Approaches by Josh Nolan ******* "So who thought it would be a good idea to use a skiff for the swimming trips?" Nick's question was conversational, and had it not been for his struggle to contain some wisps of hair that were blowing freely in the wind that made it through the dampeners, might have been apropos of nothing. He was staring speculatively at the brownish-purple grasslands as they scrolled past the skiff. "It's not so much for the trip out," replied his companion, "but for the trip back. The ability to luxuriate in the open air, the sun drying the water, a soft breeze blowing over you - there's not much that can match it." She walked over to the skiff's rail to stand next to the Terran, somewhat blocking the wind. Nick wasn't much surprised that the wind seemed to just artfully wave her auburn locks, instead of blowing bits into her face. Doctor Alana du Irais was the current Chief of Interrogation at Perdition Base. She was somewhat distant and cool in her approach, unlike the cheerful Dr. Nax or the earnest Dr. Anrenson. But then, she represented the darker side of Perdition's secrets - and she had been working with Nick on the 'debriefing' of Star and the rest. While physical torture had not, as yet, been employed, Nick was certain that the woman beside him would be most competent at applying the pressure where it was needed - if the need arose. Some part of Nick wished the need would arise. There'd been a change in Josh since Paris, and some of it was directly attributable to Star. He'd seen Josh's face when he talked about what happened there. The bastard had crucified his friend, and that had left a mark on Josh, whether Josh knew it or not. That mark had led both to Nick's reluctance to get Josh here sooner - and, he was sure, to Syl's brush with death. He drew in a deep breath. [i]Fix the problem, not the blame[/i]. He realised with a start that Alana was eyeing him, a cryptic smile on her face. "Here," she said, nodding at the plains. "This'll take your mind off them for a bit." Nick glanced at her for a moment, wondering if she was referring to the same [i]them[/i] he had been thinking about. "What am I looking for?" "There." She pointed at a large clump of tank-nerfs. Nick knew from a cursory glance at a databank that some of these herbivores were more than three metres tall and ten metres wide and long. Other than the scale, they looked vaguely like hexapedal cattle, crawling slowly across the plains. They were too far below for Nick to see the mouths on their chests they used to devour the grasslands in their path, but the clump had a very definite trail behind it, dotted here and there with droppings. "A bit further to your right, where the herbivores are headed. See that crest?" Indeed, there was a bulge in the grasslands, moving rapidly towards the tank-nerfs. "I see it. What am I looking at?" "That's a landshark. They always burrow just before they attack - most herbivores seem to think it's natural movement of the grassland before the 'shark bursts out." "You'd think they might have evolved more sense." "Some have - see there." Indeed, some of the smaller tank-nerfs were suddenly veering off the clump, leaving the larger ones to flounder in their wake. The landshark's crest approached the lead bull, and then in a burst of earth, the landshark attacked. "It burrows awfully fast." "Indeed it does. They're no slouches above ground, either- they've got an awful lot of muscle-power. See how it's ripping into the nerf there?" The 'shark was actually on top of the tank-nerf, apparently burrowing inside it in a gory display. "You're lucky - they don't normally put on such a show. She must be after its liver." "She?" "The females are particularly aggressive this time of year - it's just after breeding season. There! It hit an artery, did you see? The blood pressure in those things..." Nick flicked a quick glance at the doctor, who had a childlike smile on her face, watching the blood geyser like a child at a fireworks display. He looked back to watch dwindling tableau of the 'shark dragging a large lump of purplish flesh out of the nerf's carcass. "I guess I'm lucky, then," he said noncommitally, although a grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Oh, cheer up," Irais said, moving away from the railing, leaving Nick to face the full brunt of the wind. "It wasn't you down there. Appreciate it like you would a sunset." She reached her arms above her and stretched, closing her eyes and holding her pose in the wind. "Speaking of it not being me down there," Nick said, trying not to watch too openly, "how come they don't come near Perdition?" "They don't like the deflector shield," she replied, dropping from the pose and relaxing. "We keep it on low power and they won't come through. Sometimes you can see them patrolling the perimeter, though - I guess we smell good." "I'm guessing the skiff has a shield, too." "I can see they didn't put you in NRI just for the uniform. Speaking of which, we're coming in to the bay. You're still sure you want to wear a swimsuit?" She looked straight at him when she asked the question, and Nick met her direct gaze square on. "Indeed," he replied coolly. "I've always found it wise to test the waters before lowering my defenses." She smiled. "Of course," she said, then turned away and watched over the railing as the skiff began its descent. Nick wondered, then, just what sort of information he'd given her with that choice of excuse - and whether or not it was true. ************** Dis's consciousness burst out into the galaxy once more, splitting and haring off on several tracks at once. Down many of those tracks lay silence, but some sung back in the harmony that indicated code ready to respond to his whims. The harmony sounded for a moment, then Dis began to play. It was a symphony of slicing, multiple threads running at once in a polyphony of misdirection. Here, the chord of ownership as code spread tendrils throughout an entire world, seeping into every connected facet. In another place, the fanfare of attacks begun on a mainframe, activating its defenses, while a