Archive of Our Own ^beta

The ISO Tower

It's the tallest building in Center City.  It wouldn't be a candidate for "tallest building" status in most places, but here on geologically active San Francisco Bay, the Interplanetary Security Organisation is the only organisation with enough clout (and, some would say, hubris, beyond mere arrogance) to plant a hundred and five storey building in the middle of a city with a sixty-five storey height restriction.

You stand outside the huge glass and steel entry doors, the wind slapping and tugging at your midnight blue uniform.  Center City isn't excessively windy, but the architecture around here has created a wind tunnel effect and ISO Plaza is referred to by the locals as 'Tornado Terrace.'  A pigeon struggles to make headway against the air currents and you hurry inside.  It wouldn't do to report for duty on your first day wearing bird poop.

The still, temperature-controlled air of the main lobby comes as a shock after the noise and rush of the wind in the Plaza.  The lobby is tricked out in polished black marble and brushed stainless steel, its echoing atrium extending up through six floors.  The ceiling lights are like stars, high above.  Seating is arranged among tasteful planters with well manicured indoor plants and security scanners lurk on the walls, transmitting images to the central security systems twenty four hours a day.  Low key ambient music drifts on the air.

Beyond the public area is the main desk.  To get anywhere beyond the lobby, you have to pass a security check.  It's almost eight o'clock, and there are uniformed and civilian staff making their way to their offices.  Most of them walk straight up to the security door and pass through as the computer pings their ID badges and identifies them.  Everyone around you seems to know exactly where they're going.  It's just another day at the Tower.

There are two uniforms on duty at the security desk.  You approach.  The corporal glances up.  He has sandy blonde hair and a friendly expression.  No doubt he's also packing a sidearm behind the smile. 

 "Can I help you, Lieutenant?" he asks.

 "Reporting in," you say, and hand over a data strip containing your orders.

The corporal, whose name tag reads, 'Digby,' plugs the strip into his console and studies the readout.  "First day on the job, huh, Lieutenant?"

 "Yes," you say.

 "Good luck," he says, returning the data strip, and there's something in his expression that suggests you're going to need it.

You walk forward to the armoured glass security door, whose LED indicators turn green. The door slides open and you stride through, trying to appear more confident than you feel.  Executive is housed on the hundredth floor so you seek out the express elevators which will take you to the highest levels of the tower.

The elevator rushes skyward and your ears pop.

You're here:  you're finally at the headquarters of Galaxy Security and the Interplanetary Security Organisation.  This is where it all happens, where the big decisions get made, where the movers and shakers move and shake.  This is where the legendary Chief Conway had his seat of power, and where the new Security Chief, the scientist Anderson, is still settling in, by all accounts.

This is where G-Force are sometimes glimpsed coming or going from briefings and meetings, although word has it that their real base is at one of G-Sec's secret installations in the mountains, or on the moon, or under the Pacific, or at the Lost City of Atlantis, if rumours are to be believed.

In an organisation whose stock in trade is secrets, rumour constitutes a lively black market.

The elevator car stops and the doors open.  You step out into the lobby and your shoes sink into the plush carpet with its thick underlay.   There's no muzak here.  The air is cold and dry, and there's a strong, acrid smell of coffee being made, very, very badly.

 "What the hell is this?" a male voice bellows from down the corridor.  You walk toward the sound, one hand instinctively moving toward your jacket to grab your sidearm in case you need it.

A tall grey suit topped with dark reddish-brown hair storms past and you step aside to avoid being run down.

The suit was moving quickly but your brain registers recognition:  that was Security Chief Anderson!  You follow, and realise he's carrying an almost full cup of coffee as though it were a weapon.  He throws open a door and barges into what turns out to be a kitchen area.

A female officer is standing at the counter, a major's insignia adorning her epaulettes.  She looks about forty, with ash blonde hair done up in a prim roll.  She is holding a cup and saucer and is stirring her tea with a teaspoon that makes genteel clinking noises against the china.

Anderson slams his coffee mug down on the sink, rattling the draining board.  Coffee slops onto the stainless steel.  "What do you call that?" he demands of the woman, one accusing finger pointing at the mug.  The finger quivers with outrage.

Unperturbed, the woman puts her teacup down, places the teaspoon in the saucer and picks up a dishcloth.   "A mess, I believe, sir," she says.  She has a prim English accent to go with the prim hairdo and the prim demeanour.  Deliberately, primly, she wipes up the spilled coffee.

While she does this, Anderson attempts to take control of the conversation.  "Whatever you call it, Major, it isn't coffee," he growls.  He has a resonant voice which thrums with anger.  His glare could burn holes in steel plate.  "I've had coffee that tasted like the La Brea Tar Pits before, but that --" the finger jabs at the offending mug --"tastes like it has fossilised sabre toothed tigers in it!"

Major Jones (and it could be nobody else, from what you've heard about your new commanding officer) rinses the dishcloth and hangs it up.  She meets Anderson's baleful stare without flinching.  "I shall refrain," she says, "from inquiring as to exactly how you arrived at that particular conclusion, sir."

