ÿþ<HEAD> <title>Eric's Archive</title> <META NAME="description" CONTENT="Eric's Journal, the irregularly updated journal of Eric Lis"> <META NAME="keywords" CONTENT="eric, lis, emperor, aerica, aerican, journal, eric's head"> </HEAD> <left><font face="Times New Roman"> <font face="Monotype Corsiva,Bernhard Modern Roman,Unicorn,BellGothic,News Gothic MT"> <center> <big><big><big><big> Eric's Archive<br> Entries 591-600<P> </big></big></big></big></font> <I> Those who forget the past<Br> Are doomed to reread it.<p></i> </center> <a href="http://www.aericanempire.com/eric/index.html">More recent</a><BR> <a href="http://www.aericanempire.com/eric/601-700/601-610.html">Entries 601-610</a><BR> <a href="#600">Entry 600</a> May 12 2009<br> <a href="#599">Entry 599</a> May 9 2009<br> <a href="#598">Entry 598</a> May 6 2009<br> <a href="#597">Entry 597</a> May 3 2009<br> <a href="#596">Entry 596</a> April 30 2009<br> <a href="#595">Entry 595</a> April 27 2009<br> <a href="#594">Entry 594</a> April 24 2009<br> <a href="#593">Entry 593</a> April 21 2009<br> <a href="#592">Entry 592</a> April 18 2009<br> <a href="#591">Entry 591</a> April 15 2009<br> <a href="http://www.aericanempire.com/eric/501-600/581-590.html">Entries 581-590</a><BR> <a href="http://www.aericanempire.com/eric/archive.html">Archive</a><BR> </blockquote> <HR> <a name="600"></a> <U><B>From the Files of KP 42: Five Hundred Meters (Part 10 of 10) </b></u><p> &nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp The bullet hits me in the right side of the head, just below and behind the ear. The slug itself bounces off of me and hits the green marble a foot away but the kinetic impact snaps my head to the left and overbalances me, knocking me off my feet. My heightened reactions allow me to twist in the air so that I land on the flat platform and don't go over the side of the pyramid, but only just. I roll as I hit the ground and two more shots hit the stone where I fell. I( get a quick look around as I roll over. The platform is about ten meters to a side and basically square. The roof hatch opened up less than half a meter away from one side, and scattered about the rest of the platform are four soldiers, each with what looks like a long-barreled sniper weapon of some sort. All of them are carrying handheld pistols, and two of them have reflexes fast enough that they were able to draw and fire in the time it took me to climb out of the hatch. Only one has had the instinct to actually shoot me, though his partners are picking up quickly that they may want to do the same.<BR> &nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp Floating numbers appear next to them as I glance at them -- my system's calculation of their threat level. None of them is a high score given the light weapons they're carrying, but the one who's actively shooting at me has a high enough score to merit doing something about.<BR> &nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp As I roll, the panels on my forearms alide open and my twin cannons pop out. I come out of my roll onto one knee and the computer actuomatically takes control of my arms. In the space of a second I fire off five quick shots, taking each of the soldiers in a shoulder or knee at a low enough power not to blast off the offending limbs. As I rise to my feet I spare a fifth shot at the faster soldier, sending a low-powered and probably survivable shot into his head to make sure he stays down. Despite the almost certain pursuit coming from below and the high probability that someone will have noticed the weaponsfire atop the pyramid, I've probably bought myself at least eight seconds in which to plan how I'm going to get off this building alive and back to Imperial lines. Even if I couldn't process ten thousand scenarios per second, that would be seven seconds longer than I need.<BR> &nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp Plan D. Good ol' Plan D.<BR> &nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp What is five hundred meters, really? On a straight, open, uncluttered road, that's fifteen to twenty minutes at a brisk walk. Even with collapsed buildings and other difficult terrain in the way, a decent athlete could run that distance in under ten minutes, maybe even five, and if it took you that long in a vehicle, you'd probably be breaking a law by going too far under the minimum speed limit. The only reason no Imperials ever just across that space was the hostile patrols, traps and killer robots which filled up the area, which at the very least are going to increase the time it takes you to make the run. My biggest concern was that there was simply no way to run that space without attracting a great deal of attention, and that attention would mean that 1) I would have a reception waiting for me at the library and 2) there would be an army of soldiers waiting for me when I tried to run back. Thus, crossing the distance the first time required subtlety and stealth, not speed. Crossing it the second time? It's all about going fast enough that by the time anybody thinks to shoot you, you're already past them. Slow and careful drive me nuts, but I can do speed, especially if you give me a nice steep pyramid wall to use to get my momentum going.<BR> &nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp The pyramid's walls hit the ground at about a forty degree angle -- steep enough to speed me up, shallow enough that I won't lose all control and fall over myself to fall into an embarassing and easily-shot heap at the bottom. Marble isn't really the best thing to run on, but years of weather followed by bouts of gunfire have left the black and green surface nicely scored, giving me plenty of traction. I push off with my left foot, sail over the edge, and land, four meters along and about three down, and, as they say, I hit the ground running.<BR> &nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp I push myself to top speed on the way down which, accelerated by the two mighty forces of gravity and panic, is very very fast. I hit the bottom and level off, nearly snapping off my leg in the process, at which point I'm little more than a grey and silver blur to the surprised troops. To ensure that I leave the maximum amount of confusion and disorganization, I drop off a few grenades as I pass through their camp on the assumption that every explosion will add at least twenty or thirty seconds to the amount of time it takes them to work out what just happened. I reach the far end of heir camp, vault up onto the roof of a groundcar and use the added height to get myself over the wall of a shattered building, landing heavily on the other side and kicking up a cloud of dust three meters high. I don't stop to admire it.<BR> &nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp I'm forced to slow to about thirty kippers at this point, in part because of the narrow streets and sharp turns, in part because my soleus-gastronemius complex is developing stress tears and my knees are smoking. I'm still going fast enough that when I run into a ten-soldier patrol I plow through them before they know what's happening, leaving bruises, contusions, one or two fractures and many exclaimed curses in my wake. At a hundred meters to go, I can see Imperial flags rising in the distance, and at seventy I emerge from a narrow alley to see a clear straightaway to Imperial turret gun emplacements. At fifty I hit the landmine.<BR> &nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp Explosions are actually quite pretty from the inside. It's a shame so few people to experience them like this. On the other hand, ow.<BR> &nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp I hit the ground at just under twenty meters from our lines, which might just be the most impressive distance I've ever gotten from a bomb. I've barely skidded to a stop before my damage report system pops up a helpful report in front of my eyes. It's actually not that bad, aside from the fact that I'm down to one leg and there's a six-centimeter dent in the side of my body from which I'm leaking at least two vitals fluids. Also, I think I might be on fire, but can't see from this position. Imperial troops are filing out of a bunker in the distance and the auto-defense guns are rotating to track my position; my lack of Imperial insignia is much less of an advantage at this precise moment than it was ten minutes ago, so I begin transmitting Friend or Foe recognition codes. From behind me, I can hear the sound of approaching pursuit, and ahead of me, a distance which I'm no longer in any shape to run. I bring up my arm as though to wave hello to the nice soldiers who are conspicuously not running over to help me up. Pointing at the nearest turrent, I fire my grapling hook. It hits, latches, and begins to retract, pulling me forward.<BR> &nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp Thus do I cross back into Imperial territory, sliding on my stomach through the dust.<BR> &nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp Once I'm back on our side and I can show my concealed identification to the soldiers, a couple of them help me up and start dragging me towards the nearest bunker, and the nearest long-distance communications suite. Behind me I can hear yelling and gunfire which suggest that I brought trouble back with me, but that's not my problem at this precise moment. The data is intact, which means I did my job, and the sooner I transmit it the sooner I can get off of this stupid rock. I'm already trying to work out if anything I've gone through today justifies charging extra for this job, but unfortunately I have a very well-written contract.<BR> &nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp I need a drink. Also a leg. It's been that kind of day. <HR> <a name="599"></a> <U><B>From the Files of KP 42: Five Hundred Meters (Part 9 of 10) </b></u><p> &nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp I don't like to kill. If I was more willing to take lives, I'd be a much more effective operative for the KP, and the fact that my designers didn't choose to make some modifications to my amygdala to that effect when they rebuilt my brain is a big part of how I know I'm on the right side in most any given conflict. I have to hurt or kill sometimes, and when it's necessary I do it quickly and without remorse afterwards, but I don't enjoy it and I don't go out of my way to do it. As I spin around to see the soldier standing in the doorway, I have a single moment where I could simply raise my arm and blast him: the cold, efficient solution. Instead I waste a precious half-second disengaging from the computer terminal and leap across the table towards him. I crash down on the second of the two tables between us, splintering it, and spring up to clamp a gauntlet over his mouth. <BR> &nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp As moving objects go, I'm fast. In the context of this situation, I'm much, much too slow. <BR> &nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp "Intruder! H-umphg"<BR> &nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp With far less gentleness than I'd like I slam the soldier's head against the wall, snarling at him for getting out the shout, snarling more at myself for being stupid (though I can't quite say whether I'm more angry at myself for not having used enough force or having used too much). He hits the ground with a meaty thump but with a pained groan that tells me he's still alive; I can only hope he's a good enough person for his survival to justify me endaring the mission and my own hide. I cast a quick glance back at the computer terminal, debating whether to run back to it and take my chances at trying to get the rest of the data before reinforcements arrive, but the computer helpfully quotes me the low odds of that plan working. What I really need to do is twofold: get to the next floor up and secure a terminal there, and make sure that nobody comes to find me there too soon. Both are problems which I conclude can be solved by high explosives.