Peanut Gallery

Little Black Submarines by the Black Keys

"Hey June. It's Alan again. I, uh, I just wanted to try calling you again." Alan cleared his throat and stared down at his shoes. "Listen, I know this is bad timing, but I wanted to see if you wanted to get together for a drink or something. So, um, yeah. S-see you later." Cringing, Alan slid down the inside of the glass photo booth, letting the phone drop to his side. He pressed his hands on his legs to stop them from shaking and took a deep breath. Suddenly, Alan needed a smoke. He pulled out a cigarette and lighter from his pocket. He barely could light the stick, but as soon as he did, Alan took a long drag. Instead of relaxing him, however, it only made Alan more nervous. 
When Alan shoved the lighter into his pocket, his fingers brushed something. Pulling it out, Alan saw that it was a blue pill. Such a frail little thing. One swallow would be all it took. The question was, would Alan do it. 

Hero Lyrics by Family of the Year

Do you remember the days we spent running under the stars? Those times we laughed so hard that the world thought we were crazy? But we didn't care. We never did. It was a funny thing. At first it seems endless, as if for the first time the world had decided to stop, just for us. Just because those minutes were too precious to let go. But they slipped away, like water in a fist. And no matter how hard we tried to hold on to it, it always emptied. 
Now, you're gone. I can't whisper to you the secrets of the world, like I used to. I can't hold your hand or see your smile. But that's OK. I know you're waiting for me, just like I'd wait for you. Someday soon I'll come and join you. Someday we'll be together again.

Hero by Family of the Year

The letter came on a Saturday morning. It was a great honor, they said, James would be defending his country. It didn't matter. Everyone knew better. As James's mom hugged him close to her chest, her tears staining the back of her shirt, all he could think of was "Not me. Please, God, don't let it be me. Not now." James knew he wasn't brave enough, or clever or strong enough for a war. He knew belonged back home, helping to take care of the farm. But the government didn't care. So when they came, James was more scared than he had ever been before. When they handed him the pistol he almost lost it. And when the blood of others stained his hands, James cried. But he fought on. Because, in the twisted view of the world, it was the right thing to do. James could only hope that one day he would return and that maybe, just maybe, things would be the same. And yet, in his heart of hearts, James knew this could never be true. War changed boys into hollow men, and men into ghosts. If he returned home, nothing would be the same. But still he fought on. Because what other choice had he?

Clair De Lune by Debussy 

Claire died on a Thursday. The last leaves of autumn had just given away to the chill of winter, and the moon was hanging high and clear in the sky. I sat with her, holding her hand. We reminisced about the old days, when life was simple and yet perfect. So much had changed. Her death was as simple as one falling asleep, for which I was grateful. I don't either of us would have wanted it any other way
Now, standing at the funeral home, all I could think of was the day we first met. The old piano shop that my father used to own. I still remember the sound of the keys singing as her eyes met mine. I wish now that I could turn back the clock and relive those first few moments. What was it that Shakespeare said?
"Time is unending for those who wait."

Calypso Part Three

"Mr. Consera, I'm going to be honest with you," began Shade. "I know you work for Dux Electus." Orlando laughed incredulously.

"I have no idea what you're talking about, Mr. Marshall."

"We both know that’s a lie, Mr. Consera. For months now, you and your group have been attacking key positions all along the Crasmidean Sector. You have cost the Confederacy and the Empire billions of dollars and have killed thousands of people. And," Shade laughed darkly, "I have to say, I'm impressed." The two men were sitting a dimly lighted room, on either side of  stone desk. Rosiak stood in the corner, next to a softly bubbling fountain.

"Is that so?" asked Orlando. "And what does this gang have to do with you - or me?"

"Profit. Times have changed, Consera. The Confederacy and the Empire have come to terms with each other, and the Galaxy is at peace again." Here Shade paused, allowing for dramatic effect. "But we, Mr. Consera, are not men of peace. We are men of action, of war. We need a fight to pay the bills. And Dux Electus is the perfect solution to that problem."

"So, what exactly are you offering me, Mr. Marshall?"

"350 grand. In return, I will give you jigsaws, cutters, blasters, grenades, DC-98s, and any other weapon you could think of."

"Is-is he for real?" asked Michaelson over the com. "Earth to Dexter; we do not have that kind of arsenal. This Consera guy, he's gonna want proof, alright? No creepy ass leader is just going to let 350 grand walk out the door before inspecting the merchandise."

