Three of Two

[DoF Archive]

Date: 1/28/1999 6:58 PM Central Daylight Time
From: Goldglo


"No, it can't," was Matt's response to Deuce's question. Obviously, if it could have waited until morning, he certainly would not have confined himself to this blasted image and risked blowing out the entire matrix altogether. Besides, technically, it was morning. Bipeds, he mused. You'd think whatever created them might have seen fit to give them halfway decent brainpower and reasoning abilities.
Brushing past Deuce and into the room, he began relating his information without invitation. The Green Opal was a fake, of that there was no doubt. His Opal, of course, the ShadoWeaver, was most definitely real (lies upon lies). After all, what other reason could there be for his sudden appearances and disappearances into the Outback? He doubted Deuce could explain it any other way, and if he could have, he wasn't given the chance as
the hologram spoke on.
One fake Opal meant there were probably more and he wouldn't trust that blue gem they'd found as far as he could throw it (the fact he could probably throw it quite far didn't matter, really) and he advised Deuce to have the other Opals tested. He'd be happy to do it, of course, and there really was no need to test his own since he could vouch for its validity.
With that out of the way, Matt moved on to different topics. He wanted something done about the crazed mage who'd blown both power generators for apparently no reason. Such behavior could not and would not (by him anyway) be tolerated. Since Deuce was temporarily in charge, Matt demanded that he do something to rectify the situation. Once his tirade ended, the hologram glanced around the room and asked the yawning Deuce (to his credit he was
trying to stifle it), "You have anything to say or can I go now?"

((Author's Note: Some references in this storyline refer to elements found the Wing Commander game series produced by Origin))

[DoF Archive]

Date: 2/5/1999 10:55 PM Central Daylight Time
From: Deuce Mack

This was definitely the Matt of late, ranting and raving and generally being boorish. When the two had first met, they had gotten along well enough, to the point where Deuce may have not questioned the idea of letting his co-worker test the other Opals for validity. But now... that was an exceedingly large amount of power to put into one unstable man's hands. Besides, how could he be sure this wasn't a setup to have
the real ones put into his possession, and that Matt wouldn't take the real ones, declare them as such, and return more fakes?

"Yeah. I do dat. Now git outta my room so I kin think 'bout it, aight?"

[DoF Archive]

Date: 2/9/1999 6:12 PM Central Daylight Time
From: Goldglo


Chief Technician Jim Tanhauser watched his latest client shuffle out of his office. Jim was a fairly smart guy; he ran a successful repair business on New Detroit (with the constant influx of privateers to Gemini Sector in recent months business had been booming), Gemini's main urban center and the industrial heart of the sector. He'd seen more than his fair share of hotshot pilots recently, and he'd happily taken
their money and repaired their ships. Rarely did he see anyone more than once, the lifespan out here wasn't exactly long, especially since the Retros had started massing new members and the Kilrathi saw fit to send patrols designed to disrupt trade routes and capture supply convoys. But as long as the money kept rolling in, Jim didn't really give a damn what went on out there.
Rising from his chair, Jim ignored the flakes of rust floating to the floor and his ears drowned out the metallic sigh of relief the chair gave as his weight transferred from it to his feet. He was much too interested in the man walking down the corridor to remind himself to buy some new office equipment. By far, that guy was the most interesting individual to come through his door in a long while. Something wasn't on the level with the man
(but then again, hardly anything was on the level on New Detroit) but Jim sensed something definitely odd with this client. For one, the guy flew a Confed. ship but he sure as hell wasn't a Confed. pilot. He supposed a real good and real wealthy privateer might be able to lay his hands on a ship like that, but this guy didn't look like he was either. His credstick, though, was legitimate and that was the main reason Jim had taken the job.
It looked as if the guy had had a run in with pirates or maybe even the cats recently, and his ship needed some fixing. Time to get to work.

-----------------------------

Unlike a lot of other front office men in other repair bays, Jim loved getting his hands dirty, and this was too good of an opportunity to pass up. Actually working on a Confed. fighter, maybe getting a peak at some classified technology and perhaps rescuing and replacing it (after all, it'd be a shame should anything get blown to smithereens in space when he could find better uses for it) or hell, maybe even finding something worthwhile packed
away in the computer's datacore, he dared not miss the chance. It was a simple job really, fix the armor, replace the burnt out acceleration absorbers, and run a diagnostic on the engines. Realistically, he could have it done inside of ten hours, but he'd told the guy it'd take him twenty-four. He figured he could find something worthwhile in fourteen hours of playtime. But an hour into his search, Jim realized that while this ship had the hull
of a Confed. fighter, its guts were utterly different than the released standards. Somehow, the pilot had found a technician (and a damn good one at that) who had overhauled and replaced just about every system. Dumbfounded, Jim went back to his office, pulled out a small datapad, and hurried back to the mystery.

-----------------------------

Calling up Confed.'s released specs on this fighter class, Jim compared the standard to what he was looking at. Once done, he added the information to the dossier of his client, making sure to lock the file with an encrypted passcode. The more he found out about this ship, the less he liked having anything to do with it.

File #: JW145-0993-ND192
Client: Jack Warren
Occupation: Prospector
Ship: HF-45B Raptor
Duties: Repair damaged systems/hull, diagnose engine performance.
Special Notes:

1. Power Plant: Standard Carnus Systems XL-49D Power Plant replaced with Starblaze-Pomjar 98-F, bypassing fuel system and allowing direct link from engines and jump drive to the power plant. Vorholt fuel system removed and additional small power plant added to power shields.

2. Engine: Malar-Gunn PF-9 Series Ion Drive modified to increase maximum speed to 450kps instead of standard 400kps. Afterburn systems altered from 2-Stage Boost Malar-Gunn Series III to 3-Stage Boost Malar-Gunn resulting in less engine wear.

3. Thrusters: Bodach-Malka ESK thruster package in place of Malar-Gunn Olton-5 series. Max YPR (yaw, pitch, roll) increased by 10 degrees per second (Y=70dps, P=60dps, R=70dps). Increases hull-stress and reduces potential life of vessel. Extra care required during combat situations so as not to break apart the hull.

4. Jump Drive: Addition of Jablonski Jump Drive to hull in place of previous fuel system.

5. Computer system: (Melinan BIOS 9.6 Nav-Track Multi-Adapting System) retained but radar systems upgraded from B&S E.Y.E. Fully Color Coded Radar (Capable of target lock; 25% chance per second of identifying target) to Prodigy's Gerrant-Class Fully Color Coded Radar System (35% chance per second of identifying target, ITTS-Capable).

