Chapter Nine: The Fall of 61 Cygni Part I

"So look for him vainly
He, the incarnation of evil
And by arrangements of magickal nature
He turns unrecognizable even to the experienced eye"

--Arcturus - Master of Disguise

The men of the 17th Green Dragons turned their heads as their temporary substitute squadron leader, Lieutenant Commander Gedalio Anastasio, walked into the room, his eyes boring into each of the pilots as he passed them. Rex was wearing the insignia of a lieutenant, taking a brevet demotion for the day so as to not look strange in front of the surrogate leader--a commander and subordinate of the same rank would be strange indeed. Not that the scene wasn't already strange. The Mobian navy composed squadrons to be as homogenous in species as possible, so all the men of the Green Dragons were hedgehogs, and for them to be saluting a fox was very odd.

"So these are the men that Commander Calavera leaves in my command. I hope your ability to fight is better than your ability to stand in a line. Lieutenant Wishmaster! Stop slouching!" He backhanded Deathwish lightly in the stomach. The fox then stepped back, taking in the entire squadron with his piercing gray eyes. "Is it that you cannot form in a line properly or do you just have no respect for me? Unlike Commander Calavera, I am not your friend. I am not your father. I will not tolerate the kind of nonsense he puts up with and even seems to welcome. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes, sir!" the twenty-nine hedgehogs replied instantly.

"Brevet lieutenant Christensen! Is it true that you are the leader's wingman in this squadron?"

"Yes, sir. Ript--I mean Commander Calavera appointed me himself."

"Is it also true that you were recently disciplined for being intoxicated on duty?"

"Yes, sir. However, the commander still places his full confidence in me. It will not happen again, sir."

"I hope it won't. At least Commander Calavera had enough sense to make sure you were appropriately punished."

Rex tried to hide his nervousness. Lt. Commnder Anastasio seemed to be gleefully tearing him apart. Probably to impress his own commander, he thought. Often candidates for squadron leader were assigned as surrogates for other squadrons. To this fox, Rex was not only a temporary subordinate, but also a potential threat to his authority, as he was of the same rank and position. Rex was relieved as the fox's gray eyes flicked away from his own.

"Now that I have stripped you lot of your vanity, we will go to the briefing room to prepare for battle. Left-face, march!"

The 17th Green Dragons followed their leader into the briefing room, none of them making a sound aside from the clashing of their boots against the steel floor.

--

Kryche took a gulp from his glass of water as he surveyed his fleet. Years of heavy drinking in his youth meant that the mere two drinks he had consumed the previous day had barely affected him. Scouts had detected hundreds of Earth ships massing for a final assault on Titus II. Wolf 359 was being evacuated as the loss of 61 Cygni would cut it off from the rest of the Mobian Federation. Refugee ships streamed by in the distance, heading for Vega and ultimately 61 Virginis and Mobius. Kryche doubted that the system would be evacuated in time. More than 500 million people lived on Orososh, Wolf 359's only habitable planet, plus millions more in colony stations. So far only one tenth of them had made it to Vega so far.

His entire fleet had by now assumed defensive positions around Titus II. The president had instructed him to hold the Earthers off as long as possible before surrendering the planet. Even if the Mobians somehow won the battle, the casualties would be disastrous. The Mobian navy had so far lost three ships for every Earth ship destroyed. Kryche didn't expect that trend to change, and the estimated number of Earth ships spotted by the scouts was only slightly fewer than the number of ships in his own fleet.

The urge to smoke a cigarette had been nagging at his mind for hours. Was it all happening again? he thought. Could he have really become addicted again that quickly? Oh, what the hell, he thought as he pulled a cigarette out of the pack in his hip pocket. I'm probably going to die soon anyway.

Just as he raised the lighter, he heard a klaxon go off. Its frantic blaring could only mean one thing. He looked up through the window and saw hundreds of pinpoints of light--Earth ships. He dashed out of his quarters towards the bridge just as both sides opened fire.

--

Riptos followed the radiologist into the MRI examination room. Before the exam he had had to remove all his clothing and even the wedding band on his finger and the stud in his left ear, and put on one of those abominable hospital gowns that were open in the rear, leaving his ass hanging out for all to see. Even worse, the idiots who designed it had it tie up at the back, so the radiologist had to fasten it for him. It seemed like the whole environment had been created purposely to destroy any sort of dignity.

