To be honest, I'm surprised FanFiction let me back in; I thought I had forgotten my password for sure. But that LogIn bouncer didn't push me back out, and so here I am. I've been away: a bachelor party, was in a wedding for that bachelor, went to an airsoft weekend match, rode in a Huey Medevac helicopter, had family events and holidays, a family member embarked on a new career path so I had to visit them before they left, and finally...I took a vacation to Alaska! So uh...yeah. Don't think I haven't updated the story because I didn't want to or was being lazy. There's just so much to do in this world, and so little time. So, without taking up any more of YOUR time, let's dig in!

. . .

"Good morning, gentlemen."

"Good morning, Tommy."

"We're going to be doing what I call 'Roses and Thorns' this morning." Out came the notebooks. I already had some points written up while waiting for the Bosses to arrive. The focus was going to be Pike, Voyze, and King sharing their collected experiences from the day before. "Roses are what we did well, thorns are what we need work on." Tommy had taken our scheduling whiteboard from the office wall and set it up in the shop. "Shout out whatever, whenever."

"Small unit cohesion was very good." Pike had a handful of notes and typed reports from his foremen. "Squads, Fire Teams, and Platoons all worked well with each other, and maintained discipline under fire."

"Unit…cohesion…double-plus…good…" Tommy wrote under the 'Rose' column. "Any thorns?"

"Communications began to break down under heavy duress. Radio etiquette was not maintained, and there was a failure to report the Marine Squad until after my Fifty-Cal Squad was already dead." Mr. Pike was deadpan that morning.

"Break…down…in comms…under…fire…" Tommy slowly wrote. He stopped and looked at Mr. Pike. "They were a good team; and better men."

"Some of the best I have, had." Mr. Pike sighed. "But these things happen, I know too well, and they cannot be undone. All we can do is make sure they DO NOT…happen again."

"Agreed. Anyone else?"

"We picked very good ground." Mr. Voyze offered a Rose. "The only better spot I could have chosen would be to have trapped the bastards at the bottom of my quarry's borehole and shot them like fish in a barrel."

"Location…location…location…" Tommy wrote.

"However, we were fortunate they didn't try to flank us or split their forces. They could have either rolled us up from the sides, or pinned us there and pummeled us into the dirt. We were too concentrated in one spot."

"Did not…protect flanks…rear area…or prepare for…split enemy…forces. Alright, King?"

"Obviously I wasn't on the front, so everything I've heard has been second-hand." Mr. King advised us to season his testimony with some salt. "From what I did see and hear, is that our guys are excellent shots. What you said, Pike, about 'heads and hips' to counteract the police body armor, really helped. Also, nobody went full Rambo or panicked and started doing mag dumps."

"Disciplined…marksmanship." Tommy added to the list. "What else?"

"Less a thorn but a general concern overall. We have to, got to, find some way of dealing with armored vehicles. The Prius battery was pure genius, Johnny, Mike, Josh, but that won't save us next time."

"Anti-armor…lacking…" Tommy wrote, then canvassed the room. "Anyone else…yes, Canti. You hand's up?"

"I have been assisting Mrs. Carson with treating wounded brought here." Canti's words tracked across his screen. "The condition they arrived in shows good field medic teams. Please pass along my praise to your Emergency Planner, Mr. Pike. He has been training his teams masterfully."

"I will be sure to let Mister Wilson know." Pike promised.

"My complaint however, is that we do not have anyone skilled in surgery." Maybe it was my tired eyes playing tricks, but I swear I saw Canti's head dip in regret. "Mrs. Carson did her best, but she is not a surgeon; and I am only a technician. There are several dead today that would have survived, for want of a proper doctor. That is all I wanted to say."

"Thank you for making it known. I will speak with Doctor Heyward to see if he is willing, but we will find someone, I promise." Tommy added it to the board. We had finished tallying the dead and wounded at two in the morning. Papa Company had started the day with 300; reinforced with volunteers from the Auxiliary. Papa had lost 43 dead; outright 30 but 13 more had died from their wounds over the rest of the day. 65 were wounded; most were walking wounded because they had been so well dug-in, and would be able to rejoin the fight. Two from Voyze's had been killed by stray rounds as they walked across the road; thinking they were safe 400 yards back from the front line. No one was feeling chipper about the numbers, and Mr. Pike looked like he hadn't slept; staying up to write letters to families of the dead. Also, since they had gathered up their own fallen, we didn't know how many on the police side we'd taken out. Estimates of dead ranged from the unlikely low of 50, to the unrealistic 200. Somewhere between 100 and 150 was my guess, and double and a half for wounded; that'd be 150 to 225 if you don't wanna do the math.

"I think these are enough for us to focus on." Tommy read over the lists. "We need to work on communications, radio etiquette, coordinating multiple units to guard flanks, professional medical personnel, and…anti-armor. Okay. Before we get into those, let's talk about how the police fared; that'll help guide our answers to our Thorns. Chartier, you have something?"

"From what I've heard, Rig filled me in on the finer points this morning, the police seem to communicate by reading each other's thoughts; or nearly so. They do have extensive experience there, so this was no surprise. Their maneuvers are practiced and executed well; especially their retreat." Chartier double-checked his notes. "Also, an observation. While their commanders were sluggish to respond to our ambush, the rank and file did their utmost to execute their orders; even while under heavy fire. Say what you will about them, but the average policeman, especially the State Troopers, have performed admirably in combat despite their poor top leadership."

"Their decision to dismount in the field may have been foolish." Solomon remarked. "But their courage to do it anyway, and continue to advance, is commendable. Though I doubt they will be reckless enough to attempt it again."

