding specimen from the Jaguars' gene pool? Another agent in my Pride, perhaps? Or has that infertile fop Khonsu been bandying wicked lies about me?"
It was the Dragan's turn now to smile. The Scipio Pride was not, strictly speaking, a true Nietzschean Pride in the proper meaning of the phrase. Rather, they were a band of renegades gathered from a considerable multitude of Prides. Outcasts, wanderers and exiles all, the Scipio Pride only accepted the very finest and greatest and most cunning specimens their race had to offer. And the infiltration of their ranks was quite simply impossible.
It wasn't enough to be Prideless. The Scipions had to take a direct interest in a particular individual, extensively investigating their personal history, the worthiness of their genetic lineage and perhaps most importantly the extent of their abilities. Thus it was that this mercenary Pride maintained only the very finest of standards amongst an entire race engineered to be perfect.
"I thought you knew me better than to try something like that," he said in mock-admonishment. "And whilst I believe you may be correct in your assessment of Khonsu's personal problems, he knows better than to discuss one such as yourself so openly."
Even as the words left his lips, Cuchulain knew he had committed a serious error.
Carmagnola grinned, pearly teeth glittering, the ever-so-slightly elongated eyeteeth gleaming in a fashion that even Cuchulain found to be disturbing. "So he hasn't managed to conceal our business. How very disappointing."
Cuchulain knew had made a truly grievous mistake. He had revealed that he knew about Carmagnola selling information to Khonsu. He had revealed information he possessed about the secretive mercenary himself, not just his Pride. He successfully fought down the urge to breathe an extra breath per minute faster, determined not to be drawn further
Carmagnola succeeded in doing so anyway. "Don't allow yourself to be so easily flustered Cuchulain. It is most unbecoming for you. Besides, I know about the sensor nanobots in his office, residence and private chambers. If it makes you feel any more comfortable, it was one of my operatives who made arrangements to ensure that they remained undetected."
The Fleet Marshal was knocked sideways by the claim, although he fought not to show it. Carmagnola was renowned for his technique of concealing duplicity within a truth and a further truth within the duplicity. But if he was telling the full truth...
If this slippery bastard viper was indeed telling the complete truth, it was for some specific, carefully pre-ordained purpose that could serve only to benefit him and perhaps another who had hired his services, a purpose that Cuchulain knew from long experience that he would never see or comprehend until too late—if then. And even that was hardly a certainty: the renegade seemed to revel in chaos and intrigue, the more complex the conspiracies the more he was in his element.
Indeed, three mid-ranking Prides had been wiped out in the past decade in wars and civil strife that Cuchulain believed—with good reason—Carmagnola to have initiated for no apparent reason. An investigation instituted at Cuchulain's behest had revealed a possibility that he had perpetuated such acts merely for his own amusement.
It was a possibility he could well believe.
The mercenary continued without hesitating, apparently ignoring his customer's discomfort. "To answer your earlier question, the data is quite genuine my dear chap. And before you ask, it is possible to have it authenticated. In other words, it is completely perfect and integrally sounder than even your little rival Hunt."
Cuchulain leaned forward and stared coldly at him, stung. He was angered at how this individual had dared manipulate him, and angrier still that he had allowed himself to be controlled so effortlessly. But worst of all was that name.
The mercenary chuckled, spreading his hands wide. "I thought you might be a little more pleased with it. Honestly, I do have other things to be doing with my time."
"I'd appreciate actually having the recording first," Cuchulain ground out.
Carmagnola shook his head in a condescending manner, eyes flickering toward the desk between them.
A new flexi lay beside the stack of reports
Cuchulain cautiously picked it up, pausing the screen and playing the flexi's recording before examining the other information it contained. He nodded in satisfaction at its contents and returned his gaze to his guest. "I believe you said you wanted a...'most singular imbursement' for this?"