Glowering, Anderson takes a deep breath.  "Learn," he snarls, "to make coffee."  He turns on his heel and you are obliged to flatten yourself against the wall as he stalks past.

Jones empties Anderson's cup into the sink and rinses it.  Without looking at you, she greets you by name.  "Welcome aboard," she says coolly.  "I see you've met our Protection Assignment."

You attempt a smile.  "Is he always like that, ma'am?"

Jones wipes her hands on a towel then picks up her teacup and takes a sip.  "Only when he's breathing, Lieutenant."

Another officer arrives, a male captain with a shock of light brown hair and boyish good looks.  "He's like a bear with a sore head!  Al, what did you do?" he asks.

 "What makes you think I did anything?" Jones asks.  "Tom, this is Evans' replacement.  I'll be in my office."  She turns and walks out, leaving you with the impression of having met a finishing school headmistress.

 "Tom O'Malley," the captain says, shaking your hand.  "I'm 2IC for this three ring circus."  He grins at you.  "Baptism of fire, huh?"  You nod.  This isn't exactly what you expected.  "I'm afraid you're going to be something of a fifth wheel for your first few days while we orient you."   O'Malley pulls the coffee decanter from the hotplate, sniffs and makes a face.  "Oh, man, that smells terrible."  He tips the coffee down the sink, then sets about cleaning the percolator and making a fresh pot.  "He's scary if he doesn't get a good cup of coffee in the morning."  You note the use of the unspecified male pronoun.  As with all protection teams, the unspecified pronoun defaults to the Protection Assignment.  "Of course," O'Malley adds with a grin, "he's scary most of the time, but without his coffee..."

You nod again, understanding.  O'Malley brews a fragrant pot of Kenyan Arabica.  It smells expensive.  Earth is the only planet where coffee truly thrives, and in a galactic community, the law of supply and demand has sent the price up.  In the outlying colonies, coffee is worth more than the finest wines.

O'Malley talks, and you listen:  Anderson works long hours and moves around a lot.  That means the protection detail moves, too.  You'll be working at the Tower, at Center Neptune and at the Security Chief's residence.   Call him sir, call him Chief, call him Dr Anderson if you're feeling formal, but don't ever call him by his first name.  He doesn't invite familiarity.   Ever.  He has five kids, adopted war orphans from all over the place.   Treat them with respect.  Nobody gets told why but you address them as sir or ma'am.  Even the ten year old.  Painting an elephant yellow so that it can hide in the custard doesn't negate the fact that there's an elephant in the fridge.  Sooner or later, you'll figure it out.

You nod again, not sure what to make of O'Malley's elephant analogy but you accept his assurance that all will eventually become clear.  "Come on," O'Malley says.  He has poured two mugs of coffee.  "Help yourself, then we'll venture into the lion's den."

You pour yourself a cup of coffee and O'Malley leads you out of the kitchen.  You enter a space set up as a reception area.  The front desk is vacant.  "Gunny gets in around nine," O'Malley says.  "Ex Marine Corps," he explains.  "He takes care of all the admin stuff.  Lost a leg and an eye on Riga, got reassigned to a desk."  O'Malley pauses in a doorway.  "Chief?" he announces himself.

 "Is that fit for human consumption?" asks the man behind the desk.

 "Made it myself, sir," O'Malley says.

 "Good work, Captain," Anderson says.  O'Malley walks in and puts the coffee down on Anderson's desk.  "This is the new officer, sir," he says, and introduces you.  You snap to attention, aware of the scrutiny of your Chief of Staff.  It's the kind of scrutiny a biologist might use to examine an insect trapped in a pair of forceps.  "I hope you can make a decent cup of coffee, Lieutenant," Anderson says.

 "Yes, sir!" you affirm.

 "Good," Anderson says, and you've been dismissed.

You follow O'Malley back out of the office.

 "Well, you survived that," O'Malley remarks once you're out of earshot of the big office.

 "Ever lost anyone on the first day, sir?" you joke.

 "Not yet," O'Malley says.

You trail after O'Malley to an office containing a number of cubicles.  He sits down at a small, tidy workstation and motions to you to sit.   You obey and hand over the data strip with your orders.

 "What happened to Lieutenant Evans?" you ask.

 "Maternity leave," O'Malley said.  He chuckles at the look on your face.  "Nobody's taken a bullet on this detail, yet," he assures you.  "Mind you," he adds, "we've only been at war a few months.  There's plenty of time for an ambitious young officer like yourself."

O'Malley studies your orders, signs off on them and takes you downstairs to Site Security Services for your locker assignment, then he takes you to Supply to make sure you have all the gear you need -  ammunition, palm unit, comm units; to IT to have your palm unit configured; then to the firing range to see how you shape up.

You shoot for a while, to O'Malley's satisfaction.  It seems you're at least capable of hitting the side of a barn.  As you gather up your used targets and discarded shell casings, you see another target being hit, dead centre, time and time again.  You look around the partition into the next station and see a tall, rangy young man with red hair and a grim expression.