"It's called a Trojan horse job, Michaelson. Dexter's going to bluff Consera to reveal where the bomb is by tempting him with a gift."

As if to prove Rosiak's point, Consera chucked darkly and folded his arms. "And what makes you think we need your weaponry, Mr. Marshall?"

"Well, it's just that up until today, no one has seen proof that Dux Electus has actually killed anybody. For all we know, your little gang could just be hiding behind Nature's shadow, taking the praise for heart attacks and disease." Consera's face darkened considerably and the knuckles of his hands tightened until they were white.

"This allegations are uncalled for, Mr. Marshall. You told me that you wanted to do business."

"Mr. Consera, as of right now, Dux Electus has done nothing to prove itself. I will do business with you, gladly, if I get proof of your... dedication.”

Consera’s teeth were perfectly white and were sharpened ever so slightly. It made Shade shiver.”Mr. Marshall, Miss Melia, it would seem your timing is fortuitous.”

“How so?” piped up Rosiak. Consera stood, straightening his suit.

“I believe you will find your answer waiting for you at the Calypso bar. I assure you, you won’t forget it.”

Before Consera had even left the room, Irena slipped in. She padded around, like a cat stalking its prey. It didn’t take her long to find the bomb. It was oddly very sophisticated for a bomb; it was little more than a smooth black box with red numbers glaring out from one side:

5:49

As she watched, the '49' faded into '48'.

"Guys, we've got about five minutes to disable this bomb." Irena reported. "I'm going to open it up."

"Wait!" Irena froze, her fingers glued to the side of the bomb. "Irena, that bomb is pressure sensitive, understand? You move and you go boom."

"Yeah, I know what pressure sensitive means, thanks."

"Cyan-"

"Already on it." Cyan burst into the room and walked over to where Irena was. "I'm with Irena."

“OK, Cyan, you’re going to have to disable the bomb for me.” Michaelson said.

“What?!” Both Irena and Cyan shouted. It was harder to say who looked more nervous; Irena or Cyan.

“Look, I know this isn’t what you’d call ideal circumstances-”

“Ideal?” Irena’s voice had gotten slightly higher, as if she had taken a gulp of helium.

“Damn it, Michaelson, I don’t know how to disable a bomb!”

“Well, you’ve got about two minutes left, so either keep bitching at me or let me try to help you survive.” Cyan ran a hand through his hair. He looked like he wanted to punch a hole in the wall. Irena closed her eyes for a moment and took a deep, shuddering breath.

“Are you ready?” Michaelson sounded oddly calm.

"No," said Cyan, his voice cracking. Out of all the years Irena had known him, she had never seen Cyan so scared.

"Cyan, are you ready?" There was a pause before Cyan answered.

“Yeah.” His voice was steady now, although his eyes were slightly unfocused, as if he were focusing on something else.

“Cyan, there’s a panel where those red numbers are. Open it slowly.” Cyan carefully did as he was told, revealing a maze of red, blue, and brown wires. They all led straight to a metal box.

“Right, see those two connector wires running to the capacitor influx-”

“In English, Michaelson,” Irena said warningly.

“Uh, yeah, ok, those would be the two blue wires.”

“Why couldn’t you just say that?” Cyan growled. The little screen showed 60 seconds. The time for bickering was over.

“Cyan, you’ve got to yank those wires while I send a power surge through the system. That might trick the system into thinking it’s gone off.”

“Might?” Cyan looked murderous.

“Man, this isn’t an exact science! We’ve got about half a second lee way, so I need you to focus.” Thirty seconds remaining.

“Not helping!” Cyan said through clenched teeth.

“On my count.” Michaelson said. Cyan reached out towards the wires, his hands shaking badly.

“Three, two, one.” Cyan yanked the wire just as the lights dimmed, signalling a power surge. The numbers froze at 0:03. Irena relaxed and tossed the bomb on the table. Cyan flinched and pressed his hands to his face briefly. Michaelson whooped and laughed.

“Oh, I’m good, baby! Did you see that? Whoo!”

“Cyan, Irena, what the hell is going on?” Cyan and Irena spun around to see Rosiak standing in the doorway, a puzzled look on her face.

“We just deactivated the bomb,” explained Cyan. “How’s Dexter doing?”

