NationStates Jolt Archive

"Okay, troopers." Captain Fontaine looks out on his teams in the hold of one of SCS Shanghai's modular containers, the one it always carted around in one way or another. Sometimes it was swapped with another, other times it was just turned around; either way, its bare accoutrements were a standard, heavy gauge wire and canvas even more Spartan than usual for Scolopendra. "Just another deep infiltration op; thing is, this job's kinda interesting. Two man teams, inserted within the population-sparse industrial sectors here and here." The captain, one of those men who looks far too angular to be flesh and bone, highlights an area on the projected map with a few lazy twirls of his hands.

"Well, sir, never thought I'd be poking about this nation this way," First Lieutenant Timofeyev Bondayehr says with a wry half-smirk. "I'm not too sure I'm good for this op--my face should be pretty easily recognizable by the authorities."

"Actually, Bondy, that's the reason the highers up picked our unit." Fontaine flashes a grin that, if his lips were parted, would have a touch of the feral to it. "Apparently command thinks that if you got detected, they'd go easier on you. For some reason."

A humorless laugh. "For some reason. Command's whacked, sir. Guy definitely has his priorities, and priority one is icing those who are liabilities. That would include me, in his eyes, if I get caught."

"Trick is, Bondy, for this op you're authorized to spill the reason if caught. Maybe he'd believe you, is the thought."

"Depends if he lets me live long enough to explain." Bondayehr shakes his head, then looks over to Sergeant Friedlitz with a smirk. "Think you and I can keep from getting seen?"

"Sure thing, boss." Friedlitz leans back and smiles. "Haven't been yet."

"Depends on who you ask, Fred." The lieutenant pokes himself lightly in the right side of his chest.

Friedlitz frowns a bit. "Point."

* - * - *

The Shadowhawk is the standard minimal-signature transport used by Scolopendran special forces to insert and extract in places where it would be best not to be seen. It is little more than a few small counterbalanced gravy engines (no noise) hooked to a cockpit and twelve seats, all on the outside of a very simple frame. It has short, stubby wings to aid in level flight (thus reducing the reliance on the gravitics) and is dotted with both passive signature reducing and active holographic and signature masking stealth systems, making it inordinately difficult to detect. The price for this is that performance-wise, it is equivalent to a very powerful helicopter--good for relatively low speeds and altitudes, which works well given that it lacks a pressurized cabin by any stretch of the imagination. One of these craft slips down from the clouds lit from below, a little bit of cloud matter itself, and hovers soundlessly only a few centimeters off the top of an aging factory roof--flat with lots of HVAC fans and ductwork on top, lots of cover. A momentary distortion in the cloud, and it wafts back up to the sky, leaving two active-camouflaged troopers low-crawling to the edge of the roof.

Quickly peeking around the area, they find themselves alone in the cloudy, moonless night. The next step is simple--set up camp in a nearby condemned building, deep inside so no sound nor light permeates to the outside. Sergeant Friedlitz sets out the bedrolls and starts arranging the communications equipment while Lieutenant Bondayehr sets up some tin cans from the alleyway and triplines down on lower floors at stairway accesses, continuing up to the hideout, right up to the single door that leads into the room. Meanwhile, Friedlitz cuts a bolthole to the alleyway with his variable sword, preparing a rappeling rope on the side--just in case. The enlisted man looks up and grins from behind closed lips. "No mines, boss?"

"No mines, Fred." Bondayehr sits down on his mat. "Too tricky to get around ourselves and the less people we kill in protecting ourselves, the easier it'll be to avoid getting killed ourselves if caught. Right now it just looks like crackhouse defenses, not super-secret whatevers."

"Hrm... point again." Friedlitz stretches out on his mat and looks up at the rotting ceiling. "Tomorrow we become one with the enemy, eh?"

Bondayehr shakes his head, looking over his XML rifle. "Nope. Tomorrow, we become the enemy's potential marks. I'll take first and fourth shifts."

Fred rolls his eyes and sighs as he turns over on his bedroll. "Turn of phrase, boss. See you in four hours."

Another day, another citizen. All the papers neatly forged and in order, the state police quite friendly as long as the citizens keep within their relatively liberal bounds. It's not oppressive so much as it has a Henry Ford outlook on politics: You're free to have it in whatever color you wish, as long as that color is black. Bondayehr plays the part well, and doesn't even find it that different from life back home--he's not looking for trouble by rocking the boat, at least, not where anyone can see. Being twenty-one has its advantages, such as being able to blend in perfectly with the university-age crowd. This is where the targets tend to find their marks--kids exposed to different cultures and different ideas in places that are ideologically biased due to their somewhat detached-from-reality scholastic nature. Milling about in a coffee shop, Timofeyev looks over the flyers and advertisements sipping some vile, bitter black stuff that is unfortunately popular around here. The sacrifices I make for my country...

Day in, day out. Getting known, getting to know others, the sound-enough alibi of being from another town far enough away that no one will think to check, large enough that anyone else from there can be allowed not to recognize him, and yet close enough that moving from there is perfectly feasible. That was SIS's job; building a legend. Makes a guy wonder why SIS didn't just do this themselves.

