January 13th:

Albert is in the hospital.

He suffered from some breathing difficulties around lunchtime yesterday. He has been suffering from some mild flu for the past couple of days. After an afternoon nap he told his dad to rush him to the nearest hospital. 10 minutes before reaching it he passed out.

He is currently in the CCU of University Hospital. 4th floor, Menara Utama.

He has regained consciousness and is aware of his surroundings and responds to stimuli. He cannot speak as he is with oral breathing tube.

I will update this post as any developments take place.

Pray for him. God knows he deserves it.

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Update 1 ; January 14th:

Visited him today. He is being sedated. Still on breath assister. Doc says theres nothing wrong with heart, lungs etc. according to a CT scan that was taken and he should be fine by the end of the week. They're just keeping him for awhile for observation.

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Update 2 ; January 15th:


First step on the road to recovery.

Albert is now on minimal sedation. Hes started to complain furiously about the tube down his throat (which is a good sign). His mouth and lips are cracked a littl e since he hasn't been actually drinking anything and his throat is sore form the plumbing in his throat but other than that hes as well as can be expected.

He should be shifted out of the CCU to a regular ward soon, which is also good news as then at least someone can stay with him the whole time. Currently the fucking nurses there only know how to complain about Albert.

For those of you who don't know; Albert has a steel rod in his spine to keep him sitting straight. Because of this it is VERY uncomfortable for him to sleep on his back (he usually sleeps on his stomach). However, due to the various tubes going into him and the fact that this problem he is admitted for seems to be respiratory in nature they have placed him (yeap you guessed it) on his back.

Now this would actually be tolerable if he was shifted every 20mins or so but Noooooo our UH nurses are such busy little she-bitches aren't they? They're so busy comparing their notes on who the most troublesome patient is that poor ol 'bert has to literally scream to get anything done.

BTW my dad just suffered a heart attack and is admitted to IJN. He's gonna undergo an Angio-Plasty tonight.

All this and its not even been a week since my cousin was murdered.

What a great year its turning out to be...

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Update 3 ; January 16th:

Nothing much new to update today really. Albert is now entirely off sedation. His breathing has normalized. The Docs are still keeping him in the CCU for observation purposes. He is still complaining of pain in his throat because of the tubes and back because of the position he has to sleep in.

My dad also has just underwent the two Angio-Plasties successfully. He is conscious and well. They are also still keeping him in the IJN CCU for observation although the doctors assure me that he will be allowed to go home within the next week or so at the most.

That is all.

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Update 4 ; January 19th:

Visited Albert today.

He seems much better than before. Much more active. Much more cheerful. He is still on the ventilator although they are slowly weening him off it.

Thats where the good news ends though.
The docs are worried. If they remove the tubes Albert might have breathing complications again. If they leave the tube in there is a very very large chance of an infection. The alternative is a tracheotomy. Which literally means boring a hole in his neck so he can breathe. Not pretty and itself has a whole host of complications.

As for my dad hes back home now. Life's almost back to normal at my house again. Docs orders to rest (which my dad is studiously ignoring btw). Tough-ass dads FTW!

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Update 5 ; January 23rd:

Albert has just undergone the tracheotomy. He is right now sedated but stable. He cannot speak. He shall never speak again. He lost the only true asset he had; force of word. I will miss the sound of it.

My dad has been re-admitted to IJN. More chest pains.

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Update 6 ; January 26th:

Albert is out of the CCU. He is doing well with the tracheotomy. He is still in the cardiac ward thou but docs say he'll be fine. They say that if all goes well within a few weeks they can undo the tracheotomy and he'll be back to screaming profanities and telling jokes.

My dad got out of the hospital today. Kena sounding from the docs for not listening to their advice. LOL! Farnee!

Anywys, he's back home. I've hidden the car keys. And the laptop. So all is well in the Kwatra Household. :P

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Update 7 ; February 4th:

ALBERT HAS FOUND HIS VOCAL CORDS!
Doctors have just replaced the tube in Comrades throat to now enable speech. He called me at around 10a.m. Monday morning.

Things are finally looking up. =)

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Update 8 (Hopefully Update Final) ; February 6th:

Albert is going to be discharged later today.
Right in time for the Chinese New Year Celebrations.

A well wished Gong Xi Fa Chai to all of you guys.
An my deepest thanks for all the love and support that you all have shown Albert.

This year is living up to its Zodiac sign no? The Rat; Notoriously hard to put down.

;)

Love, Peace and Chicken Grease ya'll!

RANDTS is dead!
Or dying,
and so near death it no longer makes a difference.

My point? I am going to make like a dirty ol' sailor an' yell to the cap'n...

ABANDON SHIP!

But before i depart some apologies are in order...

Shine; sorry for dragging you into this in the first place. Hey at least you got to make fun of me to ppl you don't even know. :P

Albert; yea i know you intro-ed me to this place but heck it is getting boring.

Lastly Henry; I see you trying bro. I really do. And you are the better man for making this limp on as long as it will. It was indeed a pleasure my friend. Both to get to know you and write along side you.

Now that thats out of the way...

To Jared, Joe, HuiWen and all the other (ex)RANDTSters;
Jared; my fellow Poet and Sophist, and need i mention the Mr. Burns? but seriously and ~EeeExcelent~ individual.
friendly average Joe (who's a damn nice guy btw!), who i wish i got a chance to know better. ;)
and of cos
the lovely HuiWen; the only one of us who's artistry is unique to say the least and always an eye opener.
Dudes n dudettes; wish this turned out differently. See you around. It was tremendous fun.
Drop by my blog once in a while if you desire time wasting fiction. :P

http://thelifeofmebykwatra.blogspot.com

Ciouz.

This isn't a real post but hell i doubt anyones gonna complain.
So lemme just get down to it.

Merry Christmas ya'll! N a Happy Hanukkah!
And remember kids it might be Jesus's Birthday n all but its ol' santa who does all the work this time o' year. So leave out them Cookies n Milk will ya! ;P
Owh n btw. Check out what o'l Santa's been up to since last holidays...


RIDE ON REINDEER! YEE-HAW!

P.S. Does anybody have a Heavy Metal version of Jingle Bells? xD!

I was tagged by Henry who was tagged by Jared who was tagged by Jasmine.
So here goes... BANZAI!

(FYI the numbering is in romanised Punjabi. Enjoy!)

Ek. I am NOT gay...
Or bisexual or a fetishist. Neither am i an Eunuch or a Transvestite or under any other sexual subgroup. I am merely a well endowed heterosexual man who likes women in the way most men like women (no i am not being sexist either). Sorry to disappoint those who i might have disappointed, disappointingly. Especially you Shiny-O. >;P

Dho. I hate to hate.
But i love to love. No i do not love to hate. But i do hate those that hate to love. Simple no? Yea well, we Bhais are simple folk after all. (Hater Hurter) =D

Teen. I wish i could be a Scholar, a very rich scholar.
I like languages. I like Poetry. I like literature. I like to read and write. I would love to sit around in my Hugh Hefner Bathrobe in a giant wingback chair smokin pot, drinking Bailey's/Brandy/Tea/(insert cliche English beverage here) while reading some 13th century leather bound book. So yes a scholar then... ^-^

Char. I hate religion.
Don't get me wrong though. Its not God who i have a problem with (although i would like to give him the proverbial Bhai sized knuckle sandwich someday). Its the somewhat less divine race of men who i have a problem with. Why? Because we all preach unity and then turn about and segregate ourselves in His name. <- The Original Blasphemy. _|_ -_- \m/

Panj. Trust me, I am a liar.
I absolutely adore conventional wisdom. Why? Because it makes me sound smart/deep/wtvr. and because it does bring some semblance of simplicity in this complicated world. Owh n btw... at least I'm an honest liar. ;P

Chee. I am NOT brave.
Yes Shine i still recall you complimenting the size of my testicles. Why? Because Bravery is the will to act against your fear. I know not fear, and so cannot be brave. And even if i do have a fear, i do not know it. :)

Satt. I will be a doctor. (<- Hope)
Why? Because i wanna be RICH! And i wanna siphon the sick of their MONEY! Muahahahaha!...
But seriously, i have always been intrigued by the role of the medic/priest/healer/(insert fantasy restore class character of your choice here). I want to heal the world. And i want to do it one person at a time. () :D

Atth. I hate to tag ppl.
So i shall not. If any of you desire to share your eight random facts please do so and notify me. I am curious myself. (actually i just ran out of things to say but wtvr rite?) :P

As we dropped altitude and closed in on the beachhead, the Spectre groaned as Cowboy banked hard to the left. The call sign suited him well. He always wore an old straw farm hat, and those non-issue chrome plated sunglasses. I could never figure out how he got away with having them. He was always smiling, and he was the best pilot I had ever known.

Tommy the crows nest operator tapped me on the shoulder, and as I turned, I noticed a screen shot of the area we had just past. He shouted to me over the roar of the cannons.

"Do you recognize this geographic?"

"Yea we just flew by it," I called back to him.

"First CAV is about to get a rude awakening down there. We got Cubans flanking from the left, looks to be 30 or 40 men. The CAV's pinned down hard right now, and the Cubans are closing fast. When we make the next pass, paint the mark."

"Got it," I shouted.

"Remember, we are gonna be in close proximity to the big red one, so make sure you don't hose the whole place down."

"Give me a shout when we reach the mark," I said. I was exhausted from strafing the area with the chain gun. The vibration of the ship melded together with the constant side-to-side motion from the 105 mm howitzer, and the cannon fire could wear a man out in no time. Not to mention that god-awful hole at my feet, a result of the last burst of flak. It was making a horrible sucking sound now, as if it wanted to take my very soul.

Tommy motioned me again and said, "Here goes, sport. Be ready."

I blinked to clear my eyes and peered into the sights of the gun. The ground movement looked like a group of tiny ants marching in unison. It seemed as if they were going to make a single mass movement towards the first CAV. I didn't think they had a clue as to what was in store for them.

Tommy shouted "FIRE!" and I squeezed the trigger. Every seventh round was a tracer, but the Vulcan fires so quickly all you can see is a single arch of red light from its barrel. The frantic movement on the beach instantly stopped.

Tommy said, "You got 'em all man! No movement on FLIR!"

I felt a momentary sickness wash over me. Yes, I knew what they had planned to do. I couldn't let them massacre our people on the ground. My only thoughts were I had just done to them what they had wanted to do to us. I had to forget it. Clear my mind for now.

The Spectre shuddered hard from a violent blast of flak, and the aircraft waffled wildly from side to side. The tail rudder had been hit but the damage was minimal, and the ship slowly regained its posture.

The VOX radio channel crackled, and I heard cowboy tell the control aircraft we were heading to a higher altitude to re fuel. We started to climb and the AC130 moaned loudly. I wondered how much more we could take once we returned to the beach.

