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Yesterday's Gods

by John Mina & William R. Forstchen

Grunting from the sudden increase in g's, Lt. Commander George Reston felt as if his guts were going to pop out of his back as his FA-47 pulled into a vertical climb. The trans-atmospheric fighter-bomber was in full computer command mode since it took that last heat pulse and all he could do now was to hang on for the ride while trying to ignore the searing pain in his legs.

At least I can still feel them, he thought.

"What the hell happened?" he screamed into his com-link.

"We took two seeker hits. Number three weapons pod on the starboard wing detonated," a calm feminine voice replied as if casually discussing the weather.

Straining to turn his head he looked to his right and saw the outer third of his wing was gone, the rest of it riddled with holes.

Damn ship's computers, he thought. I'm scared to death and it sounds like there's nothing wrong in the universe. Ten seconds ago it was a milk run, now all hell's breaking loose. He did a quick scan of his data board. Five of his comrades were gone, the attack disintegrating.

"George, I'm going down, going down! We've hit a hive. We're in the shit!"

It was his wing man, Charlie Druggens, and even as George started to shout a reply he saw Charlie's fighter blip off the screen.

Damn, Charlie Druggens. Same as me, last mission before rotation out. He'd give anything to find the s.o.b. briefing officer who said they would have full surprise, that the enemy was asleep in this sector. We've walked straight into a Xermex hive center.

"Can we make space?"

"There is another seeker closing in," the computer replied. "Going to full auto evasive!"

George felt like a helpless infant strapped into a run-away buggy as the computer took over. Repeatedly he grayed out, recovered for a second or two, then grayed out again, while Fay, his ship's computer, dodged the seeker round, all the time struggling to blow out of the atmosphere. At least in space there'd be a chance of a rescue frigate picking him up if his ship blew.

With blurred vision he watched the data screen, the blinking red dot of the seeker swinging into the six o'clock position, closing for a moment, swinging aside as Fay pulled another turn, then it locked on again. The seeker, in turn, easily dodged the counter rounds blasting out of his stern weapons pod. The bastards must have pulled an upgrade.

"Second seeker closing in!"

Another red dot snapped on to the screen . . . coming in from nine o'clock and above. Damn there must be some Xermex stealth ships closing from above.

"Estimate impact, six seconds!" Fay announced, and for an instant he had the grim satisfaction of hearing some stress in the computer's voice.

"Eject! Eject! Eject!"

George swung his hands across his chest, grabbing hold of his harness straps. Less than a second later the eggshell-like mono-polymer blast shield snapped out from either side of the cockpit, locking him into an airtight survival cocoon. He heard a faint explosion, the canopy blowing clear.

My last mission! My last bloody mission!

"Shit. Now I'm dinner for some Xermex."

He felt a sudden jolt, then blacked out.

 

"Commander Reston? Commander Reston?"

Hmmm. The soft feminine voice stirred him towards consciousness. Was it Elisha, no, more like that wonderful young Commander in psy-ops, the six foot brunette, what was her name, Carla . . . Cailin?

"Commander Reston. I know you're alive. I'm monitoring your vital signs. I urge you to get up."

"Oh shut the hell up," he moaned.

"I need a physical status assessment."

The pilot was lying on his side, still in the chair and he tried to shake the dizziness out of his head. "I feel like shit. How's that for an assessment?"

"It is impossible to feel like what you just described since such substances are non sentient. Can you be more specific in regards to personal injury. Your vital signs are within normal limits for a post-ejection state but my sensors are unable to detect specific tissue damage."

"Oh, pray tell why?" George asked sarcastically.

"Most of my databases and remote sensing capabilities were destroyed with the ship. A full assessment please."

"I'll tell you the assessment I'd like," he groaned, shaking his head as he unstrapped himself from the chair, pulled off his helmet and stood up. "You want to hear the type of assessment Elisha could give?"

"Commander Reston, discussion of such base biological activities is not appropriate at this moment."

Her voice was now distant and, as George struggled to his feet he looked down at his survivor shell. The small silver box, which was Fay, was still strapped in place.

George sighed. Fay was starting to sound like some prudish librarian he remembered once making a pass at back at the Academy.

"Hey, Fay?"

"Yes, Commander?"

"Change your voice. Change it to anything. A guy preferably. I have a feeling I'm stuck on this godforsaken planet for the rest of my life and the last thing I need is you reminding me of the lack of real feminine company."

"I was programmed to have a female voice, Commander Reston, because the psy-war pilot profile analysis indicated it was the type you would most readily listen to, even in moments of high stress. Therefore, I must continue as I am until such time as my orders to this effect have been changed by my superiors."

"All right, all right."

"An assessment please. I can detect that your flight suit has been scorched. Are you hurt?"

At the mention of it he suddenly realized that he was most definitely in pain. Cursing, he sat down and gingerly rolled up his blackened pants legs. "Looks like second degree burns," he reported.

"I urge you to use the burn ointment located in the survival pack under the seat. I also suggest taking two full spectrum anti-infection pills and one anti-shock pill; the green and red ones."

"What are you? My mother? I know what the hell to do."

"Fine then."

The tone was maddening, it wasn't one of backing away or apology, it almost had a self-satisfied air of someone who knew she was always right.

George dressed his wounds, then looked over his surroundings. It was a heavily wooded area, mostly old growth trees, some of them soaring a hundred meters or more to the sky. There were a couple of broken branches overhead and he wondered if the breaks caused by his ejection pod would be visible to a Xermex search team.

As he looked around he felt as if he could almost like this place, if only the circumstances of his arrival had been different. The air was clean, fresh, remarkably invigorating after the months of dull recycled ship's air. The floor of the forest was carpeted with ferns, the canopy of trees arching overhead creating the sense that he was in a cathedral.

Well, if I've got to buy it and get marooned, there could be worst places than this, he realized.

Marooned. That was the situation without a doubt. This was supposed to be a hit and run raid, deep inside Xermex territory, something to throw the bugs off, a quick carrier strike to divert them from the main front a hundred light years away. What was left of the strike was most likely all ready on the way out. There'd be no risking of assets to fish one lone pilot off an occupied world. No more Elishas, or psy-ops officers, or nurses, or any of them. No R&R with a year's back pay to blow on some tropical planet, no rotation to a safe sector for a year, none of it. My last mission, a damn milk run they call it, and now I'm here.

"Damn all this to hell!" he shouted.

He allowed himself the luxury of storming about for several minutes, cursing the admiralty, the government, the strike coordinators, the vile bugs until, exhausted, he finally sat back down.