He gets involved in the occasional discussion--history, art, culture, all skirting on the edge of politics. Politics is a taboo subject, but it still gets talked about via metaphor, via its synchronistic effect on everything else, and it becomes pretty clear to spot Bondayehr's leanings. Risky, perhaps, but not quite dangerous; nothing openly against the Emperor, but a definite indication that he wouldn't complain over much if things could be different. Timofeyev draws on his college days, almost two years past, and holds a conversation with himself even as he speaks to others. Been that long, eh? Maybe the fundamentals were good, still are good, but definitely naive bordering on foolish.

Hell, I still am. I got myself into this mess by being the White Knight; now the only way out is probably on the painful end of a bullet.

He half-smirks both at a witty point and an internal pang of rememberance. Well, another one.

Now if only I find them before internal security does... or before internal security roots me out. Oh, that'd be fun. "Hi, remember me? Hopefully saving your life still has some weight when it comes for calling in favors...?"

Heh. Bastard has never really looked out for me; he's only ever done what he thinks is best, rare as that is--mostly dragging me to stupid diplomatic affairs in the name of "training" just so I can be embarrassed, insulted, and shrugged off in public. Oh joy. If I even momentarily appeared the threat, as I would now, he'd shoot me personally, I bet.

Another wry smirk. At least it'd get me out of this, and it'd be a fitting end. Very ironic.

Most of the time, he's basically talking to himself. No one seems to be dropping hints, indicating similar tendencies from their very upbringing. Things that would identify them as Scolopendran to those in the know...

"Yah. Cultural renaissances in the past have generally led to more humanist tendencies, which end up pervading all of society." Bondayehr takes another sip of beer, suppressing a wince. "Technological and cultural renaissances generally lead to greater senses of humanism and broader horizons, which leads to the realization that special classifications in social structures are really only mild differences along the same continuum. That's how the Voltaires and the Paines come about in societies that, previously, would not allow their existence by their very natures. Learning becomes appreciated, and with learning comes different modes of thought... historically speaking, of course."

The woman sitting across the table from him, looking to be thirty-something with a fair complexion, short blondish hair, and a sort of reddish scarf around her neck, nods. "Of course. Do you think this is a bad thing?"

Bondayehr shrugs eloquently. "It's natural. Same thing happened in the monarchies of France, Britain... even Tsarist Russia, same thing will eventually happen here. Those who study history may not be able to prevent repeating it, but will be ready for it when it does."

"So, the question demands asking," the woman smiles slyly, "do you look forward to it?"

Wanna dance, lady? Bondayehr half-smirks right back. Either she's the target or internal security. "I look forward to anything I'm prepared for... which, I like to fool myself into thinking, is anything."

"Anything--of course." She nods, writes an address on a slip of paper, and slides it over. "A group of those interested in the future and what it may hold gets together here every Thursday--a study group, really, talking about issues and whatnot. You're invited, if you're interested."

Bondayehr nods. "Thank you. I may drop by once or twice."

* - * - *

These people do their recruiting right, Timofeyev thinks as he sits through yet another interest-group meeting, answering every question the right way, making every nuance. It's a perfectly innocuous group, but the older adults are definitely fishing for something. The idealists-in-the-wrong-country around Bondayehr can't see it, but he can... but that's just because they haven't been used yet.

* - * - *

Now or never. Staying after one session, Timofeyev makes his move. "The easiest way to be prepared for the future is to play a part in creating it," he broaches. "Somehow I get the feeling you've some thoughts that way myself."

The woman, Irene, nods with a sly smile. "We may. What's your true opinion of the Empire?"

"A needlessly self-limiting totalitarian dictatorship. The longer it stays that way, the worse it will be for everyone." Bondayehr believes this... to an extent. "If I could do something about it, I would. As it is, I await the emancipation of my country from tyranny."

"I do think we can help," Irene replies. "Come with me."

They are knights-errant and not internal security, much to the lieutenant's silent delight. Irene--Dame Irene--is the leader, naturally fitting into the 'most eloquent ideologue' niche that knight-errant ringleaders seem to fall into. With her is Sir Dmitri, a weapons specialist (a "master of arms" in their antiquated lingo) with a penchant for absurdist humor; Sir Warren (in absentia), a wiry little guy far smaller than the lieutenant that apparently specializes in hand-to-hand ("master swordsman"); Dame Jasmine, a medic ("apothecary"); and Sir Maker-of-Tools, the kzin who stays at their home-away-from-home and makes bombs. These five are the Knights of the Black-Featherd Cat, single-handedly intending to bring truth, justice, and the idealist way to the backwards lands of the Empire of Treznor in the name of oppressed widows and orphans everywhere. Each has an old Civilian Defense Corps-issued suit of standard M.I. battle armor with full kit made up of various tools of destruction made by various nations.

"Black-feathered cat?" Timofeyev raises an eyebrow. "That's odd."

"It's original," Sir Dmitri replies with a half-smile and a shrug, "and it gets people's attention. That's part of the point, after all... you sure we haven't met in a previous life?"

Bondayehr suppresses his characteristic half-smirk. "Sorry, but I'm afraid I'm not Buddhist."

Dmitri chuckles. "Eh... I swear you look familiar. Deja vu, the way you smirk sometimes."