The Raven was a late 60's model, and I had no Idea how much combat repair she had undergone during Vietnam. I knew the fuel cells were still weeping from the botched repair at Hulbert Field, and I worried she might split her tanks at any moment.

Silence filled the ship as we rose above the 3000-foot mark. The looks of the faces on board were varied at best. The cannon operators were sweeping shells up, laughing, and joking. Tommy surveyed his information and went over charts with his usual conviction. Tipper, the loadmaster seemed nervous as he looked at various hard mounting points and checked the landing gear. I did some light maintenance on the Vulcan as I crossed myself, thankful I was still alive.

VOX crackled again as the KC135 tanker operator urged Cowboy to hold the Raven as still as possible to avoid a collision. It was plain to see this was not as easy as it sounded. The tail section must have been damaged worse I thought. After some harrowing moments, the connector was uncoupled, and we pulled away.

The Raven banked right and started her descent. If anyone had told me that I would be here 3 days ago, I would have laughed aloud, but it was real, and we were in the thick of it all.

Tipper's voice shattered the silence. "Are you alright Ark?"

"Yea buddy," I said. "I'm just trying to rest a moment and re group before we head back into the storm."

"Ok brother" he said. It looks as if this ol' girl has seen better days."

"What do you mean, Tipper?" I said.

"I think the Raven is damaged worse than any of us realize." he said. "We're leaking hydraulic fluid from the main and secondary cylinders, and I noticed a lot of slack in the tail rudder control wires."

"Thing is Tipper, This bird has never let us down unless you count the fuel cell repairs at Hulbert." I said. "I'm sure if we were in any kind of real trouble, Cowboy would find a nice soft place to set her down."

Tipper smiled and shook his head.

"No place to soft land here, kid." He said.

He headed off towards the rear of the Raven, and left me alone with my thoughts. I hoped he wasn't right, but he always was on this sort of thing. There was no way we could set down on the runway at Salinas. The Cubans still had ground control, and it might be hours or even days before anyone could land there. With all the ordinance we had dropped in that area, it might be damaged so bad that it was impossible to land on the island.

We dropped altitude again and Cowboy circled to the right. I checked the Vulcan and loaded a fresh volley of ammo into the breach. Everyone seemed anxious to get back, and I was worried about the lack of ground support since we had left to refuel. With only two spectre's circling the island, the "Crow" was the only one there at the moment. Sure, one spectre could do a lot of damage, but two were guaranteed to keep the wolves at bay.

We dropped the last few hundred feet and started to circle the island again. Immediately the flak burst and anti aircraft fire lit up the sky all over again. The next few hours seemed to race past as we continued to try to keep the enemy off the backs of our troops on the ground. We took several hits, but managed to stayed air born.

Suddenly I heard ground control's radio message to Cowboy.

"Areca to Raven" the controller said. "The runway is clear for you to land."

I waited for the reply from Cowboy, but there was only silence from the cockpit.

"Areca to Raven" The controller called again. "Do you copy? The runway is clear."

Again, the mic was silent. A million things went through my mind at that moment.

Did Cowboy not hear the radio transmission? Could everyone be dead in the cockpit? What was going on?

I unbuckled my harness and tapped Tommy on the shoulder. "I'm going up topside." I said.

Tommy looked around and said, "Hope everyone's alive up there"

I climbed the crew ladder slowly not knowing what I might find. If they were all dead, we were in a world of trouble. We all had a few hours of flight simulation, in the event that we had to limp home without a pilot but I prayed none of us would have to find ourselves in that position.

I looked around the cabin bulkhead, not wanting to see what I might find. As I looked I was thankful to see them all alive. The co pilot and Cowboy were having trouble controlling the plane and the navigator was frantically pouring over his charts trying to find the right approach to set the Raven down.

Cowboy looked back and saw me standing there, scowling.

"Why the sour look, Ark?" he asked in his usual unconcerned way.

"What the hell is going on up here, Cowboy?" I shouted.

"I ain't gonna lie to you," he said. "We are in a world of shit right now. The outside starboard engine is about to give out, and we've got major prop damage on the rest of them."

I could see that they were doing all they could to try and steer the Raven, but it looked like a loosing battle. We had too much damage, and there was no way we could stay in the air much longer.

At that moment, the engine died, and the prop feathered to a halt. As I looked out the starboard window, I could see the engine smoking lightly. Cowboy hit the extinguisher switch and the smoke dissipated into the slipstream. The prop on the engine was bent and chewed up, as if a huge dog had used it like a chew toy.

"You had better get strapped in back there, Ark." Cowboy said. "We are gonna try and set this big bitch down at Salinas."

I made my way back down the crew ladder and Tommy was standing there waiting for me. I didn't want to tell him or the others, but there was no turning back now.

"What's going on up there?" he asked.

"I gotta tell everyone." I said. "Listen to your headset"

"Listen up guys!" I said as I keyed the mic. "Were done up here. We've lost an engine, and we got major prop and control damage. Everyone needs to secure there weapons and strap in. Looks like we are gonna have to brace for impact at Salinas."

Jack, the new kid that operated the 105mm howitzer, said, "Crash? Damn man you got any good news to tell us?"

"Sorry kid" I said, that's all I got for the moment.

"I didn't sign up for this shit!" he whined.

I secured the Vulcan and buckled myself into the jump seat. I could not believe this was happening. Yesterday I was at Hulbert field happy as hell, and now I was going to crash into some god forsaken Caribbean runway and die in a thousand pieces. I thought about all the things I would miss. I could not believe I wouldn't live to see my son being born. All of this was just too much. I knew Cowboy would do everything he could to set the Raven down in one piece, and freaking out now wouldn't do me any good.

I though about what Para Rescue had done for me. It had taken a small town kid with no real direction, and turned him into a good man. I had learned so much about myself in the last few years, and I was proud to have been a part of all this. If I died and never got to see my son, I hoped someone would survive to tell him that I had tried to make a difference in people's lives. Tell him his dad had died doing what he loved. I hoped he would know that I loved him more than anything and that I had given my life freely so that he could live in peace.

We started our descent towards Salinas's airport. The ground control operator told us that the runway was clear, but that wasn't the case. The sky lit up around us as we rolled into position for the landing. I knew they were doing all they could down there to help us get down in one piece.

"Hold on to your asses!" Tipper cried out. "I can't get the rear landing gear all the way down. This shit is gonna hurt!"

The Raven slammed down hard onto the tarmac. The impact jammed me upwards towards the ceiling, but the jump seat straps held fast. I felt as if I was being compressed into a small box. Cowboy threw the turbo props into full reverse, and the sound was deafening. [At that moment, the nose gear gave way, and the Raven pitched downward towards the ground, the nose gear tore into the asphalt and shook the ship violently.]

"This is it." I thought. "Once the sparks from the gear start hitting those leaky wings, we will burst into flames."

Thankfully, this never happened. The Raven had slowed a bit, but not enough to make a complete stop on the runway. We missed the last stop markers, and plowed into the sand breakers at the end of the runway. The Raven continued along, and the jungle was closing fast in the cabin windows. To this day, I don't know how he did it, but Cowboy pulled up just short of the tree line. The AC130 ground to a screaming halt, and he killed the ships power and switched to auxiliary. The Raven would never fly again.

Cowboy called out "Report in! Is everyone alright back there?"

Everyone had survived the crash, maybe a little banged up, but OK. The emergency lights and warning signals made the inside of the Raven look like a Christmas tree. Cowboy killed all the alarms, and we all got ready to exit the plane.

"There's a lot of gunplay going on out there." Tipper said. "Everyone get there flak jackets on and be ready to run for shelter. Get your game plan ready before I lower the rear hatch!"

Small arms fire was hitting the side of the Raven. We all huddled into the tail section.

Bill, the other howitzer operator was an old veteran to this sort of thing. He looked at me and said, "You want to make it out of here alive?"

"Is that a trick question?" I said

Don't be a smart ass boy!" he said. When the hatch opens, I'm gonna flank right with grazing fire, and Tippers gonna flank left. All of you need to stay low and head straight out the back of the plane. Intelligence told us there is a bunker that we control about sixteen to twenty yards right behind us."

Jack said, "Hey old man, I can fend for myself. I'm gonna run to the left and take cover behind those sheds we saw coming in."

You'll never make it there, kid." Bill said. "You'll get shot before you get ten feet."

"I'll take my chances." Jack said.

"Suit yourself!" Bill said.

"Ark you run as fast as you can towards that bunker," Bill said. "If you do what I tell you, then you'll make it there. We can't loose our only medic."

"You don't have to tell me twice!" I Said. "I got you the first time."

Tipper hit the release mechanism on the tail bulkhead, and the door hydraulics started to whine. This is it, I thought.

All the training and hard work had come down to this moment. I had never been so scared, yet so alive in my life. There was no time left to contemplate any of this. It was time to go. I said a silent prayer as light streamed into the cabin. The bi fold doors opened even wider.

"God, please let me make it home alive."

Yeap. Thats right. Believe it or not. Existence as you know it is THE lowest rung on the metaphysical level of all things good, bad and shine.

Why you ask? Well let me enlighten you.

First we look at Hell's composition. Fire, Brimstone, Demons, Gore, Suffering bla bla bla (insert Sunday school image of choice here)
You get the picture right?

Now try imagining each of those elements...

I guess you could say its a lot like this...







Look familiar? You'd bet your last pair of panties yes!

So... if hell is here then where is good ol' planet Bob?

Well... Let me say this;
People we do not elect rule the through sheer tyranny and the whip that is political correctness.
Of all things that are certain in this world inevitable eventual failure will ALWAYS be one of them.
God appeared to us "ONCE" in mortal form and we crucified him.
And well nobody's perfect. And we WERE created in Gods image. Ipso-facto he ain't perfect either. All powerful sure. Sadistic sure. But perfect? Pshaw!

Perfection is a hoax. How can everyone be perfect? Be PERFECTLY pure and PERFECTLY corrupted all at once? Pure Corruption i say.

God created all things. Perhaps. Which means he created evil too. Sure he gave us that carrot on a stick you people call hope but seriously; the murderer who grows flowers is still a murderer first and foremost. So...

Is God willing to prevent evil, but not able? Then is he impotent. Is he able, but not willing? Then is he malevolent. Is he both able and willing? Whence then is evil? Is he neither able nor willing? Then why call him God?

Don't get me wrong. I bet most of you are thinking why the fuck the "Turbanator" bothers with his cultural mane of furry fur when he rants so much about hating the big Kahuna? Well you just answered your own question. Culture and Religion are two different concepts that are two separate, though significantly interwoven, entities. Sorta like politics and lying.