"Do we feel better now?"

"Ah, shut up."

"As you wish. It is normal to experience rage when placed in your situation. If you want to vent some more, go ahead, it's healthy for you at this moment."

"Thanks for the reassurance."

"Just doing my job, Commander."

"Then how about doing something useful, like letting me know what the hell our situation is."

"I anticipated your query and have prepared a report," Fay replied. "All environmental conditions are consistent with supporting human life. You might recall from your briefing that there was a human colony on this world 1,452 years ago, until it was wiped out in the opening stage of the Xermex war. We are three hundred kilometers northeast of their base, once known as 'Touchdown' when inhabited by humans. I delayed opening the parachute until the last moment to avoid detection by the enemy ships and set off a decoy drone as we ejected to lead them in the opposite direction from where we landed. I also deployed scent diverters in the same direction. I recommend you make sure to use your scent mask, since they can track on one part per trillion but there's no reason for them to search for you here."

"Well, at least I won't be dinner right away," he mumbled.

"Barbaric practice."

"So you do have opinions then?"

"Remember, I do serve your side, though you might not personally believe that at the moment."

"Listen, Fay. I've flown for twelve years in atmospheric, deep space, and trans- atmospheric strike craft. I fought in the campaigns at Xaka, Bowman's Station and Inganda Three. I have eighty-two deep space kills and twenty-three in-atmosphere kills and never did I need a damn Companion Computer to get me through it. The old kind worked just fine for me and whatever butthead thought you up should be forced to be marooned with you."

"Yet I did raise your efficiency level."

"Yeah, right. Baby, we got shot down in our first mission together, or have you forgotten."

"Not my fault. Remember I did warn you one point three seconds before the first seeker went off."

"Oh great, thanks. I'd already seen it."

There was silence for a moment. "No you didn't."

George looked over angrily at the box.

"One more crack and I'm heaving you in the woods."

"That is against regulations. And besides, you need me."

"Need you? I'll tell you what I need . . ."

"Spare me the gross details."

George fell silent. There was no sense dwelling on that right now.

"All right. All right, give me the briefing."

"The approximate day on this world is 32.07 hours. You have food that will last for 15.2 days. You will find sufficient water locally. With my help there is a high probability of finding additional food."

George stood up and stretched. "I'll find food with or without your help."

"Yes, I'm sure. Nevertheless, it would be more practical to allow me to identify the relative food value of a substance before you go poisoning yourself."

"Maybe I'll test it out on you."

"I am not equipped with an internal food analyzer."

"Never mind. What else have you got. What are the immediate prospects?"

"I scanned the area as we came in and detected no Xermex bases. Analysis of the atmosphere reveals no hive scent. Probability is we have a safe radius of at least twenty kilometers."

"And beyond that?"

"That's as far as my sensors reach."

"Twenty kilometers? That's all?"

"As I said, most of my sensor capability was destroyed with the ship."

"Okay, okay. So what am I suppose to do?"

"Regulations state that when rescue is unlikely, you must create a secure base, reconnoiter and actively engage in whatever actions possible against the enemy."

"Actions possible against the enemy?" George shook his head. "I'll tell you what I'm gonna do. I'm goin' to hide my ass in a cave and pray that I don't get eaten alive by a Xermex. How's that for actions against the enemy?"

Fay was silent for a moment and he was waiting for the rebuke, accusing him of cowardice in the face of the enemy.

"Go on, do you have any complaints?"

"Securing a base and recovering your stability might be the better course at the moment."

"Oh, thanks for your approval."

"There's a range of mountains starting fifty kilometers to the north of here. Perhaps that would be a safe place to go for now."

"Well, that's something." As he organized his pack, he tossed the computer lightly in his hand like a softball and looked around wistfully, as if searching for a target.

"Now, now. Don't do anything you might regret. I'm likely to be your only friend for quite a while."

"That's supposed to make me feel better? Zero chance of meeting a real girl, and my only companion is a nagging computer with a female voice."

"I do not nag. Any advice I give is calculated to benefit you."

George just shook his head and sighed, resigning himself to his doom. He finished loading his pack, strapped on his side arm, clipped Fay to his pack harness and within five minutes was heading towards the mountains.

Over the next two days, George really started to like the place but was having trouble getting used to the long days, being accustomed to a twenty-one hour day. This place is enchanting, he thought. The majestic trees, the singing birds, the chittering furry creatures. "God, with a romantic atmosphere like this I could really score here," he remarked.

"Can't you entertain any more productive lines of thought?"

"What could be more productive than that?"

Fay did not respond.

"Hey," George yelled, "I think I just saw a spotted silk rat. I haven't seen one of those since I was home on Bachman 7. It must have been imported by the original human inhabitants. How long ago did you say it was since humans lived here?"

"1,452 years. There are no records of human survivors."

"Well, if spotted silk rats can survive, so can I."

"Perhaps you have found someone who can communicate on your level."

"Very funny."

By mid-morning, George noticed the trees thinning and saw the mountains ahead. He was awed by the sheer cliffs rising hundreds of feet straight up in places.

"I'm impressed," he said. "I could hide for a hundred years in this place."

The computer responded with unrelated information. "There is a human close by."

George froze in place. "A human? How close?"

"Ten meters, behind us now."

"Thanks for the early warning," George hissed. Slowly, with hands extended he turned around. He saw nothing at first. A flicker of movement caught his eye and finally he saw him, face camouflaged to blend in with the high ferns. Slowly, the human stood up, the form almost animal-like, shaggy with layers of green leaves woven into his tunic and leggings. His bow was drawn, the barb tipped arrow pointed straight at George's chest.

"Tont duve!"

George forced a smile, keeping his hands wide.

"Tont duve!"

"Fay. What the hell is he saying?" George whispered.

"I am performing a linguistic analysis. I require more examples of his vocabulary. Get him to talk some more."

"Talk, hell! He's about to poke a hole in me. Why didn't you warn me sooner?"

"My sensors were set for Xermex, not humans. You're the one who was worried about being eaten."

"Great. Now I'll just be punctured to death. I hope they throw you in a fire when they're done with me."

"Get him to talk!" Fay snapped, raising her voice.

At her shouted command George's captor lowered his bow, staring at them gape mouthed. With a startled cry he threw the bow aside and fell to the ground, prostrating himself.

George looked at him, shaking his head. "I guess he thinks you're big magic or something. Now what?"

"Try to calm him down. I need to hear more of his speech."