"Oh, it's just an affectation of mine." He half-smirks as Sir Warren walks in, takes one look, and immediately stops. The thin man's eyes bulge as he drops the paper bags he carries in his arms; an orange rolls out of one across the floor and Timofeyev picks it up. "Dropped yer orange."

The knight points. "You're Timofeyev Bondayehr."

Bondayehr half-smirks, right hand slowly nearing the tubular variable sword concealed in his pocket while the left idly scratches his copy of a Treznorian barcode. "Yeah... so?"

"What the hell are you doing here?" The knight blinks again. Dame Irene and Sir Dmitri look at each other, then back at the lieutenant.

"You guys really have your recruiting down. I had to be careful just in case you were Treznorian internal security--SMISO's sent me to make contact with you."

"SMISO's here to help?" Dame Irene says incredulously.

"Yup." Bondayehr smirks. And you've no idea how true that is...

* - * - *

Bondayehr lies back on the floor, looking at the ceiling, quietly listening to the knights-errant sleeping on their various mattresses and couches around the room. Sir Maker-of-Tools continues to pad about, having night guard by benefit of his night vision.

"So," Bondayehr broaches, "why?"

"Hrrrm?" The kzintosh looks up from cleaning his rifle, soft clinks of tools against the disassembled parts of a... FNG machine gun, the lieutenant can tell from the sound.

"Why you've taken it on yourself to right all the wrongs of the world. To, essentially, aim to overthrow allies in a Guy Fawkes 'for the people' blow."

"We do not see the government of doing anything to stop this oppression," Sir Maker-of-Tools replies, looking back down at his weapon. "The Segments have become too close to autocrats and totalitarians. Whatever happened to our ideals?"

"Still, you have to admit," Bondayehr replies slowly, "the Segments have been a good influence on all these autocratic states, the Dominion in particular. We've helped stabilize it to a great extent and lessen the sorts of police-state heavyhandedness that used to exemplify it."

The 'tosh scoffs, the little pink sandstone triangles on his belt tinkling softly with the motion. "Gradual change while people suffer is insufficient. You were an inspiration to us, Timofeyev. You were, and still are, a paragon of all we hold dear."

Timofeyev winces. "I saved the guy you're planning to kill."

"Yes, but it was the right thing to do at the time. It is your selflessness that gave us knight-errants a modern model. We only wish to do what is right, no matter the cost--do you understand?"

A low, humorless chuckle. "All too well. I've fallen off the face of the multiverse for two years because I want to do what's right."

"We must all make sacrifices," Sir Maker-of-Tools says with a nod.

You have no idea. Bondayehr turns over and tricks himself to sleep without another word.

"So, how's life in SMISO?" Sir Dmitri looks up from his cold cereal at the lieutenant.

"Don't get me started." Timofeyev stretches, idly popping the vertebrae in his neck. "Ninety percent of it is utterly boring. Ten percent of it is absolutely horrendous. All of it I can't tell you in much detail beyond that. Mostly, however, it's just a big drag--nothing I'm made for, to be sure."

"What--spying on people from holes in the ground crimping your style?"

Bondayehr shrugs. "Eh... after a fashion. It's more along the lines of I never intended to be doing this with my life, and I really don't find it very fulfilling. It's... gritty." He absentmindedly fingers a point a little above his right nipple where the cloth covers a scar two centimeters across.

"Lookin' forward to gettin' out?"

A nod. "Maybe not out of the service--I'm still dedicated to that. Out of the special operators? Yah, I could do without it."

"Any idea when that is?" The knight-errant continues munching on his cereal.

"Nope. When they don't need me anymore, I guess..." Bondayehr shrugs eloquently. "If there's one thing that's been reinforced in my life, it's that my 'freedom of choice' is quite notably limited compared to industry standard." And yet still perhaps greater than others'... great. "'Ours is not to question why,' after all."

"The charge of the Light Brigade was a blunder based on a mistake by the officers," Dmitri notes with a wink, "and 'do or die' doesn't sound all too pleasant either."

"Yah, but that's the way of things. Let's just say the state of intelligent initiative in the military has come a long way from the Crimea."

"And yet it never seems to pull through when it counts. Always having to kowtow, forehead to ground, in submission to the people it swears to fight against..." The knight-errant twists his mouth in a smirk, half-grin, half-kzingrin.

Bondayehr covers his natural reaction with a half-smirk of his own. "Too bad the world is more complicated than we wish it to be. Last time we had someone pull a Mandrake--Mandrake himself--more millions died than expected."

"Yes... but they died free. Beats dying in Ardan slave labor camps."

"There is that." Still, not exactly our choice to make... is it? The lieutenant chuckles humorlessly as he shakes his head. "Shades of grey, sir, shades of grey."

"Only if you choose to see it that way." Sir Dmitri returns to his cereal while Timofeyev returns to brooding internally, his face a gently-frowning mask.

"So... why not ditch the whole spec-ops thing and join up with us?" Sir Dmitri says with a smile. "I mean, the whole agent-of-the-state thing has to be crimping your idealist style."