I keep my beard as a sign of respect to my forefathers. It is a symbol of my people. A part of their identity. Not a sign of my devotion to any one deity.

Also i cannot for the life of me understand the concept of faith. What i say i believe and all is forgiven? I say i believe and i am accepted? Why does God ask this of us? Does the father ask the fetus to show faith of existence outside the womb before he may be born?

Or worse. The fanatics. If you are not of our faith you are doomed to hell! And so we convert. Insincerely choosing a faith over gospel truth. Thats okay? What kind of segregation is this?

Didn't god want us all to be together? One big happy incestuous family? Then why the prohibition of inter marriage? More shit from the bull i say!

Conclusion; I hate God. Why? Coz he deserves it. What right do i have you ask me? What right don't i have? He put me in this shithole! I dint ask for any of it. Didn't anyone ask what I wanted? Sorry let me rephrase; Did anyone who gives a shit and actually makes an effort to help ask what i wanted?

P.S. This was a rant. I don't give a quarter pound of turd whether you were offended. So there! Swallow it.

Chapter 2. Day of Judgement

According to the preacher's texts, The Holy revealed His new calendar when Bandar the Wanderer entered the seaport city of Punta Arenas at the southern end of the ancient and mythical country of Chile. He came less than a month after the War of the Burning Metals and the blazing of Shaitan's fires across the globe. Eight years later the Holy revealed Bandar as His preacher and anointed him Bel'dar, creating the first of the Cunif Califar.

We are all taught geography as children of course. It is fascinating to think what life must have been like back then, with the survivors of the war forming a global refugee population. The southernmost areas of the globe suffered by far the least of the fallout, and for decades they were the only regions habitable. The place that eventually became Bandar Arenas had one of the lowest radiation levels in the world outside of Antarctica, and it was a magnet for humanity.

It's difficult to imagine how small the city was at the beginning. The Book of Bel'dar suggests its population was only about 100,000 before the war, 2% of the present size of five million. By current law, both the world capital and the Priesthood contain one fifth of the world's population.

It took the Earth several hundred years to recover from the war. Two of the most serious isotopes in the fallout were cesium-137 and strontium-90. They both have half-lives of about 28 years. It also took several centuries for the ozone layer to recover from being destroyed by the nitric oxides produced by the bombs. The primary lingering health concern from the war is now carbon-14, with a half life of 5600 years. Fortunately the oceans and biosphere have recycled much of it out of the atmosphere.

Bandar Arenas is the southernmost city on Earth. There are also 120 townships scattered in North and South America, with populations averaging 167,000 each. Each township is sponsored by one of the 120 Guilds, and the Priesthood is the sponsor of the capital.

The name of my childhood township is Anqara, and it is the home township of the Guild for specialty metal fabrication. Anqara has the distinction of being the farthest township from Bandar Arenas, but with our close match in longitude with the capital, we also have the smallest shift in solar time. Our solar noon occurs only 24 seconds later than official solar noon. Official time is the same everywhere of course. There are no time zones. The rhythm of the daily Prayer is not fragmented.

In Bel'dar's calendar, each year has 12 months, and the months have kept their ancient names. Each month has 30 days. In addition to the twelve months, there is a five-day festival to celebrate the Holy's Judgment. The festival is at the beginning of year, shortly after the summer solstice in the southern hemisphere. When the calendar year is divisible by twelve, the festival is lengthened to eight days in order to keep the calendar in sync with Earth's solar orbit.

The festival of The Judgment is the appropriate time for the childhood gates, and also for the gates that control adult advancement from one citizen level to the next. The childhood gates are used to test and cull all male children as they enter their 8th, 13th, and 21st year of life. Each of the three gates culls 10%. There is also continuous culling due to medical, behavioral, or heretical problems, for both children and adults. The end result is 65% of the 120,000 male children born each year survive the challenge of entering adulthood.

The First Day of Judgment of 8235 began as usual for me with 6 AM prayers. I and the 577 other members of the Initiate class of Anqara found ourselves in the presence of the Bandar Arenas test monitor. Some seemed to find it difficult not to be intimidated by his purple insignia of royalty.

The class moved through the familiar cycle of the morning prayers. The Prayer of Purification hour was filled with tests of power and form in the martial arts. The exhaustion tests of endurance would come later in the evening Prayer of Weakness.

At 10 AM I began eight hours of qualifying tests with the Guild that had been sponsoring me since my thirteenth year. I have spent the last eight years of my life as an acolyte member of the Security Guild.

Security is a coveted Guild for membership. It is a small Guild, only three thousand adults, but it is very well represented in the royal levels. All rulers and royalty are part of the Priesthood of course, but 25 of the 4,092 current royals (citizen levels 16 through 23) entered royalty through the Security Guild. The previous Cunif Califar, Abdul Matin, Servant of the Firm, entered royalty through Security.

The ancient counterpart of the Security Guild would be a combination of domestic and international spy agencies. The Guild does not do installation and maintenance of the worldwide monitoring systems, but it does have ownership of their operation and technical evolution, and Security works closely with the Priesthood, in particular their embedded military and police units.

The Security Guild's township is called Jizari. It is located 360 km northeast of the capital, across the Straits of Magellan. Not surprisingly, Security's home is the closest township to Bandar Arenas.

There is a saying all males learn in nursery school, that the boy chooses the girls, but it is the Guild that chooses the boy. As a young child though, I discovered I have a unique talent, a secret gift that is the fuel for my hidden ambition. My gift let me choose my Guild. I have a perfect memory.

Am I a mutation? Probably. So many of our religious practices evolved from the mutations problems of the war, and how urgent it was to adapt society to the new reality. The culling was necessary to stop the degradation slide of the human genome, and it made the Genetics Guild one of the most powerful organizations under the Priesthood.

Major genetic changes were engineered in the first few thousand years after the war, as the Genetics Guild mastered the science of writing DNA at the level of complexity of the human genome. Evolution jumped from geological to generational timescales, and the Ruling Priesthood became the supreme legislature for determining the definition of human.

The ability of the species to repopulate was a critical concern, and one of the first successful genetic modifications was to change the male/female probability birth ratio from roughly 1:2 to 1:3. There are currently 120,000 male births a year and 360,000 female births. Daily sleep requirements are also half of what they used to be before the war.

Another genetic modification made the human genome compatible with anti-aging drugs. No one has lived to be 400 yet, but with continual use of the drugs 300 to 350 years of life can be expected, with all but the last few months in fully functional health.

My memory mutation is a powerful gift. It goes far beyond the ability of perfect recall of experiences. I have perfect recall over everything I sense. I can stare at my monastery study monitor flashing several pages a second and then read what I've observed at my leisure when I have time to close my eyes. I was six years old when I learned the trick of stealing Imul passwords by glancing from the corner of my eye, watching them type long and rapid password strings. I would later replay their finger movements in my mind.

For years I did nothing with my illegal access to knowledge. But when I was nine and had passed my first gate, my class went through a basic course on network security, and I realized Anqara has a weakness in its local security design. There is a six-second window every night at 11:30 PM when the township's network establishes new security handshaking protocols with the worldwide web. During this period, worldwide Security can't monitor local data access directly, and relies on the local logs to bridge the six-second gap once handshaking is reestablished.

But there is a flaw in the local monitoring software. It polls central video memory every 400 milliseconds for the image being transmitted to my room's monitor. With access to the monastery computers through an unrelated course on graphical displays, I used my stolen passwords and left behind a small and I hope untraceable daemon.

The end result is I have fifteen 400-millisecond windows every night to access restricted data. I start my process just after the end of the security polling cycle; loading the data into my video buffer, flashing it to my screen for 350-ms, and then shutting down and terminating the data request before the security poll asks my video buffer again what it is doing. End result? I get fifteen views a night with as much data as I can fit onto my screen, and there is absolutely no record of my activity.

In the last decade, I have had access to vast stores of information, far beyond what an Initiate is ever allowed to see. It is an extremely dangerous game. Sidestepping the local audit logs is not easy, but my greatest fear is someday showing that I know not too little but too much.

When I was eleven years old, I decided that the only truly safe way of protecting the use of my gift would be to have access to the Priesthood's master security logs, and the only way to do that would be from inside the Security Guild. I modified my performance on my aptitude tests to appear especially attractive to them, and at my thirteenth year, when the Guilds pick their acolytes from the survivors of the second gate, I succeeded in my quest to have the boy choose the Guild.

And the years passed. I reached my third gate. My final day of childhood continued. After four hours of Guild testing, I was pleasantly surprised to be served a lunch at 2 PM. Except for Guild training materials and courses, all children are completely under the control of the Priesthood, and the acolytes for adult Priesthood would be finding this a fasting day. But the other acolytes are owned by both the Priesthood and their Guild on Judgment Day, and it is permissible after morning prayers for the sponsoring Guilds to feed their acolytes.

I was touched by my Guild's generosity. They had sent me a magnificent lunch, one worthy of a royal. There was a fine selection of delicate fishes and meats wrapped in small pastries, plus an assortment of fresh fruit slices and greens from the southern hemisphere. It wasn't a large amount of food, but with the Prayer of Weakness testing in six hours, stuffing myself now would be foolhardy. The lunch was perfect. I thought about the message my Guild was sending me with their extravagant feast as I savored each bite.

I had to keep my wits about me during the last hours of testing. I was being asked to make intelligent guesses about matters that I had factual knowledge of only through my nocturnal data access. I intentionally made numerous guesses reasonable but wrong, especially those concerning the political alliances within the ruling Priesthood (the 87 Priests of Citizen Level 24 though 31).

One of the last tests from my Guild measured my memory and manual dexterity. I was shown long strings of random characters on a monitor for a brief period of time, and then required to rapidly type them. All adults have a minimum requirement of entering twenty-character complex passwords in ten seconds, but Security's requirement is a minimum of twenty-four characters in eight. I passed the test easily, overshooting my Guild's requirements by a considerable margin, but then holding back so as not to reveal my hidden talent.

The hours of Prayers passed quickly. I had no trouble with the theology. It did surprise me that the Hour of Weakness was used for unrelenting full-contact sparring. I am not the most aggressive fighter, but my form is efficient, however I received only three minor demerits, two for taking too long to defeat my friend Afeef, a clearly weaker opponent, and a third demerit for being too merciful with the selection of the combination holds that ended my final contest. The judge ruled I had a perfect opportunity to end the fight much sooner albeit much more brutally.

My class spent the Hour of Repose in perfect silence. It didn't feel like a test until near the end, when I realized other acolytes bruised from the sparring or worried about passing might be finding it difficult to maintain the required perfect stillness. When the closing bell sounded, there were numerous sighs of exhaustion. We all rose and quickly walked to our small bedrooms. I glanced around at some of my classmates, trying to make eye contact and offer encouragement. The testing was over. Talking was not strictly prohibited, but it certainly wasn't encouraged either, and we all make our way back to our rooms in silence.