<BR> &nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp I reach into my equipment belt and pull out two grenades, and toss both simultaneously. One goes up and over my left shoulder, where it hits and adheres to the ceiling. The other flies off into the staircase from which I ascended, where it hits the far wall and, like the first, sticks there. Both bombs blink twice quickly and, as I position myself to shield the unconscious soldier, make a happy little chirp and explode. To my joy, the staircase essentially collapses; I can't hear the sounds of shouting men over the explosion but I can imagine them. To my greater joy, I turn to see that the blast behind me has burned a hole clean through the cieling and into the next floor. I take two loping steps directly below the hole, crouch down on the floor, and jump with everything I've got, clearing the three-meter gap with centimeters to spare. <BR> &nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp At best, of course, I've only bought myself minutes; even assuming that there are no guards on this floor yet, there will be soon. I sprint to the nearest data room, which looks much the same as the one downstairs except that nothing's blown up in this one -- yet -- pick the closest terminal, and plug in. I shudder with the pleasure of data flowing into me; it runs down my spine like ice, fills my brain with the glow of knowing... and the fact that I've managed to get ahold of what I was hired to find feels pretty damn good too. I spend a couple of tense minutes watching the door as the rest of the data finishes transfering and copying, and then, almost anticlimactically, it's over and I unplug.<BR> &nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp Right. Reach library: check. Find and copy data: check. Next on the to-do list: escape alive. Well, so far so good, anyway.<BR> &nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp I step out of the room and start running for the staircase, thinking that it's at least worth trying to go back downstairs on the small chance that the way might be clear. I'm still twenty meters from it as three soldiers come out, rifles panning around in search of a target. Maybe it's the adrenaline from being so close to getting out of this mess, maybe it's the built-up frustration from having had to run away from so many of their comrades today when I'd prefer to have fought, or maybe it's just the simple logic that, if I turn around and run away, I'm simply boxing myself in... whatever the case, I decide in the space of a heartbeat to take the path of most resistance. In this case, that's directly through three armed, armoured, highly-trained warriors.<BR> &nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp Poor suckers.<BR> &nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp They see me coming at ten meters and bring up their guns to fire, but my battle computer is already taking over, and by the time the first of them presses a finger to a trigger I've already calculated the precise angles of their guns, the easiest and safest path through their fire, and the sixty optimum patterns of attack I could use to get through them. I can't quite dodge bullets like this, but with the computer nudging my movements, I don't have to; they fill the corridor with coherent light and I dance between the bolts like they're dodge balls. To the soldiers' credit, a couple of bolts do actually hit me, but they splatter almost ineffectually off of my armour. Then I'm in their midst and it's a foregone conclusion. I slip in between the one on the farthest to the right and the one in the middle; my left elbow comes up and hits the middle one in the sternum hard enough to crack his breastplate, if not his sternum. The two on the sides start to turn to follow me, but before they've even processed the situation I plant my left foot, pivot, and introduce my right fist to a woefully underprotected skull. The last one points his rifle at my chest; I take the barrel in my hand and yank, pulling him off balance, and snap-kick him into the marble behind him. The one in the middle is still awake, an oversight on my part which is corrected in the same movement that I use to drop the Croedec rifle out of my hand. The catharsis feels good and just for a second -- an eternity at the speed my mind is going right now -- I contemplate leaping down those stairs like a berzerker and taking on whatever the onrushing army can throw at me. I think better of it and charge upstairs instead, taking the steps two at a time and stomping hard enough to leave the occasional crack in the marble.<BR> &nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp Mind you, I don't actually know how I'm going to get outside by heading up. The sides of the library mostly solid stone overlying a metal superstructure and what few windows the building has are less than a decimeter wide. None of the explosives I'm carrying will make a big enough hole in the walls. On the other hand, according to the plans, the building has roof access, and that means I've got an honest-to-goodness exist strategy.<BR> &nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp The staircase begins to angle inwards as I near the narrowest portion of the pyramid. I slam through a heavy iron door and into a short hallway guarded by two soldiers; I don't even break my stride, but simply meet them with two straight arms and trample over them once they're down. Behind them is a single ladder which I scale in seconds. It's a five meter climb straight up through a narrow tunnel surrounded on all sides by the same green and black marble that tells me I'm passing through the pyramid's outer wall, and then I'm through a heavy metal hatch and outside, and I've never been so happy to see an ugly scab-brown sky.<BR> &nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp Now I just have to cross five hundred meters. <HR> <a name="598"></a> <U><B>From the Files of KP 42: Five Hundred Meters (Part 8 of 10) </b></u><p> &nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp The door, of course, is locked. I can't say I'm surprised; it's just the kind of day I'm having. All I can do is sigh. Tempting as it is to just rip it off its hinges and get a move on, I don't know where or how this place has been guarded, so caution, frustrating frustrating caution, is the order of the day. The lockpick in my finger pops out and I make quick work. The door opens into a pitch-dark hallway, every light off and completly windowless. I stop at the door, turn my hearing up to maximum, turn off my breathing and just listen. Absolute stillness sounds around me -- the silence of a tomb. I bring up the public maps of the building on my HUD. The data in the library was inecessible from outside, but in theory once I'm inside, I should be able to find what I need from any of the main terminals in the building; I've got my choice of some thirty different research rooms to pick from, all of which are unfortunately at least two floors above me. If I can reach any single one of them, then I'm set. I should be grateful that at the very least I'm not here trying to find, say, one single set of papers or a single book. According to my maps, whichever way I go down the hall ought to take me to a staircase going up, so I pick the direction I just happen to be facing and set off.<BR> &nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp My body's a remarkable thing. I can see in absolute darkness and hear the tension that enters a man's breathing before he pulls a trigger. I can punch through stone walls and outrun small vehicles. What I can't do if my life depends on it is sneak quietly down a corridor. I check in at almost four times the mass of your average adult human and the soles of my feat, despite a layer of shock-absorbent padding, are solid metal. The major joints in my body have been replaced by powered motors and pulleys. Even creeping along carefully, measuring each step and padding forwards with catlike grace, my passage down an otherwise perfectly silent corridor resounds with a rhytmic whirr-whirr-clank that I imagine they ought to be able to hear on the other side of Granthaal.<BR> &nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp The corridor stretches on a good few hundred meters with doors every short while, most of which, according to my map, lead off into storage rooms, supply closets and the like. None of it's of any interest to me, although I do take the time to have my computer scan the map to let me know if any of the rooms are supposed to contain anything I might want to take home with me (they aren't; public academic libraries tend not to have extensive wine cellars or cash-filled vaults, or at least, they aren't proclaimed to be so on the maps). At the end of the hallway I get to a heavy metal door behind which is my staircase. I pause again, listening; if anybody had heard me coming down the hall, this is where they'd be waiting for me. I stop; one floor up, I indeed hear what sounds like one breathing human, but only one, and not sounding particularly anxious or watchful. Oddly, one of the most useful features with my designers never thought to build in to me is any sort of extendable, look-around-a-corner sort of camera, and this is just one of countless times when I curse their names and their offspring for it. I sort through my options, hastily rejecting such tempting choices as "toss a fragmentation grenade up and see what happens" and decide that if he didn't hear me coming down the hall, he isn't likely to hear me coming up the staircase. I start up the stairs, as quietly as possible.<BR> &nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp The staircase is a classical design, a spiral wide enough across so that two and a half people can walk up or down abreast or so that you can just squeeze past someone moving a couch. The design hides me from view of anybody watching the door one level up, allowing me to advance with some safety. As I round the bend, I can see the doorway to the next level and, there, the guard I heard. Croedec uniform, middle-aged, carrying some sort of crowd-stopper that's half rifle and half shotgun... and wearing a set of headphones from which I can just make out a touch of music from where I am.<BR> &nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp Some days the gods just kiss you right on the lips.<BR> &nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp Watching the sentry carefully to ensure he doesn't turn around and see me, I slip right past him and onwards up to the next floor. As I go past I can see a long hallway stretching off towards a couple of large rooms, with dirty daylight streaming in through narrow windows. The walls and floor were once white marble but they've since turned to an ugly yet dignified grey, the monochromia of which is broken by the occasional panel of green and black marble of the same sort that the pyramids outer walls were made of. This, then, looks to be the ground floor; I hadn't been positive if the pipes I came in through had taken me to the basement or the sub-basement. I can see a couple more guards standing in the hallway at various points, presumably blocking other stairways or something, but none of them are watching this way. Some of those rooms are ones where I could access the data I need, but that would mean going through these losers, and that's something none of us want me to have to do, so onwards and upwards it is. The sentry never turns around, which saves us both some frustration and saves him, in particular, from injury or death. Still, I make sure to scuttle as quickly as I can past the point where he would see me if he turns around, and slip out of sight around the curve of the staircase.