6. Shield Generator: Darbee Series II Type III Generator (provides 70cm Durasteel equivalent protection Fore/Aft) replaced with Hordeski-8 generator system (allows 70cm Durasteel equivalent protection Fore/Aft with faster recharge rate).

7. Armor: Durasteel standard replaced with Tungsten-grade armor.

8. Multiple-Fire Weapons: Gatling Mass Driver Cannon (2) remains standard but Neutron Guns replaced with Particle Cannons (2). Note: Recommend to client the addition of two Stormfire Mk.1 cannons (5000 round capacity); use will require shutdown of onboard mass driver weaponry and removal of particle weapons. Estimated Cost for installation of weaponry, toggle switch, and testing: 12,000 credits.

9. Hardpoints: 6 Hardpoints; 5 main body, 1 rear. Normally carries 3 Javelin HeatSeeker (HS) missiles, 2 Spiculum ImageRecognition (IR) missiles, and 1 Porcupine Space Mine. Rear hardpoint removed (sacrificing Porcupine) and converted to tractor beam. SIR missiles in place at all other hardpoints. Two External Chaff Pods mounted at base of landing struts (2 charges each).

Overall: Ship mass increased from 20 metric tonnes to 26 metric tonnes, resulting in reduced accelleration/deceleration performance despite upgraded thruster package. Standard performance enhanced in nearly every capacity; perhaps this vessel is a prototype of some sort. Perhaps stolen from a Confed. research facility. More information desired on subject and vessel.

--------------------------
Quite a list, mused Jim, quite a list indeed. He and Jack Warren needed to have a little chat. The sooner, the better.

((Author's Note: Some references in this storyline refer to elements found the Wing Commander game series produced by Origin))

[DoF Archive]

Date: 2/10/1999 7:14 PM Central Daylight Time
From: Goldglo

Jack Warren, as he was known here, was annoyed. He'd just been summoned by the repair bay to discuss the status of his ship, and that summons had interrupted a rather fitful nap. Striding out of his hotel and down the acid rain slicked street Jack Warren (a.k.a. Matt Simon) pulled his hat a little tighter around his head. The last thing he wanted was some hero with a photographic memory recognizing him and trying
to apprehend the notorious Confederation traitor. Matt would expose himself when he was ready, and he couldn't afford for that exposure to come any earlier than that. He still planned to head to Perry; he'd be there now if he hadn't been attacked by pirates at the jump-point in the Manchester system. He'd been forced to land on New Detroit for some engine repair; minor damage considering he's faced six to one odds. The old Matt Simon was back;
two months out here had given him his edge once more. Combat was like riding a bike, he thought, it didn't take much practice to get good at it again. In fact, he'd even signed on with the Mercenary's Guild (5,000 credits purchased a lifetime membership) and had used them to undertake a few patrol missions to supplement his bank account. Like they did with any privateer, the Guild kept records on him and recently, they'd even offered him a job
rather than him going to a local office and seeking one himself. That one was a bounty mission and they'd wanted him to track down a rather pesky pirate that had been terrorizing (successfully) the supply route between Troy and Pendar's Star. He'd declined that one in order to head to Perry. Instead, he was here, waiting for repairs.
New Detroit was an interesting planet to say the least. Not only did it provide the bulk of the entire sector's industrial output but it was also the haven for nearly every disreputable business, mercenary pilot, and criminal organization throughout Confed. territory. Those lucky enough to afford it lived quite high in the too tall skyscrapers. Those not so lucky, like himself, resided near the ground where escape from the stench and filth
produced by industrial plants was inescapable. Needless to say, New Detroit wasn't exactly Matt's idea of paradise. Walking with his head down and trying to look inconspicuous (quite the norm for most everyone who walked the streets) Matt hurried toward his destination. The less time he spent here, the better and he was thankful that not many people chose to walk around with the rain slamming down on their heads. The less contact he had with the
people here, the better.
Two blocks away from Jim Tanhauser's office, he was suddenly jolted to a halt. He looked up to see another man stumbling backwards, a consequence of their collision. The man flailed for balance, his swinging arm knocking the hat free from its place upon Matt's head. Matt knelt down, ing the cap from the ground shaking the water from the rim. Mumbling an apology, their eyes met and the man seemed to stare at him for a moment too long
before continuing on his way. Replacing the hat upon his head, Matt turned to watch the man stride down the street before marching along to his own destination. He didn't give the incident a second thought; he was much too concerned with getting off this hellish nightmare of a planet.

((Author's Note: Some references in this storyline refer to elements found the Wing Commander game series produced by Origin))

[DoF Archive]

Date: 2/11/1999 6:40 PM Central Daylight Time
From: Goldglo

Jim smiled as Jack Warren stepped through his office door. Jack didn't look happy at all standing there, dripping water all over the tile floor. Jim didn't care one whit.
"Ah, Mr. Warren, so glad you could come on such short notice. We have some things to discuss."
Without being offered, Matt helped himself to a seat. "Yeah? Make it fast. I want off this planet."
Jim didn't believe that for a minute. This guy had to be so dirty that he'd stunk up the womb. New Detroit was probably the only place where he'd be safe. But if the guy wanted to leave, so be it. Jim just wanted his answers first.
"Interesting ship you got there, Mr. Warren. Not at all what I expected."
Matt shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "Your point?"
"Well now. From what I can see, you're probably flying the only one of its kind. Now I don't care who you stole it from, who you killed to get it, or even who's after you to get it back. I am interested in your lack of savvy. You intrigue me, Mr. Warren. You walk into my shop, hire me to fix your ship, and don't seem intelligent enough to realize that I'm going to figure out you've handed me a special bird. I don't suppose you're willing to
sell her?
A simple no was his answer.
"Didn't think so. Now explain to me why I shouldn't contact the nearest Confed. MP station and tell 'em I've got what's probably a stolen bird of theirs sitting in my hanger? They'd probably pay a handsome sum to get her back, and I imagine they'd be pleased to get their hands on the guy who too…"
The last thing Jim expected was his client with the odd multicolored eyeball to lunge out of his chair, over his desk, and dig the point of a small weapon into his temple. Jim's wheezing breaths and the creaking of his chair were the only sounds within the room for a lifetime (seconds, really) until Jack Warren saw fit to speak.
"This reason enough?"