I closed the door of my room as required, hearing the lock click and the door seal behind me. The time was 10:09 PM, and the Day of Judgment was almost over. Sometime within the next five hours, I would hear a gas hissing into my room. It would either be a simple nitrogen-oxygen mix, or something just as odorless but extremely lethal. By tradition, acolytes void their bladders and undress, in order to minimize the work of the acolytes in next year's class.

Some acolytes doubt this, but bedrooms really are unmonitored. The human psyche needs a place to wallow in peace during the hours of low impurity, and the Priesthood does provide that place. One thing I've learned about the Priesthood over the years is that they are many things, but they are not liars.

I actually fell into a restful sleep shortly after entering my room. I was that confident, and regardless the matter was out of my hands. I've learned the lesson to grab rest when I can. I was awakened by the faint sound of hissing air. I opened my eyes and glanced at the clock display on my monitor, 2:53 AM.

It was later than I expected. The test administrators are required by law to complete all executions by 3 AM. I shuddered as I thought about being one of the thousands of judges for the gate. A vast amount of the scoring is based on computer tabulation, but the final decisions are human, done over a worldwide teleconference. With over 87,000 Initiates per year, there are rumors of many heated discussions for the exacting rankings near the cutoff.

I laughed at myself as I realized I was sniffing the air. My subconscious demand to live was overwhelming my reasoning. Sniffing the air made no sense. I tried to calm myself by thinking of the soft hissing sound as relaxing. I looked at my sealed door, and waited for my adult life to begin.

Chapter 1. The Stone Floor

I lay prone and exhausted on the floor, arms by my sides, the smooth stone against my forehead hard but pleasantly cold. I was midway into the last hour of prayer for the day, the hour of The Prayer of Repose, and I could feel the polished stone chilling my sweat and pulling the excess heat from my body. I remained motionless in my thin white Initiate robe. After the previous grueling hour of The Prayer of Weakness, it would be so easy to drift and relax and dream. But that would be a fatal mistake.

I am Ilias, and tomorrow will be the first day of The Holy's Year 8235 and the beginning of the 52rd year of the reign of Abdul Quddus, the 83th Great Cunif Califar and First Servant of the Holy. The numbers signify a year of Jubilee. It will also be the year I reach twenty-one years of age, and as such tomorrow I will be at the last of the three great gates of my childhood. In two days I will either be an adult or dead.

The faint sounds of my classmates' breathings are totally ignored. My senses are tuned to one purpose, to detect the presence of Fateen as he walks among the Initiates in his clothed feet. He is Citizen-Level 13, only three levels below royalty, and it is somewhat unusual for such a high ranking Priest to work as Imul with children. But Fateen loves his work, and he is a master of silent walking.

When I was very young, two years before my eighth year and the first of my childhood gates, a group of my classmates and I had quietly discussed Fateen's age. Recklessly ignoring the danger of the conversation, we had all concluded he must be at least a hundred years old, and probably much more. It was impossible to tell by outward appearance of course. With the anti-aging drugs, Fateen looked exactly the same as when he completed his own journey from child to adult. But to all of us though, the image of Fateen as child was beyond our comprehensions.

There has been no detectable sound, but I sensed the vibrations of footfalls along the stone, and then, stillness. Fateen was standing a meter in front of me. I did not have to open my eyes to know upon whom his gaze was fixed. For all the hundreds of Initiates in my class, only I had never received demotion in Open Prayer. In all the years, I was the only Initiate Fateen had never managed to trip up, and we both knew tonight was his last chance. I focused myself in a Prayer of Suspension, and kept my heartbeat slow and resting.

There was the slightest sound of a touch as Fateen's onyx rod came upon the Summoning Apex of the stone before me. My head snapped up in obedience with my eyes wide open, alert and bright. Any sign of drowsiness now would be a sign of drifting and impure thoughts. Such a mark of weakness so close to my control gate could well be a fatal handicap in my imminent competition for survival with my classmates. By holy Law, one tenth of Initiates do not survive each childhood gate. I gazed into Fateen's eyes and waited for his test.

"Ilias, describe the holiness of the digits."

I kept all expression of surprise from my face. Fateen had asked me a question proper for a child approaching his first gate, not his third. Any slip now with such a simple question would be a disaster. I quoted verbatim from my earliest Catechisms.

"The digits two, three, five, and eight are holy, ordained by the Holy for His Greatness. The digits four, six, and nine are the digits of the Earth, not directly holy but formed by holy products. The digits zero, one, and seven can not be the product of holiness, and thus must be the digits of Shaitan."

"Ah, very good young Ilias. But how do we know this is true?"

A dangerous question to ask, especially for someone below royal level. But it was an even more dangerous question for an Initiate not to answer. I worked to keep my voice calm as I spoke the correct affirmation from The Book of Bel'dar. "Because it has been preached, and the Holy is One, and Bel'dar is His one true preacher. Thus he preached, therefore thus he preaches."

Fateen stared at me, his eyes hard and cold. I returned his stare in obedience, and almost didn't catch the slight lifting of his rod off my Apex. I immediately snapped my head down and closed my eyes. There was the softest of sounds as the rod gently touched the stone again. Damn him! His summoning call was far softer than appropriate. But it would be hard to debate the issue if I were dead. My eyes snapped up and locked with his. I watched him glare at me.

"And what is the order of the day?"

Another question from my early youth, this one going so far back my response came from my nursery days, when females encapsulated in blue body coverings watched and cared for us as the priests taught their lessons. I replied immediately. "The order of the day is based on the holiness of two, three, and eight. One third of our time is for The Holy, one third for Earth, and one third for Shaitan. The holiness of two divides the Holy time into morning prayers and evening prayers."

"And what is the direction of the day?"

"The four morning prayers take us from Shaitan to Holy. Then in a state of Holy grace, we work eight hours for our masters the Priesthood and the Guilds. The four evening prayers return us from Holy to Shaitan, leaving us eight hours to dream in his low impurity."

"And what are the names and directions of the prayers?"

"The morning direction is mind to body to church to Holy. The names of the four hours are The Prayer of Ascension, The Prayer of Purification, The Prayer of Wonder, and the Prayer of Counted Failings. The evening direction is the reverse, from Holy to church to body to mind. The evening prayers are The Prayer of Uncounted Failings, The Prayer of Joy, The Prayer of Weakness, and the Prayer of Repose."

The rod left the Apex. My head snapped down. There was the faintest whisper of a click. My eyes and head snapped back up, none of my internal fury visible upon my face.

"Tell me Ilias," Fateen whispered without a sound, moving only his lips. "You are the top student. There's no doubt you'll pass tomorrow. We're all expecting you to book the run. How far will you ride the lion?"

Was he mad?! To begin chatting as an Initiate during Prayer, especially about personal ambition, would mean instant death. And yet, not to respond on point to such a direct question would also disqualify me from adulthood. Did he really hate me that much? If I spoke to such a question, even with my lips alone, my death was assured; and his also, once the security videos of this conversation were reviewed by the local execution council. But if I remained silent, it would be up to Fateen to decide whether to press a charge of disobedient silence against me.

I realized my Imul had entwined us, both of us holding both our lives in our hands. I had first choice, to decide whether we both would die, or if we both had a chance to live. If I voted in silence for life, both our fates were in Fateen's hands. I stared at him and thought, "Perhaps he missed his last chance for promotion, or perhaps he is so old the anti-aging drugs are about to fail anyway. Does he hate me so much, that he will drag me down with him into oblivion?"

I had no wish to die. My mouth remained closed, my lips unmoving. I waited for Fateen's decision.

The rod left the stone. My head snapped back down. After a timeless period of utter silence, I heard the whisper of my Imul's dry voice. "Excellent Ilias. Your discipline serves you well." I sensed the faint clothed footfalls moving on.

There he was, just as always, working his way down the street. It was shortly before dusk and the shadows were already beginning to grow deep. Darkness would soon descend upon the town and its streets, but the gloom would be partly dispelled by the gas lamps. Mrs Lucy Gilyott, who used to be Miss Lucy Ormerod, was standing at the window of her drawing-room looking down the street.

There he was; the old lamplighter who came day in, day out, to attend to the gas lamps. Old? How old? Sixty, perhaps - or maybe even younger. Not so old, really. Lucy was over two years past her 50th birthday, but she didn't consider herself to be old. Of course, she'd had a fairly comfortable life and had taken care to make the best of herself through thick and thin.

She was born into a middle-class home, her father being in business for himself as a shopkeeper. By the time she was turning from girl to young woman the business had grown to the extent that they had a carriage and servants.

Although she'd had her difficulties from time to time, there had only been one real regret in her life; Henry Stocks. They had known each other through most of their childhood, often playing down by the river. They had grown up together - and grown apart.

Lucy had never forgotten the day they sat together under a cloudless summer sky and gazed at the wide stretch of the muddy river. She was thirteen and wearing her prettiest dress. He was a year older, an awkward age when girls can be an embarrassment. They were too young for real feelings of love and desire, and yet too old to be play-fellows.

There was a long silence, broken only by the squeal of a seagull circling overhead.

"A penny for them."

"What?" Henry was startled out of his reverie.

"I said - a penny for them."

"For what?"

"Your thoughts, silly."

"Oh - ay." Henry remained silent and motionless for half a minute, still gazing at the water, and then spoke softly. "I was just thinking on that shore over there. I were wondering what's to be seen and what the folk are like."

"Same as us, I should imagine."

"Ay, mybbe. But I'd like to see for meself."

"Why not go across then?"

Henry shook his head. "It's too far."

"No more than two miles, father says."

"I reckon he's wrong. More like two and a half. Anyway, that river's treacherous. I knew a man who tried to swim it. Current took him away and nobody saw him again."

Lucy gripped his arm. "Don't you try it then, Henry. I don't want you to be swept away."

"Don't be daft. I've got more sense than that. I might try taking a boat across sometime, though."

Henry pulled up a piece of grass and chewed on it thoughtfully as he gazed intently across the water. Lucy knew that look. It meant that she had been dismissed from his mind. He was in a world of his own; a dangerous, distant world that she knew nothing about and could never enter. She had to break the spell and bring him back to her.

"It's my birthday next week." Lucy's voice cut into Henry's thoughts. "I'm having a party. Are you going to come?"

"Don't suppose so."

"Why not?"

"Don't expect I'll be wanted."

"Of course you are. That's why I'm asking you."

"Ay, mybbe you want me there, but I was talking about your mother and father."

Lucy looked blankly at him. "What do you mean?"

"You know," Henry evasively replied.

"No, I don't!" Lucy was indignant. "You just explain to me what you're talking about Henry Stocks."