O'Malley nods deferentially.  "Sir," he says in greeting.

 "Whatever," the young man says.  He is casually dressed in jeans and a numbered t-shirt.  He hits the button to bring the target in.  There's a hole with shredded edges where the bullseye used to be.

 "Wow," you say.

The youth shrugs.  "It doesn't shoot back."

 "You finished up, Lieutenant?" O'Malley asks.  There's an edge to his voice that wasn't there before.  You take the hint and follow him out.

 "Is that guy a field agent?" you ask.

O'Malley smirks.  "You could say that."

You've been in security long enough to know when questions aren't being invited.

You spend the rest of the day in familiar territory:  the Chief is hard at work and you're buddied with O'Malley outside the office.  A retiring protection officer had once remarked that he could have been described as a waiter:  "I seemed to spend most of my career waiting for something to happen, and the remainder of it waiting for whatever had started happening to stop!"

You've trained your body to be comfortable just about anywhere.  You stand, feet slightly apart, weight balanced and centred, hands loosely clasped in front of you, eyes front.  At his desk, Gunnery Sergeant McAllister takes phone calls, handles correspondence, and moves in and out of the Chief's office, frequently carrying mugs of coffee.  You recall O'Malley's remark about the administrative officer having lost an eye and a leg on Riga, and realise that he must have been fitted with cybernetic prostheses.   When Anderson attends a meeting downstairs in the ISO chamber, you and O'Malley go with him and take up station near his chair.  The other Chiefs of staff are similarly shadowed by silent officers in blue uniforms.  Heaven help anyone foolish enough to draw a weapon in this place.

When your shift ends, Anderson is back in his office, complaining to Gunny McAllister about the pointlessness of ISO meetings.  You hand over to the officer on duty for the evening watch and proceed to Jones' office.   She asks you how you feel after your first day and you answer honestly that you think you can handle it.   She gives you a data strip with your training roster and reminds you unnecessarily to report for duty at zero seven hundred the next morning at the Chief's residence unless advised otherwise.

As you leave, O'Malley suggests you return to Amano's Bar across the street later that evening to meet some of the regulars.  You thank him and head downstairs to catch a taxi back to your temporary quarters on the Bay.



It's never easy to sleep in a new place.  You know the routine.  As a protection officer, you've worked at various bases on various planets.  Even though you've done it many times, you can never really get used to the different feel of the bed, the smell of the air, the background noises and the general temper of a place until you've been there at least a few days.

This is your second night in Center City.  It's still new, and you're still space lagged.  You start to count sheep, and gradually, you nod off.

When the emergency generators start running, you wake up, alerted by the change in the ambient sound.  The lights don't work, but every security officer owns at least one heavy duty flashlight and yours is working well enough for you to read the time on your watch:  2234.  You check that your palm unit is on and that you haven't missed any messages.  There's really nothing for you to do, so you turn the flashlight off and try to get back to sleep.

It's no good.

There's a lump in the mattress, right under your left hip.  You toss, turn and shuffle around until you find a position that doesn't involve the lump.

There's a low, distant rumble: the big diesel generators, more reliable than gas turbines, are working to meet the essential power requirements of the base.  Seahorse is not just a layover installation for staff in transit.   Seahorse is a sprawling complex with a landing strip, sea dock, high speed shuttle terminal and maintenance facilities as well as a medical centre and laboratories.  More than half of Seahorse is made up of subterranean chambers.   There are rumours that the G-Force ship, the Phoenix, is housed in a top secret, secure hangar somewhere underneath this base.

You wonder what it would be like to see the Phoenix up close.   No doubt, some day you'll get to see G-Force.  They report directly to Anderson so there's no way you could avoid them even if you wanted to.  It's only a matter of when.   You'll actually meet them!

You start to drift and something scratches your face:  there's a feather working its way loose from the innards of the pillow.  You pull the offending feather free of the pillowcase and drop it on the night stand.  You turn over...

Right on to the lump in the mattress.

You stare at the ceiling.  You can't see it in the dark but you stare at it for want of anything else to stare at.  And won't it be just wonderful, to report for your second day on duty with the formidably brittle Major Jones, yawning and bleary-eyed.  She'll look at you with a coldly disapproving stare, just like your fifth grade school teacher when anyone was caught chewing gum in class...

Your eyes close and you begin to fall asleep.

 "Yellow alert!" a breathy female voice announces.  "Yellow alert!  All personnel report to your stations.  Yellow alert!  Yellow alert!  All personnel report to your stations."

You fumble for your flashlight, wide awake.  Yellow alert means you're about to come under attack!  Your palm unit beeps and you grab it.  A message scrolls across the screen when you touch the 'acknowledge' key.

You stare at the second abbreviation.  ISH is easy enough to decipher: ISO facility Seahorse.  You're already there, so you don't have far to proceed.  GCN is clearly a Galaxy Security base, but what does the CN stand for?   You shrug and close the cover on the palm unit.  You pick at the memory.  There was something O'Malley said earlier but you're still too tired to remember clearly.