“Last I saw him he was about to wrap up. He wants to meet up for drinks when he’s done.”

“Race you there,” Irena teased. She jumped out of the window, as the others raced towards the door.

“Something has gone wrong,” Consera murmured. “The explosives should have gone off by now.” Dexter raised an eyebrow.

“Explosion? What do you mean?”

“I-” Consera stopped himself. “Doesn’t matter.”

“You told me Consera, that I would have proof of your dedication,” Dexter pressed. “I warn you, I’m not a patient man.”

Consera blew out a breath. “As I recall, Mr. Marshall, you came to me, not because of my revolutionist aims, but because you saw a profit. Your concern is purely financial. If you wish to be done with this, just say so, and we can part ways. Although I doubt you’ll find a better organization than mine,” he added with a touch of vanity.

“That may be, Consera,” Dexter said silkily, “but if I am nothing if not connected. Business involves having influences everywhere, and I’m sure other businessmen, like myself, would not be interested in a client that showed no future. Arms dealing is a long term investment, Mr. Consera, as doubtless you are aware.”

Consera’s eyes narrowed, and his smile was noticeably frigid. “Then it seems we are at a draw, Mr. Marshall.” He twisted a ring on his finger thoughtfully. “I do not know what went wrong tonight, but I will tell you this; in the future, Dux Electus will cripple the Empire and the Confederacy. Our roots go deep, spreading into your worlds and taking hold, ready to splinter the hypocritical joke that you call government.” Consera looked up to gauge Dexter’s reaction. Dexter kept his face nonchalant, but the message sounded too close to a threat then he would like. “Perhaps a man like yourself would like to join us.” Dexter stood, hand reaching inside his jacket.

“I don’t think that will be necessary.”

The windows smashed open, raining glass across the room. Five Imperial commandos jumped through them, guns already primed and raised. They pointed at a sprawled figure on the ground. Cursing, Dexter  knelt down to check on Consera. Dead.

“The building is clear,” said one of the soldiers. “We are going to sweep the nearby buildings.” The five soldiers left just as Cyan, Michaelson, Irena, and Rosiak rushed into the room.

Cyan ran over and examined the deceased. “Codazintine. Administered by poison dart to the neck.” Cyan looked up at Dexter. "You didn't-?"

"No. Nor did any of the soldiers here." Dexter rubbed his jaw thoughtfully.

"Wait, you can tell what kind of poison was used just by looking at him?"

"It's a very distinctive poison," grumbled Cyan.

"More importantly, if Consera's dead, that means the real boss is still out there."

"Codazintine is a military grade poison," Cyan said slowly. "Only top commanders in the Empire can get access to it."

The five friends exchanged uneasy looks. Although none of them would say it, their worst suspicion had come true; they had been betrayed.

Rosiak suddenly burst out laughing. The others stared at her as if she was insane.

"Amelia?" Michaelson asked cautiously. "Is there something you'd like to share with the class?"

"Dux Electus just handed us over a weapon," Rosiak explained. "They gave us a clue to who their leader is by killing Consera. We now know for a fact that Dux Electus has roots in the Empire."

"So?" The others asked. Rosiak's laughter died down. "So, they know we'd be here. And if I were them..." Rosiak and the others suddenly raced for the door.

They barely made it outside before the top floor exploded. Massive fireballs shot out of where the windows used to be. Glass and rock rained down, some flying at the speed of a bullet. Rosiak was clipped in the shoulder by a stone, and a piece of glass cut her cheek. The concussion threw her off her feet, and she was thrown onto her stomach. Rosiak coughed on the smoke and wiped the blood out of her eyes. Dexter gave her a hand up. The others surrounded them, like children looking for answers.

"Now what?" Cyan asked gruffly.

"Now, we find a base. Then, we'll worry about Dux Electus," said Dexter.

"So we're in this together?" It was hard to tell if Michaelson was cheered or apprehension by the fact.

"Looks like it," Rosiak replied.

"For better or for worse?" Irena asked.

Calypso (Part Two)

Rosiak entered the bar cautiously, trying to avoid drawing attention to herself. Calypso's bar wasn't as crowded as she had been expecting; the bar itself was only three quarters occupied, and the booths lining the walls were mostly filled with lovers and businessmen. The bar was dark with blue neon lights making wave patterns on the walls. The booths were navy colored and had murals of ocean worlds painted on the back. Near the kitchen, a glass tank filled with a variety of fish and sea plants took up an entire wall. Rosiak could see a rare polorius shark swimming in between the coral reefs.