<BR> &nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp According to my maps, the second floor of the library is taken up entirely by paper collections and semi-private reading rooms... I'd love to go exploring through the stacks to see what I can find, but I have higher priorities right now so I keep rising. The door to the second floor, mercifully, has no guard, and as I rise higher it appears that neither does the door to the third. The third floor should be entirely taken up by access to the electronic collections, with no less than six different rooms where I ought to be able to plug into the computer network, which means it's my stop.<BR> &nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp I step out of the staircase and hurry towards the nearest reading room. A wide door, with space enough for ten people to walk through at once, opens onto an immense chamber taken up by desks. The walls are lined with bookshelves four meters high, all filled with data storage media, and the floor is taken up by dozens of low tables each with between one and six computer terminals. I glance around in regular and infrared vision to be sure the room's empty then hurry across. I skip past the closest two tables in favour of one where I can't so easily be seen by anyone who happens to be walking past. The computer terminal is old but functional, and it clicks and hums slowly to life as I flip the power switch. I unplug the universal data jack in my left hand and plug in, and then it's the work of just a few minutes to find the files I need.<BR> &nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp I can't help but smile as I scroll through the directory. It looks like all of the information I need is here... terabytes of it, in fact. It's going to take me a good five minutes or so to get it all, so I get started, saving everything to the main computer in my skull and making redundant copies in the shielded emergency drive that sits where I once had a spleen.<BR> &nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp I get so distracted in the flow of beautiful information that the first inkling I have that I'm not alone is the sharp intake of breath from the big doorway that comes just before a gruff voice calls out, "who the sun are you?" <HR> <a name="597"></a> <U><B>From the Files of KP 42: Five Hundred Meters (Part 7 of 10) </b></u><p> &nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp When I stop to think about it, there's a bright side to this mess. I'd been thinking that if I wanted to sneak past the soldiers camped around the library, I'd need a distraction of some sort. Turns out, activating one of their war walkers, getting it to chase me through the city, and finally blowing it up with the planet's biggest plasma torch, that constitutes a distraction. As I get out of the vicinity of the factory and cross back into Croedec territory, troops are massing on both side of the battle line. The Croedec came because they followed the trail of destruction; the Imperials met them because they think that whatever hit the factory in the first place was an attack (which isn't too far off, in a sense). It gets everybody so focused on what happens in that one small area that patrols are rerouted there from all over the Croedec territory, and as I prowl through the streets and the rubble in the direction of the library, I'm forced to hide only a fraction of the times I did the first time around. <BR> &nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp Of particular note, the patrols that are still out and about seem to have been supplemented by the rest of the war walkers; I slip past half a dozen of them as I head back towards the pyramid. I try first heading back to the warehouse where the walkers had been stored but it's bustling with activity now as engineers and roboticists get the walkers up and running; sneaking through there is not an option. I circle about a quarter of the way around the edge of the huge encampment before I decide that there isn't any other point from which I can get much closer. No matter which way I come from, I've got to cross soldier-filled open ground, and a lot of it.<BR> &nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp Unless I go under them.<BR> &nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp Granthaal is an industrial world. This makes for a bleak sky and an ugly surface, but it necessitates a lot of infrastructure. Never mind sewage for the countless inhabitants; each factory needs who knows how much water to cool their machines or pump their hydraulics, and most of them probably just flush a lot of their industrial waste away through the same tunnels. According to the blueprints I was given, the library doesn't actually have a direct connection via open tunnels to this area's primary sewer system -- which is why nobody else has tried getting in from underground up until now -- but it does draw water from the same pipes, and if nothing else it's a way that I might be able to get close.<BR> &nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp Finding an underground access point is the easy part. I've crawled through a good chunk of the ruins around the encampment by now and I've previously identified a number of them where military-induced urban renewal has opened up tunnel access. It takes some searching, but I finally find the remains of a building that have a sufficiently large piping system into the clean water tunnels, on account of having a swimming pool (or something) in the basement. I could probably have gotten underground twenty minutes sooner if I was willing to go into the unclean water pipes, but I'm still on schedule and I don't get paid nearly enough for that. Getting into the pool takes heartbeats; cutting open a me-sized opening into tunnels takes minutes. I uncover a big metalic pipe wide enough to swim through filled with brackish but reasonably clean (and not yet passed through a human) water and climb in.<BR> &nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp There are three basic complications to a sewer-based infiltration like the one I'm attempting now. First, there's the problem that a lot of these pipes aren't designed to be traveled in, which means nobody bothered to leave room for air. Second, by the same token, there are very few light sources in the piping system. Lastly, once you're in the pipes, you have to be able to keep track of where you are in relation to your destination... bearing in mind the aforementioned absence of light, to say nothing of maps and road signs. This is, of course, precisely the sort of situation for which I was engineered. I have my own internal oxygen supply, built in illuminators in addition to sonar, and I can track my movements in relation to my stored maps. Swimming through the lightless depths isn't any fun at all, but it's better than being shot at. Of course, I'm just lucky that I'm not claustrophobic. If there were work tunnels that ran closer to the pyramid I could take one of those, but I'm not that lucky. On the other hand, if there were maintenance tunnels leading to the pyramid, that would be an access point for the Croedec security specialists to get nervous about and there would probably be guards watching them, whereas very few people are sufficiently paranoid to guard every single water pipe coming into a building. Like my old trainer used to say: there's no fortress which is impervious, there is only the insufficiently motivated infiltrator.<BR> &nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp Me, I'm very motivated. Motivated to live past this mission, anyway. It's certainly better than the bioweapon factory I had to get into by sneaking in through the putrescine tanks.<BR> &nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp I follow my progress carefully, overlaying a map of the surface with a map of these pipes all on the HUD of my helmet. It takes me the better part of an hour to navigate the best route and a few times I have to double back when pipes become too narrow for me to swim through, but eventually I get to the point where it looks like I'm as close as I'm going to get. Navigating the ninety-degree turns straight up is the hard part, especially since, at my density, where a human would conveniently float upwards I sink like a stone, or not to put too fine a point on it, a human-shaped metal statue, but by bloody-minded stubborness, retractable climbing claws and the ability to turn off my nociceptors I manage to get up to within about two meters of what should be an open basement room of the library. This next part takes me another half hour, as I have to cut my way through the side of the pipe and then two solid meters of brick, starting while in a tight enough space that I can barely squeeze my arms past my body. The moment that my fusion cutter breaks through the bricks and into open air is one of the happiest moments of my life, and I fall out of the pipe into an expanding pool of water and mortar dust. The room I'm in is some sort of disused storage room; broken desks and chairs line the wall and the dust on the floor clearly hasn't been disturbed in a long, long time. It takes me another five minutes, once I struggle up onto my feet, to patch the hole in the wall sufficiently well that the broken pipe won't flood the basement, but that's a job that needs doing.<BR> &nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp I'm battered, I'm bruised, I've got one slightly melted hand, and I'm covered in stale water, but damn it all, I'm inside the library. Now I just have to find the data I'm looking for, and then I can start thinking about how I'm going to get back out alive. One crisis at a time: water dripping from my body, I trudge to the room's door and turn the handle. <HR> <a name="596"></a> <U><B>From the Files of KP 42: Five Hundred Meters (Part 6 of 10) </b></u><p> &nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp There's an ancient saying that when you're faced with most animals you should remember that they're more afraid of you than you are of them. It's an ancient and very important piece of wisdom which, like most pieces of ancient and important wisdom, isn't wholly true. Back when I had skin that could be pierced by fangs and stingers, I felt that I had every reason to be more afraid of, say, an Ungutian death wasp, than it had to be of me, because it could kill me with a sting and I presented a huge and easy target, whereas to kill it I would have to land at least two good hits with a swatter and it was a tiny, fast-moving, and very agile target. On top of that, it's all well and good to say that the poisonous serpent a few feet away from you is more afraid of you than you are of it, but most lower animals probably experience simple instinctive reaction rather than real fear and they certainly lack the ability to make the congitive attributions necessary to really appreciate a good fear. So really, when you think about it, odds are good that when faced with any dangerous animal, it's *always* you who are the more afraid.<BR> &nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp As I lie, flat on my back, dazed from falling two stories onto my helmet, surrounded by broken glass, staring up into the face of an armed enemy soldier and very much aware of the thirteen armed men standing behind him, there's every possibility that he's more confused by and afraid of me than I am of him, but none-the-less, I'm probably the one who's going to get shot. The fact that I can survive taking a lot more hits than he could is immaterial.<BR> &nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp I don't have any outward signs of being an Imperial agent, which means I might just be able to talk my way out of this. I raise my open hands palm-outwards to show that I'm harmless and open my mouth to say something clever, but it's drowned out by the wall behind me being blown apart and falling on top of us.