"Well, I'm a nobody. No father and a mother who does other people's washing to keep a roof over our heads. I've got no education, no manners and no prospects. I'm not fit to mix with the likes of you."

"But we've known each other for seven years. We've played together on the river shore."

"That's as maybe, but I've never been asked to your house. They've turned a blind eye to our friendship so far, but it won't last much longer."

"What are you saying, Henry?" Lucy felt a quiver of fear at his words.

"We're growing up. I'm getting on for fifteen while you'll be fourteen next week. We're no longer a pair of knockabout kids. Things can't be the same."

"What sort of things?"

"Look, Lucy, your dad's a successful man who aims to be more successful. He'll have plans for you - and they won't include me. Come on, I'll race you to the dock."

"What?" Lucy was taken completely by surprise as Henry quickly rose to his feet and hauled her up after him.

"We'll go and see if any of the whalers are in." He tried to pull her along.

"Oh no, Henry Stocks! You stop here and now. We were having a serious conversation."

"Too serious for me. I want to see the ships."

"Well, I don't." Lucy pouted. "They're smelly and dirty."

"That's the difference between us, you see. You're a fine upstanding young lady in a pretty dress who doesn't want to get herself soiled by hanging around a common old dock, while I'm..."

"A boor!" Lucy interrupted in a sudden fury. "A low, mean, ungentlemanly boor!"

"Ay, Lucy," Henry said softly. "That's what I am - ungentlemanly and don't you forget that."

He let go of her hand and turned away.

"No, Henry!" Lucy was immediately repentant. "I didn't mean that." She took hold of his arm.

"Ay, you did."

"No, I swear!"

"It don't matter, anyway. It were the truth, even if you didn't mean it. You don't want to be mixed up with the likes of me. It wouldn't be right."

Henry gently pulled his arm free and began to walk along the path. Lucy remained where she was, but called after him.

"Henry, don't leave me."

"Got to, Lucy. Our childhood's over we're not for each other any more."

He stuck his hands in his pockets and, with shoulders hunched, continued along the track towards the town and the dock. Lucy gazed after him and felt a tear run down her cheek. Henry was a fool. He failed to realise that she had loved him when he was seven, she loved him now, and she would love him for ever more.

*****

The old lamplighter, having completed his task, disappeared round the corner of the street. He would return early in the morning to extinguish the lamps, but Lucy Gilyott wouldn't see him. She would still be in bed.

She sighed and turned away from the window. Why did she feel the shadow of unhappiness creeping across her well-ordered, comfortable existence? Why was there a longing for a life she had never had? A feeling, somehow, that she had missed something? Henry Stocks was a figure from long ago, but nevertheless, he had never been far from Lucy's thoughts. Their paths had rarely crossed since that day by the river.

*****

No doubt Henry was right when he felt he would be socially unacceptable to the Ormerod family. They were trades people; high enough in the social hierarchy to find Henry Stocks undesirable. The son of a washerwoman, he was also a drifter.

Henry's schooling had been cursory. He could write, but only very slowly, with much thought and many mistakes. His counting was little better, and he had no knowledge of the world or its history. But he was a very strong young man and hard work was not beyond him, though the opportunities were limited. There was work in the docks, but that was restricted to the families of the men who built them. Outside the town there were farms and Henry had made the occasional sojourn to them, working in the fields for a day for less than the price of a loaf of bread.

Anyway, the land was not for him; he found it hard and unyielding. It gave him no satisfaction to till the soil and somewhere, deep inside him, Henry felt that life should hold some joy and reward. His mother had found nothing but unrelieved suffering and hardship; it was not going to happen to him.

The answer came to him that day when he went to the dock and watched the arrival of a whaling ship. Over fifty vessels sailed out in the spring, returning from the Arctic in the late summer or autumn. They promised an uncompromising life, full of adventure and excitement, with a reasonable chance of a good financial reward.

The following season Henry signed on as an apprentice on the 'William', a typical, sturdily built three-master. A few days before sailing he met Lucy in the street. She was with her mother so only a few words were possible.

The young girl was horrified when she learned of Henry's plans - especially when he said he intended to spend his whole life at sea.

"One day I'll be a captain," he proclaimed.

"But it's so dangerous, Henry. Many of the whaling ships never return."

"Not so very many."

"Nine last year."

"But the crews were all saved. They get trapped in the ice, so everybody climbs off and walks away to be picked up by another ship."

"Please take care, Henry." Lucy wanted to squeeze his hand to reinforce her words, but the sight of her frowning mother prevented her.

Henry was as good as his word and stayed as an apprentice on the whalers for seven years, after which he signed on as a seaman. It was 1835 and the weather in the Arctic was particularly bad. Four ships were lost, including Henry's, but, as he had told Lucy, the crews were able to walk away, so he returned home none the worse for his experience.

Lucy had kept in touch with Martha Stocks all those years, eager for news of Henry. She had grown into a very attractive and eligible woman. Much to the delight of her parents, she was courted by men of wealth and breeding; but, to their annoyance, she seemed intent on marrying none of them

There were frequent arguments between Lucy and her father until the day she met Philip Gilyott, the eldest son of a successful jeweller and diamond merchant. As a son-in-law he suited Mr Ormerod perfectly and when Philip asked for Lucy's hand in marriage permission was immediately forthcoming.

It was a momentous year for Lucy. In 1837 she became Mrs Lucy Gilyott and also lost touch totally with Henry Stocks, for in that year his mother died. There was nobody at the funeral except Lucy and two neighbours of the dead woman. It was late spring and the whaling ships had long since sailed. Henry would learn of his mother's death months later when he returned.

Lucy was greatly saddened by the loss of Mrs Stocks, realising that her only line of communication with Henry had been severed. But maybe it was as well. In her new position as a married woman it was better to cut all ties, no matter how tenuous, with the first love of her life.

First love? Oh yes, she loved Henry without a shadow of doubt and would never forget him. But it was a useless, wasted love which she knew would never be returned. She had prepared herself for a second love; Philip, a handsome, charming young man with a sense of fun and a zest for living.

The two men were complete opposites, the one morose, silent and inward thinking, rarely showing his emotions; the other bright and witty, a voluble talker on a wide variety of subjects. Henry was born to be alone and unsuccessful, while Philip was gregarious and had the ability and knowledge to succeed at everything he tried.

Lucy had no hesitation choosing between them, simply because there was no choice to be made. Henry would never marry her for he believed himself beneath her. So she married Philip.

The first few years passed quickly - too quickly, Lucy often thought - but she was content with three children to look after, two boys and a girl. Then, after fifteen years of marriage, an almost imperceptible change came over her relationship with Philip. He withdrew into himself and a worried frown often appeared.

Rumours began to drift towards her through various people and she came to realise, gradually, that Philip was involved with another woman. Secrecy had been preserved for the first year, but such affairs could never be permanently hidden.

At first Lucy felt a white-hot fury at being betrayed and could barely bring herself to speak to her husband. She soon realised there was little she could do about the situation and when one mistress was discarded to be replaced with another, she consoled herself with the security of her position as Philip's wife.

The second fifteen years of her marriage were not as happy as the first, but Lucy stoically accepted life as it had been given to her. She gave her time, attention and love to her children and then watched them get married, one by one, and leave home.

In 1868 Philip died, leaving behind a flourishing business, managed by his two sons. Lucy was left alone in a large house with nothing to do and no one to care for and cherish. She received regular visits from her family and welcomed the attentions of her grandchildren, but after their departure the house seemed more empty than before.

Her eldest son, Edward, had taken over his mother's financial affairs and the hiring and firing of servants. Once a month he would come to attend to the book-keeping and give instructions to Bates, the butler. Lucy was grateful for Edward's help and yet it made her feel even more like a useless ornament.

In her loneliness Lucy took to day-dreaming about the past and what might have been. It was a useless exercise, as well she knew, but she couldn't help herself. There were no tangible legacies of Henry Stocks; no portraits, no letters, no gifts. Nothing but Lucy's memory of two children playing and growing up together. Was it possible to fall deeply in love with someone as a child and never stop?

She made discreet enquiries about Henry, but to little avail. Over the years the whaling industry had drastically declined and now, in 1870, there were no ships sailing from the port to the Arctic fishing grounds. It seemed there was nobody around to remember Henry Stocks, a man who had made no particular mark for himself.

Lucy realised he could well be dead, though he would only be about fifty-four; not really very old. She felt an overwhelming, almost obsessional desire to know what fate had befallen him. Was he happy? Did he still remember her and if so, in what way? With affection, she liked to think. Then, one afternoon just as it was getting dark, she noticed an old lamplighter.

Why he should suddenly catch her attention she had no idea, but she felt compelled to watch his slow progress down the street. There was a lamp outside her house and when the old man reached it he seemed to look right at her. Did he give her a half-smile and a slight inclination of the head?

Every evening after that Lucy eagerly watched for the old lamplighter coming down the street. She always thought she saw him smile and nod and became more and more intrigued. She fancied she could see something familiar in the way the man moved; the look in his eyes stirred distant memories.

Lucy constantly had to crush the desire to rush out into the street and confront the man, but for a lady of her position to converse with a lamplighter was out of the question. She steadfastly resisted temptation, but at what a price.

Each night when she went to sleep she would dream about Henry Stocks and how happy she would have been as his wife. In her waking hours she knew the palpable untruth of this, but nothing would stop the dreams. To Lucy it seemed as if she was haunted by the memory of her childhood sweetheart and she had no idea why. After all, theirs was a completely innocent and fairly brief friendship. She had found security, love and some happiness with another man, so why did she have this pressing need to find out about Henry?

*****

Lucy Gilyott, who used to be Miss Lucy Ormerod, was standing at her drawing-room window watching the slow progress of the old lamplighter. He hadn't quite reached the lamp outside her house when he staggered slightly, then fell to the ground.

With a cry of alarm, Lucy rushed into the hallway, calling for the butler to assist her. She went down the steps into the deserted street in a matter of seconds and kneeled down by the lamplighter, gently lifting his head off the hard pavement. She could see now that it was indeed Henry. He was groaning slightly.

"Oh, Henry!" Lucy said involuntarily. One half of her realised she was behaving foolishly, but the other half longed to do even more.

"Let me take him, my lady." It was the calm voice of the butler.

"Thank you, John. Please carry him into the house, if you can."

The lamplighter was picked up with little effort so thin was he, and borne into the house. He was taken into the drawing-room and placed gently on the sofa. A low moan escaped his lips as he was carefully lowered onto the soft cushions.

"Send someone round for Dr. Walker, John."

"Perhaps, if I might suggest, my lady, it would be better if the fellow was taken to the hospital."

"No," Lucy said sharply. "It's best that he shouldn't be moved."

"As you wish, my lady."