"I know that if it were me…" Welshman put himself in police boots. "I'd say to myself: 'Self…two ass kickin's are two too many.' And then I'd get on the phone to every Swingin' Tom, Dick, and Harry asking for backup in any way, shape, and form; be it guns, vehicles, artillery, tanks, rockets, bombs, and as many warm bodies as they could muster."

"In under eight months, they went from their usual patrol rifles and shotguns, and ten MRAP's and Bearcats between the four departments, to over one hundred such vehicles, machine guns and rocket launchers." Mike supplemented Welshman with the cops' logistical capability. "And it took that long because they were trying to be discreet; which they have no reason to do now."

"Then what're you thinking they'll do?" Tommy asked. "You are our heavy weapons guy."

"Josh, Johnny, and I talked this out last night. We bet they'll either beg the Marines for help, and suspect they'll get a flat no…"

"I can vouch for that." Shifty said. "The only reason the Marines were there at all was to act as observers and see what us Humans are capable of in combat. They intervened because the cops were in danger of going under. They'll get no love from the Marines; especially since I killed six of 'em. Anyway, I'm sorry Mike, I interrupted; as you were."

"Their other option is what Welshman said, to get reinforcements and more equipment from whomever sold them their gear. And I can gare-um-goddam-tee that will mean crew-served weapons, some small form of artillery like light mortars. For vehicles, expect APC's, AFV's, and IFV's; and almost certainly those will have cannon in the twenty to forty millimeter size."

"Well…that doesn't sound good." Chartier underestimated. "What can we do against those?"

"For starters, I haff begun verk on some designs vee can use on our own vehicles." Herr Dahl patted his leather briefcase filled with drawings. "But as off yet, zey lack any heavy veapons; except for zee machine guns taken from destroyed MRAPs, and small arms at gun ports."

"I have a solution for that…and you probably won't like it." Mike surprised the Bosses with a potential proposal.

"And why's that?" Voyze said, the last person we wanted skeptical on this.

"How okay is everyone with desecrating war memorials?"

. . .

"Ten-Hut!"

"As you were. Good morning, all."

"Good morning, Captain Chojnakci." Chief's Strong and Warburg, their troop of lieutenants, the Mayors and entourage (who had been told to keep silent unless specifically spoken to), and a sleepy stranger next to The Man, all greeted together. Almost everyone had stood when Captain Chojnacki reported for the meeting. The Man, sequestered in the corner and quietly reading "The Fighting Tomahawk Volume 1: An Illustrated Guide to using the Tomahawk and Long Knife as Weapons" had not moved. Everyone knew it, saw it, and wondered about it, but knew better than to say anything about it. Everyone had seen The Man with his right arm crippled and nearly amputated on Sunday. After the battle they had last observed him going north to Roman's with the Marines. He had returned twenty-four hours later on Monday morning looking refreshed and dapper, none the worse for wear, with not a single thread of his suit out of place, his sunglasses shined, pistol oiled, knife sharpened, pocket watch gleaming, and leather holster polished. In fact, as he downed a quart of coffee, and a dozen breakfast rolls with copious slathering's of butter, jam, clotted cream, and honey, and chatted with the gathered officers, he seemed positively buoyant with enthusiasm and overflowing with good cheer. How he managed this no one could fathom, and no one had the courage to ask.

"This morning we will conduct a S.W.O.T. analysis of yesterday's engagement, and then what our general strategy will be going forward. Our esteemed colleague…" Chojnacki nodded at The Man. "Will offer his experiences and advice as well. Before we begin, I would like to give an update on Sheriff Sarabyn. I saw him this morning, and spoke with him. He is awake, lucid, can speak, and is mostly in control of his mental faculties. Doctor Schroeder is doing everything that can be done, but cannot say if Sarabyn will walk again, or fully recover all of his mental capacity. The bullet responsible is lodged in his brain, and will remain so for the foreseeable future. In the interim, the Sheriff's department will be headed by Under-Sheriff Wilson; promoted to full Sheriff. Are there any objections to this personnel change?"

"No, Captain."

"Good. Warburg, Strong, Wilson. Please start us off."

"Strengths…" Chief Warburg rustled his papers. "Rank maintained good discipline under fire. When higher-up officers and sergeants were killed or wounded, corporals and patrolmen stepped up to take charge of their units. Execution of vehicle formations and maneuvers was done well; especially our evacuation. We should continue using the school sports facility to practice these maneuvers so our skills do not lapse. Let's see…radio communication was done by the book. Medical officers performed better than expected, and not a single wounded or killed officer was left behind."

"This is very good to hear, especially our men stepping up. It is commendable they showed initiative." Chojnacki, and others, were making bullet-point notes. "And thanks to the corpsmen, we were able to get our wounded to the Geisinger staff and treated. There are many men alive today because of this. Be sure to ensure your corpsmen know how much they are appreciated this morning, and the excellent job they did."

"Yes Sir." Police losses had been heavy despite the Corpsmen's superhuman effort. 135 killed, including those who had not survived the night. 160 were wounded; many just in the arms and legs thanks to their armor. Most would recover enough to rejoin their comrades. But that could take a week or two, and did nothing to replace the immediate gaps in their lines.

"Now…" The item no one was looking forward to. "Weaknesses. Strong, you are up."