George squatted down and gently extended his hand to help the newcomer up. "It's all right, big guy. I won't hurt you."

The man looked up at him wide eyed, then started to babble incoherently.

"That's it," Fay announced quietly. "Hmmm . . . I think it's a variant of Clovis Standard."

"What the hell is that?"

"A dialect that died out a thousand years ago. What this guy's speaking must be a derivative from the original settlers here. The language was widespread until the Clovis sector was overrun by the Xermex."

At the mention of the word Xermex, the native looked back up nervously, his eyes darting back and forth.

"Xermex, ur nemmie du. E fiere ill any Xermex. E ret fiere ashe ere," Fay announced.

The native looked up at George, his head bobbing.

"Whadya say?"

"Told him you're a pilot and killed many Xermex."

George smiled and thumped his chest.

"Kill Xermex," and he made a slicing gesture across his throat with his finger.

The native started to babble, Fay replying in kind for several minutes, offering brief asides to George.

"Must be descendants of survivors who took to the mountains when the Xermex came. He's still hesitant but I guess there might be hundreds, maybe thousands of humans up in the mountains. The Xermex control the rest of the area and come up here on raids to keep them in check. Sounds almost like they hunt the people here for sport."

Slowly the native came to his feet, looking wide eyed at George, shaking his head with amazement at the sound of a woman's voice coming from a man's shoulder.

"Tarm here, that's his name by the way, thinks we're some sort of god, he's calling us Two Voice."

"All right. This god thing might be to our advantage. Now can he take us to his leader," George said with a grin.

Tarm nodded eagerly, pointing towards a barely discernible path off the trail they had been following. With Tarm in the lead they started up into the mountains. At several points along the trail Tarm slowed, pointing out what George realized were cunningly laid booby traps. Approaching a small clearing below a soaring cliff that rose several hundred meters straight up, Tarm cupped his hands.

"Stand back!" Tarm roared, with Fay providing a whispered translation. "I bring a great god, Two Voice, slayer of our enemies, who has come to speak with the elders!"

George wondered if his guide was simply shouting at the cliff and then he saw movement amongst the rock piles at the base of the mountain. Faces appeared, several of them children who were hurriedly pulled back into hiding.

George stood silent, sensing that others were now behind him and in fact had most likely been following them for some time. He could hear the clamor of voices from within the rock pile and then a flutter of movement as a camouflaged curtain was pulled back from a cave entrance just above the pile. A lone figure stood there, a broad shouldered man with a ponderous stomach sticking out from under his tunic.

The man leapt down from the entrance and walked towards him, stopping a few feet away.

"How do we know this is a good god? Perhaps he is an evil god trying to trick us. Perhaps he will devour our Elders and steal our souls."

"And, perhaps," Tarm responded poking the other in the stomach, "He will devour Drob first, for he is the fattest and sure to be the tastiest."

Laughter echoed from the cave and from the woods behind them.

"Offer him something," Fay whispered. "Standard food sharing rituals here might help."

"A present for Drob," George announced and cautiously he unslung his survival pack, pulled out a ration bar, unwrapped it and held it up. Drob looked at him, wide eyed.

George bit off a piece and chewed it then held the rest out. Drob took the offering and bit into it, a grin of delight crossing his features and started to wave his arms.

"I've eat the food of the gods," he shouted.

"The guy must be an idiot," George whispered to Fay. "He likes T rations."

Drob reached into his pocket and pulled out what looked to be a writhing piece of white rope and offered it.

"Oh god no," George whispered.

"Eat it," Fay snapped. "Remember, Xermex eat people; trading food shows we're one of them."

George took the twisting white worm, and suppressing a heaving gag he bit off one end. To his amazement the damn thing actually tasted sweet but it was still a struggle to get the twitching piece and the juice which had erupted into his mouth down the back of his throat, and for a moment he wasn't sure if it would stay there.

A chorus of approving voices erupted from the darkness of the cave and behind him. He offered the rest of it to Tarm who popped it whole into his mouth with a grin.

"So far so good," George muttered under his breath.

A crowd now started to pour out of the cave and looking over his shoulder he saw a knot of half a dozen men approaching. To his amazement an old man in the lead was wearing what looked to be a battered helmet. As the man drew closer he saw the faded insignia of the 23rd Dinochrome Mech Brigade on the front of the helmet, the famous mailed fist clenching a thunderbolt. The style of the insignia seemed different. Far more ornate in its detail.

"Friends," George announced, pointing at the logo on the front of the helmet, Fay providing the translation. "Great warriors. I have fought with them, flying above our enemies."

The old man's eyes rolled upward as George gestured and he took the helmet off to look at the unit insignia.

"Was the 23rd around back then?" George whispered.

"I lost my history data chips with our ship," Fay replied, "but there's no reason to assume they weren't."

"You know the thunder gods?" the old man asked.

George grinned. "I helped provide air support at Bowman's Station for them. We killed many Xermex together. It was good."

The old man nodded cautiously and looked over at Tarm, who was standing expectantly by George's side. Tarm bowed his head to address the old man. "I have brought a god, Elder Steef. I believe he is a good god."

Elder Steef turned his soft brown eyes toward George. "If you are a good god, we welcome you. If you are evil, we have only our faith to protect us."

The pilot did his best to keep from smiling but he knew this was supposed to be a serious occasion. "I am Lt. Commander George J. Reston, 145th Transatmospheric Bombardment Group. I mean no harm. I would like to speak privately with the Elders."

The old man's eyes lit up. "I am Elder Steef the Techanish, Keeper of the Cloud records. I am seventeen years on the council and have sat in the third seat for four years. Nate was my son, who was second in the Tral hunt and third Devir on the Fire Watch. He was slain by the Xermex on the fourth moon of the year of the storms in great glory. I was begot by Elder Steef the Techanish, Keeper of the Cloud Records, slayer of the ten in one day, who was begot by Elder Steef the Techanish . . ."

This went on for quite a while and George was getting restless. He was about to say something when Fay stifled him. "It would be unwise to interrupt," the computer whispered. "You would be likely to insult the old gentleman. The naming of lineage seems important to him. Patience."

George took a deep breath and continued to nod and smile. "I'll give him another ten minutes," he said between clenched teeth.

Seven minutes later, as George was trying to remember the name of the girl on Maxwell Prime, he felt a slight electric shock from the computer.

"Pay attention," she said.

"And thus did he come from the clouds, the first Steef the Techanish to tread upon this world and it was he who was of the 23rd."