A golden eyebrow arose, diamantine-hard blue eyes sparkling in a disarming manner, concealing the menace that Cuchulain knew surely lurked beyond them. "Those were my exact words, yes."
"Well?" Cuchulain was quite frankly prepared to give him anything for this document—anything that wasn't rightfully his at any rate.
"Ravenna Castile."
The Fleet Marshal cocked his head to one side. "The First Daughter of Captain Anjou's House."
Carmagnola nodded, a curt and inexplicably graceful motion. "The very same."
Cuchulain blinked. "Why?"
The other grinned widely. "I might ask you your intentions regarding that recording, but I haven't. I am satisfied with drawing my own conclusions—adds a little challenge, makes things a bit more sporting, don't you agree?"
The Fleet Marshal conceded the point. "She is of excellent lineage. I can imagine that any offspring the two of you were to conceive would be possessed of an extraordinarily fine quality set of genes and from what I have heard she is most receptive to such a union. However, I don't see what I can do. Commodus has, I believe, set his mind upon the matter already."
His guest shrugged. "You'll have a full-scale war on your hands with the Sabra-Jaguar pride within six months according to your vaunted Intelligence Corps' estimates. His ship is operating near their borders. I should have thought it to be a relatively simple matter for you to arrange for the vessel to be assigned to a stealth reconnaissance operation for a month or so. That's all the time we shall require. Besides, such a mission could prove to be an advantage for you and your Pride."
Cuchulain sat back, nonchalantly stroking his neatly-trimmed beard as he considered the proposition. Commodus Anjou was, overtly, one of his most loyal supporters and was certainly a fine and capable captain. He would ensure that his ship returned and his crew survived, always a valuable achievement for political purposes, and he would most likely obtain information that would prove valuable when the war came to fruition.
When he arrived to find his daughter gone and wed to the Alpha of Scipio Pride, he would suspect Cuchulain's involvement, even his reasoning. And Commodus would be far from a minor inconvenience.
However, the man was in actuality far from Cuchulain's most fervent of supporters. They had clashed several times already, the younger Nietzschean erroneously letting slip that he had designs upon Cuchulain's position, and in truth the Fleet Marshal had recently considered acting against him or even arranging his removal. And even with Ravenna joined with Carmagnola, he had been considering offering a proposal of his own to either her or her sister Aphrodite. Such an action would surely soften the blow.
At length, he nodded to the other Nietzschean. "A pleasure doing business with you and the Scipio Pride."
"No," the mercenary laughed as he stood in a single fluidic motion, "I assure you that the pleasure is entirely mine.
Cuchulain smiled tightly to himself as the mercenary left. This recording was exactly what he needed. A little piece of the puzzle he was building, the weapons he was preparing.
He was quite honestly rather relieved that Carmagnola had left. He knew that the other had not been using a mere figure of speech in their parting, and this further added to the disconcerting feeling that even now, the mercenary manipulated him in his words, thoughts and deeds. He also knew that he would be foolish indeed to fail to send Anjou on the mission now.
A thought occurred to him: what if that had been Carmagnola's objective all along? For Anjou's ship to undertake the mission. Not to distract its captain from his daughter, but for the information the mission would undoubtedly yield, information that only Anjou could obtain? For Carmagnola's currency of choice, indeed the very substance that he regarded—or at least claimed he regarded, Cuchulain admonished himself—information as true wealth.
He stared at the flexi, played the recording again. Trying to fathom out that one was impossible. He disliked the fact immensely, but he was most pleased with the recording, of this there was no mistake.
His operation would succeed. And now, even if it didn't, he now had back-up plans to prepare.
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...energy blasts poured into the Broken Hammer, pitching Gorejon and another to the floor. As the others dove for cover, Saphia was left alone, exposed to the incoming fire...
She knew what she had to do. She had seen it scant minutes ago, and it pained her to know the loss she was to suffer if they were to have any chance of reaching a perfect possible future.