"Ahem…our primary weakness was an inability to react in a timely manner to an unforeseen event; and failure to plan ahead for such possible events. One plan had been made, and it was not to be deviated from. Another weakness was enemy fortifications. From reviewed footage of our dash-cams and officer testimony, the enemy was dug in so well, nothing short of the generous application of explosives, or bloody foxhole to foxhole fighting, would have dislodged them. Our small arms and low velocity grenades were insufficient in dealing with the entrenchments. Additionally, our enemies have acquired at least one fifty-caliber machine gun, a handful of fifty-caliber rifles, and at least one thirty-caliber machine gun. There are twenty vehicles, those being eight MRAP's, seven Bearcats, four armored cars and SUV's, and a Gage Commando, that we left behind mostly due to those fifty-caliber platforms. Two dozen more vehicles made it back, but will require a complete overhaul before they can be put back into service. We need vehicles that can withstand fifty-caliber rounds. Lastly, we allowed our entire force to be ambushed at once, in an area of the enemy's choosing, and were unable to get around or behind them. Instead, we tried a head-on assault and paid dearly. That is all."

"Thank you, Chief." Chojnacki finished his notes. "Under-Sheriff, forgive me, Sheriff Wilson. It is a lot for you to be put on the spot so suddenly. I'll understand if you haven't had enough…"

"Thank you, Captain." On-the-spot-promoted Sheriff Wilson held up a folder with his notes. "But I too visited Sarabyn this morning, and discussed what he could. If I may?"

"Please."

"Our first Opportunity is one the enemy has inadvertently given us: their numbers. Several thousand active, and several hundred in reserve; as Thomas Carson said so himself. We have cross-referenced our profiling software, it trolls social media sites and internet traffic to form a profile, plus former military backgrounds, firearm purchases, concealed carry licenses, cell phone location data; all the usual tools. We can now confidently estimate the size of our enemy."

"And how many would that be?"

"Not accounting for yesterday's hostilities, we estimate enemy numbers, and you can check my math here, to be: three thousand active, and five hundred in reserve."

"Three…thousand…" Chief Warburg gasped after picking his jaw up off the floor. "Three…fuckin'…thousand…"

"I'm sorry…" Chief Strong didn't sound sorry. "But how, is that, an opportunity?"

"It allows us to plan accordingly, because at least we know what we are up against." Wilson coolly explained. "Don't we always want to know how many people are in a building before we raid it?"

"I suppose that's true." Chief Strong recanted. "Carry on."

"Second, given their effectiveness in the field, joint Police and Marine operations…"

"Will not be happening." The Man did not look up from his book. "Do not plan on any assistance in the field from Marines; except as observers only. That is all."

"Very well." Unperturbed, Wilson struck that line from his notes. "Moving on then. Lastly is an observation from comparing yesterday, the twenty-eighth, with the raids on the twentieth. When our forces meet their concentrated forces, it is a bloodbath. But when we were dispersed, their average best was harassing fire that we did not expect. If we split again, but this time are ready and trained for ambushes, I believe we will overwhelm their ability to coordinate in real-time."

"An interesting observation. We will take your proposal into consideration." Chojnacki finished this round of notes, then picked up his own portion of the S.W.O.T. acronym. The room fell deathly silent. "And now my turn. Threats. Our officers', and our leadership's performance in the field, as brave, honorable, and above and beyond it has been, has proven inadequate to true war-fighting. This is the role tasked to us, and we have sworn to The Red Star we will see this task through. After all, we pledged our word, and our souls. Realistically however, we cannot do so without assistance. Our officers do not have the training and experience necessary, nor the adequate time to unlearn everything they have been taught and then learn soldierly duties. Also, as suspected and all but now confirmed, we are outnumbered. We may be better equipped and have a cause that is good and right, but quantity has a quality all to itself. Finally, our enemy is clever and inventive. Two of our raids, this only being brought to my attention this morning, netted two home-built firearms. One was captured in Clearfield County, the other in Centre. These were not spot-welded slam-fires or twenty-two rim fire zip guns. They are full sized rifles, chambered for AK-47 ammunition, and when the two were compared, built with a fit and finish to within a thousandth of an inch tolerance between them. These two guns were made, in a word, professionally. In shops, garages, and barns this very morning, the same spirit is working its mischief. Unless we can either eliminate or negate home-built arsenals, and dare I imagine, home-built artillery, things will go very badly for us; and our cause. So… with all of this in mind, we will break for one hour. Upon reconvening, we will discuss how to proceed while incorporating this analysis. While making your proposals, remember P.A.C.E. Primary, Alternative, Contingency, and Emergency in all of your planning. That is all for now, dismissed."

. . .

The headquarters of The Operatives Tasking Service was an unassuming building that blended into the background. If you were shown a picture of it without context, you could be forgiven thinking it was one of the thousands of design, data storage, and calculation processing offices of Medical Mechanica; or any other bland corporate business office really. It was one ground floor with only one level above that, a beige, slab-sided stucco-walled block with no windows, no ornate plaza or courtyard, no flag or insignia to indicate what it was, who the occupants were, or what they did; except for the sign at its train station:

STATION No. 7 - OPERATIVES TASKING SERVICE

The only signs of life at all were the steam vents on the roof, and out back a razor-wire topped and electrified fence surrounding a motor pool; filled with captured and shot-up enemy vehicles, ships, and spacecraft from far-off reaches of the galaxy.

The Head disembarked the ersatz reserve car of the public train, checking his pocket watch as his foot hit the platform. Perfectly on time. Not one second early, or late. From the station he used the pedestrian bridge to cross an Arms-Guard Road. Below, a trio of Infantry Vehicles and escorting M-M autonomous units walked by on their morning patrol. There were eight legged pillboxes for the Armsmen, and fast, quad-legged support guns for escorts, both painted green and red. Their turrets bristled with auto-cannon, and Armsmen crowded on the Infantry Vehicle roofs; happy to be out of their stuffy compartments and in the breeze. At the end of the walkway and before the stairs was a gate and security checkpoint. Manning the gate were five Operatives: two with an Ee-Nettemse (Vinculum: Bolt-Thrower, a 0.50cal automatic battle rifle), two with a Neb-Kwamis (Vinculum: Wall-Breaker, an 8-gauge pump shotgun), and one a Seyuhis (Vinculum: Stopper, a 0.50AE semi-automatic pistol).