There was a moment's pause and Elder looked around proudly, his companions nodding amongst themselves at the great honor of having heard the recitation of his lineage.

"Look impressed," Fay whispered.

George, forcing himself to act thrilled, bowed low, and there was a murmur of approval.

He straightened back up and saw that they were silent, as if waiting for something.

"Lineage," Fay prompted.

"What?"

"Your lineage, they want to know who you are."

"You're kidding."

"Make something up, but go on for awhile with it. Okay?"

George sighed.

"Commander George Jerred Reston, slayer of Xermex, lover of many women, beloved on a hundred planets . . ." he paused. "Are you translating this correctly?"

"Sort of," Fay whispered back.

When he felt as if he was voice about to give out, he finally wrapped it up, "who was begotten by Mickey Mouse, the destroyer of Oz."

Steef now bowed in turn and to George's surprise applause broke out and smiling he nodded at the crowd that had slowly drawn in around him.

"Two Voice George, we shall now feast," Elder Steef announced, "for it is evident you are a god of our people. You have evoked the legendary names of the Mouse and of the Lincoln."

George walked next to the old man who waved solemn reassurance to the other villagers. They approached the cliff and, with evident ceremony, a camouflage curtain was pulled back. As they passed into the cave George looked at the curtain.

"Looks like old thermo infra camo netting," he whispered.

"Mimics the cliff wall exactly," Fay replied. "It must have been salvaged from something back before the invasion."

George wanted to ask where they had found the precious camo but figured there'd be time enough later. In spite of the high technology curtain, with its built-in sensing unit that could alter shading to match the surrounding environment, what was inside was decidedly primitive, with hand carved wooden chairs, and a round table made of stone.

"When do I meet King Arthur," he mumbled. Elder Steef directed him to a chair where he was soon presented with a bowl of fruit by a stunningly beautiful dark haired girl.

George stood up quickly and tipped over the bowl, sending fruit rolling in every direction. He heard her giggle as she helped him retrieve the errant snack and, as they placed them back in the bowl, was almost knocked over the back of his chair by the smile she gave him.

"This is my daughter, Sucy," the old man said proudly. "Sucy, this is, er . . ."

"Just George, please." He returned the smile and extended his hand.

"Radiation sensors require calibration every sixty-four standard days," she said as she reached for his hand. When she heard the computer translating she gaped in fear. George's heart sank as he watched her flee the room. Then he realized what she said and was quite puzzled.

"I'm afraid you are strange to us," the old man consoled. "I know we should be more respectful, but there is much fear."

Before George could respond, other men started to file in, until eight were gathered around the table, including Tarm who moved to stand by Steef's right side.

"I am the Elder Tarm Gunar, son of Elder Jif Gunar, Seer of the Star Omens, Father of . . ." Tarm began.

"Oh, God," George moaned quietly, and reached for a piece of fruit.

An hour later, George stared blankly into the empty bowl in front of him and was barely aware of the fourth elder beginning his introduction. The pilot was particularly annoyed that he had to endure Elder Steef's life story a second time. What a bunch of pompous asses, he thought. This was worse than one of Admiral Oldbrick's lectures. Before he knew it, he was involved in a massive effort to stifle a yawn as he realized that the long day was catching up to him. . . .

 

"Commander Reston," Fay whispered gently. He stretched out and rolled over in the lush furs.

"Not now darling, I need to sleep some more. . . ."

"Commander!" This time the voice was a forceful hiss.

He opened his eyes and saw nothing but blackness.

"There is a human out in the main corridor of the cave," the computer warned. "He seems to be attempting to sneak in here."

George sat up quickly and felt around for his pack. When he found it, he pulled out his night vision goggles and slipped them on. He looked around and saw that he was in a small room with no windows. The curtain slipped back. A helmeted form was in the entry way, looking about warily.

George slipped his hand back into his pack and pulled out a flashlight. He aimed it straight at the intruder and snapped it on as he pulled his night goggles off. It was Steef.

"Why do you sneak in here in the dark like a thief? Do you mean me harm?" George tried to sound as godlike as possible. This character made him uneasy to begin with.

"Please, do not shout," Steef pleaded. "I only wished private audience with you. I do not want others to know of this."

"Why the secrecy? What are you up to?" he asked.

"I am Steef the Tekanish."

"Oh, not again," George moaned.

Steef looked at him anxiously.

"Let's skip the lineage crap and get to the point, what are you doing?"

"Only I have the sacred secrets. I can not discuss them with you with others present. If I request a private meeting the others will become suspicious."

"Of what?"

"I am the Tekanish. Only I know all the holy secrets. I think you are of the gods who walked the stars, the others except for Tarm are not sure. I wanted to talk to you alone."

George yawned then motioned for Steef to sit down. Reaching back into his pack he pulled out a pack of high energy rations, peeled a bar open and took a bit.

"Share it," Fay whispered.

Mumbling a curse George broke the bar in half and handed it over to Steef who sniffed it suspiciously then finally took a bite.

"Go easy on it," George said, "otherwise you'll be up for two days straight; that thing is really juiced."

Steef then started to reach into his pocket.

"Don't have to old man," George said hurriedly, but Steef was already extending his hand back out and he breathe a sigh of relief when he saw it was a handful of nuts. Taking them he started to chew again, surprised with the realization they tasted something like chocolate.

"Are you lonely tonight?" Steef asked.

"What do you mean?"

"My daughters, I have three of them, you saw the least lovely of the three."

"Are you offering . . . ?" And his words trailed off as Steef smiled.

"I think you are a god, it would be an honor to my family line."

"Your own daughters?" George replied, feeling decidedly uncomfortable.

"You might offend if you refuse," Fay interjected between translations.

"Unless the talking silver boxed voice is your companion in pleasure," Steef said.

Both Fay and George snapped a negative at the same time.

"I never thought you'd be urging me on," George whispered to the computer.

"I never thought you'd refuse a chance to mate with anything female."

"Hey, they're his daughters, it strikes me as a little weird. I'd feel kind of strange, I mean I'm used to fathers wanting to kill me, not pawn their daughters off on me."

"Well, think about it."

The whole time the two argued Steef sat in silence, watching the bizarre show of the two voiced god obviously speaking to himself.

"Perhaps later, but I am honored by the offer," George finally replied with Fay translating.

A flicker of what George suspected was relief showed on Steef's features. He finally stood back up and, returning to the curtained doorway, he peeked out in a conspiratorial manner.

"We must go to the temple. I have things to show you."

Commander Reston followed Steef through the dark interlocking series of caves which weaved ever higher into the mountain.