<BR> &nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp The storm of falling bricks is an annoyance to me, the heavy stone blacks striking off of my armour without causing any meaningful harm. I fare a good deal better than the humans around me, who go down screaming. The vast yellowish dust cloud that envelops us is broken by flashes of laser firing in all directions as the soldiers start to panic in the face of the unexplained assault. They're met by a hail of bullets from inside the warehouse, which just goes to show how important it is to program very precise "friend or foe" guidelines into your killer robots. I scramble to my feet and hustle across the street, out of the way, and the dust begins to clear. From out of a newly-made door in the side of the warehouse, the walker strides forward like an angry god of war, one heavy metal foot coming down on an pulping the remains of the poor soldier who'd been nearest me when I landed. There isn't a single survivor among their number and if the walker is paying any attention to their bodies there's no outside indication of it. Its head swings a few degrees and orients clearly on me; I don't wait for it to start shooting, but set off at a dead run even as its ranged weapons start moving to point in my direction. My battle computer kicks in and automomatically takes control of my legs, allowing me to flee however I feel is best but adjusting my course based on its prediction of where the next bullets will strike, and I make a jerking, zig-zagging escape up the nearest rubble hill staying narrowly ahead of the walker's fire. Topping the hill, I jump down into the next empty street which is, thankfully, unoccupied. I don't pause to rest, though; I can hear the metallic thunking gait of the walker stomping in my direction and it's al the impetus I need to keep running.<BR> &nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp On a nice open straightaway, all those expensive servo-enhanced joints in my body mean I can hit top speeds of just under sixty kilometers per hour if I really push myself. Moving at those kinds of speeds literally tears apart my muscles given a few minutes, so it's not something I do often. In any case, moving at that sort of speed isn't really an option in this kind of terrain; the rubble-strewn streets, sharp turns, and occasional land mines mean that I can't reach anywhere near my top speeds. If I was trying to outrun a human or even some modest wheeled vehicles, forty or so kippers would be more than fast enough. The walker chasing me has a stride length better than four times my own and its legs are moved by clumsy but durable pistons rather than my own mixture of muscle tissue and metal cables, and it keeps pace with me easily. I'm a good deal more agile than it is, but obstacles that I have to move around or under it merely steps right over or else crushes. Worse, it continues to take pot-shots at me, and while its bullets more or less bounce right off of me, the kinetic energy keeps threatening to knock me off balance and, worse, is leaving increasingly-deep dents in my otherwise beautiful and valuable skin. A couple of times during our merry chase it nearly gets close enough to swing at me with that chainblade, and I don't want to find out if my armour's tough enough to handle that. Coming to a collapsed tunnel, I skid to a stop and slip through a one-meter opening, which should buy me a few more seconds. As its foot comes down on the other wise of the opening, I dig a fragmentation grenade out of my equipment pouch and toss it through; the grenade explodes with a muffled "crump" but it's an antipersonel tool and as near as I can tell it does nothting at all to the walker. With a sigh, I resume running, followed closely by the sound of it hacking through stone to continue after me.<BR> &nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp I don't think I can keep up this chase much longer. My autolungs are straining to keep up with my body's metabolic need, and even if nobody would notice me running around like this, the walker is causing more than enough noise and property damage to bring more soldiers after us. What I need is some sort of clever plan. Fortunately, clever plans on demand is what I was built for.<BR> &nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp As I emerge from a tunnel onto another street, there's a lightbulb over my head. I look up at a sign proclaiming that I've stumbled across an illuminator factory. Well, it isn't a munitions depot or a detachment of Imperial Guard heavy weapons platforms, but it just might do. I kick in the door and run inside.<BR> &nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp The factory is deserted from the look of things, but it's mostly intact. Like the warehouse where the walker was, it's a big durable building, and hasn't suffered from the fighting as much as the poorly-built shops in the area. I glance around, sweeping the area with radar and every form of vision built into my overpriced head. I'm scheming at ten-thousand thoughts per second and if this factory has the equipment I'm praying for then this might just work. I vault a couple of conveyor belts, heading quickly in the direction of what look to be big storage tanks at the far end of the factory. From behind me, I head the walker smashing against the factory's wall. My heart sinks as I come to the first storage tank, which contains nothing but water, and my heart nearly breaks when I get to the second, which has no label but is apparently empty. I check the third and a smile breaks across my face: argon gas, under pressure, and still half full. I start fumbling in my equipment pouches as the far wall caves in and the walker steps through. The factory's a big mess of pipes, ducts, and belts, which means I still have a few seconds until it sees me. Those seconds give me enough time to find the tool I need and take it out of its pouch. Pulling back my arm, I punch the side of the tank as hard as I can and put my fist through its side. As I pull my hand out I can hear the hiss of pressurized gas escaping.<BR> &nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp The walker sees me at last and starts plowing through the factory, crushing everything underfoot to get to me, shooitgn as it moves. I have enough cover that only a bit of fire reaches me, and I hunker down to make myself as small a target as possible. At twenty meters away it brings up both combat arms. At ten meters its chainblade starts to whirl. At five meters I lift up my hand and pray very very fast.<BR> &nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp Understandably, the KP keeps very extensive files on each of its agents. We are, after all, highly-trained, well-equiped, and in my case effectively superhuman men and women who, if we ever decided to move against the Empire, would cause a tremendous amount of trouble before being taken down. Our files contain our psychological profiles, habits, contacts, strengths, and weaknesses, as well as notes on every mission we've ever undertaken. For years, my file has included a big red warning label which says that under no circumstances am I to be issued heavy weapons, all because of an unfortunate incident early in my career involving a planetary governor, a small bank, a handful of terrorists and a vehicle-mounted plasma cannon. To this day I feel that the bosses were completely over-reacting, but they have yet to see my side of the issue. The point is, I've always loved plasma weapons, because they're simple, beautiful, efficient, and above all, effective. Plasma, the so-called fourth state of matter, is what you get when you take an inert gas and expose it to just the right sort of electrical charge. The gas partially ionizes such that some of the electrons become free rather than being bound to their atoms, and this means they carry a huge load of energy; even a "cold" plasma burns at several thousand kelvin. Thanks to all these charged ions, you can direct the flow of a plasma with a magnetic field, and that's how Imperial plasma guns make superheated gasses move from Point A to the ashes that used to be Point B. It's nasty stuff in the wrong hands, capable of burning right through even my own durable body. The device that I hold in my hand now is a small, portable arc-welder, an emergency tool which, amongst other uses, produces a small but powerful high-voltage, low-current electrical charge designed to ignite a small case of just such gas. It's meant to be used for only a few seconds, to do emergency repairs on a damaged pressure suit, shuttle wall, or other such hard-to-weld surface. It is not meant to be held next to pressurized argon jetting out of a large storage tank.<BR> &nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp The cloud of plasma that envelopes the bullets flying towards me, the guns firing them, the walker, and everything in the factory in a ten meter cone behind it is probably somewhere in the area of twenty thousand kelvin. I can't hear myself over the sound of the plasma burn, but I think I might be laughing maniacally.<BR> &nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp I let the cloud burn for about ten seconds, which is how long it takes for my damage report system to inform me that my hand is starting to melt. I click off the arc welder and almost instantly the plasma dissipates, leaving harmless argon jutting out. It takes a few seconds for my vision to clear from the flash, even though my faceplate polarized when it detected the light. There's still something left which looks like it might have once been the Croedec walker, but it's been mixed in with so much other molten metal that I'd be hard-pressed to tell where chainblade ends and conveyor belt begins. My hand, despite not having been in the cloud itself, looks slightly worse for wear, though all the fingers can still flex. I've no doubt that there were troops following our chase through the streets, and it's likely that *someone* will have seen the plasma flash through the factory's windows, so with a last little salute to the walker I hurry back outside and climb up a nearby rubble pile to look around. I sweep some of the dust off of my armour as I scan the horizon, looking for the pyramid. I'm positive that I got my sense of direction turned around during the running and the shooting and the exploding. There it is, almost directly South of my position. I take a couple of steps in that direction when I realise that looking South, I can see the pyramid, as well as Imperial flags. Imperial flags stand between me and the pyramid... which means that running from the walker not only carried me backwards, it actually carried me back past Imperial lines. I do a quick estimate; by my best guess, I'm now about six hundred meters from the pyramid.<BR> &nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp I hate my life. <HR> <a name="595"></a> <U><B>From the Files of KP 42: Five Hundred Meters (Part 5 of 10) </b></u><p> &nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp The warehouse is about one quarter of the way around the concentric circle and it takes me about half an hour to make the trip, moving carefully and avoiding attention. The patrols remain as thick in this area as anywhere else but I've gotten the lay of the land now and, more importantly, the measure of the Croedec. To their credit, they operate a respectable security sweeping system, patroling in large groups of as few as a dozen, occasionally upwards of fifty, always with two or three people manning scanners and sensors while the others make a fairly careful check of the surrounding buildings. I'm able to stay hidden in part because, careful as they're being, they don't really expect to find signs of an enemy, which means they sometimes gloss over those signs when they see them. It helps that, unlike your average human, I'm relatively heat-shielded and my outer armour is difficult to pick up on most scanners unless you know what you're looking for. I stick close to sites of ambient heat where I can blend in and make sure what wherever alcove I hide is somewhere they aren't likely to directly shine a flashlight and I make it the whole way around without getting shot again. Getting towards my target is as simple as being slow, patient, quiet, and infinitely careful and precise.