"Good mornings, Operatives; The Priest's Blessings upon you." The Head greeted in proper fashion. He laid his briefcase on the examination table without direction, even though it was only his second time visiting. The first had been when the building was completed.

"And a thousand more upon you, Head Director." The pistol armed Operative returned; he seemed to be in charge. He fixed The Head's eyes with his sunglasses stare, daring him to give the slightest shifty look. One of the Operatives went through each item in The Head's briefcase, even taking them apart if possible: notepad, pens, pencils and sharpener, a calculator, slide rule, a few pocket reference manuals and tables, his everyday carry. A third Operative checked his pockets, seams, lapels, under his tie and collar, even requested his shoes, then scanned with a hand-held detector and patted his person for weapons or anything hidden. The fourth Operative checked his identification papers and travelling stamp book on a computer, scanning the documents for their unique signatures on the chips embedded in them, and compared them to the Capital Police database. If all went well, a stamp would be placed in the travelling book to show he had been there, and when, so any Policeman, Armsman, Marine, Operative, or Priest could verify his movements. The Head also had his retinas scanned and fingerprints read on a panel plugged into the computer. Finally, the fifth Operative supervised the entire process with his shotgun ready for trouble.

"State your name, business, and contact." The Operative at the computer pointed to a large black square on the wall; a full-body camera, scanner, and microphone.

"Medical Mechanica Head Director Doyen. Meeting with Commander Alter. Summoned by Commander Alter." He said to the black square. A few seconds later the black square spoke back.

"Identity confirmed. Opening the first door in three seconds. Three. Two. One." The first door of the gate opened and he stepped into the airlock. "Closing in three. Two. One."

"Oh, my case?" The Head asked back through the bars of the gate door. "You forgot to give that back."

"No I did not, Director." The pistol-armed Operative smiled. "We cannot allow any outside devices that carry an electric charge, nor any material that can be used to make notes, drawings or sketches. I apologize, but these are the rules. You will be able to collect your belongings from me when your meeting is over."

"Very well, I understand." They already had him trapped in an airlock, there was no point arguing against the customs of the Operative's home. "I'll have Commander Alter send a Courier with the transcript of our meeting, should I have need of it."

"That will be acceptable." The Operative allowed. The black square then announced the second door was opening. The Head passed the second door's threshold, through a hole in the towering perimeter fence, and then the airlock door slammed shut; locking him in. The building's front door was made of thick metal and swung weightlessly open to a lobby of bare, polished and gleaming white stone. Two accent lines of obsidian black ran across the floor, and another pair of the dark lines at waist high along the walls. No ornamentation graced the walls, the floors were devoid of plush carpet, and no banners obscured the antiseptic lighting. The orderly, sterile and Spartan interior vividly reminded The Head of a Medical Mechanica hospital ward, or perhaps a research laboratory. Considering Operatives were born of mechanical wombs filled with chemical cocktails, it followed that their home would reflect those artificial origins. Across the lobby, the two Operatives manning the front desk stood to attention as The Head entered.

"Good morning, Head Director Captain Doyen." They greeted in unison. "You are precisely on time." One checked his silver pocket watch; prompting The Head to do the same on his golden one.

"And a good morning to you as well. I am here to see your Commander."

"Yes, he is expecting you." One of the Operatives pressed a hidden button. A third Operative emerged from the hallway to the right of the front desk.

"This way, Sir." The Head followed down the hall to the left of the desk. He kept quiet, unsure if it would be rude to attempt small talk. A quick glance back saw the two desk Operatives back in their chairs, monitoring their screens; and that each had a Neb-Kwamis shotgun on a shelf next to his knee. The first door in the hallway was open and with a passing look inside, it was obvious this room was an afterthought add-on. The floor's lush red and gold carpeting was the first giveaway, then the banners of the same scheme hiding the ice-white walls and streamers across the ceiling and to then the floor-to-ceiling computer manned by a team of purple-robed Priests. Everything was made all too clear, Medical Mechanica had several such offices inside its own buildings. In fact, any business or organization of any size above two members had an Outpost of The Temple.

"Ah, I see you've noticed our minder's niche?"

"I have." They passed the office without stopping in. The Head suspected that unless he had so obviously looked in, the Operative would have ignored the Room of Wisdom and Counseling completely. "Has it always been…?"

"We Operatives are an accommodating group." They wound their way through identical and unmarked halls; each intersection with three more to choose from. At each intersection and the turn of each corner stood a statuesque Operative Guard, over a dozen so far, with either an Ee-Nettemse rifle or Neb-Kwamis shotgun carried in a menacing posture. Each Guard had pleasantly smiled and given their left-handed salute as The Head passed; never taking their trigger hand off their weapon. Finally the labyrinthine halls ended in one last passage and an elevator door. This door was flanked by four more heavily armed Operative Guards. "Unexpected guests, even long-term ones, will be found a place and taken care of."

"How generous of you, to take humble Priests in your own home." They stopped short of the elevator. Here his identification, fingerprints, retinas, documents and pockets were checked again. The check complete, his escorting Operative ushered him inside and pressed the elevator's only button.

"Operative Four-Five-Three, escorting Medical Mechanica Head Director, Captain Doyen, to see Commander Alter."

"Acknowledged, Four-Five-Three." The elevator started down at what felt to be an incredible speed.

"How very generous of us indeed…" Operative Four-Five-Three muttered to himself, barely audible over the elevator's hum.

"What did you say?"

"I'm sorry, Captain." The Operative continued to face the elevator doors. "I didn't hear you, were you asking me something?" The Operative wanted the subject changed.