In the end she made it willingly, leaping toward the bartender, knowing her true identity all along. They collided—
—she shrieked in pain as the energy blast tore into her body, and she rolled from Saphia, writhing and sobbing in unspeakable agony as she knew that it was forever gone. Her tears fell upon the dirt-choked floor, slowly mingling with her blood as her heart bled its pain and anguish out into the world.
Her tail, her beautiful, elegant and faithful tail, had been severed.
Trance awoke, wide-eyed and sweating copiously, and screamed in fear and remembered pain as she sat bolt upright in her bed.
Frantic, she kicked off her duvet, frenetically patting herself down, smiling as she stared down at her body and sagging in relief at the sight of her tail. Attached, healthy and strong as ever.
She arose and padded over to where she had hidden the power ring—both power rings, she reminded herself, as she finally emerged from her sleep-fogged haze. Rommie had left hers behind whilst she was on the mission.
She breathed in deeply, calming herself and banishing the last of her fears as she took out her ring, the ring that Kyle had given her. The mission to locate Isabella Ortiz had gone very differently from...that.
She shivered at the memory of the dream, and knew it to be far more. It was not what had come to pass. It had, however, been something that could have been.
She was so very glad that it had not.
She wrapped her tail about her shoulders as she sat upon her bed, hugging herself. She remembered what had happened; how she had fought to seal the windows whilst Dylan had organised the bar's patrons in building barricades, how she had shielded Tyr when he had returned from destroying the Kalderan mortars.
The near...awe that had been so very palpable within the bar when Gorejon had fired on them and she had blocked the shot, a Green Lantern uniform replacing her usual clothes. An awe that had been mixed with a tinge of fear that had worried her.
Too, she remembered her only failure. Her failure to save Cory when Janis had given in to her terror. The only life that she had protected and lost that terrible night.
She stared at the ring. It looked so very small indeed in her hands. And yet it had laid such a great legacy upon her...it was more than she could bear sometimes.
She had worked from the shadows so many times before. There were things she had done to make the universe a better and safer place that even she sometimes found hard to believe, so incredible and unlikely they had been. But this...
This was so very different.
She reached up to her shoulder and wrapped the end of her tail about her hand as she stared intently at the little ring. So small...so powerful.
So dangerously disruptive.
Things had changed a great deal, she knew. Not only in the obvious ways... something had radically changed in the timestream's flow. She could feel it, almost smell it.
She didn't know whether the change was for the better or the worse, though, and this unsettled Trance greatly. She hoped it was for the better, but a part of her felt it was surely for ill.
For what if she failed? Truly failed to live up to the legacy, to save lives? On Pythia, she had lost not one life that she had taken into her care, with her medical skills or with her ring.
On the Magog worldship, she and Rommie had successfully recovered Tyr, Harper and Rev. Although Harper was still infested with Magog larvae, he was alive and had a chance of survival. She had fought the creature Rev had called 'The Spirit of the Abyss' and lived to tell the tale.
On Sporog's Anvil, she had tasted defeat. Cory had died despite her best efforts. Despite all her power, all her skill, Cory had still died. And she could not bring her back, wish though she might.
She thought of Hal Jordan, of what Kyle had told her of him. How he had actually met Jordan during a time travel accident, how he had once been before he was Parallax. And how he had ended.
She felt she understood Hal Jordan now. His intentions, his wishes had truly been only the very best and finest. And she understood better than most the importance of having good intentions.
But his actions had been deplorable. The destruction of a universe was something she could not agree with. Intentions, though important, couldn't excuse everything.
No longer would she fail. Never again would a life under her protection be lost.
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Valdor Druss was a most unhappy man, and with good cause to be so.
He tried to avoid cringing as the burly Nietzschean idly flexed his viciously-curved bone blades. "Look, all I know is what the danged Dragans been asking, get me? I don't know squat firsthand."