You dress and get ready for work.  You have no role to play in Seahorse Base emergency procedures apart from staying out of the way, so once you've double checked that you've packed the obligatory changes of clothing, personal toiletries, weapon and ammunition, you secure your tiny room and head for the transport section.



Waiting.

Again.

The insomnia that plagued you earlier is gone.  It's all you can do now to stay awake.  There's a big screen in the lounge where you're waiting for the rest of the detail and you glance up when a news bulletin comes on.

 "...Chaos in the city tonight as the ISO has evacuated and secured a zone within a ten kilometre radius of the solar fusion plant," the news presenter says.  "A city wide blackout caused widespread traffic problems in the city's entertainment district which was crowded with people attending night clubs and restaurants.  Center City General Hospital has reported a spate of admissions with injuries resulting from the blackout.  A spokesperson for the hospital said this evening that it's business as usual for City General as their emergency generators are now providing power to keep the hospital running.  Brewer Memorial Spaceport  and Center City Airport are also now running on emergency power, but all flights and space shots out of the City have been cancelled.  Citizens are advised to remain calm and stay in their homes unless advised otherwise by the authorities.

 "Galaxy Security Chief David Anderson said a short time ago that there was no immediate cause for alarm as the problem appeared to be localised and limited to the solar fusion plant, which is well away from residential areas.  Mayor Darrell MacNamara was unavailable for comment.  A spokesperson for the State Power Authority was unable to provide an estimate on when power will be restored to the City, but assured residents that every attempt is being made to re-route supplies from outlying plants."

You ponder a minor point of irony:  you are attached to the personal staff of one of the most powerful men in the Milky Way, and all the information you have about the current emergency is what you can see and hear on the television news.

There is more news, mostly rehashing what the announcer had already said.  There are interviews with people who had been in minor traffic accidents and a celebrity whose party had been disrupted by the power failure.

You find yourself yawning.  You stretch, get up and go to the vending machine to buy a cup of coffee.  You stare at the machine, trying to decide whether or not you're really desperate enough to drink vending machine coffee.  You check your watch.  It's only forty five minutes since you were woken by the generators.

The windows rattle as a large aircraft passes overhead.  You look out and see a great black shape with minimal running lights blotting out the stars.

The aircraft is moving fast and is soon gone, accelerating across the city.

 "Impressive, isn't it?" Jones says.  You jump and turn to see your OIC standing behind you with a bag slung over one shoulder.

 "What was it?" you ask.

 "The Phoenix."

 "That was the G-Force ship?"

Jones gives you a look with one eyebrow slightly raised as though querying the mental acuity of an officer who needs to be told twice that the airborne behemoth you just saw was, in fact, the G-Force ship.

You are now wide awake.

 "The MMT should be here in a few minutes," Jones tells you.  "We'll wait near the exit."

 "How many of us are going?" you ask.

 "Three," she says.   "Normally, we'd only have one plus myself.   Center Neptune's a low risk area, but we might as well get you up to speed."

You connect the dots.  "GCN is Center Neptune?  I've never heard of it."

 "You have, now," Jones says, and looks out the window, effectively discouraging further conversation.

A point of light low in the sky grows bigger and brighter.  Jones walks outside and you follow her.  The bright dot becomes an MMT showing landing lights, which settles noisily on to the pad in a blast of hot air.  Jones runs toward the hatch, which opens, and you run with her.

The engines start winding up even as an officer in a blue uniform pulls the hatch closed and secures it, then the deck lurches under your feet and the MMT is airborne again.

The passenger cabin is occupied by yourself, Jones, another Lieutenant, and Security Chief Anderson, who appears not to have noticed your arrival.

The security officer who closed the hatch holds out a hand.  "Nino Rossi," he says.  He has an olive complexion that calls the Mediterranean to mind, and a physique that suggests a lot of time spent in the gym.  You introduce yourself, then you take a seat next to Rossi.

 "Submarine mode in two minutes," the pilot's voice announces over the intercom.  "Please fasten your seat belts."

The MMT touches down on the surface of the ocean, rocking slightly in the swell.  It's impossible to see anything out of the windows except for a vague glow from what must be the direction of the coast, then the external shutters slide down over the glass and lock into place.  There is a rumble and a whirr as the MMT alters its configuration, then the engine note changes and there's a sensation like a slowly descending elevator.  It makes sense.  With a name like Center Neptune, your destination must be the fabled secret underwater G-Force base.

With nothing better to do, you take the opportunity to study your protection assignment.   He's a tall man, somewhere in his late forties, with surprisingly little grey in his hair or moustache.   The sledgehammer stare is in abeyance for the moment as he studies the readout on the computer screen in front of him through a pair of gold rimmed pince nez spectacles.  Despite the hour, his appearance is impeccably neat and he shows no sign of fatigue.

