Day five of their transit and VonGrippen was settling into the routine of commanding a starship. The Jump Drives functioned flawlessly, a twenty-three and a half hour recharge time for the nuclear reactors to build up enough energy in the jump pod capacitors to hurl it on the next leg of its journey giving him plenty of time to drill the crew and to drill himself.

The experience of navigating the Beacon Corridor in the Tradeliner five years before, learning about jump calculations from Katherine, and coming to understand the intricacies of piloting a starship had given him an understanding about interstellar space flight. It was an appreciation for the limitless possibilities space presented. He had learned long before about the thrill of combat in three dimensions, vectors and velocities. The superiority of guided weapons over ballistic, of the importance of Radar and the Orion enhanced system that gave them a real time Radar and Ladar display of space about them.

The Shisak was cramped and smelled in places. Engine grease and ozone mixing with the oxygen produced from the algae vats sandwiched cleverly between the decks that gave them a limitless oxygen supply. He bellowed ahead for the crew to make a hole, meaning they were to stand clear as he moved past to allow him to climb towards the bridge. Jogging up the metal companionways and out into the Command centre.

"Admiral on the Bridge," Ben called looking up from the plotting table in the middle of the CIC. An Orion holographic tactical map had been installed, updated and translated into English the system gave real time data as fed to it by the sensors.

VonGrippen tapped the brim of his deep red Captain's ball cap. An American tradition that was popular amongst the former Colonial troops. It fit the dark, close atmosphere aboard the Shisak, men working at the various stations on the upper bridge tier facing banks of gauges and displays. There was a steady strumming through the ship from the Ion drives that powered the vessel through space, like ancient sailing ships, the Shisak cruised upon momentum, adjusting its trim from bow thrusters that allowed the Engines to pull it about onto a new heading in broad arcs.

She had been re-designed with the best amalgam of Orion and Terran technology, and she reflected it with her prow cutting through the darkness on her new course towards the Beacon Five station.

VonGrippen took his command chair, a heavily padded and reinforced seat that gave him a high vantage over the holographic display. Repeaters over his head informed him of the ships status and to his right was the ominous nuclear fire control. The launch key tucked around his neck, it's duplicate around Ben's. A common sense safeguard that went back to the cold war era. With the destructive force of the nuclear arsenal onboard the Shisak it made sense to share the decision to fire them.

He still wore the pulse pistol, all the officers were armed in wartime, and they were at war. The Americans were coming with one thought on their minds, to deal with the High House VonGrippen before it could grow further. And VonGrippen would deal with them in turn. They were arrogant enough to forgo diplomatic talks; to them the House was a speck on their radar, beneath any concentrated effort to resolve things peacefully. They saw a European satellite state, and thus a target.

"Beacon Five hasn't detected us yet, Admiral." Octavius reported from the sensor station, "they are still under passive radar and their status appears to be green."

The beacon stations were emergency repair stations for the Orion ships, built by humanity to reach the lucrative House territories, they housed Orion technical teams that would service an Orion vessel should it break down upon the run. The ever-present fear of jumping into dead space was the capacity for the jump drives to cease working. The Navigation computers required concise positioning data to properly enter hyperspace, without it the strain placed upon the jump drives was potentially disastrous.

The Beacon stations gave a navigational reference point for the jump computers, without them, the distance to reach Geldan was simply too great for even the advanced Orion's to attain. If disabling the stations were the only way to protect the House from the incoming invasion, then VonGrippen would do what was necessary.

"Signal Beacon Five," VonGrippen gestured, accepting a clipboard that was passed to him detailing the watch rotation for the next week, he reviewed it as a suspension screen at the far end of the bridge over the helm controls came to life with a rather surprised looking American Commander.

"Who is this?" The Commander demanded angrily.

"Admiral Alexander Richard VonGrippen of the HMS Shisak," VonGrippen replied, "Commander Travis I presume."

"Yes," The Commander frowned, "how is a House vessel transiting the beacon corridor? Where is your Orion escort?"

"I am seizing control of Beacon Five, under the articles of war," VonGrippen leaned on the arm of his chair and looked up at the Commander.