"So what exactly have they been asking?" The Nietzschean flicked out a blade, idly cleaning a fingernail with it.
"They find out I been talkin' to you, I'm plain dead, know what I mean?"
"I see," the Nietzschean drawled, relaxing as the blade vanished. Druss swallowed, nodded in relief.
Within a second a large, powerful hand was about his throat and he had been slammed bodily against the wall of the booth. He stared into a pair of hazel brown eyes, truly beguiling in the innocence they exuded. He stared deeper, and trembled at what he saw.
"What makes you think you aren't dead if you don't talk to me?" the Nietzschean whispered. "Hmmm? Now, the Dragans aren't here at the moment...but I most certainly am. And I doubt they're that interested in you, my friend, unless you give them information. Now," the Castalian air-breather's throat was released, "you will co-operate one way or another. And it's not just me that you have to worry about."
"Wh-what do you mean?" Druss immediately regretted having asked the question, a regret that was to prove most justified.
"You see that woman at the bar? Black leather trenchcoat, black hair, slender."
Druss nodded, rubbing at his bruised gullet.
"Take a good look at her left hand."
Druss groaned as he saw it. A green ring, with a familiar symbol embossed upon it.
"That's right. A Green Lantern. And you'd know all about them, I suppose?"
"Ah...well, more than most others in the biz, yeah?"
"That one's different. You see, she killed the bearer of that ring. And those weapons are possessed of a limited sentience—sufficiently extensive to know a vicious killer when it encounters one. And if you don't tell me everything I wish to know, why, I'll just let her ask the questions instead. And believe me when I say she is more than capable and willing to tear your DNA apart atom by atom right here and right now. So, which of us is it to be?"
Druss smiled a sickly little grin. "The Dragans wanted what ev'rybody else who comes to me wants—information. Now there's plenty of brokers 'round here, but I got a rep f'r havin' antiques, y'know what I mean? Anyway, they come in here, arrogant as hell 'n' larger 'n' life, askin' 'bout this weird old High Guard base. Now, gen about the Commonwealth, we's talkin' a real valuable commodity there, 'cos it's harder'n' hell to get. But they wanted stuff about just this base—they called it the 'Eagle's Eyrie'. They didn't say much more than that, just asked if I'd heard of it. Now they were offering five thousand million Dragan Eagles for anything about this place—if I had that sorta thing in stock, I'd've cashed in, but I didn't so I didn't, you follow?"
The Nietzschean didn't so much as blink. "Continue."
Druss licked his thin, ragged lips nervously. "Thing I do know is that they went to this other guy I sometimes employ, a damn good data hunter—the guy's dataport is way ahead of its time, he's tinkered with it so much. Now he reckoned that this Eagle's Eyrie or whatever was some really important facility by the way they were talkin' about it to him. He thought it might've been secret even in the days of the old Commonwealth—a long way from a tourist resort."
"And who and where might I find this...acquaintance...of yours?"
Druss shrugged and smiled honestly. "I could tell ya, but it wouldn't do you any good. The guy's dead—Flash-fried himself. I tried to tell him but would the bastard listen? 'Course not. That's Perseids for you. Turned out he was in debt with this Chichin, Thelx—and I mean real deep, yeah? So Thelx went and took whatever he could get from the guy's place. You can't get anything from there even."
"Hmm. So I have to wonder...what other reasons do you have for telling me this?"
"Now look, I got something that might, only might be of some use to you, 'kay? I dunno if there's anything useful in it, and you'd need an AI or someone with a 'port to check. And 'fore you start getting all interested, I'm telling you right now I'm gonna want some actual payment for it, not just threats, yeah? I'm talkin' cash here. You got some of that?"
The Nietzschean nodded slightly. "I may. Go on."
Druss reached into a pouch that hung at his waist. "Thing is, Vaern—the Perseid—he left me this in his will, see? Anyway, here it is."
He drew out a shining, conical silver spike.