The official Galaxy Security line on this man is that he's a gifted scientist with some field experience and a history of effective management.  The word around security is that he's a nasty piece of work with a mind like a steel trap and a belief that the end justifies the means.  In other words, David Anderson is a suitable successor for the ruthless and manipulative Walter Conway.

Next to Anderson, Jones has her palm unit out and is studying the screen from under pale bangs.  "Media reports are suggesting it's an alien attack, sir," she says.

 "No mention of ants?" Anderson asks.

Jones blinks once.  "No references to phylum Arthopoda whatsoever, sir."

 "Good," Anderson says, and turns his attention back to the screen.  As he scrolls through the text, he blinks, re-reads a paragraph, and stares at the screen.  "Does this say what I think it says?" he asks Jones, pointing at the offending passage.

 "Oh, dear," Jones says.   "If you think what I think you think it says, sir, then I'm afraid so."

 "The man's name is Antoff..." Anderson says, seemingly appalled.  "It isn't April First, is it, Major?"

 "Not for several weeks, sir."

 "How about the Spectran calendar?"

 "The Feast of Ich'elzar takes place around Thanksgiving, this year, sir."

 "It really does take all kinds, doesn't it?" Anderson mutters, and continues reading.

You settle back in your seat.  The journey takes a good half hour, and when the MMT finally docks, you follow your new colleagues out into a large hangar.

Briskly, Jones directs Rossi to take you to your layover quarters before she walks away with Anderson.  You've been assigned room seven four nine and you're to report to Ops at zero seven hundred.

 "I hate being the newbie," you sigh.

 "It'll wear off," Rossi predicts.

You nod in the direction taken by Anderson and Jones.  "Is she like that with everyone, or is it just that I'm new?"

Rossi shrugs.  "Warm and fuzzy isn't exactly order of the day around here," he says.

Your layover cabin has enough room for a bunk, a tiny desk and a locker.  There's a door to a closet-sized bathroom with a narrow shower cubicle, basin and toilet.  These are junior officers' quarters.  For a moment, you wonder what the enlisted quarters are like.  You change and crawl between the blankets of your narrow bunk.  To your relief, there are no lumps in the mattress.

You fall asleep.



Beep-beep-beep!

Beep?

Beep-beep-beep!

What, now?

Beep-beep-beep!

Your hand lands with a thud on your palm unit.  You drag it onto the pillow, flip it open and read the screen.

It's zero six hundred.  You utter a small, inarticulate groan and sit up.



You allow yourself an extra ten minutes to find Ops.  As expected, you manage to get lost.  You wander the corridors, coming up against locked doors and security scanners that refuse to let you through.  It would be logical to call Jones and ask for directions, but she'd give you a Look once you got there, and that's the last thing you need... well, the second last thing.   The very last thing would be to turn up late.

Your palm unit rings.  You close your eyes.  Jones, no doubt, ready to chew you out for not being early.

The caller ID reads, 'Nerve Center.'

Bemused, you answer.

A cheerful light tenor greets you.  "I couldn't help noticing -- haha --" the voice laughs gently -- "that you appear to be lost."

 "Uh... I... Are you the Duty Security Officer?"

 "Oh, my, no," says the voice.   "My name is Seven Zark Seven, the robot coordinator for G-Force.  I monitor everything that goes on here at Center Neptune, and I like to keep an eye on Chief Anderson's staff as well as those five incredible young people in my care."

 "Really?"  You recall hearing that some of Quanto Tobor's anthropoid cyber-personalities have been known to go a little screwy and fight the impulse to edge away.  There's nothing actually there to edge away from, just the voice at the other end of the comm channel.

 "If you continue down the companionway and take the next bank of elevators on your right to level twelve, you'll be able to take the central corridor to Ops.  I think that's the easiest way."

 "Oh," you say.  "Thank you."

 "Any time," the synthesised voice says.  "Call me if you need anything."

 "Right," you say dubiously.

You make your way to Operations, following 7-Zark-7's directions.  The robot may seem a little eccentric, but it knows the layout of Center Neptune and you find yourself reporting for duty on time.



Jones is Officer of the Watch.  Your job as newbie is to watch, learn and back her up if she needs it.  Anderson is in his office, reading up on every scrap of information available on the yellow alert, so Jones shows you around the Operations Centre and explains the rostering system.

After a while, Jones makes her way to Anderson's office.  She knocks at the door, which is open.  "Tea, sir?" she offers.

Anderson appears to consider the offer for a moment.  "Major," he says carefully, "I'm about to give a highly classified briefing to four teenagers and a ten year old about mechanical ants from an obscure planet whose leader's name sounds like a brand of insect repellent, and you're offering me tea?"

 "Psychotropic drugs, sir?" Jones suggests an alternative.

 "Learn to make coffee, Major."

You wonder whether you should volunteer.  If you do, you risk offending your new CO.  If you don't, you risk offending your PA.  Which is worse?  Normally, you'd go with staying in the good graces of your coordinator, but your protection assignment just happens to be your Chief of Staff.  You make a decision and address Jones:  "Would you like me to make the coffee, ma'am?" you offer.  "It's the only way I can think of to make myself useful around here," you add diplomatically.

