Departure

Renata tried to maintain her composure as she wandered down Broadway. Not the easiest task in the world, she had to admit, but one in which she was well practiced. She was forced to maintain a facade of smiles and glazed-over eyes as she walked, seemingly joyous to see the large, bloated, purple statues on every corner. Statues dedicated to the Purple Messiah. In truth, the sight sickened her. She knew the truth behind the Messiah. She knew Its lies.

Entering a three-story brownstone, Renata took in a deep breath. Away from the sights and sounds of the street, in the limited security of her home, she could be herself.

"Hi, Fran," she greeted the woman standing on the other side of the room.

"Hey, Ren," the older woman replied. "What's the rumor mill saying?"

"It's starting again," Ren replied. "Word is that the Beast has the means to supply his past self with modern technology."

"It took him almost fourteen years to get that time lab back up and running," Fran muttered. "Let's see if we can't set him back another fourteen years, eh?"

Arsenal gazed as this girl, barely a teenager, wielded an X-Rifle as if born with it. This girl, who had appeared out of nowhere, was single-handedly giving his troops the inspiration to keep going, despite the hordes of Spoungin firing at them from across the field.

As they advanced towards the enemy, he managed to get a better look at her. She was small and wiry, with her blond hair cut short... too short, in his opinion. And yet, she carried herself like a combat veteran... not too hard to imagine, here in South America.

Apparently, she noticed him looking at her, because she smiled when their eyes met. Staying low to the ground, she closed the distance between them.

"Hi, dad," she said, once she was in earshot.

It was all Arsenal could do to keep a straight face, and not faint or collapse.

"I'm picking up a wing-scale attack group - a large number of Frogfoot attack fighters, apparently backed by Strike Eagles and Phantoms. There's a small number of what appear to be stealth blips as well – they look like birds but they're keeping up with the wave. I assume they're those Lyran fighters the Blood Jihad Air Force encountered out west."

Stewart looked at the attack wave. "Vector as many of our fighters as you can to intercept them. Move the fleet towards the coast; we need to give the troops some air defense!"

A tense minute passed. "Sir," the radar officer said, "I don't think they're going to be able to stop the attack."

The red smear approached the ground forces. The thinner blue smear was too far behind, too spread out to properly engage.

Dammit...

"The enemy Strike Eagles are releasing their ordnance -!"

Stewart could practically hear the explosions from four hundred thousand pounds of explosives landing amongst his troops.

Crack! Patrick Stewart jerked awake, banging his head against the desk lamp. Stifling a curse, he blinked and looked around. He found himself in his NEBULA HQ office, the skyline of Halifax staring back at him through the window below the night sky. The room was dimly lit, only the lamp across the room turned on – the desk lamp lay on the floor now, the bulb broken on its landing.

Stewart sighed as he looked over the paperwork from after the unsuccessful attack on Comodoro Rivadavia, to his watch. 0351 blinked back at him and he shook his head. "Just a dream," he said, slightly relieved. This wasn't the first time this dream had reared its head.

A defeat. For the first time in Jihad history, a total, unquestionable defeat of a JAO's forces – of two JAOs' forces if one counted the Blood Jihad units fighting directly alongside NEBULA. When Operation Rio was executed, the Blood Jihad, Legion of DOOM, and NEBULA forces anticipated a quick, devastatingly one-sided victory, but it just wasn't so. NEBULA's troops stormed the beaches in a wave of several thousand, but ran into unexpected enemy air support. Nearly annihilated in a massive, unsuspected air strike, the beachhead was shoved back into the sea by sheer force of numbers.

The Blood Jihad and Legion of DOOM forces fared better. Attacking from the west, they traveled up and down strategic points on the Argentine countryside, eventually liberating the country and driving the sponge and Lyran forces off – but at what cost? Fifty-five percent casualties at the hands of the enemy forces. Half the combined naval forces obliterated – but the enemy was driven off.

Was this really a victory? Or a second defeat?

Stewart shook his head again as he placed the lamp back on the old desk. He then eyed the papers before him in dismay, took up the pen from where it was when he fell asleep, and started writing again.

Mr. & Mrs. Amirault: We regret to inform you....

"Wait a minute," UpLink asked from his wheelchair. "You're how old?"

"Thirteen," the girl replied.

"And you claim I'm your father?" Arsenal asked, still not quite believing it.

"Yes."