Dexter, her supposed contact, was lounging at a nearby booth with two empty cocktail glasses placed on the table. He matched his portrait well enough; ruffled brown hair with a strong build and broad shoulders. Dexter was wearing a tuxedo and sunglasses, so Rosiak couldn't tell what color his eyes were.

"That's him," said Michaelson. Rosiak nearly jumped; she had forgotten that Michaelson was watching on the security cameras. "Dexter Shade - a pretty corny pseudonym, but apparently it works. Right now, he's disguising himself as an ambassador from Waenera VII." Michaelson sounded impressed. "He must have psychic paper. Be careful; it looks like Dexter has a record." Michaelson paused. "A long record." Rosiak mentally took a deep breath, and walked smoothly over to Dexter was.

She sat down and smiled, hoping that she didn't look as nervous as she felt.

"Dexter Shade - now that's a name with a ring to it." Dexter smiled disarmingly.

"One does his best. I also like Amelia Rosiak."

"He must have a iris ID in those lenses," Michaelson muttered to Rosiak. "Or Intelligence is really slipping these days.”

“So, my question is, what does a gorgeous agent like yourself want with a smuggler like me? No, wait. Actually, scratch that, my real question is, if I help you, do I get to ride in one of those Cardonian space cruisers with the tinted windows, because if I did, I would be all over helping you guys.”  

“First, Dexter, you’ve got to help us get into that ambassador party,” said Rosiak with a grin. Dexter laughed.

“That’s it? If I had known it was that easy to play with you guys I would have tried it a long time ago.”

“So, you’re in?”

“Eh, not quite. To get into a party like that I need to call in a few favors with some old friends first. I hope you don’t mind.”

“I’ve got a bad feeling about this,” said Michaelson. “This guy has got trouble written all over him in big red letters.” Rosiak silently agreed, but what choice did they have?

“Fine. We’ll meet you and your team on the 104th floor at midnight.” Dexter’s charming smile return.

“Thanks, Amelia. Oh and another thing,” he said, sliding out of the booth. “You pay for the drinks.”

Dexter arrived exactly at midnight, now wearing a collared brown shirt with a leather jacket and jeans. He was followed by two people, a woman and a man. The woman was lean with an angular face, straight blond hair, and hard grey eyes. The man was tall and pale, with cropped red hair and green eyes. He wore a charcoal grey suit that helped diminish his heavily muscled body, making him seem smaller than he actually was.

Dexter smiled. "Hello, Amelia. Care to crash a ball?"

The party of five sat around a table and glanced up at the images Michaelson had cast up on at monitors.

"Our main target has been identified as Orlando Consera, a wealthy arms dealer from Mandos IV," said Michaelson, as the picture of the blond man flashed on the screen. "Recently, he has disappeared from his main offices 'for health reasons'. About the same time he disappeared, Dux Electus launched their first attack on Crilla, a district that had recently purchased some weapons from Castlewood Defense, a shell of a shell company belonging to Orlando. No direct connection was ever found, although it was known that Crilla owed Castlewood some serious money. About two weeks ago, he resurfaced long enough to accept an invitation to the Grand Ambassador Ball.

"Now Orlando is known as something as a romantic, but his last consort disappeared under, let's say, mysterious circumstances."

The pale man, who had introduced himself as Cyan, raised an eyebrow. "Don't tell me; you want me to sneak in as Orlando's consort." Michaelson allowed himself a grin.

"No, Mr. Shade and Miss Rosiak ere will be going as ambassadors from the Mars colony. You get to be on the catering crew. I'll stay here and keep watch on the monitors and bugs."

"And what about me?" Michaelson blinked. The strange woman had spoken. He honestly had forgotten she was there.

"Uh-"

"Bomb patrol," cut across Dexter. "Irena, you can sneak your way in and search the mansion for any trace of a bomb or potential weapon." Michaelson nodded, relieved slightly.

"Yeah." he cleared his throat and turned back to the monitors. "If worse comes to worse, we will meet at the Expedient as a rendezvous."

Dexter clapped his hands together, making everyone jump. "Well, let's get started."