It struck him as one hell of a fortified position. There were several long straight sections with smooth walls and as he ran his hand along them he suspected that this was no natural formation. Something had blasted or carved the tunnels out. They finally came to a stop before a curtained barrier that was directly ahead.

"It is here. The temple of Danar." The Tekanish gestured. Holding his torch aloft he pulled the curtain back with a dramatic flourish.

After all the secrecy, he was decidedly disappointed as they stepped into the chamber.

A stone altar was at the far end of the room, beyond it an open balcony illuminated by the light of early dawn. He approached the altar and saw what he assumed were holy relics of some sort or another . . . Fragments of bright metal drew his attention and picking one up he realized it was durachrome-steel. Part of what looked to be an ancient plasma rifle caught his eye next and he eagerly picked it up but the charge display was stone cold dead. Dozens of other remnants of a long lost war laid scattered about the room: parts of uniforms, some bearing the insignia of the 23rd; what he guessed might be a containment rod for a ship's fuel pack; even a stack of depleted fifty-millimeter uranium bolts. In a corner behind the altar he noticed a flag and went up to it. The silken folds were faded and as he drew it away from the pole he felt the rotten fabric crumbling beneath his fingers.

"Fourth of the Twenty Third," he read softly, a sprinkle of dust swirling around him. "Come on you bastards!" was written across the bottom and he smiled sadly.

The spelling was different, several of the letters seemed changed, but it was still clear, a treasured regimental flag, battle honors of actions long since lost to memory emblazoned around the mailed fist in the center of the black banner. Ever so gently he let the flag go, a small piece of the fabric crumbling into his hands. As he wandered about the room he could sense Steef's eyes resting upon him. The whole thing struck him as tragically depressing. Remnants of a battle lost more than a millennium ago, now worshipped as sacred.

"They never got the flag," George said, his voice edged with awe as he looked back at Steef.

"We are safe here," the native said as he sat. "I am entrusted with the sacred knowledge. Tell me your tale and I will judge you."

"What do you mean 'tell my tale'? I thought you brought me here to show me your secrets."

"I will tell you all if I decide that you are The One."

"And if I am not The One? Wait, don't tell me. I get fed to the volcano, right?"

"If you are not the one then we will return to the village and speak no more of the secrets."

George thought for a moment, then shrugged. "All right, here it is. As you know, people came from the stars long ago to live on this world. Then the evil ones, the Xermex, came and drove the people away. Also, people were driven from many other worlds. The Xermex have no love, no joy, only duty. They obey their . . . 'queen' who tells them what to do from far away. Because of this, they are difficult to destroy. We kill very many but they kill many of us. We do not replenish as fast. I was part of a small raiding party. They were too strong and we were defeated."

George watched Elder Steef pause pensively, then appear to come to some conclusion. "I believe that you are good, Lu-Ten-George. Now, will I test you." The old man drew himself up and began to recite, carefully pronouncing each syllable. "Ak ses deen ide. En tree code and sis tem ig ny tor im prop er lee ak ti vay ted."

Startled, George looked at him.

"What?"

Fay translated. "Access denied. Entry code and system ignitor improperly activated."

After making the pronouncement the second time Steef looked at him anxiously.

"What the hell do you mean?"

"Access denied," Steef announced again and George realized the old man was parroting words he did not understand.

"Do you know what you're saying?" George asked.

Steef nodded. "The holy orders of Danar."

"And who is this Danar? Some all powerful God?" This is just the kind of bullshit I expected, he thought.

"Danar is a great demon who dwells in the mountain. When the good gods return from the stars, they will summon him to destroy the evil ones."

"Dammit! I knew there was going to be a volcano somewhere in this deal. Well, I'm sorry to disappoint you but I won't be summoning any volcanic eruptions today."

"There are no volcanoes near here. Danar dwells in the mountain and looks out over our people. Come here."

Steef lead him to the balcony where what appeared to be a smaller altar was set up. As they stepped out on to the ledge George looked down nervously. They were a good twenty meters up the side of the cliff and he wondered for a second if Steef was now going to give him a solid push because he had somehow flunked a test.

The view out over the forest was simply magnificent in the early morning light and George soaked it in, barely noticing Steef who was pointing down at the small altar. George finally looked down and saw that intricate carvings on the stone, and in the middle was a metal plate, covered with dust. He gazed at it with feigned interest. The sunrise was conjuring back a memory . . . Yeah, Cailin, the mountain top on Grisham Four, that was one fabulous night.

A bird call sounded in the distance and Steef looked up as if startled. The call was repeated.

At the same instant George heard a distant whining, the familiar sound of a hover jet and for a brief moment he thought that somehow his old buddies had not let him down and had actually managed to pop a rescue unit in for a pick up.

"Xermex!" Steef hissed.

The bird call was repeated and then cut off as the high-pitched stutter of a Xermex bolt gun erupted in the forest below.

"They must have had a tracker unit looking for me," George groaned.

Finding the human survivors had lulled him into a sense of complacency. The Xermex always paid particular attention to the capture of a pilot and he thought of the suicide capsule imbedded into his ID tag. Damn, and I led the bastards right to these people.

"Fay?"

"Picking up two Xermex Victor class ground hover transports closing in. At least ten of them on the ground on the trail we were on. There's fighting down there now," and even as she spoke a ripple of eruptions snapped through the forest several trees near the edge of the clearing collapsing from the explosions.

"Access denied!" Steef shouted, hopping about madly, the old helmet on his head bobbing back and forth. "Entry code and system ignitor improperly activated."

George looked around wildly. He was tempted to run back into the cave, but knew that the damn bugs were out after him. If I let them see me and take me, maybe they'll lay off on the others.

"Access denied,"

"Shut the hell up!" George roared, looking back at Steef. "Now get your people up into these caves, maybe the bugs won't come in after you."

"Access denied," Steef whispered and he fell to his knees pointing at the metal plate on the altar.

George bent over to pick the old man back up and boot him back into the cave.

"Steef Techanish!"

Tarm came bounding into the temple room and at the sight of George he slowed, bowing low and then he pointed at the metal plate as well.

"Access denied, access denied!"

George began to pick the old man up but Steef reached out and slapped the plate with his fist, still shouting the same litany.

"Access denied," a metallic voice echoed in the room, "entry code and system ignitor improperly activated."

George let the old man drop.

"Holy shit," he whispered and he fell to his knees examining the plate.

"Holy shit," the other two intoned, going down to their knees beside George, and bowing low towards the plate.