"You're what?" The Commander shook his head, "this is utter nonsense, or an act of Piracy that won't..."

"This is an act of war," VonGrippen stated calmly, "I don't care about your cargo, or the ships you currently have attached to your station, merely the station itself." He leaned forward, "I possess the destruct codes for the Beacon Corridor, also I command a fully armed cruiser. Your station is unarmed and a very long way from anywhere. You have five hours to abandon the station before I destroy it." He lifted his watch and clicked it open, "starting... now."

"This is outrageous!" The Commander spluttered.

VonGrippen shook his head, "No, survival. Five hours Commander, not one moment more." He gestured for the comm. channel to be closed and settled in to wait.

Beacon's One through Four had been easy, operated by members of the House, they had been evacuated back towards Geldan, once they were all safe, VonGrippen had detonated the beacon stations, sealing the way behind him. But from Five on, they would become progressively more difficult as he flushed out the crews of the stations and sent them on ahead of him, destroying the stations and pursuing them relentlessly to the far end of the Corridor.

He stroked the stubble on his chin as he looked thoughtful at the holographic display, musing about the fate of his home once he completed his task. Wondering about what would happen to the Shisak and where they would go.

He eased the pistol in his hand, sweating slightly as he counted silently to three, swinging around the corner and firing a pair of shots, before ducking across the hall as the automatic weapon fire smattered into the wall behind where he had been standing. Dropping to a knee he slapped another magazine into his weapon and tensed.

"You are under arrest," Special Agent Bruce Maya called out along the office building, "if you surrender now, just drop the gun, maybe we can find a way out of this, one that doesn't result in both of you winding up dead."

There was silence for two beats, and Bruce swallowed, reaching for his cell phone, slipping it from his trench coat's pocket, lifting it and using the speed dial, "Jane, where's my back up?"

"It's on its way," Jane replied pleasantly through the phone, "just keep them busy."

"Yes, that's easy for you to say," Bruce grumbled keeping his voice down, "you're not the one fighting two jack asses with assault rifles with a pistol on your last magazine."

"Have a little faith in the local law enforcement system," Jane sounded pleasantly amused, "the SWAT team should be on your level in two."

Bruce sighed as he closed the phone and put it away, shaking his head at how useless the call had been, standing again he breathed sharply and swept back around the corner, his pistol up and holding his fire.

Where the hell were the goons?

He advanced out into the bullpen of offices, keeping his head up and checking around him carefully. They couldn't have just upped and disappeared. They had to be there somewhere, lurking.

He checked where he was, the constituency offices of Senator Randy MacDonald an old war dog of the Senate and a staunch supporter of the President. Probably it was another attempt by the Europeans to assassinate a senior American politician, or espionage, or... any way he looked at it, he was annoyed he was alone walking through the damn building, waiting for back up all because he'd followed a lead that had led him there at some ridiculous hour of the night to find the break-in in progress.

He heard a rustle, and he spun, "freeze, FBI!" He stopped, staring face to face with the clean cut kid who had dropped his assault rifle and held up his hands, looking terrified, he couldn't have been more than seventeen.

Bruce inched forward, "keep your hands up!" he commanded, "where's your partner?"

"He's gone," the boy replied in a thick Texan accent.

Bruce could read the lie, and were he setting a trap then he would start with bait... He dropped rolling to the side as a burst of automatic fire shredded a thin wooden desk, exploding the computer that had been upon it and sending papers flying.

He rolled forward, kicking out with his legs towards the first kid, sending him sprawling as Bruce rolled up with the assault rifle in his hands, he returned fire, walking the shots into the other young man wearing Urban Tactical gear, blowing out the window behind him as the boy was gunned down.

Bruce picked himself up from the floor, and turned his attention on the first boy, just as the elevator bell jangled and the SWAT team arrived.

"What did they want?" Senator MacDonald asked as he surveyed the devastation that had once been his constituency office.

"It's unclear Senator," the Secret Service agent replied listening to his radio as he kept a close eye on his charge, "it could have been a retaliation to your announcing your candidacy in the next election. There are any number of people who don't want to see a good man get into the White House."