"His dataport." The Nietzschean looked impassive as ever, but Druss knew he had to be a little impressed.
"This thing contains a copy of everything that was ever inside his head. Trouble is getting into it—like I said, you need an A.I. or someone with a 'port."
"I see," the Nietzschean raised an eyebrow.
"Look, I don't want to start hagglin' with ya, so let's call it a thousand thrones huh? One of these brand new's worth a lot more'n that, but if you want it, that's the price. It's cheap," he added hopefully. The faster this Nietzschean left, the more of his regular customers he might still have by the end of today.
"One other thing; did they say anything else to you?"
Druss shrugged. "Only where ta go if I found any information they wanted—this old High Guard base they took over way back when. Acheron. I mean, c'mon, when the hell'm I gonna get the time to traipse all the way to Acheron? In my busy season? Yeah, right!"
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"Anything?" Rommie asked as Tyr emerged from the booth.
"Could you read this?" He handed her a dataport.
She grimaced slightly. "I believe so. I take it you know that this has been torn out of someone's neck?"
He merely blinked at her. "That's the last of them for now. Let's get out of this ...place before the stench gets any worse."
"Yeah...tell me, was this," here she flicked her left hand up at him, letting the light catch her ring for a second, "actually useful?"
He grinned, flashing his pearly white teeth at her. "If they're watching the green jewellery, they aren't looking at your force lances. And the fake is very useful, I feel, for intimidation purposes. We wouldn't have this otherwise," he nodded toward the dataport in her grasp.
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"The Eagle's Eyrie?! You're sure?"
Tyr had seen Dylan Hunt in a variety of moods. Remorse, joy, depression, lust, anger. This one, however, was new. A blend of excitement and fear. A most unusual combination.
"That is what my contact told me," he calmly confirmed.
"Several mentions are also made to this base in the Perseid's dataport," Rommie added. "All of them in conjunction with inquiries made by members of the Drago-Kazov Pride, and in several cases there are links to Acheron as well."
"I'll be damned," Dylan chuckled, throwing his head back almost insanely as he paced Command. "They're still looking for the Eagles after all this time!"
"Okay, care to let the rest of us in on the joke, or is this a private thing?" Beka asked, lounging against the piloting console.
Dylan sobered a little and stopped pacing, a wild glint still shining in his eyes. "There was, ah, this special division of Argosy Special Operations. They were called 'The Eagles', they were the very best the High Guard had to offer. They came from all sorts of units and every profession in the Guard—Lancers, pilots, agents, physicians, scientists of all kinds, engineers, several warships. They were a sort of 'Inner Circle', an elite cadre within Argosy Intelligence. The Eagle's Eyrie..."
"...was their base," Tyr finished.
The High Guard officer nodded. "A base that few people within and without the ranks of the Eagles ever knew the location of—in fact, only a very few personnel were aware of the Eagles' existence. Even the Vedran Empress knew only a little about them."
"So how come you know all about 'em boss?" Harper asked.
Dylan smiled, a hint of pride flickering in the corners of his lips. "Before I was seconded to Admiral Stark's team, I served among the Eagles' ranks. Before I was transferred, I was one of their best agents. Now, if the Drago-Kazov Pride are searching for the Eyrie, it could still be intact. I mean, a complete High Guard base!"
"Not to dampen your merriments Captain, but I seem to recall similar comments being made about GS92196, albeit with slightly less exuberance." Tyr bluntly stated.
Dylan waved the comment away. "Even if it's a wreck, the place was huge—weapons vaults, hospital wings, supply depots, labs, a full dry-dock facility. The Eyrie was a constant source of new battlefield technology that was centuries ahead of its time. Some of it should be left over."
"In its day it was centuries ahead of its time," the Nietzschean once again countered. "It may have been destroyed years ago without the knowledge of the Dragans. And do you know its location? Hmm? Because if not, the only way we could ever find this...High Guard Holy Grail...is by paying a little visit to Acheron."