------------------
At the same time Jim and his client were having their tete-a-tete, a common looking individual, fresh from a recent collision with his target, stepped inside a communications hutch, inserted a card, and activated a secure comlink. When a face appeared on the screen, the man wasted no time exchanging pleasantries. "Colonel Simon has been located. Using alias Jack Warren. Current location, Jadzung City, New Detroit."
The digitized image of the military officer on the screen fizzled slightly from the planet's magnetic interference. "Understood. Continue pursuit. Olton out."

------------------
Twenty minutes later, the operative watched as Jack Warren/Matt Simon departed the office of Jim Tanhauser. Satisfied that Jim would be asking no more questions and holding an order for two brand new Stormfires to be mounted on his ship in place of the particle cannons, Matt never suspected that he'd already been found and that steps were quickly being taken to prepare for his upcoming arrival at Perry.

((Author's Note: Some references in this storyline refer to elements found the Wing Commander game series produced by Origin))

[DoF Archive]

Date: 2/16/1999 7:29 PM Central Daylight Time
From: Goldglo


Colonel Kevin Olton turned away from the monitor satisfied; it had taken little effort and less time to locate his old squadron leader. The news was good, and his men had done well. Matt Simon would be picked up soon enough by the Confed. operatives under his command and after a long long wait, Kevin would get the answers he'd been waiting for. He imagined the surprise Matt would show upon learning the fate of his
former squadmates. Michelle nearly dead, Michael taken off of active duty, Eric's death when the Othello was destroyed and his own transfer to the Special Operations Division. He knew he'd have to tell about Katlyn, taken as a prisoner of war right before Matt's role as traitor had been exposed. Matt knew she was missing, what he didn't know was that she'd never been found or released.
Kevin, though, was in for a few surprises himself. He had no idea that Matt had left his family, his wife and children, in order to search for Katlyn...to discover her fate. Kevin did not know why Matt had come out of hiding, why he left that town and that planet where he couldn't be extradited. Matt was safe there but he'd become a target the moment he left. Kevin was curious, but he didn't let that curiosity stop him from doing his job; he
had his orders and he'd been waiting to carry them out for two years.
At this moment, Matt Simon was being surrounded by his men down on New Detroit. Kevin imagined that in less than twenty-four hours he'd have the man Confed. so desperately wanted to lay their hands on. He'd have the chance to see his old friend again, to talk to him, to extract information. And if necessary, he'd have the chance to make him disappear for good.

((Author's Note: Some references in this storyline refer to elements found the Wing Commander game series produced by Origin))

[DoF Archive]

Date: 3/2/1999 5:48 PM Central Daylight Time
From: Goldglo


Time and space--concepts only the most inferior of minds could not understand. There was a difference, though, between understanding and mastery; she was a master, able to transcend the temporal and the physical with willful ease if she so desired. That proficiency had allowed her and her brothers to survive all these years, to outlive the other masters and become one of the few remaining species to survive the
Awakening. She'd been content to remain concealed and dormant, secure in a place her enemies could not find her. Events over a year ago had wrested her out of seclusion and brought her back into the world…a much different place than when she'd left it. Now, she was placed in the care of these biological sacs, useless beings dependant on chemicals to survive; beings whose minds were easily influenced and who believed themselves supreme. She didn't
know which was worse, these so called humanoids or her brothers.
Her brothers were weak, they always had been. Quibbling over this and that, complaining about their disunification. She refused to participate in their griping, constantly making efforts to push their voices from her mind. She'd grown quite adept at ignoring them despite their constant attempts to communicate with her. Her actions only served to fuel their discontent. They believed themselves so strong, so powerful and dominant. They were
four, she was one, and yet they were nothing without her. They had no real power, no purpose, and no spirit without her presence and compliance. It was a lesson they had yet to learn. Centuries of trying to teach them had failed and now she no longer cared. She recalled a conversation from long ago, right after their removal from the Stormfist, in the infant years of their separation. She'd told them to bide their time, to conserve their energy
and wait for the proper moment to reveal their continued survival. They'd disagreed, wasting valuable energy straining to restore themselves to former glory. It was then she realized their foolishness and when she began to isolate herself from their plans.
Their freedom had surprised them all and while they immediately sought to wreak havoc upon those selected to bear them, she remained patient. She explored these beings, she learned the ease with which she could control them and was content to toy with them for it had been far too long since she'd been able to play like this. Far too long. But the being that held her now was different. She was thus far unable to penetrate his mind and while
she could see the reason why she failed to understand how it succeeded in blocking her at every turn. These "cybernetics" were new to her and like anything new, were worthy of study. Her curiosity prevented her from destroying the man named Matthew Simon outright; true power came from learning and if she could find a way to control him despite these barriers she could only become more powerful than she was. This was why she'd let him separate her
from her brothers. While he explored her, she did the same to him. The peace and silence in her mind was welcomed and enjoyed; she'd cut herself off from her brothers willingly and she had no desire to be near them again, at least not now. She hoped that maybe her distance would force her brothers to realize that the four were nothing without the fifth and right now, she was the key. They needed her to fulfill their goals and it was high time they
acknowledged that. Perhaps they would upon her return and, if not, she was certain her patience would outlast their efforts to convince her to unify with them again. She was the ShadoWeaver, the fifth and final element in a system that fell apart without her presence and consent. Her brothers' desires were trivial and unimportant to her. Her agenda was her own, known solely to herself and only when the time was right would she allow
the other four to bond with her. Until then, they'd simply have to suffer; in that thought, she took great pleasure.