MacDonald shook his head in anger, "this is insane, so what now, I have to hide behind the Secret Service until these people are found?"

"That wouldn't be advisable," the Senator's aide cleared his throat off to one side, Mitchell had been with the Senator ever since his first term election, toiling first as campaign manager and then as aide over the years. "You need to present a strong image in the wake of this kind of attack, something that says you aren't intimidated. In wartime..."

"I know the numbers," Randy rumbled, "what of the FBI investigation?" He demanded of the Secret Service Agent.

"We're continuing with a joint investigation, domestic intelligence is a matter for the FBI, but our jurisdiction extends to your safety Senator. So far Agent Maya is interrogating the prisoner in an effort to ascertain where this was part of a larger conspiracy. As soon as we know more, sir..."

Senator MacDonald shook his head, turning and marching back towards the elevators, picking his way around the CSI teams that were colleting discarded shells and pulling bullets out of the walls. There was nothing he could do expect present a firm, unwavering face to the people, continue to look presidential in his run up to the national convention and allow the Secret Service and the FBI to do their jobs in getting to the bottom of what had happened.

It was funny how small tid-bits of information when assembled could make a grand mosaic. The things that crossed Markus's desk would make a conspiracy theorist out of anyone who bothered to read the documents and had enough imagination to put the puzzle together.

He had been strategically placed on an oversight committee, a young shark in the water circling, his dorsal fin particularly prominent in those meetings. Keeping his eyes on the reports that flowed through the various intelligence agencies. The President had seen fit to have him kept up to date on world events, valuing the Congressman's particularly unique flare for problem solving on the international stage. And were it not for the Congressman's youth he might well have been selected for a cabinet position.

He leafed through a dossier on the German General Merkht, remembering the shy little girl who had played chess with him at the Phobos facility. Now leading EU forces into battle, out thinking and outfighting experienced generals. The Germans had a traditional love of a person who knew how to fight, and fight well. Add to that Sarah's own, unique capabilities...

Markus scooped up the phone, "Becky get me my uncle." He waited while she connected him, listening to the phone ring at the secure facility in the Nevada desert. There was a click from the line indicating that someone had answered.

Markus paused for a moment, "I wanted to check your status."

"It goes well," Rikard's voice spoke evenly into the phone, "you should come and visit, see the new pets."

"If they are anything like the puppies, I'll pass." Markus remarked pulling more files towards him and drawing his pen with a flourish to sign off on them.

"Not quite, I have decided to collect insects, much easier to manage, and to breed than dogs."

"Right," Markus swept over the reports and sighed, "I see Sarah's doing well."

"All your brothers and sisters are doing well," Rikard said evenly, "though we will try harder to find the ones who are missing."

Markus sighed setting his pen down, thinking about Katherine and how much he missed her, twirling the pen on the desk surface, "I hope so. You have everything you need Uncle? You don't require more money?"

"I always need more money," Rikard said with a low chuckle, "but I will make do. You however are an important man who shouldn't waste time talking to the likes of me."

"Probably not," Markus replied, "but we live in interesting times."

"That is true." Rikard replied as the phone went dead leaving Markus to contemplate the future.

The Admiral's quarters on the Shisak were a model of efficiency and space saving. Utility lockers and folding furniture that could rearrange the room for a wide variety of functions, from day to night the room doubled as his private dining room, an office and a place for him to sleep.

He sat at his desk studying archival data of the Orion Tradeliner they were about to come face-to-face with. After thirty days of travel and thirty Beacon Stations being destroyed, he knew the US forces and the Orions had to know there was a Colonial vessel on its way to meet them. The question became how he chose to engage them.

The knock at his door waiting for him to call out for whoever it was to enter proceeded Ben slipping inside his quarters, uniform shirt undone and sleep touching his weary eyes as he crossed and sat down in the chair beside VonGrippen's desk.

"Gamma watch has the conn," He reported yawning and covering his mouth, "we're cruising at about point seven light speed for the edge of the navigation beacon. Explosives are rigged on Beacon thirty-one as soon as we have the navigation reference for our jump we'll detonate the station and jump."