One corner of Jones' mouth twitches slightly.  You get the impression you may have just passed some kind of test.  "By all means, Lieutenant," Jones says.  "He takes it black with no sugar."

 "Yes, ma'am."

You manage to find the staff kitchen, but you have to open all the cupboards to find the coffee.  Belatedly, you notice that the cupboard where the coffee is kept has a door besmirched with more fingerprints than the others.  Galaxy Security runs on coffee.  If the other shoe ever drops for Zoltar, the Federation could be in a lot of trouble.

The filter paper is in the same cupboard as the coffee (at least there's that much logic in here) and you load up the coffee maker, fill the water reservoir and switch the machine on.   It hisses and gurgles its way through the percolation process and you take a moment to breathe.

A new assignment is always stressful.  A newbie on a protection detail has to learn the layout of the protection assignment's world:  their office, their home, the places they frequent.  You have to learn about the PA's family and friends (in this case, that's a very small group of people) and most importantly, you have to fit in.  You have to fit in seamlessly to the PA's lifestyle and you have to fit in with the squad.  There will be practical jokes.  There always are.  The newbie is always the butt and is expected to take it with good humour.  You remind yourself that this particular assignment is considered prestigious: you have to be good to protect the Chief of Staff.

So far you've seen the ISO Tower and managed to get lost in Center Neptune.  Over the next few days, you'll be oriented to the residence and the transport arrangements.  You've learned to memorise these sorts of things quickly.  Having your life depend on it tends to act as an effective motivator.

Your career advancement in the immediate future, however, may well depend on your coffee making abilities.

The coffee machine makes the kinds of noises you might expect from the stomach of a large animal in dire need of a gallon of seltzer.  The smell, however, is heavenly.

When you make your way to Anderson's office with your offering, the Security Chief is standing at his window, seemingly intent on reading the papers in his hand.  You see his eyes move in the image reflected in the glass, however, and know that he's well aware of your presence.  You put the coffee down on his desk and slink away without interrupting him.

You return to your post with your coffee and offer to make Jones a cup of tea.  She declines politely.  Outside, the ocean, visible through an armoured glass window, is illuminated by bright shafts of morning sunlight shimmering through the water.

You hear running footfalls and look up to see five people heading toward you.  You make a conscious effort to close your mouth because you’re aware it has fallen open.

The new arrivals are sprinting down the corridor.  They’re clad in brightly coloured form fitting bodysuits with boots, gloves, helmets and capes styled after birds:  G-Force!

Before they reach you, they turn in a flurry of cape wings and sweep into Anderson's office without giving you so much as a glance and the door closes behind them.

They might have been invisible for all the reaction Jones displays.

After about ten minutes, the door opens again and the herd of young fighters charges back out.  Again, you might as well be invisible, and they're gone, not unlike the flock of birds they resemble, down the corridor, through the security station and out of your world.

Anderson appears briefly at the door, looks down the corridor in the direction taken by the five, then retreats back into the inner sanctum.



A lot of protection work is dead boring.  Given that you're the newbie, Jones takes pity on you (you get the feeling that this is about all the slack you'll ever be cut on this squad) and places a call.  "What odds on my inductee having time to take the tour, this morning?" she asks the person at the other end.  She listens to the reply, gives her palm unit an odd look, then speaks.  "Thank you," she says.  "I'll be sure to pass that on."  She closes the channel, puts the palm unit away in her pocket and turns to you, her face carefully composed in a neutral expression.  "It seems Seven Zark Seven's taken a bit of a shine to you," she tells you.  "Not only do you have time to take the orientation tour while G-Force makes a space shot, Zark would be delighted if you'd visit him up in Nerve Center.  Not everyone gets invited to Nerve Center.  You'll have to be given a special temporary clearance just to get into the elevator.  It's a very great privilege, Lieutenant.  See that you do us all proud."

You stare at Jones, wondering first if she's serious, then second, if there's any way in the galaxy that you can get out of this.

 "Uh..." you manage to say.

 "Put your earpiece on," Jones instructs you, "and activate the 'new download' icon on your palm unit screen.  That'll give you the directions and information as you do your walk around the installation."  She leans close and lowers her voice to a barely audible murmur.  "Signal me as you get in the lift to go up and see the ashcan.  Nod a lot.  Be polite, make small talk.  I'll have you recalled after a few minutes.  He's harmless but he goes on like a complete nutter.  Do not, under any circumstances, attempt to take the wrench from the dog unless it gives it to you."

 "Yes, ma'am," you say.  "Thank you, ma'am."

 "Carry on, Lieutenant," Jones' voice once again acquires its usual cut glass quality and you head down the corridor.