"At times, at times..." Timofeyev says with a shrug, looking towards nothing in particular. The knight-errant hideout is an abandoned building on the fringe of the city, apparently let go during construction. It has a thin facade of pink styrene insulation over its girders and beams, the inside wide open and dark, lit only by the work lamps left by the crews for whatever reason. Poking around, the lieutenant had found a news article from a few months back saying how a train carrying hazardous materials had derailed and caused an evacuation of this housing area. It wasn't anything lingering, just an organic chemical expected to biodegrade in a few months, but it wasn't worth sticking around, apparently. He idly wondered how much was left around and what exactly it was.

"I mean, really. We all know SMISO never takes the jobs it should be taking... you said you're Wolf Spiders, right? Why aren't you in Iraqstan or Arda readying a resistance movement?"

Timofeyev suppresses a wince with his traditional half-smirk, looking over the tent-like interior of the building, the suits in one corner, the wooden stairs leading to the second floor which held additional stores as a 'fortress.' "Well, I'm here, aren't I?" Iraqstan, Arda... those were places for why SMISO was made. Improve the land from the inside, corrupt them in the ways of democracy and freedom and create cabals willing to fight for their rights, to throw off oppressors--didn't his training include Iraqstan scenarios? Was anyone ever sent? Probably not--it had taken a bunch of crazy knights-errant to do what needed to be done, not the professionals who should've beend doing it.

"Yeah, but I'm still left wondering why," Sir Warren offers. "You say you're here to help, but no intelligence, no weapons..."

"The rest of my squad's out there, doing what needs be done," the lieutenant replies simply. They were looking for you guys; now they're just establishing a cordon. "Right now I need to establish what you know so I know how to contribute."

"Always ponderously careful and wary, the government is," Sir Dmitri says with a wink. "Heh, I remember my stories of the Revolution, when the advantage lied in those who acted. All those folk heroes of old who took up what they could and fought for their rights. Whatever happened to the old 'Idealism at All Costs,' eh? All buried in realpolitik now. The people are ready for a new era of good deeds," he says theatrically, "and the government imagines us to be a disease. We are but a symptom, friend!"

"Hey, I never argued you were anything disease-related," Bondayehr grumbles weakly as he watches the gap between what he is and what he wants to be--should be--widen.

"Never said you, friend, just the government in general. We get care packages, letters of hope and praise and support from all over the Segments through our brother orders. We know it's tricky, and we know others disparage us as terrorists. What does it matter if we do good?"

Timofeyev frowns. "But is this good? What gives you the right to say this man is right and that one wrong, this one deserving of praise and the other deserving death? What gives you the authority to meddle in the affairs of nations?" He guards his despair in a debative voice, using inflection more than emotion as he cannot trust the latter.

"Morality, of course," Sir Warren says simply, unheatedly. "If this one does harm to others for his own good, then he cannot be called good. Anyone who oppresses the masses, refuses them even the right to comment idly on their government, to point out flaws and recommend solutions... is that good? Someone who lets his gestapo run free to purge his people of any dissidence, no matter how mild... how is that idealistic? Good? How did these unworthy even get into the 'idealist' Triumvirate without some sort of rot in the higher command?"

The lieutenant finds himself unable to argue against that. He has redeeming qualities... but can I expect to see any if, say, I'm captured, even trying to help him? Probably not. Machiavellian self-interest says to just play it safe and off me, and my government, knowing what's up, won't make any waves. That's what I am--I'm not doing anything good or right, I'm just stabilizing the boat. He frowns mightily.

Just where I wanted myself to be, for sure. I can't even be true to myself... and yet duty calls. As always.

"How can you support that man?" Dame Irene punctuates with her hands as she leans forward just a bit in her chair, frowning a bit in the classical pose of heated debate.

Bondayehr, for his part, shakes his head. "I can't. All I know is that I have a feeling he should keep living." And my orders say something to that effect, too. "Just because we disagree with him doesn't mean we can take the fate of billions into our hands and axe him."

"It is those billions that make this morally obligatory," says the Dame. "Without the oppressive heel of the Emperor on their necks, the Treznorian people will be free to grow politically and culturally! Self-rule can finally have a chance to blossom, and self-determination can finally flourish as the people take control of their own lives. Has it not been said that the tree of liberty occasionally needs to be refreshed with the blood of tyrants?"

"And patriots," Timofeyev adds desperately. "This may not go as easily as you hope. People will die."

"People always die," she replies, "people die now for complaining if the trains aren't on time or for insinuating the Emperor has made a mistake. Is it not better that they die striving to make themselves better rather than be sacrificed for one man's ill gain?"

"That's an unfair argument to use on a trooper," the lieutenant says with a grimace. "Of course it's better to die for a reason than to die for none."

"Then what reason do you have to oppose us? That's what I don't understand." Dame Irene leans back with a half-frown, but a gentler one than earlier. "I know--sometimes hunches are good, but other times they must acquiesce to reason. Besides, as you said, you were sent to help... how is that coming along?"

Timofeyev sighs. "Point. My troopers have set up a defensive perimeter. We don't have to worry about security poking around."

Dame Irene smiles. "Excellent."

Command's not gonna like this.