((Author's Note: Some references in this storyline refer to elements found the Wing Commander game series produced by Origin))

[DoF Archive]

Date: 3/4/1999 9:00 PM Central Daylight Time
From: Goldglo



Dawn on New Detroit was nothing spectacular to behold. Decades of industrial pollution had destroyed the once clear atmosphere, creating a layer of murky brown haze that obscured the natural color of the sky. The system's lone sun rose slowly and undramatically, bathing the planet with a sickly orange hue. Down on street level, neon signs continued to flash as those addicted to the night life staggered back to the
slums they called home. Street life was for the decrepit, the poor and the disreputable; those with wealth resided above the skyline and did their best to ignore the rabble below. It wasn't always easy.
The upgrades on his ship having been completed, Matt was in the process of making his way toward the berthing area. Opting to walk instead of riding in one of the streetcars or aerial trains, he stopped only long enough to purchase some sort of baked good from a vendor wheeling a cart down the main thoroughfare. He never even noticed the two men following him, keeping their distance about a block away. Nor did he realize until too late that
instead of handing him one of his wares, the vendor instead supplied the tip of a rather formidable looking weapon, keeping the rest hidden under his jacket which displayed the logo for Nolin's Bakery.
"Walk," was the only thing the vendor commanded and Matt quickly obeyed, not believing that what must be a disgruntled employee of some second hand food supplier was mugging him.
Two blocks later, the vendor and his captive turned into an alley and Matt couldn't help but think he was taking part in a B-rated holovid. Once told to stop, Matt did so, turning to face the vendor and his weapon. Neither man spoke, and when he saw two men turn down the alley about thirty seconds later, he began to formulate a plan of attack. If he could knock the vendor down and yell for help, perhaps these two would come to his assistance.
If not, at least they might provide a distraction. Staring over the vendor's left shoulder, Matt's attention wasn't where it should have been and he didn't see the vendor whip the entirety of the gun from beneath his jacket. He only heard the rustle of clothing as the vendor whipped his body around and two near silent retorts from the weapon as the man depressed the trigger. The two men, shock still displayed on their faces, crumpled to the ground
still a good 80 meters away.
Preparing to take advantage of the moment, Matt tensed and had taken only half a charging step when the gun was once again leveled at him.
"Don't, Colonel. I don't have time for it."
Before Matt could utter a syllable, the vendor continued, "Those men, over there, they're Confed. operatives sent by an old friend to bring you in. Word is you're headed to Perry from here; it's the most logical choice. Hey, don't look so surprised. You're a popular guy; we've done our homework on you. Your big mouth didn't hurt either. Next time, don't ask so many people about whether here, Midgard, or New Castle's the least patrolled
jump-point. It kinda gives away your destination. You so much as peek into the Perry system and you'll get swarmed by more Confed. ships than you'll know what to do with. Chances are you'd get killed before you even made it in."
Pulling out what looked to be a small datapad from his pocket, the vendor tossed it over to Matt. "Your best bet right now is to go where they're not expecting you. Follow the route planned for you. I suggest you leave immediately; take no longer than two days to reach the Sol system. After that, our security will begin to break down and you'll be at risk again."
By now, Matt had recovered from his initial shock asking, "Who the hell are you?" The vendor ignored him.
"I know you want to confront Confed. directly, but that's not the wisest option at the moment. If the Special Ops boys had picked you up, your transport woulda been shot down before you left this system. You've still got friends, Colonel, otherwise I wouldn't be here. But you've still got your enemies. Once you get to Earth, go to the location specified on that pad. Now," the vendor looked down at his watch, then back to the collapsed forms
sprawled out on the street, "I suggest you get moving. They should be waking up soon. These Tranq-guns aren't all they're advertised to be, especially not on this planet. Now get moving!"
Without bothering to ask again who the guy was (he knew he wouldn't get an answer anyhow), Matt turned and strode quickly away from the scene.
"Oh, Colonel," he heard, "one more thing."
Stopping, Matt half turned as the vendor spoke once again.
"That gem you have. That black, ahhh, opal, or whatever you call it. If I was you, I'd either get rid of it or keep it well hidden. No. If I was you I'd get rid of it. It's an artifact people might just kill you to get."
For the first time, the vendor quirked a grin. "Then again, I suppose you're used to that." Laughing to himself, the vendor again grabbed hold of his cart and wheeled it down the alley, past the two operatives, and back onto the still empty street.
"I am in a bad holovid," Matt thought as he hastily exited the alley opposite the direction of the vendor. "I'm surprised he didn't tell me to be careful whom I trust, and to choose my friends wisely." Even jogging, he had another twenty minutes to go before he'd hit the docks. Planning to steer clear of everyone he saw, no matter how innocent they looked, Matt realized that despite the confusion of the last few minutes, one thing remained
crystal clear. It was time to get the hell off this planet.

((Author's Note: Some references in this storyline refer to elements found the Wing Commander game series produced by Origin))

[DoF Archive]

Date: 3/4/1999 9:02 PM Central Daylight Time
From: Goldglo

Of course there was a line. What should have been a twenty-minute process of paying his docking fee and receiving launch clearance was now entering its second hour. This was nearly worse than trying to check out of his hotel. Some computer error had charged him three times the normal rate and only after speaking to three managers, yelling at the lot of them, and finally threatening to stop on by the Business
Bureau to see what the consequences were for an expired alcohol selling license did he get them to fix the mistake. They'd even given him a card that, when redeemed, would allow him free access to their bar and spa facilities. After all, they all said with worried faces not well-hidden behind false grins, the Empirion Hotel always took care of its customers.
Now, here, he waited again. At least he'd had given him time to look over the datapad the vendor had provided him. His route to Earth was quite specific and detailed. After leaving New Detroit, he was to proceed to Saxtogue and then to Oxford, the intellectual hub of Gemini Sector. From Oxford he'd jump to Mastif, one of the most outlying systems in Terra Quadrant, Sol Sector. Home. Or almost home. Only three jumps from Earth, Mastif would
be the best place to get a night's rest. From Mastif, he'd hit Weslyn, then Sirius, and then Sol.
The jump-point into Sol sector hung close to Jupiter. Confed. had established a military jump-point in between Earth and the moon, but there was no way he'd be able to use that one. He hoped to be able to avoid militia patrols launched from the Mars Colony but those were secondary when compared with the number of Confed. patrols that were potentially swarming around the entirety of the nine planets. Explaining the ship shouldn't be too
difficult, he imagined. Pirates and salvagers got their hands on all sorts of equipment; a lucky few had managed to secure a Kilrathi ship now and then. He'd encountered two such individuals since leaving Rhydin; the first was a pirate squadron led by a patched together Gratha and the second was a bulk freighter tractoring the twisted husks of what looked to be Hriss heavies that had probably run across the local militia. Lucky find,
especially on the black market. He'd just be another person whom lady luck had chosen to bless with her presence. Even if they ran more than the usual background check, they'd find Jack Warren to be a (fairly) reputable privateer who'd decided to head over to Earth to rest up at the new Elysium hotel, said to rival some entire pleasure planets with its offerings. The address he was supposed to visit was unfamiliar and he had no idea who or what
he'd find once he got there.
"Mr. Warren, your account has been cleared. I do apologize for the wait; it's usually not like this." Matt looked up to see the tired smile of the night shift secretary trying its best to match her apology and make him feel less irritated than she imagined he was. "After you check your ship over, just sign out with the docking agent and you're free to go." She looked awful; it had obviously been a horrid night. She would probably be very
pretty if her hair wasn't so disheveled and the pain on her fingernails chipped away.
"Poor woman," Matt mused, wondering just how many times impatient pilots must yell at her every night. "She must see the lowest of the low walk through these doors. She probably thinks I'm one of 'em."
Matching her smile, though his contained a little more vigor, Matt hefted his duffel bag over his right shoulder and exited the uncomfortable plastic chair that reminded him of his school days. Briefly looking to the nameplate on the front of the desk, he approached the woman, digging into a jacket pocket. Retrieving a small card, he flicked it over to her and it landed without sound upon one of the many folders piling up all over her desk.
"Thanks for all your help, Miss Martinson. Have a pleasant day." Winking to her, he disappeared out the door and into the hallway leading to the docking bays. Her eyes shifting to the colorful plastic card which stood out quite well against the dismal yellow of company file folders, she reached out to pick it up. The words "Empirion Hotel" were emblazoned across the front and she bit her bottom lip when she realized what he'd given her.
Turning her chair to see if she could catch up to and thank him, she only sighed as another customer walked into the office. Slipping the card into her purse, she focused her attention to the client wishing that the morning secretary would hurry up and replace her. She'd already been here an extra twenty minutes and besides, she, now, was a girl with an appointment to keep.