The sleek hovercar pulled up to the restaurant and a red coated valet ran up to open the door. A slim flat-footed shoe stepped out, followed by a elegant woman with mahogany curled hair and a turquoise colored dress. Her green grey eyes flashed with humor and intelligence, her lightly colored lips tilted up in a half small. It was, of course, Amelia Rosiak. Dexter followed suit, wearing a navy blue shirt with gold cufflinks. His chiseled features drew more than one look, from men and women alike, and when he stepped up to join Amelia, a few people even stopped to gawk at this stunning couple.

They entered a stone mansion, the walls fading from blues to greens to reds as time passed. Inside, the mansion opened up to high arched roofs from which chandeliers hung like ornaments. An impressive staircase divided the lounge room and the dining room, the latter easily large enough to hold over two thousand people, the former twice that. People milled around, eating delicacies and drinking from champagne glasses. Well dressed waiters and waitresses waded through the delegates, smiling benignly and offering hor d'oeuvres and drinks. Rosiak spotted Cyan who winked before disappearing behind two Armanian ambassadors.

"Orlando is hanging over by the grand piano. He's schmoozing to some Earth ambassadors, but he hasn't gotten cozy to anybody yet," cut in Michaelson

"Any idea about what he prefers?" Rosiak said quietly.

"Go for British." Instead of Michaelson, this was Dexter speaking. "Wealthy bureaucrats prefer that sense of distinguished history. He might play up on your sense of politics, so be careful not to give too much away."

Rosiak nodded and glided over to where an impressive black piano took up part of the room. A man with spiked blond hair wearing a deep red suit with a black tie leaned against the piano, drink in hand. He was currently talking to a Russian colonel, all smiles and  polite nods. His eyes caught Rosiak and he suddenly excused himself from the Russian.

"Excuse me, colonel. I think I recognize an old friend." Orlando slid over to Rosiak, reminding her of a snake slithering towards prey. He looped his arm through hers and gently led her away. "I have heard that there was a secret treasure in this mansion, but I had no idea she would be so enticing." Rosiak smiled.

"It is often said that treasure is drawn to its rightful owner." Orlando returned the smile.

"I am Orlando Consera."

"Rose Melia." Rosiak liberated the drink from Orlando's hand, knowing it would gain his full attention. "And whose party do you represent tonight, Mr. Cosera?"

"The Siberian mining colony on Mandos IV. A small affair, but we make ourselves useful.”

“Sometimes the smallest dogs have the meanest bite,” said Rosiak, externally all smiles and charms. Internally, however, all Rosiak could think was that this was going to be a long, long night.

Irena slunk up to the window, as quiet as a panther. Her body suit changed colors to match the world around, helping her blend in, as she slipped off her backpack and pulled out a tiny laser pointer. Slipping her goggles over her eyes, Irena carefully aimed the pointer and activated a red laser. Instantly, the glass began to smoke and melt, and she deftly cut a perfect circle in the glass. Irena slipped the glass out of the window and stepped back. She was near a study, which was sure to have pressure gauges in the floors. It would have thermal cameras as well, but Michaelson had conveniently deactivated those earlier. Taking a deep breath, Irena checked to make sure her blond hair was still held back in its ponytail. Reassured, she silently ran forward and soared through the window, pressing her knees to her chest and bending her elbows back. She landed on a desk and used her forward momentum to push off again on her hands, flipping this time to land in the doorway. Thus making it into the hallway, Irena calmly turned and started heading back towards the more unused rooms.

She reached what appeared to be a billiard room and stepped inside. There were a few comfy chairs as well as sofas scattered about, and paintings from the 21st century hung from the walls. In the center a magnificent Old Earth pool table stood, its ebony panels gleaming. Irena began rummaging around, dropping underneath the sofas to check the bottoms and running her hands along the mahogany panelling at the edges of the room.

“Remember, these guys would be using QT9 or 4XK explosives,” reminded Michaelson. “They’ll want to create as much carnage and ruin as possible, hurt as many people as they can.” Irena nearly jumped. She had forgotten that Michaelson was watching her too.

“I knew that,” grumbled Irena. Just because she was the youngest of the group didn’t mean they had to treat her like a baby. She walked over to the pool table and carefully traced her finger tips under the rim, searching for any anomalies.

“Irena, incoming your way.” This time it was Cyan who spoke. Irena kept searching, ignoring the voices outside the room. “Irena, move now!”