"Fay?"

"Fay," the other two intoned.

"Tell them to shut up," George snarled and as they started to repeat his words Fay ordered them to be silent.

"It's an access lock of some sort," Fay announced.

"For what?"

"Clear the dust from it."

George brushed his hand across the plate, feeling a series of bumps. The plate had the cool, almost oily touch of durachrome steel and, as his fingers ran over the bumps, the metallic voice again informed him that access was denied.

He read the inscription on the plate: "Serial #3244, D Class, 444583819485, DC—B."

"It's a D class Bolo," George whispered.

"Danar Bolo," his two companions cried excitedly, "the second name of Danar!"

Steef looked up at him, tears in his eyes.

"You are the chosen one. You know the secret name!"

The explosions in the forest below doubled in intensity.

He sat back on his haunches and examined the plate.

"Fay, what do you make of it?"

"It's a Dinochrome fighting machine vehicle registration plate. There seems to be an activation key port and then you type in the code."

George looked over at Steef.

"A key! I need the damn key!"

"What?"

"It's a plastic card. No. It's very thin and bends easily but will not break."

"I must perform the final test before I deliver the Holy Relic. I am the Techanish and you are the captain! I must perform the final test before I deliver the holy relic," he repeated as if reciting a ritual.

George stood up, exasperated. "Then hurry up, dammit, or we don't stand a chance. Those damn bugs will be here any minute."

Steef knelt down on the floor and started to trace out numbers in the dust on the floor.

"What the . . . ?" George leaned over to see what had been scratched on the ground. "827-BR3?"

He looked over at Steef who grinned with delight as he reached into his tunic and pulled out a rectangular black and silver card which hung around his neck, removed the string and handed it to the pilot.

"Yes, this is what I need."

He slipped the card into the key slot, hesitated, then typed in 827-BR3. There was a moment of silence.

"Access denied," the metallic voice intoned, "Improper . . ."

"Damn it," George snarled.

He tried again, this time typing in the serial number, a moments pause, and again the denial.

"Reverse the card," Fay said.

He followed her advice trying the serial number, and again the denial.

Cursing loudly he tried once more with 827-BR3. "Come on you bastard!" George roared, his curse echoed by his two companions who thought it was all part of a holy ritual.

"Come on you bastards," the metallic voice roared in reply.

Startled, George looked around the temple.

"Access granted," the metallic voice repeated once again. The altar behind George began to slide back with a grating roar. George went over and peered down into the gloom. It took his eyes several seconds to focus and he realized that he was looking down into the interior of a fighting machine, the altar had concealed the main topside entry hatch. He started to scramble down into the vehicle, then heard footsteps behind him. He noticed his companions were following.

"No, you can't come. You will die."

"I will come," Steef announced. "Whatever happens is my destiny."

"Fine! I don't have time to reason with a religious fanatic." He resumed his course.

There was a single seat forward and three aft. He swung into the forward seat, a faint cloud of dust rising up around him.

"Now what the hell do I do?" he asked.

"Bolo Mark Seven, Fourth of the Twenty Third, re'orting!" a voice rumbled.

Steef and Tarm cried aloud in fear behind him.

George looked around at the control panel before him.

"Fay? You gotta help me out here."

"Ask for a data access port."

"System cess 'ort on your 'ort side Ca'tain," the Bolo replied, its voice hissing off into static.

"Bolo?"

There was a strange garble of sounds and then silence.

George wondered just how long it had been powered down to sleep. The darn thing must have been in total core shutdown to avoid any detection and something was shorting as it came back up on line.

"The book, the book," Tarm shouted. "Steef is the book."

George looked back over his shoulder at Steef.

"Stevenson, Technical First Class reporting," Steef announced slowly, as if the words were being dredged up from some forgotten memory. George felt a cold chill, realizing that he was hearing the echo of a voice from fourteen centuries ago, passed down orally, from father to son through the generations since the conquest.

"Computer access ports?" George asked slowly.

Steef stood silent, with eyes closed.

"Access ports to primary system computer are beneath the second," he hesitated, "second panel to the left of the captain's chair. There are four primary battle units, controlled by a Hilmar Thirty-three holo core memory."

"I know the language on that unit," Fay announced.

George fumbled with the panel and tore it off. He held Fay up so she could see in.

"I've got an access cable in the back of my carrying case. Hot wire me into that second port there on the right."

George flipped Fay over, pulled open her carrying case and pulled the wire out.

"Never thought I'd be undressing you like this sweetheart," George said. "You've got a cute butt."

"Shut up and hook me in, you pervert."

He snapped the cable in.

"Give me a minute. Ohh, this is delightful in here," Fay announced eagerly.

"What are you doing?"

The cabin was suddenly flooded with light and Fay's voice echoed through the fighting turret. "Bolo Mark XXII SD, Unit DNR, reporting for active duty."

"SD?" George inquired.

"Special duty," came the reply

"Do we have pulse cannon, Fay?"

"Don't sense any."

"What about a Hellbore?"

"Negative. This poor old man's an antique."

"I am a Danar class warrior," another voice clicked in and George listened in amazement as Fay and the Bolo started trading insults.

"Shut up both of you! What about thermal repeaters?'

"I do not know that term," the Bolo replied.

"I can't believe it! I've got to battle the Xermex with a relic." George shook his head. "How about you tell me what you do have."

"Sixteen anti-personnel guns. Two of them are 30 caliber, turret-mounted modified Vulcan 'crowd dispersers' with 280 degree firing field and a .03 second reaction time. Six are 25 caliber—"

"Hold on. Skip all the specs, just give me a brief overview of what we have to fight with."

"Besides the anti-personnel, I am equipped with eight intermediate repeating cannons, four heavy artillery pieces and four laser-guided missile launchers."

"That's it? What's with this 'Special Duty' crap? What else do you do, manufacture textiles?"

"I am an experimental prototype, designed for distant world colonization. I can easily be refitted for farming, mining, as well as earth-moving and construction."

"Some warrior," Fay sniffed. "Come on, let me help you get your traction units operational."

"A damn tractor," George snarled. "I'm going into battle with farm equipment! Well, whatever you've got, we're about to throw it against the 'evil gods.' Maybe we can do some damage before they get us. At least I'm not likely to get eaten if I buy it in here."

"Who is your tech engineer and gunner?" the Bolo asked. "I require a gunner and a technician to function at optimum capacity."

"What? This just keeps getting worse!"

George was about to make another sarcastic remark when he heard strange chanting behind him. He turned and saw his companion moving about and pushing buttons, chanting all the while.