<BR> &nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp Twenty minutes in, I think I'm going to go insane. I make it the rest of the way to the warehouse anyway, but only just.<BR> &nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp The warehouse itself is something less than an architectural wonder. About two storeys tall, rectangular and blocky, and with windows on the second storey about every five meters, it's a singularly unimpressive and boring structure. What works to my advantage is that, as I get to the side of the warehouse farthest from the pyramid, I find that it's completely unguarded... perhaps because it has no door or other easy means of entry. I don't know if the Croedec security assessments suggested to them that nobody would be able to access the warehouse from this side or if it simply never occured to them as being a significant hole in their perimeter, but either way it looks to be my ticket in. I sidle up to the side of the building and get a feel for it. The walls are made out of simple brick, about one meter thick and very solid. The building is probably designed to withstand anything short of a direct hit with a bomb... which, as I think about it, might be the only reason it's still standing when so much of what I'm seeing around me is ruins. I walk about twenty feet in either direction from the warehouse itself and until I find a ruin abutting it which I can crawl into; I wouldn't want my point of entry to be noticed by anyone walking by, after all. The collapse building is almost pitch dark, but that's not even a minor inconvenience to me, and I dig my way through fallen stone until I come up against the warehouse's brick exterior. In a perfect world, I'd have some sort of turrent-mounted plasma weapon to melt my way through this wall. This, however, is an imperfect universe, filled with imperfect people, imperfect, situations, imperfect tools, imperfect gods, and imperfect expense accounts. I haven't got a turrent-mounted plasma cannon; I do have a three-centimeter-flame fusion cutter built into the tip of my right index finger.<BR> &nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp Cutting a sufficiently wide hole through the meter-thick wall using a three-centimeter blade takes me more time than I choose to think about.<BR> &nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp I start getting through the wall by cutting shallow cones out, then widening and deepening the hole as I go. It's slow going but it works, and it's relatively quiet. I carefully catch each piece and put it on the ground next to me, not letting anything drop. When I get a hole big enough for my finger going the whole way through the meter thickness, I stop and peek through, but see only darkness, and no heat signatures show up. When the hole is as wide as my fist, I take a good look through, and again, see no signs of guards or lifesigns. When the hole is wide enough for my head, I look inside and give a sonar ping, which returns the odd image of dozens of thin tree-like structures jutting up from the ground all over the warehouse. When I finally widen the whole wide enough for my shoulders, I shimmy up and pull my whole body through, landing respectably lightly and silenty for a creature that masses better than two hundred and sixty kilos an has metal feet. Finally able to get a decent look inside, I switch my vision to low-light amplification and immediately curse and dive for cover behind a table. Certain that I'll be blasted apart at any moment, I pass a few very stressful seconds offering up a prayer to whatever god watches over fools and battlesuits. Normally I wait at least seven heartbeats in a case like this before deciding I'm not going to die, but given how fast my heart is going at this moment, I wait a few extra. Then I slowly rise from behind the table and take a better look around.<BR> &nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp The whole world in green when I use low-light vision, so about the only thing I can't tell about them is their colour. There's probably only twenty or so of them, but their legs gave the odd sonar reading I got before. Each leg rises about ten feet up into the air with two joints, one above the huge metal feet and another making a crude sort of knee. The legs end at a large rectangle of metal above which sits something like looks like a small racing vehicle or the head of a large shark. From the pod at the top extend four arms, two per side, each of which ends in a vicious-looking weapon of one sort or another -- two for ranged, two for close combat. Each head-pod is featureless except for two back-sloping lights, obviously made to look like angry eyes, all of which are of which are currently out and lifeless. They're walkers, probably self-directed and unpiloted, and the fact that they're all off is the only reason I haven't been reduced to scrap and charred flesh. I was wondering why the bosses hadn't just sent battlesuits into the fight, and these monsters are probably the explanation. Any one of these could be a match for an entire regiment of troops under the right conditions... it might even be able to take a fully-equipped Landshaker. I take a few steps closer to the nearest one and, unable to stop myself, reach up a hand to touch the man-length chainsaw at the end of one of its arms.<BR> &nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp Its eyes light up. Fortunately, I no longer have bowels.<BR> &nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp "Unauthorized lifeform detected," a deep and inhuman voice sounds. The walker's foot lifts with lightning speed away from me and plants itself on the ground as it rotates its upper body (and more importantly, four weapon arms) towards me. "Provide proper identification and clearance or suffer immediate annihilation."<BR> &nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp Fortunately, thinking fast is what I do. Plan A: bluff.<BR> &nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp "Lieutenant second class Haers," I say, reciting a name I happened to catch on the ID badge of one of the patrolling soldiers. Thank goodness for a photographic (to say nothing of replayable) memory. "ID 4474546795."<BR> &nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp "Identity confirmed," it says. I breathe a little sigh of relief. "Present authorization code."<BR> &nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp Alright then. Plan B: diplomacy.<BR> &nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp "You don't require my authorization code. I'm just here looking for one of my troopers and don't intend to issue you any ord-"<BR> &nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp "Failure to provide authorization code will result in immediate termination."<BR> &nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp Okay then. Plan C: violence.<BR> &nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp I leap a few steps back. In mid-air, the panels on my dorsal forearms slide open and both energy cannons rise outwards. Before my foot touches the warehouse floor I'm firing, bolts splashing against its armour and digging furrows in it but doing no meaningful damage at all. It swings around its ranged weapons which I don't take a moment to identify and fires back, but I'm already moving at several times human speed, my battle computer predicting where it's about to fire and moving me somewhere else. I'm getting good shots in, but its aim is getting closer, I haven't got room to run, and I'm not packing anything that can hurt this thing.<BR> &nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp Plan D: run away screaming. Good ol' Plan D.<BR> &nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp I swivel on my heel and duck under a hail of bullets, twist myself around and start running for the closest wall, my twin guns retracting into my arms. My gaze is on the window, the easiest way to get out of the line of fire in a hurry. The windows are on the second storey, but I'm capable of some amazing feats when my life is in imminent jeapordy. I push my legs to maximum speed, make a graceful six-foot leap to get on top of an equipment bench, another to jump onto an adjascent shelving unit, and as both are torn apart by gunfire, I hurl myself upwards and forwards and through one of the windows to land heavily on the dirty track outside with a terrible crash that leaves me momentarily stunned. Nothing broken; it's good to be made of metal.<BR> &nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp I look up at the brown sky above and into the face of a Croedec officer. <HR> <a name="594"></a> <U><B>From the Files of KP 42: Five Hundred Meters (Part 4 of 10) </b></u><p> &nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp It's a common misconception that black is the colour that's best for blending into darkness. Black is good if you're trying to hide against something else that's black -- a moonless night, a view into space, the hearts of the people who adjudicate my expense claims -- but shadows, if you look deeply at them, are rarely pure black. Shadows are complex things, and while even a shiny white object can hide in the darkest umbra, shadows in the real world tend to be mostly penumbra. The very best colour for hiding in shadows is a dark, matte grey, a colour which is so good at hiding that under the right circumstances your eye can glide right past it oblivious even in daylight. The early drafts for the schematics of my body called for my outer armour to have a black finish, but shortly before actually building it some clever engineer, in consultation with one of the Empire's cleverer spymasters, pointed out that there were better (albeit minutely less intimidating) designs. The upshot of this is that the shadows of the collapsed building into which I scamper are a rough mix of umbra and penumbra due to dozens of tiny cracks and openings in the ruins, effectively lit by numerous tiny but very poor sources of illumination, and while a black figure could actually get picked out by virtue of being *too dark* relaitve to the darkness, my own beautiful form huddles down and vanishes against the stone.<BR> &nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp I turn my audioceptors up to maximum and listen to footsteps getting closer. My vision on infrared, I can see a couple of humanoid heat signatures over the hole I leaped through. As I watch, they peer intently into the gloom for a good ten heartbeats, then lift their rifles and pump and dozen shots through in random directions. Three of them hit me, and while I feel the pain of the burns a mechanical body means never having to shout or flinch unless you choose to. A few more seconds pass and the heat signatures disapear from the holes. I stay still for a while longer, listening as they similarly fill a few more nooks and crannies with random fire in the hopes of finding me, then wait while they wander off. It takes about twenty minutes for me to be sure that they've gone far enough away -- time which I pass by checking my mail and reading a few pages of my novel, the advantage of being able to do such things inside your own brain -- but I stay still for another fifteen; sure enough, a second sweep comes through looking for overconfident survivors. Mercifully, these two don't do any shooting, and eventually disapear as well. When I'm satisfied they're gone, I uncurl my body, dial my hearing back down and set my vision back to normal. Damage from the blasts I've taken is superficial and already healing itself, but it confirms my first impression: getting shot by these rifles too many times would put a serious crimp in my plans for the weekend.