“What the hell is going on?” hissed Shade. But he was too late. The door opened and two men walked in, one carrying a briefcase. They argued quietly in Russian, oblivious to Irena’s presence.

“Are you guys getting this?” asked Michaelson. “I’ll patch it through the translation circuit so we can understand what they’re saying.”  

“-does he think he’s doing?” growled the larger of the two. “Fraternizing with that ambassador from Mars. We’ve got a mission to complete - we can’t just go eloping with some snake-tongued diplomat!”

“Doesn’t matter anyways,” grunted his partner. His bald head was crisscrossed with multiple scars and gleamed faintly in the light. “In about an hour that woman and her frou-frou friends will be little more than ashes.”

“Fine. We better leave this place before the charges go off.” The two men left the room hurriedly, shutting the door behind them.

Irena dropped from under the pool table. This was not good. Sixty minutes to find and defuse a bomb? They might as well write their eulogies.

“Now what?” she said to no one in particular.

“Irena, find that bomb. Cyan, you help her too.” said Shade. “I want this place searched top to bottom in exactly fifty minutes.”

“What are you going to do?” murmured Rosiak, joining in the conversation for the first time that evening. Shade smiled.

“I’m going to say hello to our new friend.”

Shade approached where Orlando was, holding a half empty drink in his hand. He knew had to bluff Orlando, make him think that he was just another arms dealer looking for a profit. Shade had grifted people before, and knew from experience that telling part of the truth helped sell the lie.

"Mr. Consera, Miss Melia. Hope you're both enjoying tonight's little party." Orlando nodded, the benevolent guest.

"Indeed, Mister-?"

"Oh, this is Jacob Marshal, my fellow ambassador from Mars colony," explained Rosiak. "He's actually a very large person in the military community on Mars. Isn't that right, Mr. Marshall?" Relieved, but unsurprised, that Rosiak had guessed his plan, Shade nodded.

"Yes, that is correct. In fact, Mr. Consera, I would like to talk to you about a certain business angle."

Orlando half-laughed, raising an eyebrow. "Really, Mr. Marshall, are you sure this the best place to discuss business?"

"Of course, Mr. Consera. Time is money and I find that it is best to strike when the iron's white hot. Besides," here Shade leaned in conspiratorially, "the benefits of this financial venture could potentially be biblical." Orlando's smile widened and he gestured with his glass.

"Well, I must say you've peaked my interest. Come, let us go to a more private room and discuss your terms." Orlando led Shade and Rosiak away from the crowd, towards the billiard room.

"Any luck with that bomb?" Shade asked quietly.

"No," said Cyan.

"Nope." Irena sounded despondent.

"Nada." Michaelson said. "This bomb is disguised very well or is made of something that emits literally nothing, because I can't get a trace of it anywhere."

"Well keep looking."

"What are you going to do?" Cyan said gruffly.

"I'm going to play Blind Man's Bluff."

Cyan entered a study and began searching the room, carelessly knocking books aside and rummaging through desk drawers. Nothing. Frustrated, he slammed the drawer shut and looked up to leave the room. Two men dressed in suits stared right back at him. They were huge, muscular men, the thugs you usually only see in holovids or game platforms. One of them was bald and had scars running along his face, the other had spiked black hair and the hardest jawline Cyan had ever seen. They stepped towards Cyan, leering menacingly as they cracked their knuckles.

"You lost, sunshine? Cause this ain't the reception," sneered the second one.

"Ten." The two goons exchanged glances.

"Whaddya say, sonny?" the second asked again. In reply, Cyan smashed his fist into his stomach and, when he bowed over in agony, kneed him hard in the nose and flipped him head over heels onto the floor. The first man aimed a right hook to Cyan's ear, but Cyan blocked it with his forearm and kicked him in the chest. Without giving him a chance to recover, Cyan punched the bald man on the side of his head and sent him sprawling onto the floor. The whole procedure lasted ten seconds.

"Holy sh-" the earbud in Cyan's ear whined suddenly as Michaelson swore loudly. "Now that is some badass moves."

"Irena, any luck on the bomb?" asked Cyan.

"No. But there is only one room left to check."

"And which one would that be?" asked Michaelson.