counterpoint signalled the genuine attack that struck true. In still another place, a quick, fluttery theme sounded as a ship's IFF beacon suddenly changed its transmission, and the theme shifted direction as the traffic control's attention became the conduit for Dis's opus, which faded to a martial triumph as the military mainframe fell under the music's sway. An urgent, repeated bass run signalled the intervention of another slicer, attempting to cut Dis's theme short, but after a deft trill the slicer was left chasing its own trail through the labyrinth of data. Dis's theme swelled still further, the outer complexities thwarting, confusing and confounding the forces that were slowly raising their voices in opposition. But their music was all orchestrated by Dis. Some more talented players managed to breach the foremost layers, but were bewitched by the subtle counterpoints that lay underneath them. Most simply took the minor victories Dis offered them at face value, bowing out of the symphony to follow the leads they had been given. Some, more tenacious, kept dogging the music, lending a syncopated accompaniment as they tried to stem the flow, but they never came near Dis. The symphony breached barrier after barrier, drowning out more of the opposing slicers as it went. The barriers became progressively harder, sometimes requiring the symphony to pause briefly as it translated itself through hyperspace to take up the theme elsewhere - but all without missing a beat. As it reached a crescendo, a new theme came into play, signalling a change of movements. Like a reentry pod ablating away from its payload, the symphony burst out, leaving the first movement as debris to shield its movements. The music flared, burning away its tracks, as it reached the final barrier. A tendril of theme from the first movement, apparently by chance, joined the second movement for a moment then was burned away - but it had burned a hole in the barrier in its passing. A quick search found the prize Dis sought, and a chord split it and sent it eddying away through the ether. Dis burst back through the mainframes, the fanfare of his exit signalling the beginning of the third, most technically difficult movement... ...his escape. ******** Firth was awkwardly sprawled under a ventilation distributor when he heard a soft footfall nearby. "Psst," whispered the newcomer. "I wish," replied Firth feelingly, and began the lengthy process of extracting himself from his malfunctioning equipment. "Not my fault you won't donate to the still," said the newcomer smugly, and Firth recognised the voice of Relt La'sei. "You hear?" Relt continued. "They're shipping in another soldier-boy." "What, for duty, or for treatment?" asked Firth, as he finally escaped the distributor's clutches and wiped his brow. "Treatment. Don't tell anyone - but apparently, he's kind of a celebrity.." Relt squatted down next to Firth, his furry face in the smug expression Firth knew meant 'I have a secret'. Firth reflected for a moment that he saw that expression far too often. "Who'd they get, anyway?" asked Firth as he stood up. "Han Solo? They always said he was crazy." "Naah, it's one of those Rogue Squadron guys. Wedge Janson, or something. Big hero of some battle or other. Guess the strain got to him." Relt stood up, then leaned in to whisper in Firth's ear. "It's a problem." Firth glanced around the maintenance room briefly, trying to figure out if anyone might be listening in. Apart from a power droid quietly gonking to itself in the corner, there was no-one. "I thought we were good to go," Firth whispered back, trying to fight the sudden clenching in his stomach. "You said we were set." "We were, we are, and I did," replied Relt, allowing a little irritation to seep into his whisper. "Look, they say no plan of battle survives contact with the enemy..." "You said no-one was going to get hurt!" Firth interrupted, his eyes wide. "You said this would be clean!" "I was being metaphorical, dammit!" Relt snarled, then stepped away from Firth, trying to calm himself. After a deep breath, the Bothan continued, "Look. These people we're bringing in - they don't want unnecessary bloodshed. They want in, out, simple. We give them that, and in return, we get a cut. Okay? They deal, they're business folk. It'll be clean. Understand?" Firth crossed his arms. "Yeah. You've told me that before." "Try listening, next time," Relt snapped. He went on more calmly, "Anyway, it's a problem because it throws in an unknown. If they come with a full fighter escort, we're humped - but on the plus side, we won't be the ones shot down. They won't be tracing it to us, then." "But what if -" Firth began, and Relt raised a finger to cut him off. "We deal with the what-if's when they come up. The schedule's fuzzy, like it always is, but it might be that the transport'll be been and gone when our friends show up." "We have to warn them - if they think we've set them up -" "No-one's going to think that. Besides, I can't contact them now - remember how long it took to set up the first conference? By the time I set another one up, our deadline is what'll have been and gone. No, we sit tight and hope for the best. We are all set, right?" Firth nodded. "Yeah. Alarms are jinxed, landing shield's frotzed, the turret's frelled. I've jawa-ed the bulkheads, too - the barracks'll be cut off the moment any alarms sound. Which won't be in time." Relt grinned, and slapped Firth on the shoulder. "See? That's teamwork. Soon, we'll both be rich." Firth sighed. "*You* will be. I just won't be in debt any more." "Cheer up. It's a good plan, no-one's going to get hurt, and we're going to make a big fat wad. Just sit tight and hang loose - and don't mix those up, or you might get embarrassed." Relt grinned. "Yeah, you're right," Firth agreed. "Good plan, big fat wad. Yeah." Relt clapped Firth on the shoulder again, smiled, then turned and left as quietly as he'd come. "Still," Firth muttered to himself, "I have a bad feeling about this." In its corner, the power droid gonked quietly, but if there was reassurance there, Firth could not hear it.