When you return from your computer-guided tour of the base and your mercifully brief visit to Nerve Center, Jones takes you into the Operations Room itself to give you some insight in to what goes on around here.  The Ops Room is quiet and calm.  Nobody is shouting and nobody is running.  There is a buzz in the air, however, a quality of strain in the low voices, a sense of adrenaline racing and skipping through veins.  You stand in the corner where you've been directed and watch, since you've nothing better to do.

7-Zark-7 had a dog.  A yellow metal dog.

The AI unit that runs and coordinates most of the automated information management systems in Galaxy Security has a ready room with sneakers, a dart board, and a yellow metal dog...

Images flicker across the big screens: a blue and red star ship; telemetry readings; jerky, rushing movement from helmet cameras; glimpses of faces, snatches of conversation.  This is the feed from the G-Force mission.

This is why you had to undergo all those security checks.  This is why your interview was more like an interrogation.  You're seeing things so highly classified you must never, ever mention them, even to talk among your fellow squad members.  This is what O'Malley meant by, 'nobody ever gets told.'

Three young men, a girl and a young boy: G-Force.

Three young men, a girl and a young boy: Anderson's adopted children.

Nobody ever gets told, but you address them as sir or ma'am.  Even the ten year old.  Painting an elephant yellow so that it can hide in the custard doesn't negate the fact that there's an elephant in the fridge.

There's an elephant in Anderson's fridge.

You try not to look at the video screens, try to keep your attention on your protection assignment and the immediate area.  The Chief of Galaxy Security is standing staring at a blank screen, one hand resting on a benchtop, the tip of his index finger tapping softly on the hard surface.

Time passes.



Anderson is speaking urgently to the G-Force Commander.  An attack ship is headed for Earth and the Phoenix is in pursuit.  The enemy has a head start, however.  The activity and the buzz of the Operations Room goes up another notch.  7-Zark-7 reports that squadrons of fighter jets are being placed on stand by planetside and is receiving reports from the Cosmic Space Patrol that they, too, are preparing to mobilise.

Jones motions to you to step outside, unwilling to distract the operators from their work.  You follow with a twinge of reluctance.  It was just getting interesting.  Jones briefs you, keeping her voice low:  under normal circumstances, security officers don't spend a lot of time in the Ops Room, and when things warm up, you get out of the way and take up station in the corridor.  It isn't as though anyone can walk in there with a gun.

You ask a few questions and Jones gives you short, concise answers.  She takes you down the corridor to a small office used by the security staff and runs you through some of the reports and logs so you can get an idea of the activity levels.

Jones' palm unit chimes and she answers.  "He's what?"  She's on her feet and striding out down the corridor.  You put the files away and scramble to follow.

By the time you catch up, you find your CO and your PA standing toe to toe, having... well... it could be called a debate.

 "-- Highly inadvisable, sir."  Jones might as well be describing the weather.

 "Major," Anderson says, "I need to be out there.  It's not negotiable."

 "You can observe just as well, if not better, from Ops or Nerve Centre, sir," Jones says.

 "I disagree," he says.   They stare at each other in a silent battle of wills.  If you held a glass of water between them, it would instantly turn to ice. "Step aside, Major, that's an order," Anderson says at last.  Jones lasts another two seconds before giving in.  She falls into step behind him and starts making calls to squad members on standby on the mainland, issuing orders for them to rendezvous with a transport unit.

You follow, wondering how you'll cope with Anderson if he ever loses his temper.

 "Destination, sir?" Jones asks.

 "Breslin Ground Traffic Control," Anderson says.

This time, the multi-modal transport ascends directly to the surface and goes to air mode straight away.  With the city locked down, stealth comes second to speed.  Twenty minutes later, the transport sets down in a side street near the Breslin Ground Traffic Control centre, outside the eastern entrance to the Breslin Tunnel.

Captain O'Malley is already waiting with another senior member of the squad.  You met Lieutenant Josh Maxwell last night at Amano's Bar.  He's the longest serving member of the squad, a family man in his early forties with mahogany coloured skin and a ready smile.   His countenance today, however, is grim.

 "Nothing happening so far, ma'am," O'Malley reports.

 "Let's hope it's a non-event," Jones says, but her doubt in her eyes suggests she believes it won't be.

You are stationed with O'Malley and an array of assorted weaponry downstairs at the entrance to the control tower while Jones and Maxwell head upstairs to shadow Anderson.   During the trip over, the MMT's screens were tuned to media reports.  The attack ship looks like a giant ant, which has been trapped by Federation Air Force fighters in the Breslin Tunnel under the river.  G-Force are racing to intercept the monster and the Chief of Security is upstairs, a mere kilometre or so from the ant.  Which means that you are a mere kilometre or so from the ant.

 "Captain?" you say.

 "Yes, Lieutenant?" O'Malley prompts you.

 "How are we supposed to stop a giant ant?"

 "That's a very good question, Lieutenant," O'Malley says.

A bead of perspiration trickles down the side of your nose.  Yes, it's a very good question.  You suspect that despite the portable rocket launcher, the answer to your question is still going to be something along the lines of, 'not at all,' or 'for about as long as it takes for a human body to be squashed by a giant ant.'