Calypso (Part One)

Bad Wolf Alert

Report to HQ for immediate briefing

Rosiak jerked out of uneasy sleep. Seeing the alert on her scanner, she cursed and scrambled out of her cot. She hurriedly threw on a flight jacket over her tank top and slipped into her shorts. Her blaster tapped against her side as she ran down the metal corridors, ignoring the cries of the deck droids she passed.

Admiral Mathieu was waiting for her, his blocklike face pinched with worry. Seeing Rosiak, he nodded sharply. "Lieutenant." Rosiak clipped her heels together and saluted.

"Admiral." Mathieu pulled a cigar from his pocket and lit it with a metal lighter. Purple smoke wafted up to the ceiling, smelling like fear and ashes. Rosiak knew better than to comment on the antiqued version of stress-relief, and instead waited quietly.

A moment later and a man with tousled hair and a flight jacket that matched Rosiak's burst in, half running, half stumbling. The Admiral's scowl deepened as the man gave him an awkward salute.

"Sir."

"Michaelson." The Admiral sat down behind his work station and puffed on his cigar. After a moment, he spoke.

"I apologize for the late night interruption, but this being a Bad Wolf, I had no other choice." More smoke curled  to the ceiling. "As you know, a BWA means one thing; an enemy has arisen that is a serious threat to the Empire's safety and is highly sensitive to any counter movements.”  Which was a very nice way of saying ‘we’ve been betrayed. “You have been specifically chosen for the task of rooting out the enemy and neutralizing him before the threats become all too real. Any information given to you here on out is of the utmost secrecy and for your ears only. Is that understood?"

"Sir, yes sir!" was the immediate response.

"Here are two data packs containing all of the information required to complete your mission," Mathieu said sliding two closed packets across to them. While Rosiak and Michaelson slit them open, Mathieu lit another cigar to replace the first.

The packets contained three flashcards. The first was of a group of men and women, wearing black cloaks with red masks tied around their eyes. At the center was a man holding a cane. His hood alone was down, revealing stark blond hair and hard blue eyes. The second flashcard was of a planet - Mandos IV, Rosiak recalled. The surface was a murky brown, full of swirling masses that hid the land masses below. The final was a mugshot of a man with ruffled brown hair and flashing green eyes. He was smirking at the camera, as if they had just shared a joke.

“A secret anarchist group known as Dux Electus has arisen on Mandos IV. They have been attacking planets and trade routes as far in as New Delhi, and have killed over ten thousand people to date." Rosiak let out a slight breath despite herself. How could a group of fifteen men and women kill ten thousand people?

"That's impossible," said Michaelson, voicing Rosiak's thoughts. "Any weapon capable of that kind of damage would instantly be traced back to its source, and-" here Michaelson shared a look with Rosiak, "we would have known about them. But I have neither heard of this Dux Electus until today."

"Nor have I," added Rosiak.

"That's because Dux Electus has developed a bioelectrical weapon. It is designed to kill its targets quickly and quietly, as simply as if they had just shut off. It is used in the form of a bomb, and kills up to 200 people at the same time. We first became aware of the group when we caught one of their agents on the United Arabs Alliance in the Fola system. The agent was resilient to all means of persuasion, save one. The Probe."

Both Rosiak and Michaelson shivered at this. The Probe was a monstrous device derived from the genre of science fiction horror that violated a human's last sanctuary; his mind. It had proven to be so controversial that all use of it was banned except for in the cases of the highest forms of treason and threatening actions. A board consisting of three representatives from every planet of the United Galactic Confederacy had to approve it unanimously. It was the last resort and the worst fear.

"The Probe revealed a mind bordering that of an animal - albeit one so cunning and ruthless that there is little that could stump it. The members of the group have only one weakness; they all seem to depend on their leader, who is only known as Prime. We have learned of a planned attack on Pamedial Delta, where the ambassadors of thirty Confederate and Imperial worlds will be holding a celebratory ball for the coronation of Queen Camilla. You will go to the ball disguised as Imperial ambassadors and stop the anarchists before it is too late."

Mathieu sighed suddenly and ground out his now pitiful stump of a cigar. "There is a slight complication, I'm afraid. The government has officially signed a peace treaty saying that it will not partake in any operations on Pamedial Delta outside of the Confederacy's knowledge. Normally, that would not be an issue, but since we would rather avoid any outside knowledge of your actions, you will have to work officieusement." Which meant, in simpler terms, that Rosiak and Michaelson would be on their own. No weapons, no tech, no backup. Nothing.