"I…yes. How far down does this elevator go? I don't remember riding it when this building was completed."

"I cannot say."

"You genuinely don't know?" The Head was surprised, then thought on it. "Or you're not allowed to tell me?"

"I cannot say." The Operative slyly grinned.

"Surely at least The Priests know? I'm wondering why they would allow you such generous leeway in conducting your affairs."

"Of course The Priests know." Operative 4-5-3 still wore his grin. "Nothing can be hidden from them, if they are to properly guide us. Wouldn't you agree? You did tell them you were coming here, yes?"

"Well, I actually…" The Head's stomach lurched.

"Ah, here we are." The elevator had stopped abruptly. "Before we go forward, a few rules. Under no circumstances are you to touch anything, and you will stay no further than two steps away from me at all times. Is that clear, Captain?"

"I'm just a Director now, there's no…"

"Is. That. Clear?" Operative 4-5-3 pointedly interrupted.

"Do not touch anything, and no more than two steps away from you at all times."

"Thank you. Follow me, please." The doors opened to a hangar sized machine shop and active experimental laboratory. Opposed to upstairs, it was dark, sooty, smoky, and filled with the industrial din of mechanical workings The Head knew so well. Operatives here hung up their suits and waistcoats, laboring in their white shirts with sleeves rolled up to their elbows, and ties tucked into back pockets or folded on workbenches and drafting tables. Flying sparks, spotlights and angled table lamps cast odd patterned shadows on the walls; walls covered with cables, wires, tools, gears, boxes and bins, tubs and tumblers of every size and shape filled with a plethora of parts, bits and baubles that The Head himself couldn't name half of. Of the scores of working Operatives, none paid them any mind as they passed. They were too busy muttering and mumbling to each other, calculating, figuring, puzzling, drawing, designing, failing and cursing, or breaking through to notice. Operative 4-5-3 lead him too quickly to get a good look at any one project of strange contraptions or devices, even the larger ones that needed overhead scaffolding and catwalks to fully access. Finally, they came to a supervisor's office with grim smeared windows, glowing yellow from the light within. Operative 4-5-3 knocked thrice.

"Commander Alter. Captain Doyen to see you, Sir."

"Do come in!" Commander Alter invited. Operative 4-5-3 saw him in and saluted. Alter returned the gesture and bade Operative 4-5-3 to be at ease. "Doyen, I am pleased you were able to make time for us today."

"I always have time for the Operatives Tasking Service." The Head took his offered seat before Alter's desk while Operative 4-5-3 closed and stood by the door. "After all, you're like the… ahem-hem! Excuse me. You're in part my creation, after all." The Head caught himself from saying something foolishly sentimental.

"…I see." Commander Alter stood behind his desk. He was the exact same height and build as his subordinates, with the exact same hair, color and style, the same facial features and structures. But that was where the similarities ended. The first fully functional and successfully combat proven Operative, Commander Alter was not the fastest or strongest, and had never been augmented in any way. But his mental architecture made him the cleverest and smartest of the lot, and he leveraged this intelligence to become the leader of his fellows; guiding them through an unbroken streak of victories whenever deployed in battle. Alter looked at The Head with his eyes unmasked: a wide, soul-piercing stare of vertically slit pupils, vibrant yellow iris, and blackest sclera. A slow, cat-like blink and they had changed to brilliant green. Another blink, as something heavy outside the office fell over to much vile cursing, and they were a chilling blue.

"So what is it that you cannot handle, that would require my opinion and advice? I cannot imagine it is something as benign as bringing to heel a Board of Directors and Panel of Military Attaches; although these days, I'd be better of service to you if that were the case. My technical prowess is out of practice."

"No Sir, you are the man for the job." Alter turned to the coat closet sized safe in the office corner. He used its control panel to identify himself in typical triplicate: retina, fingerprint, and blood vessel map of his hand. He reached in and took out a stiff thick-paper box two units wide, one unit deep, and five long; about the size of a case for a military long-range rifle. Alter used a letter opener to cut the tape holding on the lid and placed the box on his desk. "Provided, that is, you promise me something."

"That depends on what you ask of me to promise." Aware that the Operatives were under Inquisition, The Head didn't want more trouble for them, or any for himself. "And even then, I cannot make guarantees; my service is to the Will of The Priests first, foremost, and last."

"All I ask is that you keep this project a secret; for now! For now!" Alter assured as The Head's eyebrows nearly flew off his face. "If our suspicions are wrong, then the worst outcome is a waste of your time and nothing to trouble a Monk with; let alone The Council or Father Brown. However, if this project is successful, it could, forgive me, alter the ways in which we spread The Words of Syrinx; perhaps even our very society as a whole. But you and I know our enemies have spies, looking and listening, so we cannot allow any breath of this project to escape. Are you willing to assist in this noble task?"

"If you place your confidence behind it…" The Head considered. "Your judgement has never failed me, your Operatives, nor your service of The Priests. You have my vow of silence. Let's see what has made you so animated."

"Behold!" Alter snatched away the lid and revealed the box's contents: a jumbled, jangled, gnarled mess of indistinguishable pieces of…well, everything is surely part of something; even if The Head couldn't make front or back of what this box of finger sized bits could possibly be.

"What…what in Syrinx am I looking at?" The Head picked up a piece, one of several hundred. "It either isn't finished, or it's been destroyed."

"We have no idea!" Alter declared with a shameless smile. His eyes were iron grey now. "Operative Zero-One-Nine brought it back after killing a G.S.P.B. Hunter. He died of his wounds before telling us what it was, but his partner, Operative Zero-Two-Zero, said that the Hunter's last act was to throw this into an industrial shredder."