The medicine Bookshire had given him was only marginally effective, making his back cramps merely awful instead of excruciating. The pain never completely went away, and when the painkillers wore off, the agony was as strong as ever.

The MRI machine dominated the room, a monstrous tubular machine encased in beige plastic with a control panel on one side. "Lie down on the bed inside," said the radiologist. Riptos tried to remember her name. Stella Ertelmeyer or something like that. Her voice had a sugary sweet quality that made him want to punch her. "You don't need to be completely in the barrel of the MRI--you can keep your head outside. I can give you some medication if you feel claustrophobic." She scratched him behind the ears in that infuriatingly condescending manner typical of medical personnel. He fought down the urge to raise his spines and give her a piece of his mind. He could tolerate Bookshire treating him like a child, but not some airhead med student half his age. He wondered if she liked being able to talk down to high-ranking officers with impunity.

Knowing that it was pointless to do anything but swallow his pride and let her go on her doctor power trip, he lay down inside the machine. He wished that the gown could be longer, as it was too short for him to bunch it between his legs and cover his nakedness. It wouldn't have been quite so bad if the radiologist weren't a woman and didn't have that unsettling smile on her face whenever she looked at him.

He felt a magnetic coil close around his torso. The radiologist handed him a pair of headphones. "Put these on your head," she said. "It will protect your ears against the noise."

Riptos put the headphones on his head. They were a different shape from those used by humans, and secured with a chin strap since Riptos' ears were on top of his head instead of on the sides.

"Now hold still. This will be the first of five scans. It will take about ten minutes. Would you like an injection to help you relax?"

Riptos couldn't control his nervouness. He certainly couldn't lie completely still for ten minutes. "Yes, please."

The radiologist approached Riptos, holding a syringe filled with a clear liquid. She stuck the needle into his neck, injecting a mild sedative into him. She placed a hand on his forehead. "Why are you so tense?" she said.

Riptos sighed. "First of all, I don't like hospitals. Second, I don't like being effectively naked in front of strange women. Third, I don't like the way you look at me and touch me. It makes me nervous."

"Don't worry. I'm a doctor. This is nothing new to me. Just trust me."

Riptos relaxed involuntarily as the sedative took effect. He felt drowsy and seemingly disconnected from his body, as if he were an observer of his own existence. His brain seemed to work in slow motion. He had experienced sedation before, after being wounded in combat a few years ago, and he still couldn't decide whether he liked it. It was relaxing and strangely pleasant, but it was also disempowering. He never liked being taken care of. He had good reason to dislike it.

He had spent years in the hands of others when he had been sent to the monastery on Orososh after his parents were murdered. Those years were the worst of his life, ultimately culminated in being flogged until he was near death after being caught sleeping with the high priest's daughter, and then escaping with her. Now she was his wife, and the scars of being whipped were now invisible unless the fur around them was parted. But the memories of agony and humiliation and high priest Sarko bellowing prayers and invocations while watching the monks carry out their torture on his perennial problem child remained, often haunting his dreams and making him wake up at night, panting and looking around the room to make sure he wasn't in the monastery again.

He closed his eyes, trying to call to mind pleasant ideas and memories, as the droning click-clack of the MRI machine boomed in his ears.

--

Rex looked over to the left as a particle beam from an Earth cruiser sliced a Mobian starship in half. The Mobian defenses were faltering as waves of Earth warships pounded at them. The Green Dragons were accompanying a group of ships sent to dislodge the Earth flotilla that had been destroying the military escorts of the refugee ships from Wolf 359 and boarding the refugee ships to search for weapons and arrest the security guards before letting the ships pass. He saw a salvo of particle beams from the lead Mobian destroyer slam into an Earth ship's shields as the Mobian ships entered firing range.

"Maintain escort formation, but at a greater distance," said Lt. Commander Anastasio. "Do not let any bombers through."

Rex watched bombers pour out of the hulking carrier ship at the center of the Earth flotilla, smaller fighters surrounding them like worker bees around a queen. The sheer number of them was horrifying. He looked at the targeting monitor on the heads-up display. The bombers were twelve seconds to engagement range. Earth and Mobian capital ships were already trading fire.