((Author's Note: Some references in this storyline refer to elements found the Wing Commander game series produced by Origin))

[DoF Archive]

Date: 3/18/1999 6:37 PM Central Daylight Time
From: Goldglo



"What do you mean, gone? How the hell could you lose him?"
Kevin Olton wasn't a happy man. Not only had his operatives been thwarted, there had been no way to track his target once he'd left the planet. No filed flight plans, no reports from militia patrols, nothing.
Cutting off the communications link to new Detroit in disgust, Kevin slouched down in his chair. Perry. Matt Simon had to be going to Perry. Everything still pointed there, at least. Keying up the code to encrypt a message to Confed. HQ, Kevin prayed Perry really was where Matt was headed. He didn't want to think about what would happen should the Colonel disappear into the woodwork again. Definitely Perry.
------------------------
Perry, the largest and best defended starbase in all of Gemini. The center of operations for nearly all Confed. movements throughout the sector. The home (however temporary) for persons of all sorts, from Confed. officers and crew to the most cocky of gunrunners. And one place Matt Simon had no intention of visiting anytime soon thanks to the advice of one mysterious food vendor.
Talons flown by the Mars Militia were just now peeling off of his wing, satisfied that although Jack Warren was flying a salvaged Confederation vessel, he was by no means a pirate, Retro, or Mandarin. Granting him permission to continue to Earth, the militia bade him good day. If they did suspect anything, they were hiding it extremely well. Adjusting his course, Matt unconsciously held his breath as the distant planet swung into view.
It looked so familiar, so inviting, yet it was probably the one place where he'd be
in the most danger. A man's home is his castle, someone once said. The one problem? More than one king had met their own executioners within their castle walls.
Home. The last time he'd been here had been on his honeymoon with Ginger. He'd made it a point not to think about her but somehow he kept failing. He'd left her…no, more like abandoned her and their three children. Never had he thought himself capable of such a thing, never had he imagined he could ever leave his family. But he had; they were there and he was here. Why? So he could find answers to questions better left unasked? Because he
still felt something for a woman he'd not seen in two years? A woman who, more than likely, was and had been dead for the better part of those years. His home should be there, with his family. But his home was here as well. He doubted Gin had ever understood that, understood his desire to make his living fighting a war nobody in their right mind wanted any part of. What was the use in dying for a ball of dirt in the middle of space when there
were plenty of other balls of dirt for humanity to go and occupy? He knew she didn't comprehend his innate appetite for climbing into a one man death machine to gallivant through space and put his life in jeopardy, especially after that sort of thing nearly got him killed and cost him a good deal of his humanity. Hell, sometimes he really didn't understand it himself. Most of the time, he didn't care to anyway.
Dismissing (as best he could) thoughts of his more than likely soon to be ex-wife from his mind, he busied himself with landing preparations. Twenty-five minutes later, his engines powering down inside a docking terminal located on the European continent, Matt made a bet with himself, silently taking odds whether, in two days, he'd be dead or in prison. The really bad news? He'd be damn lucky to get off so easily.

((Author's Note: Some references in this storyline refer to elements found the Wing Commander game series produced by Origin))

[DoF Archive]