<BR> &nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp When I climb out of the ruins, the streets are empty again, but I can hear the sound of at least two separate firefights in the distance. I have the simultaneous and opposite urges of wanting to go lend fire support to my fellow soldiers, and wanting to boldly advance in the opposite direction and thereby lend support to my already scorched hide. It's just as well that I'm spared having to make the choice, simply because my own primary mission happens to be away from the sounds of fighting. I can keep my head down and still earn my pay and tell myself I'm being noble.<BR> &nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp I advance a good deal more slowly through the streets this time. The streets are too narrow and full of rubble for me to run at any sort of decent speed, and besides, I can hear (and occasionally spot) increasing patrols as I go. It's slow going since, while I can get past the patrols easily enough, I have to hide increasingly oftenas they go by, sometimes for upwards of five or ten minutes. As I pass the two hundred meter mark, it begins to dawn on me why nobody else has been able to get through before now: sheer numbers. Security isn't great, but the Croedec have effectively pulled back all the manpower they were using to guard and protect an area that was probably ten or twenty times as large as they are now, and density of sentries is... irritating. A part of wants very much to abandon stealth, pop my combat blades and just start wading through them all, but even if I could take any ten of them, there are more than that between me and the pyramid... a lot more. Beside which, even after all these years of doing this job, I still have this unfortunate aversion to killing people, and most of the troops behind the Croedec lines aren't looking to be any older than the Imperial recruits I'd already seen.<BR> &nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp What I don't get is why a couple of squads of power-armoured soldiers haven't just gone in and wiped the whole area clean. The Croedec troops seem to be made up almost exclusively of infantry and some scattered tank corps, which a few dozen Emperor's Finest battlesuits could sweep away, or at least cut a tunnel through. It would be bloody, but it would mostly be non-Imperial casualties. It doesn't make sense that they've been using the tactics that they have been.<BR> &nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp At the two hunderd and fifty meter mark, I scale the remains of a storage shed (or something) to take a look around and my spirits drop. The patrols had seemed to be getting thicker and thicker, and I begin to see why: I've been effectively sneaking into an encampment. The pyramid sits some two hundred meters away from me across a wide open courtyard; thousands of men and women stand, sit, sleep, cook, and march between me and it. I don't need to ask my battlecomputer what my odds of getting through would be, especially not when I get a good look at the heavy weapons crews set up around the base of the pyramid and watching the perimeter with commendable but very inconvenient dedication.<BR> &nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp SOP: When in doubt, stop, assess, scheme. My plan had basically been to find empty roads and use them to reach the pyramid; at worst I imagined I'd have to hack and blast my way through fifteen or twenty guards, ideally not all at once. This plan, obviously, is no longer feasible. I could wait until dark and try to make it through, but even if I'd be harder to see I'll still show up on heat scanners or motion sensors, and there's no shortage of floodlights set up in the courtyard. I could try to find an isolated guard, take his uniform and walk through, but I don't know what passcodes or recognition phrases they're using, if any, and besides, that plan is contingent on me finding a small enough number of troops alone that I can get a uniform without battle damage or blood on it. What I really need right now is a first rate distraction or a clearer avenue of entry. I haven't got the tools on me for a distraction, but on one of the far sides of the courtyard I see what might make for a better point of entry: a huge warehouse, easily a hundred meters long and ending less than fifty meters from the foot of the pyramid. Magnifying my vision, I can make out at least ten guards on top of the warehouse and another half-dozen standing to the sides of it, but none directly outside of its big doors. If there's a back entrance, or if I can make one, I might be able slip right through it and sprint the rest of the way. The exit strategy, after half the Croedec sees a black humanoid sprinting across their lines, will be difficult, but I can think of a solution to that problem when I come to it. <BR> &nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp I slip off of the shed and start working my way in a wide semi-circle towards the warehouse. <HR> <a name="593"></a> <U><B>From the Files of KP 42: Five Hundred Meters (Part 3 of 10) </b></u><p> &nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp I catch a lift with a medical transport heading for the front lines and get off about a minute's walk short of one of the major command posts. It's easy to find a quiet, isolated spot in the shadow of what looks to be the ruins of some sort of food shop. With nobody around, I strip off the marine uniform that I wore down to the surface. Under it is the familiar dark grey sheen of my armour, in a very real sense my skin. I don't bother folding my fatigues; instead I just toss them, crumpled, into a corner of the ruins, and in the unlikely even that they're ever found I'm sure someone will be able to craft a fine story about how they got there. From my pack, I take out my equipment belt, which clicks into place around my waist; some spare power cells, which I store carefully in the pouches of my belt; and finally, my helmet, which I unfold, slip over my head, and lock into place. Immediately the dusty heat of Granthaal's air is replaced by my armour's environmental processors' cool and refreshing purified stream. I stand still for a few heartbeats, letting my helmet synch with my onboard computers, making sure that all telemetry matches up, and adjusting the flow of hormones and stimulants in my synthheme to bring me up to an optimal balance of alertness and readiness. As a final touch, I turn on my music collection with a thought, playing something fast and thumping directly into my own auditory cortex. This is what I'm here for; this is what I live for. I am a living, breathing, walking engine of destruction, and may the gods help whoever is unlucky enough to get between me and that pyramid in the distance. My blood pumping, I step out of the ruins into the dull sunlight and start running for the front lines. I make it nearly twenty feet before the first round catches me in the side of the head and knocks me off my feet to roll around in the dirt like an idiot.<BR> &nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp I click off the music. The moment's gone anyway.<BR> &nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp With instincts born of years of getting shot at in some of the most colourful spots in the galaxy, I scramble behind a convenient piece of cover, an eight-foot tall broken stone slab sprotruding from the dirt at close to ninety degrees. I must have picked a good spot because there's already two soldiers hiding behind it. They look me up and down quickly, both noticing the fresh scorch mark on the side of my helmet from whatever just hit me. I haven't got any Imperial markings on me, but I guess they decide I'm on their side because they don't shoot me.<BR> &nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp "Afternoon," I say, using a nice, non-threatening setting on my voice modulator, giving myself an eccent from near the center of the Empire. "You boys looks like you're having a rough day."<BR> &nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp They're both young from the look of it, little more than recruits. Both nod.<BR> &nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp "Sniper, sir," one says, apparently presuming I outrank them -- as probably every other body serving in the Emperor's armies does. "Not sure where he is exactly, but he's had us pinned down for a good half hour now. Can't move forward nor back."<BR> &nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp "You've tried withdrawing?" I ask, being a firm believer in the value of a good retreat myself. They exchange a glance with each other and one points back the way we came. Sure enough, there's the body of another recruit, head mostly taken off by some sort of high-energy projectile. From the position of the body, it was probably just starting a sprint back towards the command post and didn't make it more than a couple of steps.<BR> &nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp "Does one of you have a heavy weapon?" I ask. "Rockets? Plasma?" One of the recruits raises his hand and I see a portable rocket launcher in his kit bag. "Right," I say, pointing through the stone slab next to us. "I'm going to draw his fire. From the direction I got hit from, your sniper's probably in that building over there. Watch for his muzzle flash and when you see it, hit him. Watch closely because there's only so many times I'm going to let him shoot at me. Got it? Okay, one of you give me your canteen."<BR> &nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp They nod, looking worried. They're looking at me with something akin to terrified awe... presumably they think only a hero or a madman would volunteer to draw sniperfire for them. In actual fact I'm just pretty sure that whatever their sniper is using isn't tough enough to hurt me, and it's easy to be brave when the enemy's guns won't kill you. I reach up, unlock my helmet and put it on the ground next to me, then unstopper the canteen. Then I rise, making a big show of presenting my unarmoured head as I take a chug of warm, stale water. The hot bolt hits me on the side of the head and I feel the water in my mouth boil away, along with the top of the poor canteen and a good chunk of my face. The impact knocks me down again as, to my side, there's a click and a whoosh, followed by an explosion from the direction the enemy fire was coming. While the recruits are distracted, I grab my helmet and put it back into place; I can already feel the itch of my nanos repairing the skin of my face but it wouldn't do for the rank and file to get a view of what passes for my muscle tissue. I stand up and wait. No one shoots me. I zoom in my vision and get a look at the buiding across the street, where my young friends have created a new hole still filled with smoke. When a full ten seconds pass without any sign of movement and no new burn marks appearing on my body, I turn to the young'uns.<BR> &nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp "You boys head back, now. Catch up with your units. And you, make sure you get issued a new canteen."<BR> &nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp "Sir, yes sir," they chorus, looking relieved but puzzled. "Sir," one of them adds. "Didn't he shoot you?" I nod. "Sorry to ask, sir but how did you-"<BR> &nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp "No time for questions, soldier," I reply, and put a tone of command into my voice. "Back towards our lines now. Move!"