Eight seconds.

Five seconds. Rex felt his entire body tense as the Earth attackers closed in.

Three seconds.

Two...one...

Rex fired guns and missiles simultaneously as the targeting reticle turned red. Enemy ships began disappearing in eruptions of fire and light. The Earthers soon responded in kind, tearing space asunder with searing blue particle beams and wispy white missile trails.

He circled around the ship he was assigned to protect, taking potshots at Earth ships as they whizzed by. There were too many to count, and they greatly outnumbered the Mobian fighters. He knew it would be impossible to stop them, but until he was told to retreat, it was do or die.

He smiled grimly as a quick burst of fire tore apart an Earth bomber and detonated its freshly launched bombs. His ship shook as the shockwave hit, but the shields held. That was his fifth kill of the war. He could expect an Ace pin when he returned to base--if he returned at all.

He hit his burners as another Earth ship flew by, gritting his teeth as he tried to match speed with it. But this time his foe was ready. The enemy ship began to spin around. Rex activated his side thrusters to try to get out of its line of fire, but he reached the side throttle just as the enemy fired.

Oh shit.

Rex's fighter shuddered violently, the bang caused by the impact of enemy gunfire almost deafening him. He could still maneuver, but he was leaking fuel and his shield generator was destroyed. He would surely die if he stayed out here. "Command, this is Christensen! I'm hit! I've lost shields, my targeting computer's out, and there's a fuel leak."

"Affirmative. Can you maneuver?"

"Yes, but two of my RCS thrusters are out. I'm going to be a sitting duck out here. I need immediate extraction."

"Get your ass as far away from that firefight as possible. We're sending a recovery craft now."

Rex hit his burners again, trying to escape the Earth ships with his remaining fuel. He saw two fighters break away to pursue him. If he still believed in God, he would've started praying. A low-fuel alarm was blasting in his helmet. He wasn't going to make it.

Rex felt the force pressing him into his seat cease as his fighter's engines consumed the last of their fuel supply. There was only one thing to do. He pulled the eject lever, realizing that he hadn't been quick enough as the mother of all loud noises nearly blew his eardrums out.

--

"Well, Riptos," said Bookshire, "We took a look at the results from your exams and I think we've found what's been causing your back pain. Nerves in your back are firing inappropriately, causing muscle spasms."

"So what can be done about this?"

"Your condition can be managed with a topical muscle relaxant." Bookshire took out a tube full of some sort of medicated cream. "Apply this to the painful spots on your back every night. If your symptoms do not improve within three days, tell me. The worst-case scenario would require surgery, which would require you to resign. I know you're very reluctant to give up your job, but that may eventually be necessary."

"I hope this works then."

"The MRI scan also revealed that you have a condition called spinal stenosis. The inside walls of three of the vertebrae of your spine are slowly contracting around your spinal cord. You will have about five years until symptoms set in, so you'll reach mandatory retirement age before having to worry about this, but it will eventually require surgical correction."

"Sounds absolutely wonderful. I'm so thrilled I could take a bullet through the head." Riptos sighed as the realization of his own deteriorating health set in. How would he support his family if his back gave out? Would he suffer spinal cord damage? He ran through a list of horrible things that such damage could cause in his mind--weakness, paralysis, incontinence, impotence, the list went on and on. "I'm going to be disabled by the time I'm 47. So much for aging gracefully."

"Don't worry. With prompt treatment, someone suffering spinal stenosis can avoid any spinal cord injury."

"Prompt treatment means I get my back cut open and spend months in bed."

"Please, whatever you do, don't try to put surgery off until you can't stand or walk anymore. I know how much you dread surgery or other incapacitating medical treatment, but the alternative is worse. You can't run away from your own health. It will catch up to you sooner or later. Besides, since you joined the military, you don't have to pay for it."

"I'll think about this. I've always feared losing control of my life. People have always come to me for help and leadership. I provide for my family. I take care of the men in my squadron. I don't want to lie helpless in a bed while my friends and family pity me. I don't know if it's a nurturing instinct or plain old pride or what, but being a liability to other people is the only thing that truly terrifies me."