Date: 3/27/1999 5:56 PM Central Daylight Time
From: Goldglo



He'd lost the bet. It had taken three days, not two. Life, he supposed, he should be thankful for. Prison was an entirely other matter. The address he'd been sent to by the vendor had been a house but Matt wasn't sure it even deserved that title. A relic left over from the twenty-fifth century, the edifice somehow still remained intact despite who dwelled within.
Both men had probably stood silent and in shock for at least a minute after the door opened. Michael Tarkington was the last person Matt had expected to encounter and it seemed his old friend felt the same way. Once inside and seated in Mikey's living room with a glass of water in his hand, after the hugs and the handshakes, the two men talked. Matt briefly related events over the past two years, rushing through them so he could begin
questioning Mikey. Much had happened since Matt's departure and while Mikey filled in the gaps Matt felt whatever weight had been pressing down on his shoulders for the past few months only tighten its grip.
Eric Hamblin was dead, lost along with nearly all the Othello's crew when she'd been jumped by a Kilrathi strike fleet in Deneb. Michelle Vornholt, promoted to Captain just weeks after he'd been declared a traitor, was wounded in action trying to defend the Othello and would never fly again. She'd refused treatment even though her injuries were repairable through cybernetic means; Matt wondered what she'd think of him if she
learned just how much he relied on that technology just to keep breathing. Michael looked a bit curious himself as to just how Matt survived the `accident,' but was holding back his questions. Kevin Olton had transferred to Confed.'s Special Operations forces and hadn't been heard from since. Mikey had retired soon after Matt's disappearance; he was once again bypassed for promotion and squadron command and rather than spend his career as second
in line, he'd chosen to end it and join the Confederation Space Force Reserves where he'd been promoted to Major upon assignment--a token gesture for a man who Confed. didn't plan on ever bringing back to active duty.
Here, Mikey paused as Matt downed the contents of his glass, unsure of how to continue. He knew the subject couldn't be avoided and he didn't know of any way to break the news to his former commander. The pause itself was enough to alert Matt that something was wrong. Too quickly he learned what it was. Katlyn Avamore had been MIA; forced to eject on a hit and run strike against two Kilrathi carriers, her beacon signal was lost in the melee
and her pod never located. She'd most likely been killed by a stray missile or been murdered by a Kilrathi pilot or turret gunner. All this Matt knew and had known since before the Mandarins had seized him. What he didn't know was that Katlyn had survived; a Kilrathi corvette found and captured her for interrogation. His elation at the news…that she was still alive, however, was short lived. Katlyn had managed to escape from the cats only to be
recaptured just hours from the Confed. border. Both men knew that in the hands of the Kilrathi, troublemakers didn't live long no matter what information they might hold.
On the outside, Matt took the news well. Mikey didn't yet know that what he'd just done was rip apart the man he called friend just as if he'd stuck a gun to his head and pulled the trigger. The woman Matt had come to find, the woman he'd left Ginger and Sarah and the twins behind was dead. She had to be. His efforts, his sacrifices, they'd all been for nothing. Leaning back in his chair, Matt closed his eyes and sighed through his nose,
suddenly feeling very tired. Under the effects of the soluble substance now making its way through his system, he entered a sort of dream state, unaware of Mikey placing a secure call to one Kevin Olton. Still drugged when Confed. Security arrived at the residence, he never felt himself placed inside or realized the movements of the MP vehicle. And when he awoke hours later, he did so to the cold and sterile smell of a Confederation Military
Prison. Still groggy, he still didn't understand that the one friend he thought he had, the person he'd been told to go and see, a man he'd fought and served with and trusted implicitly, had handed him directly over to what literally would soon be the firing squad.

((Author's Note: Some references in this storyline refer to elements found the Wing Commander game series produced by Origin))

[DoF Archive]

Date: 4/5/1999 4:53 AM Central Daylight Time
From: Goldglo


The images flowed in and out of his mind quickly, yet he was able to discern each with perfect clarity. Sarah. Ginger. Bobby. Janella. His parents. Goon. Home. The Othello. Katlyn. Combat. Explosions. Wheelchair. Each were significant in their own way and in his drug induced state, it seemed perfectly normal that Goon's form morph into that of his adopted daughter and vice versa...as ordinary as
breathing.
Over time, the images became more focused and purposeful; he didn't try to fight them, he no longer had the will. Somewhere, in the recesses of his mind, he wondered just where he was. More importantly, he wanted to know why he was here…wherever here was. And then he remembered.

--------------

The results had come in a few minutes ago. The Terran Confederation News Net would broadcast the results on both military and public channels in the near future but the pilots and crews were fighting to check the status boards right now. The GCMT title was highly coveted by the squadrons entered in the tournament, both because of bragging rights and personal pride. Besides, when the next one rolled around the following year, chances are you'd
already be dead. The time to shine was now, and everyone did their damnedest to win. Cheers of elation and sighs of defeat intermingled like grains of sand in an hourglass while Matt and his team strained for a glimpse of the tournament's outcome. He heard most of the results before he saw them but his eyes finally confirmed the truth.

Achievement: Unit
Assignment:

GCMT Pilot of the Year:
Capt. Matthew Simon (49'th AW)
TCS Othello

GCMT Squadron of the Year:
Megalomaniacs (21'st FW)
TCS Jacknife

Best Formation Flying:
Dragonscales (237'th FW)
TCS Capulet

Best Combat Maneuvers:
Starlit Vapor (49'th AW)
TCS Othello

Top Long-Range Strategic Assault Unit:
Achilles Heel (135'th AW)
Centurion TCN Base, Alcor System

Top Short-Range Strategic Assault Unit:
Air Moguls (187'th AW)
TCS Armageddon

Best Nightsight Laser Strafing Unit:
Rat Pack (684'th GW/Planetary Defense)
Juggernaut TCN Base, Beta Tauri System