The butler departed, but almost immediately a maid appeared in the doorway.

"What is it, Mary?"

"Mr Bates said to stay with you, ma'am."

Lucy exploded. "Mr Bates is a...." She managed to stop herself and continued in a calmer voice. "You may wait just outside the door, Mary."

"Yes, ma'am." With a little curtsey the maid left the room.

"Oh, Henry Stocks, why did you leave me?" Lucy whispered.

There was nothing except a slight rasping sound and then: "I'm a nobody. No father and a mother who does other people's washing. I've got no education, no manners and no prospects. I'm not fit to associate with the likes of you."

A tear gently rolled down Lucy's cheek and fell on the sofa. She held the lamplighter's hand tightly. When the doctor came he made a cursory examination of his patient.

"Malnutrition and poor living conditions," he brusquely announced.

"I want him to go to hospital and have proper care and attention," Lucy said.

"He won't be able to afford it."

"Maybe not, but I can."

"You're willing to pay his hospital bills?" the doctor asked incredulously.

"I want to see him get well. He has as much right to treatment as I have."

"Very well, I'll make the necessary arrangements and inform Mr Edward."

"I shall inform him myself," Lucy said firmly.

"Of course."

The doctor obviously wished to have no part of this business. However, his income depended upon the patronage of wealthy patients; he had no alternative but to comply with instructions.

*****

"Everything is in order." Edward closed the large ledger. "I must say Bates and Mrs Joliffe do a first class job. They give me not the slightest problem."

Lucy had been waiting for this moment, but now she found herself barely able to speak. It was so stupid. This was her son and yet she felt nervous about bringing up the simplest subject. But it had to be done, and this was the time.

She cleared her throat. "Edward..." She hesitated.

"Yes, Mother?"

"I want you to add an extra expense to your ledger."

"Oh?"

"An old friend of mine - someone I knew as a child - has fallen on hard times. He's a lamplighter. Now he's sick and in hospital. I would very much like to pay his bills."

"Mr Stocks is a very lucky man," Edward said quietly.

"You know?"

"It's difficult to keep a secret in a town like this. I know you've been making enquiries about a Henry Stocks and Bates told me about the lamplighter."

"Oh, really, can't I trust anyone?" Lucy exploded.

"He did what he thought best."

"Am I to be spied on in my own house, by my own servants?"

"Please try not to be too hard on them. They're concerned about you, that's all."

"I'm entitled to a life of my own."

"Of course you are." Edward held his mother's hand. "I know that father treated you rather badly and you must have been dreadfully unhappy."

"I had my children." Lucy held herself stiff and erect, trying to control her feelings.

"But now you have nothing. Except memories; going back before you met father - as far as Henry Stocks."

The tears were beginning to fall. It was no good. Lucy had to give way to all the pent-up emotions she had been keeping in check for so many years. The story of her love for Henry poured out while Edward listened in sympathetic silence. The ticking of the mantelpiece clock mingled with gentle sobs after Lucy had finished. Edward was looking out of the window as he spoke.

"Why don't you sell this house, Mother, and buy a cottage in the country. I know of a very pleasant one for sale only a few miles out of town. Mrs Joliffe could go with you and I'd take on the other servants."

"What would I do in the country?" Lucy sniffed. "I've always lived in the town."

"The air is better for someone who's not well," Edward pointedly replied.

Lucy stared at him. "Are you suggesting...?"

"I wouldn't dare suggest anything," Edward said quickly. "Your life is your own. I just want you to know that I'm behind you, whatever you do."

Lucy clutched his arm. "Thank you for that, Edward. Thank you."

*****

When the old lamplighter left the hospital he found a carriage waiting for him. The door was open, inviting him to enter, but he hesitated.

"Get in, Henry." The voice was kind, but firm. "You're in no condition to walk anywhere."

He obediently climbed in and found himself sitting opposite an attractive woman who looked much younger than the fifty-two years he knew she must be. They sat in silence as the carriage drove along, gradually passing from town to country.

"A penny for them."

"What?" Henry was startled out of his reverie.

"I said - a penny for them."

"Oh - ay." Henry remained silent for a moment then said, "I were just thinking how I'd made a right mess of everything."

"Yes - you did rather."

Another silence.

"Where are we going?"

"To the cottage I've bought."

"That's nice."

"Of course, we'll have to get married."

"Ay - it's best that we do."

The man who was older than he should have been, yawned and lay back in the corner of his seat. He drifted off to sleep ad Lucy smiled. She had someone to care for again and someone who needed her.

"Hello, Henry," she said softly.

They say love gives us wings,
Much like a Dove's,
They are wrong.

Love is not a Dove's wings,
We all have wings,
For we are all destined,
To soar.

Love is the wind beneath those wings,
That carry us to heights magnificent,
If only we beat those wings as tirelessly,
As our hearts beat for one another.


They say love makes us strong,
For all strong men know love,
They are wrong.

Love is not the strength of body,
Or mind and soul,
For we are all strong.

Love is the gift to arise once more,
To arouse and feel with certainty,
The strength within us all,
And know it to be true.


They say love is not a destination,
But a journey,
They are wrong.

Love is not a journey,
For all journeys come to an end,
True love never ends.

Love is the vessel that bears us,
Along that journey,
That carries us to places,
Wonderful and Beautiful.


Love is all these things,
And more,
And now my love i say to you,
I Love You.

A withered, frail man lay in the bed, his diseased body overwhelmed by the white sheets and blankets. Life-giving oxygen blew into his nose, and the constant beep of the heart monitor dictated his weakening life-force. An IV bag hung over him, dripping pain numbing drugs into his ravaged system. Walking up beside him, I took his fragile hand in mine and squeezed gently.

"Howard," I whispered.

His eyelids fluttered and then opened, a look of recognition flitting through the filmy blue of his eyes.

"Is it time already?" he asked.

"I'm afraid so. . . "

"But I've still so much left to do," he protested. "So much left to see."

"I'm sorry, but it is out of my hands."

The man sighed and nodded in understanding. "I knew the time was coming for you to appear. I just didn't realize it would be this soon. I haven't said my good-byes. Will you give me a few moments? Please?"

I was prepared for this request and with a slight smile, I released his hand and took a few steps back until I stood in the shadows in the corner of the room. I watched as he turned his head and called out to the younger woman sleeping in the chair beside him.

"Marie," his raspy voice called. "Marie!"

The woman jerked awake and sprang out of the chair. "What is it honey? Are you in pain? Should I call the nurse?"

"No. Come. Sit with me . . ."

Unaware of my presence in the room, Marie perched on the side of the bed and took her husband's hand in hers. "What's the matter?"

"I am dying my love."

"Don't say that!" The tears welling up in her eyes were evident by the shaking of her voice.

"Sweetheart, time for denial is long past. The doctor's haven't been able to do anything to help for months now. They've just been making me comfortable as I wait."

"Wait for what?"

". . . You know the answer to that."

"No! I refuse to listen to you talk this way. You can't give up."

"The time for fighting is long past my love. I'm facing what's coming, and you must as well. I want you to listen to me. Please?"

Marie nodded her head, the tears not allowing her to vocalize her response.

"More than anything, I want you to be happy. I know it will take awhile. But I want you to marry again."

Marie vehemently shook her head.

"My love, please. I don't want you spending the rest of your life pining away for me. I want you to be happy. I want you to be loved. I give you my blessing. When the time comes, and you'll know when it's right, I want you to go for it. I love you, and I want you to be happy. I'll always love you. . . you and the kids. Never forget that."

Howard fell silent, his chest heaving with the exertion of his speech. Marie's body shook with sobs as she mulled over his words. When she spoke, her words were broken. "I can't even begin to think of those things right now, but I promise you that I'll always remember your words. I love you so much, I can't imagine life without you. . . I have to be strong for the children, but I'm going to miss you so much. It already hurts deep inside." Marie flung herself down over his chest, her arms cradling his sides.

I walked forward and ran my hand lightly across his forehead. His body trembled and shuddered, his breath rattling as his soul glided from his body.

"There's no need for you to watch this," I said to him as I took his hand and led him from the room as the alarm from his heart monitor began to blare.

"But Marie..."

"She'll be okay. Of course, it will take time. It always does, but she's young still. She has a whole life ahead of her."

"What happens? Do you know?"

"Only a little. I know she honors your wish and eventually remarries."

"Is she happy?"

"Of course... but she never forgets. You're always with her. Every time she looks into the eyes of your children, she sees you, and her heart aches just a little."

He closed his eyes for a moment, taking in the information. When he opened them again, he only said two words, "I'm ready."

I led him on. . . to the other side.

I am Charon Lifesbane.

Death.

This what I do.

I'm the soul-taker.

The Sword's song is a sad song,
He pipes it soft and low,

"I would ply a gentler trade,
But War is all i know,
And though my blade be cold and jagged,
And unloved by many,
I would ply this trade of mine,
'Till doom or death take me".

And so the Sword would sing his song,
The song thats soft and low,

"I would ply a gentler trade,
But War i all i know..."

Heres something i ripped from Bash. Its a comedy site thats as funny as hell... so here goes... just to entertain you guys! ;P Visit it sometime, not all the stuff is funny... but like these there are always a few gems lying around.

Enjoy! =D

Now, I’m sure many of you have encountered little shits in supermarkets. Little kids running about and knocking things over, being rude, walking all over their parents, you know the kind. But the worst are the biters. Yes, those little cunts that feel it is okay to bite you whenever they feel like it.

Okay, here’s the best part. A biter got me today when I was grocery stopping. He broke the fucking skin, too. This was when the gears started turning, the moment I saw a tiny sprickle of blood on the little shit’s teeth as he was grinning at me like the little cunt he is. I made my eyes get wide, and started screaming “SHIT! SHIT!.” Now, my good friend, Tom we’ll call him, was there too, and he instantly picked up on it. He started shouting “HOLY SH*T! MAYBE HE DIDN’T GET IT! FUCK! FUCK!.” By now, the kid is scared shitless and starts crying, and instantly, Mizz Mom appears out of nowhere and starts getting pissy at us for yelling at her kid.

Here’s the kicker, I look her straight in the eye and say, “Ma'am, get your son tested as soon as possible, he just bit me and I’m… I’m HIV POSITIVE.”

And now there is silence. Not a peep in the entire store. The brat knows he just fucked up big time because his mom isn’t defending his ass. She just stares at me wide eyed. I walk away from them, buy my shit from the wide eyed cashier, all the while blood is dripping from my calf, making a nice little trail on the floor. And, just s we leave, we start to hear the mother sobbing. Sobbing like the cunt she is.

I have never felt any more satisfaction than the moment I heard that sob.

“Move! Move, move, move!”