VonGrippen nodded, pulling a teapot across his desk and without asking, poured Ben a cup, "the crew is performing well," he observed, so far the operation had been simple, but was providing valued experience to the crew as well as to its officers.

"You're worried," Ben observed.

VonGrippen picked up his cup and crossed his legs, "worried isn't exactly the term I would use. Though I do have a desire to be... certain that we are ready for what is to come."

Ben shrugged, "I wish I could tell you more about what's to come, but my skill doesn't work like that. All I get are visions of moments, mainly deaths... I can tell you I don't think many will die here..." Ben sat back rubbing his tired temples, "what does your experience tell you?" Ben inquired.

"We are going to wait for the Tradeliner to jump into this system, hopefully while we are sitting on fully charged jump pods. As they do this, we will jump on to Beacon Thirty-two, detonating Thirty-one."

"It's going to be close," Ben looked thoughtful, "we can take Thirty-two and set that, but we're going to have the Tradeliner jumping back to Thirty-two the second they realize that we have destroyed the Beacon stations ahead of them. And they are going to be arriving at Thirty-two pissed."

"We'll need to hold them long enough to complete our jump charge and execute the jump to Thirty-three," VonGrippen nodded, "at most a minute or two of intense fire."

"A minute is an eternity in combat," Ben pointed out.

"We're also rigged for stealth operations, I am hoping to evade detection long enough to execute the jump." VonGrippen gritted his teeth, "then we will have a day to repeat all this at Thirty-three."

"You're going to have that Tradeliner dogging us all the way back," Ben gritted his teeth, "that's going to be... tough."

"We only have to deal with the Tradeliner as long as its jump drives hold out," VonGrippen highlighted and zoomed in on the jump drives of the Tradeliner, almost identical to the ones currently fitted to the Shisak, "A Sheal and Finn drive, maximum range is approximately fifteen light years spherical. It generates phenomenal energies to force open a dimensional gateway between our space and hyperspace, drawing a starship inside, where upon said ship rides Hyperspace eddies until, due to the violent nature of the dimension, the ship is expelled five to five hundred miles from the projected target point. Attempt to jump further than fifteen light-years and the chance of a random exit point increases exponentially. The shorter the jump distance the more accurate your exit position."

"Right, drives that are notoriously quirky when the capacity to chart accurate navigational data is unobtainable," Ben folded his arms, "but that is hit or miss, it could take one jump, or it could take ten..."

"We're fortunate that the strain on the Tradeliners engines will be cumulative," VonGrippen observed, "the more she 'dead-jumps' the higher the probability that her engines will suffer a failure of some type or another. The key, my friend, is surviving long enough."

"You are going to be abandoning them, lost, in deep space without jump drives," Ben cleared his throat, "that has to bother you."

VonGrippen shook his head, "this is war, my personal morality aside, the lives and liberty of my colony is at stake."

"Understood, Alex," Ben stood up, "I should go to bed, tomorrow is going to be a rough day."

"Tomorrow is just a day," VonGrippen returned to his work, "and even a bad day has its good points."

Derek sauntered, smiling under the brilliant sunlight as he wound his way from campus through the streets of San Francisco, taking his time as he made his morning commute to class. Beside him a street car rumbled up the hill, sightseers, not that there were many given the times, on their way to see Alcatraz or the Golden Gate bridge.

He watched it move past him, lazily, checking as he crossed the street. His black, carefully curved ball cap that formed a perfect arc around his eyes tilting a little as he waited, jogging across the street, glancing at the skimmers that jetted in the sky-way overhead. Ever since the invention of the first 'sky-car' skimmers had quickly caught on, though primarily a vehicle for those who could afford their piloting licences, and then the phenomenal cost of the hover vehicles themselves, as well as hydrogen fuel cells...

And so Derek walked.

Turning into the same small coffee shop that he had come to every day for the past two years. Part of his morning commute, and he enjoyed flirting with the cute staff behind the counters. Boys, girls, Derek didn't care, he just enjoyed himself too much.

He loved it there, he was a year away from completing his second honours degree, computer programming. Working hard as an assistant to one of his professors on the mysterious Overlord project, which was way cooler than he was ever allowed to actually let on. As far as anyone was concerned, Overlord was nothing more than a command and control system.