"Sir, with all due respect, I doubt a mission like this will be successful without government backing-"

Mathieu held up a forefinger.

"Let me finish, sergeant. We have found you one asset. A criminal mastermind known as Dexter has agreed to help us and will be your contacts once you reach Pemedial's sister planet, Minerva. Once you reach Minerva, you will no longer be under our protection." Mathieu’s eyes glinted. “So for God’s sake, be careful and good luck.”

Recognizing this as their dismissal, Rosiak and Michaelson stood. They pressed a button on the flash cards and headed out the door. The door slid shut just as the cards vanished in a flare of fire and smoke, incinerated in a matter of seconds.

Dexter shuffled the deck of cards and glanced nonchalantly up at the man in front of him. “Can I help you, Altan?” The big man held out his hand. He had scars crisscrossing his body and was easily taller than a horse. The scowl on his face did nothing to help his looks, making him seem like a child’s clay mold.

“Laudo wants his payment, Dexter. You’ve put him off long enough.” Dexter set the cards down and leaned back, placing his feet up on the table.

“I told you, Altan, that was a favor not a payment deal. I only broke that spinster because I was saving your employer’s sorry ass.” Altan snatched a fistfull of Dexter’s black T-shirt and shoved him up against the sandcrete above his booth.

“I could break you as if you were a twig, kátharma, so I suggest you hold your pointed tongue and give me the credits.”

Dexter sighed and reached into his pocket. Before Atlan could stop him, Dexter kicked his arm just under the elbow hard enough for there to be a large a snapping sound. Atlan grunted with pain and dropped Dexter onto the booth, who swiftly used the palm of his to snap Atlan’s head back then delivered another devastating kick to his ribs so that the giant fell backwards onto the table. Dexter straightened his shirt and picked up his jacket from a nearby hook. He stepped over the groaning Atlan and out onto the busy street.

Minerva was a luxury planet designed to lavish the wealthy and heavily tax the poor. There were casinos on every block, hotels every two, and any number of restaurants and bars in between. Right now, Dexter was in the area known as the Thieve’s District, which was run by three or four rival gangs. It was in the lowest of the low sections of the planet, and any law enforcement, whether it be police man or tax collector, was instantly killed. If he wanted to meet his next clients, however, Dexter would have to travel up to the more user-friendly Jupiter District at the very top of the planet.

Making sure that no one was in sight, Dexter zipped up his jacket and slipped on a Artilion helmet, which was styled after an old Earth motorcycle helmet. Dexter climbed up onto the roof of the bar he had just exited and crouched down. On the count of three, he took off running to the edge of the building. He jumped, and his rocket boosters kicked in, pushing him into the sky. Underneath his helmet, Dexter allowed himself a grin. He was living humanity’s oldest dream; to fly.

Dexter landed on one of the balconies that served as a walkway outside a plush casino-hotel. The gold and teal sign read Calypso -yet another marketing idea inspired by the planet's Old Earth name. A line of fancily dressed partygoers waited out front, a mix of humans, Cardonians, Martilisans, and other alien species. Dexter pressed a button on the side of his helmet and it receded back into an earpiece, a gag inspired by one of Dexter's favorite Old Earth holovids. Dexter activated his Chameleon Suit next, and his battered leather jacket and torn space pants faded into a more fitting suit and tie. He also added sunglasses, despite the fact that Minerva's red dwarf sun had long since sank behind the buildings. He walked up to the front of the line, shamelessly butting past two Dar-Jous. One of the aliens, her pink fur flaring, tapped Dexter on the shoulder and made an obscene gesture at him towards the back of the line. Dexter raised up his hands in the Dar-Joun meaning Sorry.

"Sorry, minista, but I'm not here for the Armenian cocktails." A rougher hand spun Dexter around and he found himself looking up into the face of a very large - and very angry - Martilisan usher. The usher crossed his five of his arms and held up the sixth one.

"ID," he said in very guttural Universal. Dexter placed a white card in the usher's massive hand and waited calmly as he looked it over. The usher's one eye widened slightly, and he bowed low to the ground.

"My apologizes, ambassador, please, go on inside." Dexter nodded and took the card back from the usher. He walked away, ignoring the strange looks he was getting from the others. He sat down at a booth, kicked his feet up on the table, and waited for his client.