"Hey, stop that! You wanna screw things up even more?"

"I am the Tekanish," Steef replied.

Then Tarm began reciting. "Gunner Thomas reporting for duty." The two continued chanting and button-pushing.

"I am ready to engage the enemy," the Bolo said. "All systems are functional. I await your command. Just tell the other computer to get off my line."

"He needs back-up, half his core memory is shot," Fay interjected.

"Damn it, the two of you work together, that's an order."

A shudder ran through the machine.

"Xermex are attacking, they've detected my power-up," Danar announced.

"All right then, let's go. How the hell do we get out of here?"

"Shall we attack?"

"Yes, damn it. Go!"

A view screen flickered to life in front of George. An instant later there was an explosion and he was looking out across the forest below. They must have moved the machine up the side of the mountain and walled it in, he realized. Now what the hell are we supposed to do? Sit here?

"Hang on!" Fay warned.

With a groaning of ancient metal coming back to life the Bolo lurched forward. George screamed a warning to his companions as the machine burst out of the cave, nosed over and started to slip down the face of the mountain. The ground rushed up and he hung on, waiting for the impact. The machine bottomed out with a shuddering roar, then raced forward through the narrow clearing. George rubbed his nose and felt the blood pouring out of it from slamming into the view screen.

"Two hover craft directly overhead! Gunner engage!" the Bolo announced.

George started to shout out a command but then he heard Tarm chanting a reply. The view screen split to show a topside view. Two missiles were leaping up from the topside launch tubes and the targets disintegrated before they could go into evasive and fire off counter measures.

"Request permission to engage anti personnel," the Bolo asked.

"Fire away."

A staccato humming echoed through the ship the view port shifting to show where the ground units of Xermex were being wiped out. The insectoid creatures were obviously confused, but they fired back relentlessly, their light rounds bouncing off Danar's armor. In less than a minute the last of them were dead.

"Yeeehaaaaah!" George howled, giving an ancient Terran war cry. "Not bad for a tractor!"

The Bolo responded. "Do you wish to remain and protect the humans?"

"Hell no! We're going on the attack! Head for the Command Center, top speed."

"The Command Center?" the Bolo asked.

"Touchdown!"

"Do you think that's feasible?" Fay asked.

"I follow my orders," Danar snapped. "We attack."

"George, that base is crawling with bugs and equipment. We don't stand a chance."

"Hell, Fay. Those two ships we dropped must have got the word out. They're gonna be on us like flies on you-know-what in short order. So let's go down fighting."

He looked back over his shoulder.

"Time for you boys to get out," George announced.

Steef and Tarm looked back at him grinning and shook their heads.

"Our ancestors are watching. The 23rd never runs from a fight," Steef replied.

"Forward the 23rd," the Bolo roared as it shifted into high gear, weaving its way into the forest.

George had seen Bolos go into action while flying support at Bowman's Station but had never actually ridden in one. It was incredible! Even though this one was crude compared to modern models, not to mention being designed to double as domestic heavy equipment, it was carrying him along at better than a hundred kilometers per hour. When the trail wasn't wide enough the machine simply blasted a way through, smashing everything in its path, and there was barely a jostle.

Twice they hit resistance from the air. The first time was four Xermex hover jets. Most likely the dumb bugs had not believed the report that must have been sent out in the seconds before the first unit was destroyed. The four hovers went the way of their comrades. The second time it was two of their Delta class Stinger air-to-ground attack ships. The first one had been an easy kill. The second one inflicted some damage on the starboard rear drive unit before Tarm, shouting his chanted commands with hysterical glee, dropped it with the Vulcan.

George had forgotten about Tekanish, but now turned to look at him busily moving about with his actions and his chanting, occasionally varying his cadence.

"I don't know what you're doing, there, but it sure is working. At this rate we'll reach our target in about an hour and a half."

"An hour and forty one minutes," the Bolo corrected.

"We're overheating," Fay interjected. "The coolant system is almost shot, but this dumb beast doesn't want to admit it."

"Who needs coolant, we're bound for battle. Let's kill bugs!" the Bolo replied.

"We're in the hands of a machine going rogue!" Fay announced. "Besides, sensors, or what this antique which should be in a museum calls sensors, are picking up three squadrons of Lancers. They're also deploying ten heavy air-to-ground assault landing craft. They must be carrying anti-bolo weaponry for ground deployment up ahead. Also twenty air carriers with Xermex ground fighters slung beneath them."

George swallowed hard. The bastards were bringing up enough ordnance to give an entire regiment reason to pause. All for one damn antique as Fay put it. Xermex always got riled if they thought a queen was threatened. Could it be that Touchdown was an actual hive center with a queen?

"Fay, any chance of getting a burst signal off, in case our boys are still up above?"

"Been trying but that circuitry is not just old, it's ancient. We might as well be using old style carrier wave sublight radio. I don't think anyone will catch it."

"We go in anyhow," he said quietly. "What the shit, might as well die charging."

"Charge!" Danar roared, and to the delighted cackles of Tarm and Steef the machine lunged ahead.

Warning indicators started to light up, first from the coolant system, followed seconds later by incoming ordnance.

The plot screen now showed the blips, racing in on a converging course.

"Steef give me full counter measures!"

The chanting behind him changed to a higher tone. The lines closed in, the Bolo lurching aside at the last second.

The machine seemed to lift in the air, slam back down, and totter, as if about to roll over. It finally righted, the metal around him groaning.

"What was that?" he asked as he tried to shake the ringing from his ears.

"Nuclear salvo," Fay replied.

"My God! And we're still alive; I guess this old bastard's tougher than I thought. Status report," George shouted as he refastened the chair straps.

"Weapons on starboard turret are fused. Sensors functioning at 40 percent. Am in much pain but am prepared to continue battle."

"Pain?" George knew that Bolos were programmed to feel pain but he never really understood it until now.

"Fay?"

"Most curious . . . I feel pain, too," she whispered. "Terrible, I never understood it before."

George felt a moment of pity for his companion.

"Can you keep going?"

"If he can, I can," she snapped back peevishly.

He waited for another nuclear attack, but none came. The Lancers now came in, Tarm taking down two with his Vulcans. The landscape around them erupted from phaser and disrupter blasts, the Bolo bucking and rolling from the impacts, but the machine continued to surge forward. Suddenly the Lancers broke away, just when he thought they were moving in for the kill. It was curious, but he didn't have time to wonder why.

"There are some heavy battle vehicles ahead," the Bolo reported.