TRANSMISSION BEGINS
>> INTERNAL QE NETWORK COMMUNICATIONS <<
ZULU -> CLASSIFIED TRANSFER -> 1B1A
AUTHORIZE: ###########
CODE OF DAY: ###########
AUTHORIZED

TO: 1LT BONDAYEHR, B-SQ, 1PLT, ACO, SMISO-MA
FR: SMISO-HQ
SJ: OBJECTIVE

REPORT ACKNOWLEDGED AND UNDERSTOOD <STOP>

NEW OBJECTIVE CODE <STOP> OBJECTIVE CHANGE FROM TRUMPET TO BALLISTA <STOP> REPEAT NEW OBJECTIVE IS BALLISTA <FULL STOP>

AUTHORIZATION GRANTED FOR BALLISTA OPERATIONS <FULL STOP>

[AUTHORIZATION SIGNATURE - CHAOTIC CODE-OF-DAY VERIFICATION CLEARED]
SMISO-HQ

TRANSMISSION TERMINATED
Timofeyev sighs, flipping the "commercial" combination cell phone and PDA shut before returning it absentmindedly to one pocket. And... of course... I'm not gonna like this either. Talking didn't work, so now it's time for permanent action. Good old Ballista--"prevent instability by any means necessary."

I am the one who stabilizes the boat. Stability at Any Cost... just like this damned Empire. He looks up from his spot in the corner--all the knights, basically forgetting he's there, politely giving him the room he needs to talk to his superiors. Sloppy.

Bondayehr had to 'check in' with his executive officer, or so he told the knights-errant, and that was true enough. However, the meeting is not to discuss how to aid the knights-errant, but, rather, what to do with them. Friedlitz sat back against the wall and acted as sounding board while the lieutenant paced and thought aloud. Stunning them and bringing them back? The only thing the Segments could and would charge them for is illegal use of government property--the CDC issued suits and such. Six months to maybe a few years in boot-prison and they'd be out for sure, as their civics are flawless... and they'd be back out, trying again. In the end, nothing accomplished except underlining their deep-seated mistrust of the Scolopendran government and its lack of dedication to its ideals. Can't let them get caught, as that would produce an unallowable incident between the Segments and the Empire. It's bad enough that the people of the Segments tacitly support these militant idealists--'terrorists,' in the lingo of everyone they hit--the only thing that could be worse is that they hit allies.

"Not many options, boss." Fred frowns, folding his hands behind his head. "This op sucks, granted... but we've had some decent ones. You know this."

Bondayehr nods. "I know, and even Devon Treznor has redeeming qualities. I'm going out to kill people who are simply doing what they believe in, Fred. People truer to their ideals than I am."

The sergeant shakes his head and starts packing tools of the trade into a satchel. "Hope you don't mind, boss, but I'm going to hold the fact that I have more time in service over you right now. We all hit this block sooner or later, over some thing or another. Some people just think their way into it, other poor bastards--like you--are ordered into it. I've found it's not anything that can really be argued; everyone has to come to terms with it." He hands the satchel to the lieutenant, who tests its weight. "We're trained and ordered to kill people, boss. Sometimes, like other jobs I could recall, the people we're told to take out are asking for it. Other times, like your first, the guys are just the poor slobs on the wrong end of the barrel, but it's you or them. Sometimes..." He frowns. "Sometimes you either realize that it's possible, or it simply is, that the guy's on your own side. These people are traitors, boss."

Timofeyev quirks an eyebrow, frowning deeply. "That deep, Fred?"

"They're risking the security of the Segments on a fool's errand, boss. If they whack the Emperor, they're gonna announce who they are, and we all know where that leads. If they fail, they'll get caught and we know where that leads. We don't axe foreign leaders."

"Unless they have it coming to them," Bondayehr says with a pained smirk.

"Look, boss..." Fred offers with a slight sigh, "if you're not sure you can pull this off..."

"If you show up, Sergeant, they'll know something's up and it'll get messier than it already is." The lieutenant's face turns hard, shouldering the satchel. "I don't want to, but I can make the hit in the quickest and quietest way possible. Just be ready to move out and call in a clean-up team."

"Got it, sir." Friedlitz nods slowly with a soft frown. "Good luck, and I'll see you back at the ranch."

Lieutenant Bondayehr grunts and stalks off.

* - * - *

Walking down the deserted streets, Bondayehr idly shufflies through the bag, identifying weapons by feel. Powergun pistols, garrote tubes, wirechaku... lots of ways loud and quiet, but all messy. That's what is demanded in the name of efficiency... neck-cracker bats tend to be too tricky to use, so slicers and shooters will just have to do. All these weapons, just to kill five silly people who want to change the world.

Don't we all? Don't we all want to make the world a better place? If I could throttle any Ardan warlord, I would; if I could kill Carlos Quil'raya, I would. What makes Treznor any different from them? Hell, he's the best friend of the latter--shows what company he keeps. And Nathi? Probably one of the same with softer edges.

He silently curses himself. My attachment to these autocrats have blinded me to their true nature. Oh, they're great to friends... friends created by convenience and utility. I'm certain that status changes quickly in ways that could give old Niccolo nightmares.

Pocketing one item before dropping the bag just outside the door to the abandoned house, he sticks one hand into his pocket before he walks in. I owe them this much. I owe them much more.

Fourteen months off the face of the multiverse--summed up by that quaint little euphemism that SMISO stole from the submarine "silent services" of days past: "out on patrol." Fourteen months of exquisite boredom broken with books and fighter lessons graciously provided by the pilots on Shanghai, and missions. Missions like these, deep underground, either literally--in holes--or metaphorically, just like on this moonless night.