On his first day, Derek had taken one look at the code and knew that was complete bull. It may have C and C applications, but the code was undoubtedly an A.I. One sophisticated enough to co-ordinate a real time battlefield on a galactic scale. The basis behind TAC-net that would become the ultimate bridge between every soldier on the field, intelligence specialists and military commanders. It would turn the tide of the war, were they ever actually able to get the program to work.

It was fascinating work, not that Derek would admit his geeky love for his job. He liked to think he was too cool for that. Of course he wore a pair of carabineers attached to a battered brown belt holding his jeans up, a little too long it refused to stay tucked in and the end always flopped forward rebelliously. His security pass was tucked into his back pocket, strung into the mess by a long yellow shoelace, he'd lost the actual chord for it after a week or so of having it.

The door jangled as he came inside, flashing a grin at the server behind the counter. Keith was looking harassed and overworked as usual, trying to beat the tail end of the morning rush, as business men and women demanded the double espresso-lattes with extra foam, cinnamon and god knows what else that made the coffee more milk and sugar than actual caffeine.

Derek waited in line, bobbing his head to the catchy tune piped out of the coffee shops sound system. He spared a glance at the newspapers folded upon the counter, the usual pro-war propaganda pieces, touting various successes that didn't amount to much, especially not in the wake of the news reports that said after a month of intense fighting China was closing on Adelaide, the Australian armed forces reluctantly giving ground in the face of the sheer numbers of the Red Army.

He was sick of hearing about the war. There had been a few, early, anti-war demonstrations. Especially when talk of conscription began, but they had been stifled quickly. The government wasn't about to risk massive demonstrations and protests, and selectively targeted rally leaders... rumours abounded about prison camps for 'dissidents' and 'traitors'. But of course no one had any proof of that and the Patriot amendment guaranteed the rights of the state to protect itself.

One of his professors had given a lecture on the war when the subject had come up in a sociology class. Considering the fact that Professor Patterson was a former Marine Colonel, he had a scathing view of the American effort in the war. As he had described it, it was a war of half measures, like neither side was truly willing to commit to the war, and so simply hurled troops, ships and resources into the fire of war in the hopes that eventually there would be a resolution.

Africa had been an utter disaster, but aside from Africa there really hadn't been a major offensive by either the EU or the US. Instead of a cold war, they had a Tepid one. And the only people that seemed to suffer were the troops who had to fight with no clear direction or objective behind what they were doing.

His professor had attributed that to the civilian leadership who saw war as nothing more than a tool for progress. A way to alleviate the economic decline and to draw attention away from floundering social policies put forward by an administration too consumed with popularity polls to actually do anything useful.

Of course Derek had voted Democrat, a choice he stood by, but West coast democrats were nothing like those on the East coast, and without any kind of consistency...

The young woman ahead of him in line dropped her debit card, and Derek stretched to pick it up, his faded blue tee-shirt riding up as he reached for it, exposing the tattoo on the small of his back, and he blushed a little as he straightened up, tugging it back down again as he handed her back her card.

She stared at it in his outstretched hand, her face pale as she swayed slightly, her eyes fluttering.

"Are you okay?" Derek asked, reaching out a hand to touch her arm.

She screamed, lashing out with some invisible force as Derek was hurled away from her, crashing through chairs and tables painfully as he slammed against the far wall. Around him people turned to look at the sudden noise, a few people who had witnessed it, stepped back in shock.

The girl sagged against the counter, standing again as the windows blew out on the front of the coffee shop, and Derek watched the shockwave shattering windows on the office tower across the street, raining glass shards down on surprised pedestrians below.

Tables tore free next, cracking and splintering as they collided with the walls, chairs following suit. Patrons breaking and running in confusion from the violence, the girl lashing out striking them down with objects that weren't secured.

Behind her Keith had dived beneath the counter, his cappuccino machine rattling and melting as it superheated, the copper sagging and melting in upon itself. Cups and glasses exploding on the shelves as the computer monitor on the cash register sparked and died.

Derek tried to get to his feet, as the girl, looking shaken walked through the desolation she had wrought, out onto the street. He sank painfully against the wall as he watched her walk into the middle of the street, outstretching her hands as a bus roared down towards her.