The Terran power armor pilot yelled over his loudspeaker as he waved on the Factory techs. As they ran helping their wounded co-workers make it to the Safety of the bunkers he briefly considered helping them in but his training kept him right were he was.

“Damn it!” He spat looking at them as indecision gripped him.

They were wounded and trying to hobble and carry their friends into the building to safety. Private John Collins knew they weren’t going to make it inside in time. His Samaritan thinking was at work again. He failed to excel as a pilot because he lacked good worldly judgment. His face contorted in anger as he watched the techs and other laborers moving as fast as they could to reach the safety of the bunker. Why were they moving so slowly? He turned to face the oncoming Mechs. They slowed to fire at the gun emplacements as they popped up at them from the “Boulevard of pain”. The Boulevard ran the length of the open test fields outside Zurich and was used to check tracking and other Mech and vehicle system. The Blakist Mechs were on a rampage. John knew if the techs could get inside the bunker they would be safe. Safe until the Terran defenders could engage this breakthrough force of enemy Mechs and drive them off but their time was up. One rocket barrage or pulse blast and they would be destroyed.

All his life John Collins had succeeded but never excelled. His size was the only reason he had made it into the power armor project and that by only the thinnest margin. He was the right size but lacked the skills the project looked for. The recent civil war had created a need for power armor pilots so into a suit he went anyway. His mother demanded he avoid the liquor, smokes, and drugs that were readily available in this life. It was this discipline that got him in. It was his indecision that nearly got him kicked out, but today was different. His stout Christian upbringing hampered him in decisions just like this one. He felt a strange sense of emotion wash over him as he watched them running helplessly to the bunker. He was sent here to play traffic cop in a flurry of commands given out when the Factory compound was attacked. He ran here to watch over the techs and wounded as they headed for the safety of the bunker.

They ran so slow.

It was like the world around him was in slow motion, everything was unfamiliar. Even the ground was different. The blood ran in swerving streaks towards the bunker from the wounded and dying. He had to do something, his heart demanded it. Then, for the first time in his life, fate reached down and touched Private John Collins. His face smoothed and a sudden moment of clarity came over him. He spoke quietly,

“Today is a good day to die.”

The loudspeaker and radio carried his voice over the entire infantry and Mech communication grid. Sara Hamillton heard him as he spoke, unaware that everyone else on her grid heard him too.

”Commander Davison,” she yelled as cannon blast struck the new two-man Mech on its left arm, “you must hear this!”

Even through the roar of the missile strike Davison had just let go from the Streak launcher her voice carried through the huge cockpit and his ears heard her voice and the mike feed it through his earpiece at the same time.

”I’m busy Hamillton!” He roared in response. “Enemy Mechs!”

”Commander,” she repeated, “listen!” She played back the recording of his voice:

”Today is a good day to die.” It fed across the command net and repeated. “Today is a good day to die.”

”Who is that?” Davison demanded.

”Private John Collins, piloting one of the new Archangel power suits, number 13.” She winced. Army soldiers were superstitious and this would be another battlefield reinforcement of those superstitions.

”What the hell’s gotten into him?” Davison asked. “Where is ‘our’ resident Christian?”

”He’s on the map 120 meters in front of a set of bunkers listed: ‘Special Projects’.” She said with a creeping sense of fear in her voice. “Commander, four of the Blakist Jihad BattleMechs have broken through and are closing on the ‘Special Projects’ bunkers. The Factory personnel are taking refuge there.” There was a pause. “Brianna Hoffmeier just radioed to me that they are not secure. Repeat. Not secure! They have personnel still outside the bunker!”

”My god Sara, they are going to kill them all!” Davison said. “Dispatch the closest, fastest units we have in that area now Girl!”

”Two Mercury scout Mechs being pulled from the south flank position, ETA; four minutes best speed.” Her heart sank. Four minutes and everyone there would be dead.

”Set my guide marker!” Davison yelled. “We’re going there Girl!”

”Marker set!” Sara yelled at her aged commander. “If you can move this heap we can make it there in 2.8 minutes.”

”Better than that young lady,” Davison yelled as he let the 95 ton war machine start falling forward. “We’re taking the express!”

As the command machine toppled forward Sara screamed at her insane commander. It was worse than every rollercoaster she had ever been on in her entire life. The ground was rushing up to fill the cockpit windows and then the Mech bobbed up again. Davison howled in the pilot’s seat as he then lifted the right leg and unlocked the arms into gyro-swing mode. The foot landed with a 95 ton concrete shattering ‘boom!’ as the machine began, of all things, cart-wheeling! He made a headlong charge to the south along an invisible line drawn straight to John Collins’ position on the map leaving the burning remains of the Kurita Marauder lying on the ground.

”Hold it together Lewis” he whispered to himself, “hold it together.” His brow furrowed with concentration and the sweat trickled down his cheeks as he forced his steed, this colossus of fire and brimstone fury, his BattleMech, to speeds well above its design envelope.

Back at the bunker as the last techs ran past his position on the boulevard, Private John Collins prepared himself for the last minutes of his life. They needed time. Every second he could give them saved a life. They were finally pouring into the building dragging the wounded and the dead alike inside for protection, not knowing if their friends were unconscious or dead, they didn’t care who, they took all.

One tech, and older looking man, kept running back out to grab others who had fallen. John knew him only as Able Manski; the crazed engineer who outfought an elemental in augmented hand to hand combat. Even the others among him all had some glorious personal history before being employed by the Factory.

They were brave. John steeled himself as he watched the incoming enemy. A light lance of Blakist Mechs raced towards him. He mentally identified them without the HUD on his open visor. He had seen these types of machines before all classic Blakist Jihad machines. He heard the sound of the techs dragging their screaming friends into the bunker behind him.

Then it happened.

In every man and woman’s life a defining moment occurs, for some it is in their childhood, others their graduation from college or high school, for some it is marriage or the birth of their children, still others never have that shining moment that gathers their life’s essence into one point and propels them to greatness.

For the first time in his life he knew, exactly, what to do. John reached down and slapped his leg. The override command appeared in the open visor above him, questioning his action.

“Command override, Collins.” He spoke into the mike. He then swooned in his one ton suit as the med-pack punched his blood full of painkilling and rage maddening drugs. He breathed deeply as the powerful live-saving chemicals rushed through his veins. He smelt them, his ears rang, and his brow firmed.

“Command-visor.” He hissed.

Without a second of hesitation the faceplate snapped shut and sealed as Private Collins shook in his suit. Not of fear, not of pain, but of anger, blood pounding hate.

”Curse this life!” He screamed as his voice became a roar inside his suit. He was twisting from the drugs powerful influence, counting the distance between himself and the approaching Mechs counting, blood boiling, heart thundering, furious.

His rangefinder spun down, down, down as the lead Mech reached just the right distance. John screamed a violent ragged roar and he ran franticly towards the 20 ton war machine. Blood boiling, heart thundering, soul burning, furious.

”Get inside move it Anna!” Able Manski yelled to the astech as she limped forward with a wounded comrade clinging to her.

Thundering weapons fire roared in the not so distant distance.

“They are coming, quickly.” He said taking her burden and checking to see if she could make it herself into the bunker.

The attack was well timed. The bomb. The infantry shooting into the crowd with needle rifles, and now the BattleMechs racing across the Factory grounds like crazed killers, it struck him as too much. These Word of Blake Mechs came here to kill them not to attack the Terran unit getting an upgrade and refit. If it hadn’t been for them and their unexpected visit Able would be dead right now along with piles of the other Factory employees there in the main compound.

”Mister Manski?” The wounded man said delirious from pain as he looked at his lower left leg in shock. “I can’t find my foot!”

”Don’t worry Christopher; I am sure Brianna will find it later. Now work with me, we have to get inside now.” Able said as tears welled up behind his eyes. “It was a good foot, with lots of blood in it.” Abel’s voice trailed off as he looked at the smears of blood following him up to the bunker. “Damn it.” He swore under his breath as he handed the tech to another just inside the bay door who yanked a cable tie around his leg just below the knee to stop the bleeding. Able quickly turned to head back outside and help the last few stragglers into the bunker but he slipped in all the blood and fell to the floor. He landed with a bone jarring thud on his knees and hands on the smooth slick concrete.

”Able!” Brianna Hoffmeier screamed as she saw him drop to the floor. “Oh my God, are you alright?”

Able turned to her from on his knees and slashed his blood covered hand at her wildly.

”Get away from the doors!” He screamed almost crazed at her. “I told you child to stay in the back of the bunker! Damn you Brianna do as you’re told for once!”

Rushing, running, stomping, John Collins streaked towards the incoming enemy BattleMechs as they charged forward. The lead pilot watched as the single suit of power armor sped towards him carrying the infidel pilot to his doom. He would send him to hell where he belonged. The MechWarrior aimed his missile launcher spat twin missiles at the armored infantry man. The Incendiary payload the Inferno missiles carried would make a nice little oven out of the Armor suit, all but roasting the foolish little infidel within. Better give him a taste of Blake’s hell before he gets a chance to visit it. The insignificant infantryman would be consumed in Blake’s flaming wrath and burn as so much brimstone.

John ran wide eyed and with his mike open. He charged at the machines that would end his life today. It took all 25 years of it for him to come to the knowledge that his life was, in the end, truly not his own. He was a solider, a guardian of peace, and an avenging angel of death for the just. His religious upbringing seethed into his words as he tried to fortify his will for his last act.

”Human wrath serves only to praise you, when you bind the last bit of your wrath around you!”

He primed the jump jets mounted on his back.

“Make vows to the Lord your God, and perform them; let all who are around him bring gifts to the one who is awesome,”

A single bolt of light from the Mech’s pulse laser struck his shoulder but the drugs had long ago ended his ability to feel pain.

“who cuts off the spirit of princes,”

The Inferno rounds burst in front and above him dousing him with flaming chemicals.

“who inspires fear in the kings of the earth!”

He fired his jump jets and launched into the air burning head to toe with napalm.

“I am your instrument! Strike through me!”

As Private John Collins shot through the burning cloud of napalm the MechWarrior inside the Mech looked into the eyes of the flame shrouded, roaring angel of death.

And screamed.

John collided with the cockpit window of the Mech. His armored knee plate smashed a divot into the multi-layered ballistic glass. John slashed out with his clawed hand and snagged armor plate. He scrambled up the chin of the Mech’s head as if he were followed by the legions of Satan himself. The flames heated his suit but served only to fuel his wrath and fury.

Crazed by his initial dose of the med-pack, John began pummeling the cracked windshield repeatedly until he had punched a hole in the window. He shoved his flamethrower barrel through the hole and filled the cockpit with fire. The Word of Blake MechWarrior inside was screaming his faith as the cockpit lathered with flame. His screams were lost to John; the blood was pounding like war drums in his ears.