"We all have to face our fears someday. Just remember--no one's invincible. Sometimes you just have to swallow your pride and let go. You try to be everyone's friend and guardian angel because you didn't have one when you were young. It's a doctor's job to take care of people in need. When you're ready to have your spine fixed, I'll be there for you. Just don't wait too long."

Riptos sighed again. "I'll try, Bookshire."

"That's a start. If you can bring yourself to accept massage therapy, I can schedule the sessions to not interfere with your work. Is three times a week acceptable? I think it will help you psychologically as well as physically. I could also give you some minor physiotherapy, because your recent physicals indicate your flexibility and endurance aren't nearly as good as they used to be."

"Fine. Those pills don't work worth a damn anyway. Two years before I have to retire come hell or high water, five years before I have to have major surgery to avoid becoming a cripple. What am I if not a soldier and a provider?"

"You will have to decide that yourself. And I'm sure that if you try, you'll be able to do that much more easily than you think. You've had the strength to raise a family, become a military officer, get your own command, and lead your men in combat against people who would very much like to kill you. If you can do that, I don't see much that you can't do."

"I guess you're right. When's the first therapy session?"

"How does tomorrow at nine PM sound?"

"2100 hours? Sure, that's fine. I guess I have nothing better to do at that time anyway. I might even be glad to get away from that stupid industrial bullshit Rex likes to listen to. I like music with actual melody. The only thing worse is my son's favorite music. It's basically one guitar riff over and over while a human hits drums as fast as possible and another human makes these horrible throat-scraping growls and shrieks."

"We're actually treating someone who sings for one of those ensembles, if 'singing' is the word. His growling and screaming damaged his vocal cords. We had to perform surgery on his larynx and we're giving him paralytic drugs to keep him from using his voice until his vocal cords have healed. Maybe communicating by typing on a keyboard will teach him to find a more sensible style. He can count himself lucky if his voice doesn't change. By the way, I think you should look up those bands he likes to listen to. Some of those people sing about truly appalling, nihilistic things. On the other hand, many of them don't. It's best to be informed."

"I'll talk to Elena about it. Ryudo's always been a nice kid, and I want to make sure he stays that way, but I also don't want to arbitrarily say that he can't do or listen to something, because that's not fair. Sometimes you have to understand before you act."

"Spoken like a true parent. I'll see you tomorrow."

"Bye." Riptos walked out of Bookshire's office, not sure what to think or feel. He hadn't been so confused and directionless since before he joined the navy. A terrible sense of foreboding hung over him as he went back to his quarters to think about what to do with his life.

--

Every war involved the black arts of espionage, deception, and assassination to some degree. Covert operations were as old as warfare itself, and Fizetta Inverno was literally born for the job.

She and her retinue were the products of decades of genetic technology, natural born killers genetically tailored for war. Some, like Fizetta, were telepaths, able to enter and control people's minds, or even kill them without lifting a finger. Some had built-in weapons or other offensive tools. Still more could interface with all manner of devices as if they were extensions of themselves, perform feats of strength that far surpassed any normal Mobian or human, see things invisible to anyone else, or anything that geneticists desired.

She had been sent by Mobian intelligence to find answers no one else could find. Fizetta had always been good at sniffing out intrigue, and the war reeked of it. It was no mere coincidence that groups of Mobian and Earth fighters attacked targets within each other's territory. The timing and the symmetry of the attacks was too perfect. Encrypted transmissions had been intercepted during both attacks that conformed to no known official protocols. Fiz doubted the war was a war at all. It was a puppet show. And she now had to find the puppeteers.

Her ship, the Maleficent, was small and stealthy, a far cry from the lumbering warships that pounded each other in the massive set-piece fleet battles in 61 Cygni. And now, far away from the battle lines, she was going to find what was beneath the facade. Mobian intelligence officers had finally pinpointed the source of the encrypted transmissions. Her ship was streaking through jumpspace alone. She didn't need anyone else besides her and her two most trusted apprentices. With assassins, less was more. She and her retinue could do more damage sneaking around through obscure jump points than a whole fleet of ships.

She licked her lips at the thought of plying her deadly trade once again. She was born to kill, she lived to kill, and she would die killing. Just like Takeo Sekaro. After all, she would know. She was the one who killed him.