"That explains its condition." The Head eyed the crimped edges of a piece, where the shredder's teeth had cleaved through. "What am I to do with it, with…" He pulled at a rat's nest of frayed wire. "These?"

"Put it back together, of course." Alter unwavering answered. "Or if that is not possible, reconstruct it to the best of your abilities; at the very least give us a blueprint to try and reverse engineer from."

"Do you have any inkling at all as to what it could be? I don't want to accidentally reassemble a bomb." The Head was half-joking. He knew by looking that this pile of scraps wouldn't spontaneously detonate. At the same time, Medical Mechanica had processed and reverse engineered many powerful, but otherwise harmless looking weapons.

"I can tell you that ensuring its destruction was important enough, the Hunter was so adamant this not fall intact into our hands, that it lost its arm pushing this into the shredder; at least that's what Operative Zero-Two-Zero told us."

"Before anything else is said, my condolences to you and all your Operatives, for the loss of Zero-One-Nine. If I recall your designations correctly, he was one of the elders in the Service?"

"Your memory has not failed you." Alter's eyes blinked a soft brown. "He was one of our most experienced. And, while the condolences are appreciated, they are not necessary. Operative Zero-One-Nine has returned into The Universe and, as Syrinx has taught us, become one with N.O. once more. His soul will wind its way along the Rivers of N.O. to their source, and in another lifetime we will find him waiting for us there."

"It is that optimism, that faith and hope in all of you, that I think I miss the most. Generals and Commandants, Directors and Board Members can all be such soulless cynics."

"Come now Captain, hear yourself!" Alter packed up the box and resealed the lid. "A new project for your brain to tear into, and you're bringing even me down! Think of poor Four-Five-Three over there; you'll have him in the depths of despair at this rate!"

"Not quite, Commander; Sir. Although…" Operative 4-5-3 sagged the lower half of his face. "I feel a bit of a frown coming on."

"Alright, alright! You've made your point. And yes, I will take the project; and keep my vow of silence." The Head consulted his pocket watch. He was to discuss the latest report of the Earth Expedition with the Board; and soon. "If that is all, I'm afraid I will have to be on my way. If there is something else, summon a Courier and I can have my schedule revised."

"While I'm sure I could invent something, this is all we had to keep you here." Alter nodded to Operative 4-5-3 who opened the office door. "I will have this sent to your home today. I won't make you lug it across Megadon all day long."

"I appreciate it." The Head stood and shook Alter's hand, feeling the hidden force that could crush his finger's bones into powder. "Thank you for consulting me. It is pleasant to know I am still needed outside the Board, and can be called on."

"And thank you for your time. Until we meet you again, go with Syrinx's Blessings. Operative Four-Five-Three will see you to our gate."

"This way, Sir." Operative 4-5-3 lead him back through the laboratory, up the elevator, and the other side of the maze of hallways. They said their goodbyes at the gate and The Head passed through the security airlock again. On the other side, the pistol-armed Gate Chief Operative returned The Head's effects and insisted he would escort him to the train platform. As the next train approached, the Gate Chief Operative did two things: said his own parting words, then clamped his hand down tight onto The Head's shoulder.

Sitting in the ornate reserve car, The Head worried for his sanity. He remembered getting off the train, the security checkpoint, then there was a fuzzy fog. His memory came back upon seeing Commander Alter, discussing and taking on the project…then it faded out again…and suddenly he found himself speeding towards the city center with no recollection of ever getting back on the train. How strange that he couldn't remember a single thing about the inside of The Operatives Tasking Service Headquarters.

'Never mind that now.' The Head shifted his mind's gears. It would be a while before he arrived at Medical Mechanica's station. He pictured the shredded object's shards in his mind's eye and began piecing them together to the best of his imagination's ability. Starved of late for a challenge, his brain set to work tackling this new problem, and a bright smile broke out across his face.

. . .

"I don't like it."

"We never said you would; or have to."

"I really don't like it." Mister Voyze was giving Mike the nastiest look he'd conjured yet. An impressive feat for Mike, I'd say. "But…I can't deny how good of an idea it is."

"And think of it this way." Johnny sought to soothe Pike and Voyze. "Yes, the memorials are to remember the fallen and their sacrifices. But if they could speak with us right here, right now, knowing what we do, I think they would understand why this is necessary."

"You're probably right." Pike gave in after some thought. "And if we don't use them, if we lose, there won't be any memorials left standing at all, anywhere; or even anyone to remember them. You…have my vote."

"Done." Tommy said and made a mark on the board. "That's decided, now its duty-roster time. Solomon, your men are up front next. Get an inventory list together of everything you're short on and have it to me tomorrow morning. Keep training and practicing, emphasis on communications and maneuvers beyond line of sight. You have a ton of property to work with, use it. Chartier and Welshmen, you will be back-up and must be ready to move everyone within half an hour of getting a call for help. All the same for training and resources applies to you. Is all of this clear?"

"We'll get it done." Chartier promised.

"Dahl, I want your guys to start working on prototypes of these designs. Nothing has to be pretty, fancy, high-speed or low drag. It just has to work. Send all info and designs to Josh, Johnny, and Mike; they'll speed things along with running simulations and making fabrication blueprints for everyone else. Jeff, you're in charge of the war memorial artifacts. Be careful, be respectful, and do not break anything."

"It'll be like the artifacts vanished into thin air; like we were never there."

"Take a few squads of Chartier's men to help. Chartier, make sure the guys you send are comfortable operating in small groups or alone; and preferably at night. We don't want to get caught and tip our hand. Canti, keep doing what you're doing on mapping the camera feeds, and the police radio encryption. I know it's been driving you nuts, but you'll outsmart their IT department soon; I know it. And I haven't forgotten you, Naota. You're with Rig of course, keep him out of trouble. The rest of you, keep training, rest and refit, and always be mining, stringing wire, digging in and reinforcing your positions. Any questions? No? If you have any problems, come to me. Otherwise, everyone is dismissed, let's make it happen!"