Bondayehr passes Dame Jasmine and Sir Maker-of-Tools checking through their equipment wordlessly before slowly walks up the stairs, where three knights are arranged around the table, over a map and a few blueprints. Hard at work--going to act soon, I bet. "Well, I talked to my people."

They look up at him expectantly. "And?" asks Dame Irene.

"Well, I want one last chance to talk you out of it before we go all the way with our plans." I'm dropping you every hint I can, people.

Dame Irene scoffs. "Again? I thought we've been over this, and we're almost ready. Give us until tomorrow night, and I think we'll be in place."

Timofeyev nods, standing a bit more stiffly than usual. "We have, but it bears repeating. Let's say this goes off perfectly--you take the head from the serpent and the revolutionary army you've been breeding through your interest groups suddenly realizes it's revolution time. Where does that leave the military? The government advisors? The conniving, backstabbing, ulcerous bastards who simply add to the eternal snake's circle, biting his own tail?"

"What about them?" Dame Irene stands up, smiling softly, speaking in a gentle pastor's voice. "They cannot stop the people."

"You're looking to create a power vacuum. The professional military will back the Caesars with the balls to cross the Rubicon; the politicos and ministers will all rush up to take the seat, each one with their own interests and their own ways to fight for it. Blood will be spilt."

"We've discussed this too--even military juntas cannot directly oppose the will, being made up of the people; politicos are not strong enough to resist the will of a people willing to overthrow them."

"Willingness, willingness, willingness." Bondayehr steps forward into the light. "Your army are a bunch of college students. They talk big, but they may not have the skills, the dedication, to be revolutionaries. They may leap forward at the chance to bring forth an enlightened republic, but what will happen then? The ministers will smile and bow and scrape, and take advantage of their naivety. They will strike when they are listed as trusted, and your idealist leaders will fall in nights of long, unsheathed knives by the people who helped put them in power. The professional military, dedicated to their old Emperor, will follow the most loyal general with the greatest aspirations to the throne, and your idealists lack the training to stop a huge military force. The only way they can protect themselves is to enact purges that are anathema to them."

"Your elitism is showing through, soldier," Sir Warren says with a smirk. "Iraqstan showed that an inspired people can work to push back their oppressors. Just because they are citizen-soldiers do not mean they will just roll over and die when the 'professional' military comes forward."

"Oh, I'm certain they will resist and have a good showing of it," Bondayehr replies, "but civil wars often go to those with the greater resources, the greater strategists, the better training, all three of which your revolutionaries lack. This is too hasty." He sighs, face firm. "I pray of you, call this off. The possibility of failure even in success... it's too great." Please, see reason.

Dame Irene laughs. "Not when we're this far ahead. Now are you going to help, or what?"

There is a fine line between bravery and stupidity, they say. The difference between putting fear aside for purpose and ignoring fear entirely, or not recognizing a thing is to be feared.

There is a fine line between idealism and ivory towerism as well. The difference between being dedicated to what is right, and being grounded in reality.

Do these people really want to start something of this magnitude?

Bondayehr simply stands silently, head bowed.

They do this, and everything could collapse. Sure, Treznor may, just may, have it coming to him... but if he dies, who replaces him? Someone worse? Someone who would withdraw from the Triumvirate and do something foolish, like attack? What happens to the NDA bloc? In order to 'save' a few billion by introducing them to the mere opportunity of democracy, are the safety and security of billions upon billions more to be threatened? Is this the cost at which idealism comes? Is this what we mean when we dedicate ourselves to making everything right, everywhere, at all times, or even trying?

But just because we can't do everything doesn't mean we should do nothing... but not in this way. This way, idealism becomes folly and these people destroy what they think they want to create.

So what am I to do? What is the cost of my ideals? I don't want to be here.

I don't want to do this.

But here I am.

"Something wrong, Tim?"

He looks up with a very tired, very wry smirk.

Idealism at any cost... even my own ideals. There are two different and easily distinguishable results to my actions from here on out, and the optimal one doesn't rely on me doing what I personally think is right.

If I hadn't slit that man's throat three years ago, he could've provided additional information that would've led to the usurpers capturing us all. That was necessary--idealism at any cost. The ideal of victory, of escape, via the cost of gritty realism.

He looks down slightly, sighs once, then looks back up with a firm expression. His hand slips from his pocket, wrist snapping the variable sword to its full length in a sharp, fast blur.

The next instant, Dame Irene's headless body drops to the ground with only the sound of a razor-thin blade slipping through the air and a dull thud.

All the other knights can do is blink as the lieutenant pushes away the falling body of the ideologue, face emotionless as he neatly severs life from body, Sir Dmitri falling back in a momentary burst of red, blood simply shearing off of the molecule-thin blade of the variable sword. Sir Warren leaps back from the table, wooden chair clattering as he draws his steel light sword. Bondayehr steps forward, instantly knocks the knight's arms to the sides with a quick Krav Maga move then headbutts the slightly taller man hard in the nose. Sir Warren staggers back with a groan of pain, face bleeding, then stiffens easily as another slice of the variable sword cleaves him in twain from armpit to armpit.