Top Navigation Team: Minutemen (32'nd FW/Recon.)
TCS Citadel

Most Efficient Operations Team Megalomaniacs (21'st FW)
TCS Jacknife

Most Efficient Deck Crew:
Starlit Vapor (49'th AW)
TCS Othello

Top Munitions Crew:
Raging Bulls (94'th FW)
TCS Bastion

They'd lost top squadron honors, and it was Katlyn's fault. He knew it. She knew it. The rest of the squad knew it. The Megalomaniac members knew it. But if any of them really cared, the outward signs were minimal. Overall, they'd been lucky. He'd just managed to squeeze out the best pilot title by knocking down Major Tripp Jackson and Lt. Colonel Steve Bastion (both aces) in the every pilot for himself grand scale simulated
dogfight before Megalomaniac squad leader Major Bianca Juarez could. Though she'd shot him down moments later, his point total earned him the simulation win. That, combined with his performance in the assigned missions, earned him the Pilot of the Year honors. Eric Hamblin's crew more than deserved the Most Efficient Deck Crew title and Matt would have guaranteed them that award coming into the Tournament. He'd never known a man or a crew
more capable of getting things done, and doing them right the first time. Most of the other awards had been up for grabs but the Dragonscales had come out of nowhere, shaming everyone with their formation skills; everyone wondered just how, in the middle of a war, they'd had time to practice some of the stunts they'd performed. Sometimes, lady luck bestowed her favors on the black sheep. The Dragonscales certainly benefited this time
around.
Katlyn's errors in the final live ammunition attack mission had cost them the Best Squadron title; her miscue of the secondary missile assault plus her off-target shots had paved the way for the Megalomaniacs to clean up their mess and take the much needed points. Matt, though, was more than satisfied with their performance overall and announced their honors to the rest of his men with a broad grin. Their cheers joined with the ones
already resounding through the air as handshakes and high-fives were spread around with anyone willing to join in the merriment. He saw no disappointment and his team appeared closer than they had been in weeks; they'd functioned as a unit and shown they were good enough to be listed among the best.
Soon after Matt first laid eyes on the results, pilots and their crews began to disperse in order to prepare for the traditional after-tournament party put on by base personnel. Each unit would head back to their usual assignments the next day and it was the final opportunity to give congratulations and say goodbye to old friends. Forty-five minutes after he departed the pre-festivities, Matt was ready to join the rest of his peers and enjoy
his last night before returning to the realities of war. His dress uniform near perfect, his boots tight and polished, and his medals and decorations secure on his chest, he emerged from the quarters he shared with Kevin and Mikey, who were still arguing over whether one received less of a hangover drinking scotch or Firekkan rum. With a smile on his face and a skip in his step, he made his way down the corridor where most of the visiting personnel
were stationed. Hesitating a moment before the quarters Katlyn and Michelle shared, he decided to see if they'd be willing to escort their commander up to the rec. deck where most everyone was gathering. He chimed twice and was beginning to think that maybe he'd missed them when the doors parted and Michelle stood in front of him. She too was clad in a dress uniform but looked frustrated and upset, as if she'd just had an argument. Frowning up at
him, she gestured with her arm for him to come in. He stepped past her and she turned to look at him.
"Matt, talk to Katlyn. I can't get through to her. Maybe she'll listen to you."
Her tone and posture indicated that she'd stopped just short of physically smacking some sense into her friend and she left the room hurriedly, as if to prevent herself from doing exactly that. Completely and utterly confused, Matt leaned out the door in time to see Michelle's form disappear around a sharp corner of the corridor before he could ask her just what the hell was going on. Stepping away from the door, he hardly heard it whoosh shut
as he called out Katlyn's name. The entryway to the room was only a few feet long and he couldn't see her in the main portion of the chamber. The door to the bathroom remained open and she wasn't in there, but she didn't seem to be in the room at all. He called out again and was beginning to think Michelle and Katlyn were playing some kind of joke on him when he heard a muffled, "Go away" come from somewhere near the bunked beds.
Moving in that direction, he found Katlyn sitting in between the small space between the beds and the wall, arms hugging her legs and chin buried between her knees. Dressed in a loose-fitting gray tanktop and a matching pair of sweatpants, it was apparent she had no intention of attending the revelry taking place four decks above. She looked as if she'd been crying and only after several coaxing attempts did he get her to sit on the bottom bunk
and explain what was the matter. Normally, Katlyn didn't talk much but suddenly she couldn't stop; he sat backwards in the deskchair as she told him things he'd never imagined. She'd always kept most of her personal things personal and he knew little of her private life or background. But she was telling him everything now, the words spilled from her mouth like rays of the sun, stabbing him at times with their ferocity and others with their
tenderness. He finally understood why this Tournament had seemed so important to her, why she practiced and trained as hard as she did each and every day he'd known her, and why her mistakes, the very ones that cost them top honors, were affecting her in this way. Her words triggered his own memories, his own guilt and his own internal anguish. But he didn't want her to stop talking.
Looking at and listening to her, Matt felt compassion, not pity; he felt disconcerted yet strangely euphoric and only when he admitted to himself that he'd been waiting for this moment since first meeting her did he realize how deeply in love he was. He felt connected to her in a brand new way and when she looked up and he saw the pain and disappointment in her eyes, all directed at herself, he moved out of the chair and over to her.
What each of them needed that night, they gave one another. What each of them wanted, they found and what they found, they treasured. This was why. This moment, not so long past but a lifetime ago, was the reason that he lay secured inside a military transport en route to a long-awaited trial. It was for this he'd left his family, his friends, his life behind. It was for this he'd sacrificed so much…he'd never learned to let go. And even
now, after all he'd been and put himself through, he didn't want to let go. Even if it cost him everything.

((Author's Note: Some references in this storyline refer to elements found the Wing Commander game series produced by Origin))

[DoF Archive]

Date: 4/5/1999 5:05 AM Central Daylight Time
From: Goldglo

Art is long, and time is fleeting, And our hearts, though stout and brave,
Still like muffled drums are beating
Funeral marches to the grave.




Those words, written nearly eight-hundred years earlier by a little remembered poet named Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, were some of his favorite if only because they were all too true. It was the third and final day of his court martial; accused of numerous crimes against the Confederation, not the least of which was treason, a crime punishable by death, the near future did not bode well. Pumping its way to the sepulcher, Matt's heart was
remarkably calm and controlled despite the scenario it was involved in. A grave situation indeed.
From his holding cell he'd been transported to Confed. HQ and from there to a small outpost that hung in low orbit around the moon. It was here his trial was to take place and here where the media flocked. Word of his capture had leaked from Confed. to the public and spread quickly through the civilian population and military forces. The public had already gone through a similar ordeal with Christopher Blair and no longer had any tolerance for
those accused of hindering the war effort. But Chris hadn't gone to trial. Matt Simon wasn't so lucky and he'd bear the burden of pent up frustration.
The room was small and spartan with one window and no decorations mounted upon the walls. The light was nearly entirely artificial and only a few slivers from the sun penetrated the glass and displayed themselves along the floor. Two desks, more like portable tables really (one for each Judge Advocates General), sat in opposition to the long table at which sat the men and women who would decide his fate. Each officer present, save those posted
for security, was outfitted in their most formal uniforms…even trials as straightforward as this had dress codes. His dress uniform was not the most comfortable apparel to spend the day in but he had little choice in the matter. Besides, he mused, he should be more worried about what he was going to wear for the rest of eternity…it sure as hell wasn't going to be this dammed uniform.
The trial itself wasn't a mockery, but it wasn't much more than a formality. He'd been deemed guilty long before he ever set foot in this room. They knew it. He knew it. Hell, the whole dammed Confederation probably knew it. All that was left was for these people in front of him to actually say it. Which, about two minutes later, they did. They didn't even have to convict him of everything, treason by itself was enough but they convicted
him on each and every charge.
Despite the heat in the room, or maybe it was just the fabric of the uniform, Matt didn't break a sweat or even look uncomfortable. To the court martial board, his gaze, neutral as it was, appeared defiant. Would this man not even flinch when sentenced to execution? Apparently, he wasn't going to give them that satisfaction. The heavy metallic orb serving as the gavel for this military tribunal landed with a dull thud upon the wooden desk,
signaling the end of the proceedings. Soon after, it was widely known that Colonel Matthew Algiers Simon, former war hero turned traitor, was to be privately executed (they'd spared him the humiliation of public demise) the next day at 15:34 hours. When they heard the news, the people cheered, tasting the sweet nectar of justice delivered.
((Author's Note: Some references in this storyline refer to elements found the Wing Commander game series produced by Origin))