. . .

THUMP-AH-THUMP-AH-THUMP-AH-TACK-AH-CRASH! THUMP-AH-THUMP-AH-THUMP-AH-TACK-AH-CRASH! THUMP-AH-THUMP-AH-THUMP-AH-TACK-AH-CRASH!...

Double-bass drums thudded through her headphones as Lieutenant Mana Kitsurubami held a silent concert in her shoe box sized stateroom. Perched on the splinter's edge of the desk stool, with an impressive, invisible and imaginary, drum kit before her closed eyes, she tried her best to match Philthy Animal Taylor's frantic pace while the music commenced its assault on her eardrums at full volume. She'd been at it for nearly two hours non-stop, her forearms stung and her legs were smarting like she'd sprinted a mile; then shin-kicked a tree for good measure. But as her legs threatened to lock up, sweat beaded up in the stuffy closet of a room, she could not quit; now that she'd finally gotten the timing down perfectly. Within a quarter or even an eighth note wasn't good enough. It was either within a sixteenth of a note, or not at all.

*Only way to feel the noise is when it's good 'n' loud!

So good, I can't b'lieve it, screamin' with the crowd!

Don't sweat it! Get it back to you! … Don't sweat it! Get it back to you!

OVERKILL! … OVERKILL! … OVERKILL!

It was Monday on Earth and they would be arriving early on Friday instead of Saturday. The upgrades to the Orbital Catapult System, as well as restoration of Castra's Space Elevator after a nasty accident, had performed better than expected. Coupled with a house sized N.O. generator that guided them along the flowing rivers of the mysterious force, the Deere Class freighter carrying the I.I.B.'s 3rd Division, 2nd Battalion, 1st Special Weapon Company, was making…well, perfect time.

On your feet, you feel the beat, it goes straight to your spine!

Shake your head, you must be dead if it don' make you fly!

Don't sweat it! Get it back to you! … Don't sweat it! Get it back to you!

OVERKILL! … OVERKILL! … OVERKILL!

The brief for their mission had been just that. Local Overwatch forces of their O.W. 262nd Section had engaged Haruko Haruhara in combat and were moving to arrest. The I.I.B. was sending them, Special Weapons, to take custody of Haruhara and return her to Castra for trial. A simple pickup, like getting a six pack of beer from the corner store. As such, they had packed light. Anti-aircraft, anti-ship, anti-armor, and anti-spacecraft weapons had been left behind, and half their regular allotment of ammunition a regular mission would require. There was no point to bring all that for a prisoner transfer; especially on such short notice. Rifles, pistols, shotguns, a single anti-materiel rifle, and something to read during the ride to and back was all they could possibly need.

Know your body's made to move, you feel it in your guts!

Rock 'n' Roll ain't worth the name if it don't make you strut!

Don't sweat it! Get it back to you! … Don't sweat it! Get it back toooo you!

OVERKILL! … OVERKILL! … OVERKILL!

Railroad spikes were hammering her shins apart with every tap of her feet while knives raked up and down her forearms, but she could… not…stop… would… not… stop! Anyone looking in would have thought her insane; running in place barefooted, track shorts and tank top, drumsticks dangerously slicing the air at make-believe drums, sound leaking from overclocked headphones, eyes shut and a face flushed in focused, frantic, frenzy. The final crescendo came, pushing out at the inside of her skull while trying to burst out from her eyes, ears, nose and mouth in an explosion of musical firepower…and…and then… and then it was over. Her feet at last slid across the deck, the pressure released and her shins groaned with soreness. Her arms hung limp, drumsticks scratching on the cold steel. Mana slid her headphones off, laid them on the desk, and then laid herself on her bunk. She let herself lie still and silent for a moment, then broke out into a gleeful laugh.

"HA! Wow, whoa, about damn time!" Tired, stumbling giggles interrupted her speech, making her laugh harder still. "It took two hours, but I finally got it. That leaves me with…about five and a half hours on this shift…" On board any space-faring vessel, days were broken into three shifts of eight hours each. One for sleep, one for standing watch at your duty station, and one for maintenance, studying for or qualifying for other watches, writing reports and paperwork, and once all that was finished, leisure. Mana had planned ahead like always and finished her duties for maintenance, study and pencil-pushing early. So now, even though she had cut into her sleep shift to practice, she could sleep into her down-shift and do so guilt free. Or, so she thought. Sleep wasn't fast in coming. She was too amped up, jubilant at finally conquering a song that had long eluded her. The triumph also had her slightly put out. Now that it had been done, the fun was all over; the thrill of the chase lost. Unless…

"Hmmm… I wonder…" She swung herself to sitting on the edge of her bunk. "Once was great and all. But, I wonder if I could do it twice?"

. . .

"Well…okay, how about this then: we…" Deputy Mayor Davison began, to the groans of the police officers. The second half of the meeting was going nowhere. Many were thinking it had been a mistake to invite the city governments. "Oh, go fuck a rake. Here's my idea: we know these guys gotta drink water, right?! Why don't we just, y'know, put something in the water supply?"

"Deputy Mayor…ahm…which one are you again?" The sleepy stranger next to The Man spoke for the first time that morning.

"Young man, my name is Davis…"

"Never mind, it's not important." The stranger alternated between brushing back unkempt hair and rubbing his face to wake himself up. "Point is, that's the stupidest idea proposed this morning, and I'm embarrassed that you'd even think to bring it up."