"Are you able to engage effectively?"

George was answered with a violent pivot and the sound of the Bolo's heavy guns firing. A few more twists, three or four jarring impacts and the ride stabilized once again.

"Four enemy vehicles have been destroyed. Have sustained severe damage to tracking mechanism and shielding. Estimate that we will be defeated if we sustain another similar attack."

"Are there any more around?"

"Sensors 20 percent functional. I detect nine more heavy vehicles converging on our projected position."

"We've got to reach the Command Center. Look, I know this is a suicide attack but we have to keep going. Can you locate the target?"

"I believe that, on our present course, we will reach Touchdown in twenty one minutes."

"And the estimated time of enemy contact?" George was sweating profusely.

"Fourteen minutes."

The pilot sighed. "We have to make a run for it. Do not return fire. Concentrate all power on forward speed and defense."

"George, we're going to have a fused drive system before that."

"Shut up and hang on!" George replied and he swore that he heard the old machine chortle with glee as the battle swirled around them. Cresting a low rise he saw an open plain dropping down below, and on the horizon the rounded hive-like buildings of the city he had been closing in on only three days ago. Hundreds of Xermex swarmed in the open before him, rushing to deploy their heavy anti-bolo weapons. Support vehicles were swinging around, unlimbering their launchers, but curiously there was absolutely no air support. George was disgusted by the sight of their long, bulbous bodies and bristled mandibles. He roared with delight as the Bolo ran them over and imagined the pop and squish they made as they fell under the treads. Tarm, manning the Vulcans, sprayed thousands of fifty-millimeter rounds into the swarm, laughing maniacally.

A sudden jerk brought him out of his reverie and he was aware that the battle had resumed. Two more such jerks and the port treads started screaming and bouncing wildly. "Keep going!" he cried. "We're almost there!"

"We're into core drive overheat and shut down!" Fay shouted and then added, "I told you so, this old heap is finished!"

"The guns are still operative," Danar cried.

George looked up at the forward view screen. Flashing red blips were lighting up on the screen, showing the reserve line of Xermex fighting machines closing in from either flank.

George sat waiting for the killing blow. He could see the enemy vehicles on the viewer closing in, their numbers increasing by the second. It seemed like everything was pouring out of the city.

"Fire off everything we have. Full weapon unload."

The Bolo shuddered as it discharged all its rounds in a continual salvo. As the last of the missiles slashed away George looked back at his two companions and forced a smile.

"They'll be on us in a minute," he announced, "they might want to take us prisoner."

"Bolos never surrender," Danar growled.

"What I thought. Danar, set for auto destruct, you can do it any time you want."

His gaze was fixed now on Steef.

"It's time to die."

He turned to settle back in his chair . . . and at that moment the city ahead of him erupted in a fireball of light.

 

George leaned back on his furs and savored his moment of leisure. He looked across the room and admired his companion's graceful shape as she performed the tasks that he had come to accept as routine.

"Would you like some more mead, my love?" Sucy asked. She didn't wait for the answer that she knew would come and brought him his third full mug.

As he took the drink, he reached out and playfully grabbed her, pulling her into his lap. She squealed and lightly scolded him.

"I have to grab you now," he replied, defending himself. "Soon you will be too fat to sit in my lap."

"And who do I have to thank for that? You men get us pregnant, then complain about our figures!"

She smiled at him playfully.

"To dump core energy load into coupling lines . . ."

He laughed softly and kissed her. After the death of his son, Steef had been teaching Sucy the maintenance manual for Danar, as his father had before him. It was intriguing how she could make the technical jargon a come-on line.

Their moment was interrupted by Fay. "Oh, lover-boy. I'm receiving an incoming transmission from Admiral Schelper."

"I'm all ears," he replied.

"I would disagree about what part of your anatomy dominates," Fay interjected.

"How's the old warrior today?"

"When will you disconnect me from that decrepit Bolo?" she asked plaintively. "It wasn't fair leaving that sensor hook-up on remote send."

"He needs the company. It'll be a couple of months before the recovery team from the 23rd shows up to take him home in honor."

"The things he says to me are disgusting."

"He's an old hero now, humor him. Besides, I think you like it. Tell me, does he try and give you any energy surges?"

Fay sniffed angrily.

"None of your damn business."

George laughed at her discomfort, she truly sounded like an embarrassed old maid who had suddenly discovered the joys of love.

"Here's the message, it's coming in."

Fay's voice shifted, then the distinct voice of the admiral could be heard clearly. "Commodore Reston, can you hear me?"

"Loud and clear, Roy. What's the latest?"

"We're getting a real gold mine of data from what we took at Touchdown. It's the first time we've ever had a queen. Strangest damn thing, it's cracking, talking to our psy war people. We're getting a real inside scoop on these bugs and how they think. We've taken warrior and worker drones before, but never the brains behind the operation. It just might turn the tide on this war at last. Funny, the war started on Touchdown and we might very well have started to end it here. Thank god you diverted them when we came back in."

"Thank god you picked up my transmission and launched that attack. We were all singing our death songs down here."

"Well, George. You remember the story about the ancient Earth emperor who asked one question when presented with a soldier recommended for promotion: 'is he lucky?' "

They both laughed. "How're things going for you, Commodore?"

'Commodore,' funny, how strange and wonderful that sounded.

"The tech crew you left behind has got Danar functional again but Steef and Tarm are still the only ones who can work him. Those two are beside themselves with officially being mustered into the 23rd. The celebration lasted for days."

"Well, I just talked with General Webster. The 23rd never lost a battle standard. They thought they had at Touchdown until I passed the word along. The old bastard wept when he heard the colors were still intact. The whole colony is gonna get the treatment when he shows up to decorate Danar and his crew."

"By the way, sir. Getting honorary rank in the 23rd is all well and good, but I'm a pilot, you know. And besides I didn't appreciate being assigned to this rock as ambassador. It's like living in the Middle Ages."

"My ass, George. No one I know would like being a god more than you. How's the wife?"

"Which one?"

"You bastard! I'll have to come visit sometime. Meanwhile, I'll keep you informed. Over."

To be called a bastard by an admiral as a term of endearment rather than as the start of a real chew out. George grinned.

"Over," George mumbled and took a big gulp of his drink.

"I'll tell you Fay, this god business can be pretty grueling."

"Spare me, I've got enough problems of my own right now," Fay snapped.

She started to swear with remarkable vigor. Startled, George realized it was being directed at Danar and he laughed as she switched herself off.

 

 

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