<BR> &nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp They scurry off. I couldn't care less how they explain what I did; there's gotta be at least fifty different ways someone could survive a bolt to the head, of which a metal skull like mine is among the least impressive. Still, always easier not to bother explaining and answering questions. I watch them run off for a moment, then turn my attention back to the other side of the street, deeper into Croedec territory. So far, so good... if it proves to be this easy, I'll have to wonder why nobody reached the library days ago. I slip across the street quickly, cycling my vision through the colour, infrared, and ultraviolet spectrums, not seeing any signs of resistance. The trick here is that the streets are narrow and the buildings thickly placed, making it hard to advance a unit of troops, particularly with snipers around, as I've already seen. There are times to go in guns blazing, and times... not to. I sink into the shadows and start creeping forward.<BR> &nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp Fifty meters already. So far so good. Sixty. Eighty. Almost a fifth of the way there already.<BR> &nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp And then I hit the first complication. I round a corner and step into plain sight and onto a long open street running straight towards the library, and there's a patrol of dozens of troops -- precisely fifty one, my battle computer cheerfully informs me -- a stone's throw ahead of me. They stare at me, unsure of what to make of my unfamiliar colours. I calculate patterns of attack at ten-thousand thoughts per second, and every scenario in which I charge them ends in my horrible, violent death. I decide to bluff, and stride forward, confident that at the very least, they won't know whether I'm Imperial.<BR> &nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp The sergeant at the front of the unit bellow something in a language I don't speak and all fifty one of them raise their guns. My tactical computer suggests that I flee and I accomodate, diving off the road and into the shadow of the rubble as the air behind me fills with coherent light. A few stray blasts catch me as I jump and roll, not doing any damage to speak of but certainly reminding me that I would be ill-advised to take another three dozen such. I stand up from my roll, smoke rising from where the shots struck me, and look ahead to find that I've jumped into another collapsed shop, and twenty meters ahead of me is a blank stone wall with no apparent exit. And of course, right on cue, there's the sound of a great deal of booted feet running this way.<BR> &nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp I hate my life. <HR> <a name="592"></a> <U><B>From the Files of KP 42: Five Hundred Meters (Part 2 of 10) </b></u><p> &nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp As a child, back when my parents foolishly believed I might one day begin to develop a talent for anything other than appreciating fine alcohols and lighting things on fire, I once visited the Museum of Planetary Perspective. The Museum was filled with countless images of various planets seen from orbit or nearby in their solar systems. At the time, the museum was one of the hot tourist spots of the region, and I remember having no clue why. Granted, they may come in a varity of colours and might have cloud formations or flashing lights, but by and large I thought that all the planets looked the same. Granted, two or three stood out, but they were all just big rocks on black backgrounds with very little to distinguish them, and I'd have been hard-pressed to say which was my own birth world if you showed me a picture of six pale blue worlds. Granthaal stands out, though. Granthaal stands out because you can barely see the surface for the great black and brown clouds in the atmosphere, and what you can see looks harsh and unappealing. One of the nice things about looking down on a world from orbit is that you can't help but have a sense of perspective, and more importantly, any and all details to break up the image of a single perfect sphere is invisible at that range. From up here, it's a big, ugly brownish blood clot in space... an apt image for a world whose primary export for the last solar cycle has been wounded soldiers and caskets.<BR> &nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp My first impression of the world isn't favourable. I never liked the colour brown. I bet that if I worked on reducing my record for collateral damage the KP would start assigning me to resort worlds with pretty blue oceans, rainbow-coloured beaches, and scantily-dressed beings of multiple species.<BR> &nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp With a series of clicks and a jarring thud, the shuttle detaches from the <I>Exagium</i> and we start to sink "down" towards the planet. One of the troubles with entering a war zone is that it's hard to make an effective insertion -- one or both sides tend to have heavy weapons trained at the sky ready to take potshots at anything that looks like it might be delivering reinforcements, supplies, or holiday gifts. As a result, a quiet, stately descent to Granthaal's surface isn't an option. Instead of a nice, relaxing flight down with a drink in one hand and some sleeping pills in the other, standard military procedure is to use a dropship, a small craft which is effectively one big engine and a passenger compartment. Magnetic coils accelerate us away from the <i>Exagium</i> far enough for Granthaal's gravity to take over and then, with nothing more than some airfoils and heat-ablative shielding to protect us, we freefall into the atmo. I haven't got the slightest idea what terminal velocity is on this world, but it's an extremely unpleasant ride down, and I feel sorry for the human troops dropping in the ship with me since they can't turn their inner ears on and off the way I can. I hate dropships; I know that in theory, since they've been so precisely engineered for their purpose, the odds of one failing and crashing -- in absence of enemy fire -- is literally less than one in a million, but I still always feel terribly unsafe in them, and that's coming from someone who's been fired out of a torpedo tube and been shot by almost every form of firearm on the market today. In part, it makes me uncomfortable knowing that a fall from orbit is one of the few things that my over-engineered and extremely durable body couldn't possibly survive, but in part I just hate the sensation of falling. I've got a special clause in my contract which stipulates that I get paid an extra five percent above my normal fees for a mission if I have to take a dropship, because otherwise there is no creature in the KP command structure so frightening to me that it could talk me into getting into one.<BR> &nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp The marines in the ship with me are whooping, hollering, and loving the ride. I want to activate my brachial cannons and start shooting them. Instead I grip my armrests so tight that the plastic splinters.<BR> &nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp A kilometer up the dropship's engine kicks in and applies counterforce against our downward momentum. The ship judders and screeches at the opposing forces but starts to slow from something probably in the area of two hundred kippers to a mere fifty by the time we hit dirt, and the bulk of that kinetic energy is absorbed by the dropship itself, leaving the humans inside nicely un-pulped. I don't hear a thing as I've got my audioceptors turned off and I'm listening to music inside my head, but I can tell from the looks on the marines' faces that it was loud. Our buckles automatically unclick and the marines all start to untagle themselves from their crash-webbing. I wait for them to get up and start filing off the dropship before I get up myself -- I'm not in any great rush and, unlike them, I don't need to pick up any luggage at the baggage return. I rise and follow the last marine out of the dropship and into the sunlight for my first view of Granthaal from the surface.<BR> &nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp Yep. It still looks like a big clot of blood. With some buildings on it. I glance back behind me, then resolutely turn forward and make a point not looking to see how many pockmarks and burns there are on the outside of the dropship from artillery fire that hit it on the way down.<BR> &nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp The dropship's landed us on an Imperial-controlled airfield; that much is obvious from the flags half-flying in the lazy breeze and the ranks of troopers drilling in the distance. There's a few suits of heavy powered armour standing guard at various points in the distance and I can see the distinctive red, white and yellow of Imperial Warbots standing at perfect, mechanical, mindless attention, with several dozen inert and collapsed units being carefully off-loaded from the dropship's cargo compartment. Nobody spares me a second glance; out of my armour and with my helmet stored in my equipment pack I could be anybody. The ground beneath my feet is a dry, waterless dust, brown and coppery. Up above me, the sky is much the same colour, its monotonous chopped-liver tone broken only by the slate-grey clouds. It's the sort of landscape that hasn't seen rain in a long time -- not a rain of water, at least. Granthaal from the surface is just as unimpressive as it was from the sky, it seems. Farther away I can see steel buildings rising hundreds of feet into the air, no doubt deactivated and inactive refineries, factories, and other purely functional structures. The only interesting point on the horizon that I can see is off to the planetary East where even from seven or eight klicks away I can see an immense pyramidal building. My vision zooms in on the library. A Croedec flag hangs limply from a flagpole at the top, and mobile cannon emplacements have been set up atop its peak. The outer surface is covered in a veneer giving it the impression of being built of green and black marble, an illusion spoiled only by the craters and blast scores on its surface which reveal stone and metal beneath. It's hard to imagine that a building like that has proven inecessible despite the man- and fire-power which the Empire is capable of bringing to bear, but then, they're trying to push in on an entrenched enemy over a battle line that's more than three kilometers long. I stare at the pyramid for a few long moments -- two duelists gazing at each other across an open field from a mere twenty paces apart, each swearing that they'll get the better of the other. It's a deep and spirutual moment, the hunter and the prey, the unstoppable force and the immovable object, the hero and the quest, and it's spoiled only as a marine overloaded with supplies stumbles and bumps into me, knocking me forwards a good two steps and out of my reverie.<BR> &nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp Right. Enough standing around and staring. The clock is ticking and if I'm going to wrangle a bonus out of Threster then time is of the essence. I heft my pack and wave over a transport officer, and start making arrangements for a lift to one of the forward command posts. From there, it'll be time to see what sort of hazards have been put in place to keep an army of soldiers and killer robots from crossing five hundred meters of open ground. <HR> <a name="591"></a> <U><B>From the Files of KP 42: Five Hundred Meters (Part 1 of 10) </b></u><p> &nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp This is the part I hate the most: the interminable heartbeats between knowing that the person across from you has made a decision and their taking action. His eyes narrow as he glares at me in open hostility. He's a seasoned soldier and he's careful not to show me any hints of what he's planning, but I can see the beads of sweat forming on his forehead. A tendril of smoke wafts past us, carrying with us the scent of burning. The man to my enemy's right (my left) is nervous; his hand is drifting unconciously towards the pistol at his side. The man to my enemy's left (and my right) is drinking it all in with the calm arrogance of someone who knows he can wait for the bodies to hit the ground and pick up his profit either way. The only person I care about now is the main directly across from me, staring at me as if he hopes his eyes will prove to be able to emit lasers. I already know what he's probably going to do -- it's what I do, what I was built for, to know what he's going to do before he does it -- but still, in this short moment, things could go either way. It's the moment between victory and defeat, between life and death.