Turning around, Bondayehr sees Dame Jasmine coming up the stairs. "What's going on?" Tossing the variable sword to his off hand without thinking, he pulls his suppressed 11.5 millimeter pistol, lines up with her graceful eyebrows, and pulls the trigger. A noise akin to a loud sneeze and the woman freezes, the hole in her forehead only spilling one tiny line of blood as opposed to the red mess that appears behind her, then falls back down the stairs with a clatter.

A momentary pause, a roar of anguish, and the raging form of the kzintosh bounds up the stairs. Bondayehr fires three more rounds, hitting the felinid in the shoulder, doing nothing but making the quarter-ton kzin howl with rage as it leaps, cruel obsidian claws out. Timofeyev rolls to the side, crouching up only to be batted away hard by the broad forearm of the massive 'tosh.

He balls up and rolls down the stairs, quickly regaining his feet as the incandescent lights, jarred by the kzin's pounce pulling their cords, fall and shatter their bulbs, enshrouding the room in darkness. Timofeyev runs by memory to a nearby table, hearing the kzin clump down the stairs. His hands alight on something blocky and metal before he rolls away again, dodging from the roar announcing the furious kzin's leap. His hands, intimately familiar with the device in it, places one end up against his shoulder, right hand bracing against the cumbersome handle while his left raises it up under its tubular barrel.

The kzin roars again, and Timofeyev lines up on the sound, pulling back on his right hand. There is a massive flash and a jarring concussion, followed by a brief trail of smoke as the 25.4 millimeter gyrojet round streaks off, catching the kzin in the chest. The 'tosh's roar breaks down into a mewl of pain as Bondayer falls to his side, continues to track by instinct, and fires again. Another flash, another trail ending in the momentarily lit kzin's neck as he passes a few tens of centimeters away with the scent of anger and pain and smoldering fur. The shell continues off, its lit plume silhouetting the massive felinid in flight until it blows away several sheets of insulation on the opposite side of the house. The body hits the ground with a whump, bounces once, then falls still.

Bondayehr stands up and lets the weapon fall from limp, shaking fingers. Shaking his head, he walks over to what remains of Sir Maker-of-Tools, kneels down, and pulls the pink triangles from the kzin's belt with the sharp clink of snapping metal beads. Well played, Hero. Hopefully the Fanged God finds you worthy.

Standing up, he taps the QE bead in his ear. "Ballista launched. Send in the clowns."

First Lieutenant Timofeyev Bondayehr sits silently in the seat of the Shadowhawk, letting the air buffet him through his fully enclosed SLOPE armor, feeling his legs dangle hundreds of meters above the ground. Beside him, Sergeant Friedlitz sighs, looking over momentarily. "Got 'er done, boss." What else is there to say? 'Well done,' or, God forbid, 'good job?'

Timofeyev sighs quietly. "Ya. Got 'er done. Status quo has been saved from going straight to Hell... but I can't help but wonder."

"What?"

Bondayehr looks down at the ground underneath them where, somewhere, an SIS clean-up crew is expertly destroying the evidence. "Rationally, it wasn't maybe the right thing to do... but it was the necessary thing. Gotta wonder what kotyenawa moya will think."

"Hrm." Friedlitz rubs his chin through heavy gloves and face veil. "I guess that would be worrisome. Good thing you can't tell 'er, eh?"

"Actually, that's part of the problem. Don't feel like talking much about it at the moment."

The sergeant just nods. Silence returns, except for the buffeting wind.

* - * - *

The conference room, nestled deep in the secure diplomatic sector of Valhalla station, is yet another example of the station's emphasis on clean lines and comfortable, if impersonal, architecture. The seats are comfortable but not distracting, the table is elegantly simple yet nondescript beyond a surface to hold objects off the floor, and the wall paneling is subtly designed to avoid distraction without being bland or boring. Everything has its place and has its function, but nothing stands out--the room itself is not important; what the room hosts within it is. Everything has its place and has its function, but nothing stands out--the room itself is not important; what the room hosts within it is. Even the troopers standing at ease at one end of the room are nondescript, after a fashion; there are similar soldiers all throughout the station due to it being the Earth Theatre headquarters of the TYCS. They do exchange glances with each other at entering the room and seeing who they're asked to speak for; that is as much surprise--much less any emotion or thought--they allow themselves to betray.

Emperor Devon Treznor glances around the room, nodding slightly at what he sees in the people assembled around him. Curiously, perhaps even refreshingly, none of them appear to be very nervous about meeting him, just surprised.

The reports are simple and brief, usually consisting of forming an observational perimeter, high on strategic jargon and very low on detail. They let slip nothing concerning how, exactly, any of this was accomplished. The Lieutenant's report is just barely more involved, consisting of making contact with the target, achieving rapport and attempting to sway the target diplomatically before finally failing (his words) and eliminating the target. The Lieutenant stays at attention while making his report, allowing him to avoid eye contact altogether. He is, right now, all too keenly aware of the true nature of the undefinable ugliness.

Devon nods, arranging his datapad in front of him in the preparatory fashion normally taken by those sitting behind tables. "Thank you all for your time. You and your superiors have been very kind to me for allowing me to hear your reports and to thank you for the service you've done for me. I'd like to ask you a more personal question, which you are free to decline to answer. I'd like your impressions of the people of my Empire, what you think of their attitudes and mindsets."