You think back to the footage you've seen of Spectra attacks.  Conventional weapons don't seem to achieve a lot against their terror ships.

 "We're cannon fodder aren't we, Captain?"  you say.

 "That's ant fodder, Lieutenant," O'Malley corrects you.  "If you can't take a joke, you shouldn't've joined."

 "I just like to know where I stand, sir," you say.

 "Look at it this way," O'Malley says, "I've always felt that the whole open casket thing is grossly overrated."

You manage a forced, half-hearted laugh.  Black humour is standard in an occupation where you and your colleagues are technically walking bullet proof vests for some guy in a suit.  Somehow, though, it just doesn't seem quite so funny, right now.

The low rumble of hover jets grows louder and louder.  You step out of the doorway and look up.  In daylight, the big blue and red ship is instantly recognisable from the television news.  "It's the Phoenix!" you report.

 "Fun should start any minute, now," O'Malley predicts.

The Phoenix takes up position at hover and undergoes a configuration change:   the red nacelle panels open and draw back into the body, then a strange device unfolds and fans itself open into what looks for all the world like a parabolic mirror.  The dish moves and swivels into position.

 "Now what?" you wonder aloud.

 "Only one way to find out," O'Malley quips.

You wait, tense and apprehensive, for something to happen.

Nothing does.

 "What are they waiting for?" you mutter.

 "Who knows?" O'Malley says.  "Fanfare, gilt edged invitation...?"

 "Captain?"

 "Lieutenant."

 "What are they going to do if the ant goes out the other end of the tunnel?"

"You're full of good questions, today, Lieutenant," O'Malley observes.

 "Sorry, sir," you say.

There's a distant, echoing CLANK! followed by another, then another.  The sounds grow steadily louder.

 "I think," O'Malley says, "that we're not going to have to worry about what happens if the ant goes out the other end of the tunnel."

 "You want the rocket launcher, sir?"

 "You're rated to handle one of these things, right?" O'Malley asks.

 "Yes, sir," you say, "and I'm a good shot."

 "You take it," he says.  "I'll load."

You prep the launcher.  It's the latest model with computer controlled targeting goggles.  You put the goggles on and adjust them before taking up position and dropping to one knee, balancing your body and the weapon.   O'Malley loads a rocket with the quick, precise movements of a professional.  An indicator in your targeting display turns green.  The world is yellow through the goggles and the computer targets a point of light deep within the tunnel's gloom with a set of crosshairs.

It's the ant, and it looks like it's decided to go marching.  In your direction.

You really should have used the rest room while you had the chance.

The point of light becomes a large shape in the shadows, and the shape slowly resolves itself into a large insectoid head.  It really does look like an ant, right down to the eyes and the feelers.  You let the targeting computer scan the giant creature, trying to find a weak spot.

The ant emerges fully from the tunnel.  It pauses, seemingly indecisive as its commander assesses the situation.

A blaze of light almost blinds you and you adjust the targeting goggles with a muttered curse.

It's the Phoenix.

G-Force has turned the parabolic mirror on the ant, concentrating sunlight down onto the giant machine.

The enormous robot sags as though unable to support its own weight, then, suddenly, the terrible light snaps off.   Despite yourself, you pull the goggles off and look up to see that a cloud has blocked the sun, and the solar weapon is ineffective.

The giant ant rears up and you struggle to replace the goggles and get a targeting fix.

Enormous wings unfold from the dorsal surface of the ant's thorax, just like a real flying ant, and the machine lifts off.  You follow it with the targeting scope and watch in horror as it fires some kind of directed plasma at the Phoenix, which takes evasive action, hampered by the parabola, then climbs.

There is a roar of engines as three jets scream across the sky, guns blazing.

The Phoenix is a mere black dot in the sky, and it becomes a white-hot beacon as it turns its weapon back on the ant.  It's a pocket supernova, now, beaming a blaze of coherent white light like the wrath of angels.

The ant is in trouble.  It loses height.  The Phoenix follows like a hunting bird stooping for the kill.

A tiny craft breaks free of the stricken ant and streaks clear, only to be intercepted by the prowling fighter jets and escorted away.

The ant continues its fatal plunge, disintegrating as it falls.

By the time it hits the river, it is merely a collection of hissing, smoking debris.

 "Wow," you say.

The Phoenix hovers over the scene and the parabola folds itself up and vanishes back into the nose cone of the ship.  The propulsion engines roar into life and the big ship cruises away over the city, then heads out to sea.

You take off the targeting goggles, put the rocket launcher down and sag against the doorway.  You need to use the bathroom, but your bladder is going to have to wait until your knees remember what they're for.

O'Malley reaches down and checks the safety on the cannon.  He picks it up and starts removing the shell from the chamber.  "So," he says to you, grinning, "how do you like the job, so far?"

 "Just for that," you tell him, "you're buying the drinks tonight."

O'Malley chuckles.  "I think you'll fit in just fine," he says.