"Tyr, I do know where to find the Eyrie. What I'm worried about is if the Dragans find its location. Besides, High Guard Station Acheron was one of the Commonwealth's finest feats of engineering. One of the greatest fortresses ever constructed," Dylan protested.
"Indeed it was. Now it has been modified, upgraded. Its missile batteries are controlled by Drago-Kazov gunners."
Dylan merely smiled at this. "And what makes you think I was proposing a conventional frontal assault and confiscate their information by brute force, Mr. Anasazi? Have a little faith in my abilities."
Tyr shook his head. "Faith," he spat the word in disgust. "I prefer plans that do not require faith to succeed."
"Then you're going to love this," Dylan grinned, turning to look at Rommie and Trance.
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Beyond space...
Beyond time...
He watched...
Shrouded within his green robes, he gazed across the gulfs of existence.
He turned, confused, as he sensed something he had never expected to encounter here.
The presence of another.
It was, to say the least, a most unsettling sensation for him.
"How are you here?"
The other shrugged, a playful smile dancing about his shadowed lips. "Trust me, it doesn't matter. What matters is you."
"I am here because I am dead and this is what I have become. You, on the other hand, I sense to be very much alive." He turned, throwing back the hood of his robe. "It is impossible for the living to come here."
Another shrug; a still-broader smile. "Impossible is what I do. There's someone I know who told me that we needed to talk. I don't know about me, but you most certainly need a decent conversation about all this...Hal. Or do you prefer Parallax?"
The dead Hal Jordan sighed. "My old name will suffice."
"You're worried about him, aren't you? He hasn't left life yet and you're still worried about him being corrupted. Have some confidence in him."
Hal slowly shook his head. "I wish I could. Unfortunately, humans have a habit of being corrupted by such power."
"He's dead! He may not have left life, but he's still dead. He has no power save for his knowledge, and from what I've seen he's put that to excellent use in training his successor."
Hal glared at his visitor. "I don't know all that much about you, but I'd still appreciate knowing why. Why you caused this. Why you guided her to the Andromeda all those years ago. Why you brought the ring there when it belonged on Earth."
"As you said yourself, humans have a habit of being corrupted by such power."
"And Gemini?"
The other smiled sadly. "She is my successor also. In this timestream and in many others in which she did not encounter the ring, she has been heir to my legacy. She is the one to defeat that which I cannot; the one foe against which I would surely fail. I learned that the ring was needed in this universe, and believed—as your ring also believed—that she was the one best-suited to wield it. And in this I have thus far been justified in my actions."
Hal stared at him thoughtfully. Somehow...he felt a kinship of sorts with this Englishman. "So far so good," he agreed.
The other nodded. "Indeed. And now a new player awaits in the wings, the time and cue fast approaching for new boots to tread the stage."
Hal frowned. "Who? I sense no-one..."
"This isn't even your universe. You have no authority there, so you are blinded to its future for it is beyond your sight. But the individual approaches their time and place of emergence even as we speak."
"Just who are you? What is your name? And why do you shroud yourself in shadows?"
A smile met his questions. "Identity, Hal Jordan, is a valuable thing indeed. And once revealed, it can never be hidden again. I once was to reality what Trance now is. What she will become."
"But how—"
"So many questions! So many answers I can ill afford to give." The other sighed. "I have many enemies, enemies capable of overcoming one such as yourself with ease, Hal Jordan. Even as powerful as you now are, believe me when I say that you are vulnerable to them. If I were to tell you, they would sense the information and seek it. You would be destroyed even as they tore it from your mind. I leave you without knowledge for your protection."
"Does Trance know?"
A nod. "She can guard such knowledge quite safely. Indeed, she has done so with far more volatile information than my own for an extremely long time.
"And now, I must go."
Hal stared at the emptiness for quite some time. Finally, he turned his gaze back, back to the unfolding drama.
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