With a nod from Bondayehr, the troopers barely twist their torsos to look at each other with canted heads, faces still impenetrable masks of null emotion. A few quiet words are exchanged in something which may be Arabic, but far shorter and harsher; the sergeant in the squad falls out, then leans over Bondayehr's shoulder, whispering something. Notably, all of the soldiers' nametapes on their fatigues are blank. Another quick nod from Bondayehr, and the squad returns to parade rest, eyes caged ahead. "My troopers say, essentially, it's just another job. None of them believe they have the requisite understanding to make a reasonable statement on the matter."

Treznor nods quickly. "Declined. Fair enough. Thank you, ladies and gentlemen. I want you to understand I appreciate your position and your work. Lieutenant, may I have a word with you when it's convenient?"

The lieutenant smiles thinly, mostly to himself. No, not right now, thanks. "My apologies, Emperor, but convenience is not in large supply in our line of work. I do need to get these troopers back to the ranch for professional training--ever vigiliant, ever prepared, after all."

Devon blinks and reconsiders. "Then I promise to keep this short. I'd like to talk to you, please."

Bondayehr thinks for a moment. Well, it'll still be a lecture, but it's one I'll have to put up with eventually... and he did ask politely like a human being. Looking back at the sergeant, he says something quietly in the odd short-Arabic; the sergeant nods, says some more truncated words that lose all meaning to the uninitiated, and the squad files out of the room. Bondayehr follows to close the door behind them, then looks back at Devon. "They've got ten minutes of transit, I can catch up in five. You were saying, Emperor?"

Treznor sighs and puts down his datapad. "Do we need to be so formal, Tim?"

Bondayehr taps the low-visibility metal insignia on his shoulders, two pips connected by a single line. "I'm on the clock... and have been for the past two months and will be for the next three months. Straight."

"Okay, here's my problem. I rarely get the chance to debrief foreign operatives moving inside my borders. My Empire has grown from a means to an end into something of a grand experiment. I wasn't asking for personal opinions just for personal vanity. I'm looking for feedback from the mindset of a soldier and an idealist, like yourself."

Bondayehr smiles thinly. "Perhaps a bit on the draconic side, very much on the closed-minded side politically, but... I do believe I heard the quote 'don't let your conscience keep you from doing the right thing' from you, neh? Wholly necessary, I'm sure."

Devon shrugs noncommittally. "That's about the size of it. If you'd like to hear why I chose the late Drona Republic for my coup and why I've instituted the programs you see now, I'd be happy to explain it. But this is a rare opportunity to get an outsider's view on how the people are doing, other than chafing under political oppression. I know the universities tend to be hotbeds of political expression. I like to recruit from among them."

"We have a question in civics class, and while it may be surprising, I expect you to get it right." Bondayehr half-smirks. "'Why is the government of the Segments patterned the way it is?'"

Treznor ponders thoughtfully. "Remnants of a more authoritarian government that evolved into the democratic utopia you presently enjoy?"

The lieutenant chuckles quietly. "That's what I thought, but as it turns the 'authoritarian government'--the puppets of the Capricorn Group--were essentially swept clean. The answer also turns out to be a quote, more or less same period as yours. 'Because it works.'"

Treznor smiles. "I take it that's your answer?"

"That's the answer. Ever wonder why a 'democratic utopia' like the Segments would ever think about supporting a tin-pot dictatorship like yours?" Bondayehr smirks humorlessly. "I'm nowhere near the IntRelate, but I can hazard a guess it's because firstly, your system works to prevent worse abuses and, secondly, it shows hope of being repaired via benign methods. At least I hope the latter."

Devon grins. "I know you talk to Zero-One from time to time. Ask her."

"I don't talk to nations much. Somehow, Shodey's become my 'family doctor' so to speak..."

"I think you'll find S.H.O.D.A.N. is Zero-One. She's just good at not hitting you over the head with it."

"The government yes, but there's citizenry underneath. I tend to debate philosophy online with one... or I used to, at least."

Treznor nods. "Then I stand corrected. Ask S.H.O.D.A.N. sometime."

The lieutenant half-smirks wryly. "I'll remember that next time she has to stitch up my next set of bullet wounds."

Devon winces and nods. "You keep your head down, soldier. Nath would be very disappointed if we were to lose you. I wouldn't be too pleased, either."

"Well, those are the breaks." Bondayehr shrugs. "I don't plan to go looking for it yet, but if I buy it, it doesn't much matter who would be disappointed or displeased by the event, would it?"

"Not to you, certainly. But it does to us. Now get going. You've been more than generous, and I've used up my five minutes of your time. Thank you, Lieutenant."

Timofeyev nods. "It's my job, Emperor. Good evening." And, with that, he opens the door and slips out.

* - * - *

Life on SCS Shanghai continues as it always does--PT, practice, reading, and the occasional aerospace fighter combat lesson letting the lieutenant keep at least marginally true to his roots, as indicated by the insignia on his uniform. No one talks about the last operation, or any previous; no one ever does.

As usual, it doesn't take too long for Command to find something else for them to do.

Captain Fontaine looks over his assembled special operators in the small briefing room, simple tube-and-canvas chairs around equally minimal tables. "Okay, troopers, here's the next op..."

fin