"Oh, is it really?! Any why is that?"

"Look, Deputy Mayor Fug-ah-who-dah-what's-your-face, I don't have the time, the patience, nor enough colors of crayons to explain it to you in a manner you'd understand."

"Like you've got anything better! You've done nothing but sleep and smoke all morning!" Davison pointed at the empty pop can the stranger was using as an ashtray. "So either put something up, or shut up!"

"…Ssssssss…haaaaa….fine…" After a lengthy drag on his cigarette, the stranger said: "If you insist. Sir, cover your face now, please." The Man in Black pulled a kerchief from his coat and pressed it to his face. Simultaneously, the stranger took a pop can sized cylinder from his coat, pulled the ring off its top, and lobbed it onto the conference table.

"What in the fuck is…" Puh-BOOOOM… The can detonated in a cloud of billowing yellow smoke that saturated the room. Coughing, wheezing, gagging and profusely swearing policemen and politicians fumbled around in the sickly haze. All were trying frantically to remember where the door, and fresh air, was. The Man and his guest had already slipped out. They waited outside, patiently watching wisps of yellow smoke curl out of leaks in the window seals.

"That is quite impressive." The Man admired and put away his kerchief. "And more so since I only gave you five days."

"Nah, it's an idea I've been kicking around in my head for a while. Just never had a reason to build it."

"Not even to test one?" The Man asked as the first officer emerged. Sheriff Wilson's uniform was now soaked mustard yellow. "To see if your idea would work?"

"No…no need."

"No need? That's awfully bold of you."

"I already knew it worked." The stranger tapped his temple. "Tested it out right in here. Although…it is more entertaining to see the effects in real time; isn't it?"

"I tend to agree." Behind Sheriff Wilson came Clearfield County Clerk Smith, with Clerks Rodderick, Cooper and Degan stumbling and retching after; all dyed a dull yellow head to toe.

"Give…rruuuaacckkk! Give me one, ONE, good reason…" Chief Strong heaved, with his hand over his pistol. "Why I shouldn't blow your fuckin' head off!"

"Because you know fully well what the consequences would be." The Man reminded. Strong's pistol remained in its holster. "Well, gentlemen! What impression did this display make? Magnificent, wasn't it?!"

"Who, exactly, is that Sir?" Captain Chojnacki fixed the newcomer with watering eyes. "I don't know him."

"This…" The Man presented. "Is Caleb Kauffman."

If his shoulders weren't slouched, his back wasn't bowed, and his posture upright, Caleb Kauffman could have been a statuesque specimen. If he'd bothered to regularly wash, shave, comb and brush, every passing female gaze would lovingly linger on him. And if he possessed half a sense of fashion, he wouldn't be routinely confused for a panhandler; or a Seattle Hipster. As it was, Caleb looked fifteen years older than his twenty-two, disheveled, haphazardly unkempt and chronically unemployable. Acne lumps studded the nose, jaw, and chin of a hollow face that reliably forgot to eat for days at a time. Long, clever fingers screwed a cigarette into its filter, then brushed matted, wet straw blonde hair away from eyes that didn't belong to him. Vibrant, iceberg blue eyes that observed, took in, studied, analyzed and fully understood any and all they saw; two glimmers of brilliance in an otherwise moldering superstructure.

"Why haven't I ever met you until now?" Chief Warburg recognized the family name, but not the face. "And you still haven't told us what that was! It reeks to high heaven!"

"The second first, and the first second." Caleb lit his cigarette. "That was what you call a 'riot control' and 'suspect neutralization' device. Its primary active ingredients are: E-Two-Butene-One-Thiol, Three-Methyl-One-Butanethiol, Two-Quini…this one's always a tongue twister; I never get it right on the first try. Two-Quinolinemethanethiol, there we go, now say that five times fast, acetate thioesters of all of these, some other odds 'n' ends, or as they're all better known collectively: skunk spray and fox piss." Caleb paused for a smoke. "And you've never met me because I never go outside; simple's that."

"Smells about right." Whether Warburg meant the chemicals, or Caleb's reclusive habits and resulting lack of hygiene, was not elaborated on.

"What's he to us anyway?" Sheriff Wilson couldn't brush off the yellow dregs on his uniform.

"After Sunday, I thought you might manufacture for yourselves an… advantage over the I.P.A. and have brought in Mister Kauffman to this end as a consultant."

"Manufacture an advantage?" Chojnacki wondered. "Like, what? Why do I feel like I'm being sold something?"

"Like what? Like…I can make your officers immune to pain. Let me do what I do, and they'll shrug off fatigue. I'll make them unafraid of battle…" A strange hunger overtook Caleb's face, his eyes glowing as brightly as his cigarette's end. "I can make them faster, stronger, their reactions quicker, and they'll go for days without sleep and run miles in full plate without rest. Give me a delivery system, and I'll bring blistering, choking, hallucinating, debilitating, madness inducing hell to our enemies."

"At what price?" Caleb took a drag and smiled a bit wider.

"Just don't ask questions."

. . .

*Overkill - Motorhead

Another chapter, another glimpse inside the world of The Red Star of The Solar Federation, another battle on the horizon, another Kauffman Brother to sow trouble and discord in the only way he knows how. I recently re-watched "Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas" and channeled a little bit of Raoul Duke (Johhny Depp's character) when thinking of Caleb Kauffman's mannerisms and body-language. For the rest, building the Red Star world is like a LEGO set that never stops being fun. Especially when the Operatives are so darn secretive and closed off. They would be the guy with 'No Trespassing' signs all over their property that only make you want to trespass even more; because there's just GOT to be something cool hidden in there. Speaking of cool things, there's another chapter, several more even, after this one, so let's get to it!