"No..." He uttered dryly, propelling himself forward, leaping through the broken window, and charging to dive towards her. Her impossibly blue eyes looking at him a long moment as he catapulted through the air, time seeming to slow to an impossible length. She twisted her hand as the bus hit an invisible wall of force, caught in an invisible grip that crumpled it like a tin can, as the bus was lifted up and sailed over her head, glass and metal falling free as Derek stared in shock.

And he connected with her.

Time crashed back into its normal pace, the bus flipped end over end, bouncing along the road behind them, as Derek and the young woman hit the asphalt the screams and squeal of tires all around them as the bus ploughed into a busy intersection.

She threw him off of her, sailing through the air to land, painfully upon the hood of a taxi. Standing and sneering in rage as she took a few steps forward, grabbing him by the front of his tee shirt.

"Why won't you let me die?" She cried aloud, tears rolling down her face.

Derek shook his head in pain and shock as he looked into her eyes, "I-I'm sorry..."

"Sorry? Sorry?" She hauled him off of the car and propelled him through the circle of onlookers, as she drove him up against the wall of a building, "that's all men like you know how to say isn't it? I'm sorry? I'll make you sorry..."

She threw him again, with shocking strength for such a small girl, Derek's arms and legs flailed as he hit the road again, rolling across the street as he hit a car parked on the far side.

"Freeze!" The police officer, breathless, held is gun levelled on her, quickly grabbing for his radio, "dispatch I have..."

Fury boiled over as she moved with blinding speed, first knocking his gun aside as it went off, as she drove her palms into his stomach, lashing out as she rolled into him, pulling him over her shoulder in a judo throw.

The second gunshot took even her by surprise, as she looked down at the hole in her chest, dropping to her knees as the blood seeped out. Her eyes unfocused as she tilted her head to look at the cop's partner, the female sergeant keeping her gun sighted in as she completed the call for back up. The young girl collapsing to the pavement.

Derek felt every cut and bruise, struggling to his feet as he looked about him at the devastated city street. One girl had just tore up half a city block by herself, all because of what? He closed his eyes as he sat on the hood of the car and shook his head.

"What happened?" Markus demanded into his phone watching the news report.

There was a pause on the line, "Karla must have experienced a delayed reaction to the bloodroot." Rikard said at length, "when the dosages were administered I was in a hurry, the device may not have been properly calibrated."

"Are you telling me that this could happen again?" Markus asked, dropping his voice.

"I wouldn't worry, Congressman, you should be quite safe, the dose you were administered was done after we hit the water on Earth. Yours I am certain is correct, however bloodroot is an unpredictable and alien chemical. There is a chance this incident was isolated, however there is also a chance that... outbursts, such as what happened in San Francisco today, may occur again. I would need to study the patient..."

"Karla is being sent to you," Markus replied walking around his desk, "you are fortunate that I have good friends in San Francisco, but... I expect answers Enarbrem."

"Of course," Rikard replied firmly down the line.

He turned in his lab, removing his steel rimmed glasses as he set the receiver back into its cradle. His facilities were better than those on the abandoned Phobos base, and his work was uninterrupted by arrogant military officials seeking results, impatient for anything that could justify the exorbitant costs incurred by the delicate research.

Rikard walked down from his desk to rest a hand on the glass that separated him from the main research lab where she grew. The massive bulk of the hive queen, a mere adolescent, and yet still capable of producing hundreds of larva a day. Each maturing in a couple of days into another trooper, faceless, milky white skin, seeking instructions.

He had taken steps to ensure their loyalty; keying the pheromones the artificial creatures relied upon for communication to his own scent organs. Vat grown and surgically implanted under his skin, it ensured there was only one master, and guaranteeing their loyalty to him.

Looking up to the military guards, he smiled, arming and equipping his new army would take time. He couldn't simply acquire the weapons and munitions he required from the American Arsenal, that would attract the wrong kind of attention. If he had to prepare Markus's army, then he would have to find another, willing source of arms.

He crossed his arms, musing about the future of war, and of the changes that were to come.