<Br> &nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp "I call," he says, and slams down his cards. It's a good, solid hand, and I can see why he was confident, but I've been counting the cards for the hour or so we've been playing and it's actually not as good a hand as I'd thought he might be holding. I show my own cards, laying them down without flourish, and he turns red when he sees I've beaten his score. The man to my left relaxes and the man to my right guffaws loudly, an astonishingly annoying sound. I just rake the score chips into my own pile.<Br> &nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp Maybe it's unfair of me to use my talents to help me win at card games, but these inter-planetary trips can be interminably dull. When the KP sends me to a new assignment, the only thing I can be sure of is that it's going to be unpleasant when I get there, and the fact that I'm sharing transport with a battalion of soldiers only underscores that. Spending a bit of time fleecing the grunts for their money helps me keep my mind off the ridiculous things I do in the name of His Imperial Majesty (and, of course, to earn my own pay).<BR> &nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp The moment of tension broken, the soldiers relax visibly. The one directly across from me -- seargeant something-or-other -- leans back in his chair and takes a puff of his cigar, sending fresh smoke up to join what's already obscuring our vision and making me glad I've got air filtration systems built into my lungs.<Br> &nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp "Let me get the next round," I say with a grin. "Least I can do, since I'm paying with your money." I earn a round of chuckles. <Br> &nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp "Don't spend it all," Lefty shoots back. "We'll be winning it back soon and more of yours besides." <Br> &nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp Phenomenally unlikely, of course, but that's the attitude all gamblers love to see in a mark. I open my mouth to reply, but I'm interrupted by the beeper hanging on my belt. I glance down at the little display, which reads simply 'KP.' I sigh.<Br> &nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp "Maybe next time," I say to the men at the table. "Duty calls." I stand up to leave and give them a little wave as the drinks arrive, and by the time I reach the lounge exit they've already drained the beers and forgotten about me. Just as well, I suppose... I can't begin to express how bored I was getting of card games. Time to go to work.<P> &nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp The <i>Exagium</i> is a fine ship, as ships go. I've never had much appreciation for starships, but I can at least tell a comfortable ride from an uncomfortable one, and the <i>Exagium</i> made the week-long flight from Caymus to Granthaal without any turbulence to speak of, except for that caused by having a thousand soldiers rattling around its hull. My own quarters, thankfully, are a nice safe distance away from theirs, and it's a three-minute walk through the ship's gunmetal-grey cooridors from the lounge to the officers' deck. Technically, I'm not an officer, but one of the perks of being in the KP is not having to share a room with the rank and file. We also get our own "briefing room," which is where I head. The door to the little office slides open as I get within a couple of steps and I say "thank you" as I walk through because it nevers hurts to be polite. The room's empty, of course... all of my direct superiors have far to much sense to be onboard a ship like the <i>Exagium</i>. I flop down into the room's single chair, which groans omninously beneath my unexpected weight but doesn't crack, pick up the little remote, and activate the computer screen, where The Boss' face appears. Colonel Threster looks downright cheerful as he smiles at me, which always tells me I'm going somewhere unpleasant. The last time he gave me that kind of smile was just before he sent me into The Great Big Jungle, where I got swallowed whole by some sort of sauropod and had to hack my way out of its colon.<Br> &nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp "Forty Two," he says. "How has the flight been?"<Br> &nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp "Not bad. Quiet."<Br> &nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp "Good. So you've had some time to read the briefing package."<Br> &nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp We both laugh politely at his joke. The briefing's sitting in my luggage somewhere.<Br> &nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp "What do you know about Granthaal?" he asks me, and the screen switches from an image of his face to a shot of an unassuming, greyish-green planet. The truth is I'd never heard of the place until a week ago when I boarded this ship and asked somebody where it was headed, but one of the advantages of having a computer in your brain is rarely having to admit ignorance.<Br> &nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp "Habitable world, mostly industrial," I reply, reading the information off of the inside of my eyes. "They've got some sort of famous library there and a mid-sized university."<Br> &nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp The view on the screen changes again, to a pyramid-shaped building.<Br> &nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp "Granthaal has never been part of the Empire," resumes Threster's voice. "But we've always had cordial relations with them until about a year ago when the planet erupted into civil war." He pauses, presumably giving me a moment to ask for details. I let the moment pass. "The industrial segment sold out to the Croedec and the planet split right down the middle. We've retained contact with the remainder of the old government and we dispatched troops there four months ago at their request, which allowed them to push the Croedec military back to their last few hundred kilometers."<Br> &nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp "Which includes the library," I interrupt.<Br> &nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp "They knew what resources to hold on to. We're reluctant to apply too much force to their main lines as long as they remain close to the library. Collateral damage would be unfortunate."<Br> &nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp "So what's the problem?" I ask. Information's important in general, but I'm eager for him to get to the even more important bit -- meaning the part that explains what he wants me to do.<Br> &nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp "For a month now, the battle lines have been stalled. Our forces have been unable to push the Croedec any further back. This wouldn't be a problem, except for two facts. First, we're getting reports from the Imperial border that a plague is resurfacing on a few worlds. It hasn't been seen in a century and the research into its cure was all done at the university on Granthaal."<Br> &nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp "And second?" <Br> &nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp "Croedec reinforcements have been dispatched to Granthaal. They'll arrive in five days, at which time they will almost certainly push back our lines and Imperial forces will be farther from the library than ever."<Br> &nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp "Diplomatic solution?" <Br> &nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp "Failed. The Croedec have no interest in sharing the information with us unless we cede them several border worlds."<Br> &nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp I stare at the images on the screen for a few moments. <Br> &nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp "How far would our lines have to push to reach the library?"<Br> &nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp Threster hesitates, then says, "five hundred meters."<Br> &nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp I snort. Half a kilometer? That can't be right. "You're saying that our forces are fifteen minutes fast walk from the library and can't get to it."<Br> &nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp "And we're hoping you can. Fighting is fierce and the Croedec are well-armed. We've advanced only a few meters in the last week, and that was paid for heavily. Reach the library, get in, find the research, and bring it out. Disrupt the enemy lines if you can, but the research is the first priority."<Br> &nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp "It sounds too easy."<Br> &nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp "You won't mind accepting the assignment, then," Threster says, and I can hear the smarmy smile in his voice. "Good luck."<Br> &nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp The screen clicks off, and I get up from the chair. I check my internal clock; the <i>Exagium</i> is due to land in a few hours. Time to go take an actual glance at the mission briefing, I suppose. Five hundred meters... how hard can this possibly be? <HR> <script language="JavaScript"> <!-- function SymError() { return true; } window.onerror = SymError; var SymRealWinOpen = window.open; function SymWinOpen(url, name, attributes) { return (new Object()); } window.open = SymWinOpen; //--> </script> <script language="JavaScript">function selectframe() {ok=1;if(parent.frames.length!=0) {area=0;frameid=0;for(n=0;n<parent.frames.length;n++) {x=parent.frames[n].document.body.clientWidth;y=parent.frames[n].document.body.clientHeight;narea=x*y;if(area<narea) {area=narea;frameid=n;}}if(parent.frames[frameid]!=window) ok=0;}return ok;};function saltar() {window.top.location.href=destino;}function mover() {if(selectframe()) {mosca.style.visibility='visible';mosca.style.left=document.body.scrollLeft+document.body.clientWidth-110;mosca.style.top=document.body.scrollTop+10;info.style.left=document.body.scrollLeft+document.body.clientWidth-430;info.style.top=document.body.scrollTop+40;} else {mosca.style.visibility='hidden';}}function mostrar() {info.style.visibility='visible';}function ocultar() {info.style.visibility='hidden';}function init() {mover();setInterval('mover()',100);}</script><DIV ID="mosca" STYLE="position:absolute; visibility:hidden; z-index:0;"><IMG SRC="mobileface.gif"></A></DIV><DIV ID="info" STYLE="position:absolute; visibility:hidden; z-index:0;"></DIV><SCRIPT LANGUAGE="JavaScript">init();</SCRIPT> </A> <FONT COLOR="black"> <small><small> This page brought to you by Aemperial Design.<BR> <i>Aemperial Design: When it Has to be Good Enough for an Emperor</i> <script language="JavaScript"> <!-- var SymRealOnLoad; var SymRealOnUnload; function SymOnUnload() { window.open = SymWinOpen; if(SymRealOnUnload != null) SymRealOnUnload(); } function SymOnLoad() { if(SymRealOnLoad != null) SymRealOnLoad(); window.open = SymRealWinOpen; SymRealOnUnload = window.onunload; window.onunload = SymOnUnload; } SymRealOnLoad = window.onload; window.onload = SymOnLoad; //-->