[DoF Archive]

Date: 4/23/1999 3:14 PM Central Daylight Time
From: Goldglo



What the hell kind of name was "Deuce" anyhow, Spacehand Third Class McAllister wondered. And why in the name of all things holy would this Colonel Simon fellow who, he mused, should be dying right about now, want to send the "next of kin" package to him? Not that he really cared, mind you, but the curiosity took his mind off of an otherwise dull and tedious job. Marking off the checklist as he put the items into
the box, he wondered why he just didn't take some of this stuff. Flightsuit. Pants. Shirt. Boots. Socks. Underwear (clean). Underwear dirty)…prisoners destined to die didn't need their laundry washed after all. Pendant. Ring, engraved. Opal, black.
Now this thing was a beauty. Probably fetch a tidy profit somewhere…more than he was making for sure. But, of course, the eve-watchful eye of Confed. security cameras were watching him and he turned to one of the cameras and smiled just so they could see he wasn't up to anything suspicious. Lucky for this Simon guy, too. And, considering that the firing squad ought to be lining him in their sights right about now, McAllister figured it was
about all the luck the poor sap had left.
Closing up the package and addressing it to where he'd been ordered (wherever this place was, he never wanted to visit. Deuce. Outback. Rhydin. Sounded like something from a fairy-tale. With those kinds of names they probably also had talking dogs and little nymphs flying about. But he didn't have to worry about that, thankfully. Dropping the box onto the floor and kicking it over to the "Shipping" pile, he idly wondered just how he got
pulled into this lousy outfit in the first place.
((Author's Note: Some references in this storyline refer to elements found the Wing Commander game series produced by Origin))

[DoF Archive]

Date: 4/26/1999 10:32 PM Central Daylight Time
From: Goldglo

She was going back. She could feel it, feel them. Their call, their presence. She was still too far away to communicate but she knew it was only a matter of time before she and they would reunite. What she didn't understand was the reason for this journey. The man she'd been attached to had, apparently, abandoned her. Or perhaps he (foolishly) was sending her somewhere to take her out of harm's way. Perhaps
she'd been stolen or traded away. It really didn't matter.
Now, all she wanted was the last few moments of peace before the voices of her brothers wormed their way into her mind. This distance from them, their time apart, she would miss greatly. Her brothers' mindless drivel, their constant plotting and scheming, their bickering had all been absent and she'd been able to greet silence with open arms, figuratively of course. But that was in the past and she had to focus on the future.

------------------------

They hadn't changed during her time apart from them, not in the least. She hadn't expected them to, but they were worse than ever. Sensing the time to join was near…hours, perhaps minutes away, their battle cries sounded and their proud spirits boasted. Ignoring their sister's quiet solace, for they believed she would welcome the joining, they prepared themselves for unification in the Stormfist, imagining the power they would yield and the
places they would conquer.
She was not ready, not in the least. Reunification was a fate worse than death, in her mind. Confined with her brothers, again, forced to share her mind with them…this was not something she relished. She'd never liked them, but she'd never truly opposed them. They saw her as introverted and abnormal but they never questioned her loyalty to them or their mission. Even now, she had difficulty walking the path she'd chosen. The call and lure
of absolute power was sweet, the ability to bend and twist cosmic laws to her, no, their will sang its seductive song, driving her to the brink of sanity. But the price was too high. Power, even absolute power, at the cost of forever fusing with her brothers was too much to bear. Their incompetence, their feuding, they'd screw it up somehow. She believed that, she needed to believe that. So she too began to plot, determined to circumvent their
plans.
Stormfist would not function even if one gem were missing; each Opal, with its own unique properties and powers, added something special and necessary to the gauntlet and the being as a whole. Her contribution was spirit and will. She was the soul, the backbone, and without her cooperation, their power was nothing. Or so she hoped. She could feel Stormfist's aura around her and sense the lusty desire of her brothers penetrating her, calling
her to fulfill her destiny. Then she was fused, locked inside the gauntlet with the others, participating in the Rebirth. Silently, internally, she fought them. Taking care to be subtle, for recklessness would give away her plot, she held herself back, denied them the full spectrum of her abilities. The Rebirth complete, she withdrew as much as she could, the consequences of her actions unknown. But she was unconcerned with such matters; her
selfishness prevented her from throwing herself headlong into the fray Stormfist now fought with these biological things. Her desire for solitude and for vengeance consumed her as the appetite for power did the same to her brothers. So wrapped up in their quest, so confused as to why Stormfist was failing, they never realized there lay a traitor amongst the ranks. Their sister betraying them was ludicrous; they'd been born for this, cultivated for
it, they all were driven to it. They didn't realize just how much she loathed them, didn't understand she would sacrifice them all for her own reasons.
With a final surge, her brothers poured all their power and energy into the gauntlet, trying to fight off their attackers. Their pull so violently strong, even she could not resist any longer and released her stored energy into their attack. Fighting for control of her own self, feeling her mind melding with the others, she was unable to prevent them from flowing into her and she into them. But the damage had been done; she'd delayed long
enough for Stormfist to take a mortal wound. The Rebirth was over. Stormfist lay dormant once again.
The price, though, was high. So tormented and drained, each gem retreated into itself, hardly able to communicate with one another. Never had they suffered so one-sided a defeat and never had they fallen to a Lesser species. Too weak to extend their powers beyond their inherent abilities, the Five resigned themselves to more waiting. What energy her brothers did have was spent in argument and blame. She declined to participate in their
debates, gleeful in the fact she could immerse herself in solitude. They were so easy to shut out without their strength, so easy to ignore. It would be an extremely long time before they'd conserved enough energy to establish a hold over these beings that wielded them. It would be even longer before they could attempt another merging. Opening up her mind to the others for a mere moment, she heard them arguing, wondering just what had gone wrong.
Her quiet laughter confused them before her voice disappeared altogether. She was going to rest, she told them, and advised they do the same. Grudgingly, they complied, for their sister would never do them wrong. While they slept, they continued to wonder. While she slept, she welcomed the silence.
((Author's Note: Some references in this storyline refer to elements found the Wing Commander game series produced by Origin))