He was overwhelmed with pain as the suit was scalding him while it burned. The auto injector fired another dose of drugs into him. John squealed as the potent mix hit his muscles and he felt the veins bulge out on his neck. The drugs burned in his brain and he leapt off of the Mech firing his thrusters to cover the distance across the way to the other two.

As a volley of missiles reached out and lasers seared the sky, he overshot the dome shaped cockpit, hit the ‘neck’ platform of the machine, and crashed into the heat exchanger behind the cockpit hatch. Dazed but enraged he crawled across the neck of the machine as the pilot fired his missiles mounted above John again in some vain effort to dislodge him.

He got his suit sprawled across the narrow distance and grabbed the handhold next to the hatch. With a now mindless roar, Collins began ripping at the door until he peeled the armored hatch up at an edge, then began yanking at it till the shaking and bucking Mech jumped into the air and came crashing down hard to shake or dislodge the insane infantry man from it’s back. The remaining Mech pilots began firing at their compatriot in some misguided attempt to kill the infidel Terran warrior but did little other than harm their own lance mate. Blood burning, skin sticking, mind exploding, heart thundering, furious

Lewis Davison thundered his Command Mech across the deserted grounds of the Factory Mech facility. He went in bursts of speed in a way no engineer intended for the machine to move. He was tipping the Mech forward and dumped the reserve power into the reactor core. Heat was building up. Lewis Davison had felt that kind of heat many times before in his career as a MechWarrior. It was the reassuring sensation that the steady rise of hot, soon scalding, air was coming from his heat exchanger and that the Mech was generating way more heat than simple running would ever produce.

He had sprinted before, in lighter machines. This was one of the heaviest Mechs ever built; it didn’t get any more frightening than this for a MechWarrior. Lewis Davison was in heaven. Now he was trying to stop one of his men from making it there prematurely. As he rounded the building Sara Hamillton yelled out a warning:

”Enemy battlemechs two o’clock, three o’clock, and center point on my mark.”

Davison slid the 95 ton behemoth from between two storage hangers, long unused this far out on the grounds and sparks shot from his toe cleats as they dug ruts in the concrete parking lot. The vibrations shook them in their cockpit as Commander Davison raised the twin ER PPC cannon held in the right arm and aimed at the remaining last remaining Mech.

”Hello ladies!” He called out over the open channel as he fired.

The Blakist mech was just turning to get a better look at the cloud of dust and sparks that had arisen to his left. Just then the spinning double Cannon bolts connected with his Mech and blew the right torso apart and severed the left leg. The Mech went down with a crash and Davison charged his laser batteries while he armed the Streak launcher.

The pilot of the Mech Collins was attacking was praying to Blake. He kept trying to shake the madman off his back but could not seem to dislodge him. When the hatch ripped open he knew his time had come. He reached down to his holster, pulled his Pulse laser pistol, and fired over his shoulder at the demonic warrior.

The last mortal thought he had was interrupted as the demon clawed his face and collarbones apart and swiftly yanked his neck back. He then pulled the ejector lever for the dead MechWarrior. His dead body rose on a pillar of flame.

Private Collins exited the access hatch of the Mech only to an end. The other Mechs seeing their lance mate eject from the stricken machine opened fire on John. The only laser to hit severed his right leg.

The launch of four missiles zipped past him with only one rocket striking his chest plate and blasting him off of the devastated Mech. As John descended, the med-pack fired a different drug into him this time and he heard angels sing as he slammed down to the ground.

His body and suit shattered, he lay there looking up at the sky as the suit sealed his severed leg and filled him with detox.

A second injection slowed his heart rate and placed the warrior gently into a coma. He felt the cool breeze of the heat exchanger draining away the heat from inside his suit. It had stopped burning somewhere back on top of the second Mech but John Collins didn’t care. He was complete.

As he lay on the shattered concrete with his airbags burst and his armor cracked and smoldering, except for the cold fingers of death preparing to take him, John felt at peace. He even smiled with four knocked out teeth. He was numbly aware of the med-pack trying to inject him with yet another dose but was unable to, he had used that dose at the beginning of all this. Now was his time to die. He resigned himself and closed his eyes.

As the next few days went by, the wounded recovered, the dying were saved, and the dead buried. Brianna Hoffmeier recovered too. She sat alongside Able Manski and over a hundred other techs in the bunker and she cried into his chest as he held and comforted her.

They all asked about Private Collins, and after seeing the devastation he wrought and that which was wrought upon him, few wondered to his predicament. It was much to everyone’s surprise that Private Collins was transferred to the Granger Park district hospital in critical condition.

Four weeks later John lay still in his private room. His eyes flickered open. The matter had been wiped from his eyes countless times by the attending nurse and others. He woke with his hair combed his face shaved and he peered out over the room with bleary eyes. Feeling the sting of injury, he quickly took inventory of himself before he cared to look about the room. He was lying in a bed, he wasn’t in any real danger, and your enemies don’t tuck you in before zipping you.

With a groan of sadness he realized things were missing from him. His right leg had been removed up in his hip; he was sans three fingers, one on his right and 2 on his left hand. He had burn dressings on and tubes running out of every, wait, belay that, almost every orifice of his body. He was breathing through a tube and it looks like he had been eating through one for a few weeks too.

As his vision cleared he looked about the room. It was a cluttered mess. There were Mylar balloons and vases of flowers all about the place. Gift baskets were set about the room in general disorder by the nurses as they needed to reach the injured warrior during his recovery. On the table in front of him was a pair of what looked like stainless steel toy Mechs, both complete with busted up cockpits.

On another table sat a plate of steel from the armor of a mech. It was etched with a single word: Awesome.

He lived.

After fumbling around for a while he found his nurse call button and in rushed his three nurses. All of them were talking to him, smiling, and calling other people. The word miracle may have come up over the next few days but regardless of the source, he lived. What appeared to be the entire surviving staff of the Factory Mech production center came to visit him at predetermined times throughout the days.

John beamed with life again as his new fingers and right leg parts were fitted to him a few days later. The scars would take longer to heal and the blur of drug induced haze could be pierced by some relevant battle videos in a while. He grew strong again quickly and learned to walk in a few days more. Soon he was able to pick up things without breaking them with his new fists. In two weeks he was released from the hospital. At his return party he received no quarter from the grateful techs and workers, even his own unit commander was happy to see him this time. But when that older technician and his Factory cohorts wheeled something into the hanger they were celebrating in on a forklift, John was thrown off a bit. They all stood around smiling.

”What’s this?” He asked innocently.

”Take the cover off young man.” Abel Manski said as he stopped next to a middle aged woman in fine clothes and she took hold of his arm.

John reached up and grasped the tarp covering the front of the forklift. He paused before pulling it off. His gaze was fixed on his new hand, just for a moment. Then he uncovered it. Standing before him was a suit, his suit, of Archangel Battle armor. It was clad from head to toe in burnished chrome. Only the rainbows of light that reflected off of its visor’s slit shown any difference in hue.

”We know it’s a bit gaudy and possibly in bad taste, but we were hoping you would keep it.” Abel Manski said as he wiped a pair of fingerprints off of its left hand. “Oh, and you should have these too.”

Another tech handed him a set of four titanium nuts on a braided chain necklace.

”What are these for?” John asked turning them over in his hand.

”Well we figured since you neutered those two Mechs, that maybe you should keep their nuts.”
Abel’s second in command smiled as he shook John’s hand and the four nuts with it.

”Technicians.” John shook his head, smiling.

“I’m alive.” Life was welcome and new again for him.

Later in the evening John managed to break off from the festivities and head outside for some air. The party was going full steam inside but he needed a moment alone. He walked out of the hanger and looked up at the starry sky. The night was warm and a breeze was blowing. His gaze fell eventually to the four BattleMechs on guard duty outside the hanger. He chuckled to himself, had there been 4 Mechs there to stop the imposter Blakist strike force, none of this would have happened the way it did and he might never have had his moment of clarity. As he stood there smiling at the back of the Guard Mech nearest him he heard the scratch and crack of high heeled shoes walking towards him on the gravel littered parking lot.

He slowly looked over his shoulder at a beautiful dark haired woman as she swayed her hips while walking up and standing next to him. She was beautiful and the strange flecks of foil or glitter in her hair were still sparkling in the light of the distant hanger.

”Good evening, hero.” She said with a smile as she sipped her diet soda. “Not very gracious of your hosts to let you escape the party like this.”

”More than gracious, this whole night is wonderful.” John said with his best manners. “I can’t believe all this has happened to me.”

”Well believe it hero. That drug induced, crazed, speaking-in-tongues thing you did really scare the crap out of the rest of the attackers and they thought the Christ had come to judge Blake himself.” She giggled. “They ran like water.”

”Word of Blake fanatics?” He asked of her as she nodded in agreement. “Why?”

”They hate us.” She said plainly. “Ever since they tried to purge Terra of everyone NOT Blake everyone is in a panic over their little Jihad and we show no respect to the robed psychos.”

”What is your name beautiful woman?” John asked with his new smile. “You have me at a loss, you know who I am but I don’t know you.”

”My friends call me Brianna; the rest of the company calls me Mrs. Hoffmeier.” She said with a soft snort.

”You’re the owner.” John said as his eyes traveled up her leg to her shoulders. “And you’re married.”

”You are a very observant boy John Collins. Owner yes, married no.” She smiled through the pain on that one. “He died on Huntress serving the Prince. The official term is widow.”

”Oh, I,” he stammered for a second, “my other name is: stupid. Forgive me.”

”I see it now, hero.” She turned on him. “You thought that if you hurt my feelings you wouldn’t have to sleep with me when I ask you to take me home after the party.”

John’s jaw fell and he blinked. This one was full of surprises.

”Always the clever tactician,” she stalked him like a panther, “thought he’d just save my life and the lives of my people and just gets away Scott free with no gratuitous sex reward from the rich, sexy, unmarried, and excited owner of the company, did he?”

She had been poking each word into his chest as she advanced on him. John in a state of shock worse than what the med-pack had done to him just stared at her dumbfounded.

”Your father is that head tech guy, isn’t he?” John said back pedaling as she slowly continued to walk straight at him.

“He, um, might not approve of you just, you know, just doing this to me.”

”TO you!” She wailed at him. “Oh that’s it buddy! You insult my father and then you whine like a baby about what I’m going to do TO you? I swear. You keep this up and we’re gonna end up doing it right here on the foot of this Mech.” She smiled grabbed him where it hurts and laid the longest kiss of his life onto his lips.

”I don’t have a car.” He said breathless to her as she released him.

”I do and it’s only a short walk over there.” She pointed to her sports car.

”You’ve got to be joking, right?” He said looking at the diminutive auto.

”Well I’m not riding home in that Mech, big guy.” She said with a wink.