"How is that possible? You're only fifteen years younger than I am!"

"Simple. Mom's not born yet."

"That's 'simple'?" UpLink muttered.

"You're a time-traveler?" Arsenal asked her.

"Yeah."

"Okay. And I can probably guess which future you're from. However, I need more than your story of your being my daughter to believe it. Keeb." Arsenal turned to the Cowguin Elfpimp that was currently messing with a pile of sporks. "Take her to the medlab, and run a full genetic scan on her."

Keebler looked around cunfuzzledly. "Medlab... medlab... OH! The place with the neat glowy-thingees and snazzy chimicimals and stuff!" After receiving piercing glares from the rest of the people in the room, Keeb just shrugged. "Want a spork?"

"Just run the tests!" Arsenal yelled, tossing a pen at him.

Keeb bent over and picked up the pen. "Didn't even have the courtesy to toss a chair at me. Come on, kid, I'll show you all the wonderful things you can do with a spork." Leading the girl down the hallway, Keeb started humming "Staying Alive" to himself.

"Why did we ever decide to make him Chief Skunk?" UpLink asked.

"You didn't want the job anymore, remember?"

Down in the medlab, the girl was lying on a cushion and being placed in a MRI scanner. Over in the corner, Keeb shooed away some techs so he could run some tests on a blood sample he'd taken from her.

"So what's yer name?" he asked, absentmindedly shaking a test tube.

"Twaeila."

"Is that 'Twaeila' with a 'y'?"

"It's 'aei', shrimp. Now hurry up with that test!"

"Damn impatient youngins...."

"Okay, Chief," Keeb told Arsenal as they, Keili, Shah, and UpLink watched Twaeila pace back and forth in the adjoining room. "The tests turned out to not be that hard. She *is* your daughter."

"What aren't you telling us," Keili asked.

"While I was in the future," Arsenal explained, "I fell in with a band of freedom fighters who called themselves the Jihad Underground. While working with them, I was... intimate with one of their members. A woman named Renata."

"Whoops!" Keili whispered, almost to herself.

Entering the other room, Arsenal took a deep breath.

"It's gonna take me a while to get used to having a daughter," he told her softly. "I'm sorry I doubted you."

In seconds, the tough face Twaeila had been wearing broke, tears coming to her eyes as she hugged her father close.

It was evening as Fran, Ren, and a few others climbed the central staircase of the Empire State Building, dressed in gaudy purple and green uniforms with the words "Maint" stenciled on the backs.

"How much further?" one of the men asked when they reached the thirty-seventh floor.

"This is the floor," Fran stated. "It's just down the hallway. At least, that's where it is if the map we stole from that Sponge Security officer is correct."

Running down the hallway, the group skidded to a halt outside a door that read "TIME RESEARCH LAB! KEEP OUT!".

"This must be the place."

Fran gave the knob an experimental twist. The group was surprised to see the door open easily.

"Stupid, moronic, pea-brained, spongified idiots..." Ren muttered. "You don't leave the door to a top-secret area unlocked!"

Filing into the room, the group spread out. One of the men opened a filing cabinet, while Fran, Renata, and a young girl slipped into an adjacent room. Still another man sat down at a computer terminal, and started typing away.

"Trash the records, destroy the hardware, and plant a virus in the system," the man muttered. "The things we go through to save the world boggles me sometimes."

"Don't get too comfortable there, my super-dee-dooper Special Friend!" a dopey, syrupy, yet menacingly evil voice called out from the door. "After all, we still have to play pretend before we eat our Healthy Snacks, hyuck, hyuck!"

"Oh, shit!"

"After that, Mom slipped me into one of the time harnesses and pressed a button. Next thing I knew, I was on that battlefield in Argentina."

"So you have no idea what happened to her?" Arsenal asked.

"None. Though I fear...." Twaeila started crying, softly sobbing against her father's chest.

Holding his daughter close, Arsenal whispered, "The Beast." Twaeila just nodded.

"We're going back," he told her. "Somehow."

"Computer, display the latest report from Intell."

The holographic display in the center of the room slowly came to life, and Admiral Davis disinterestedly began to study the data, while pondering the recent turn of events to befall the Jihad.

The Blood Jihad Space Fleet's success rate had been disturbingly low. The planned assault on a Purple Alliance stronghold in the Sirius system, codenamed "Operation Archangel," had been aborted due to a massive attack on Earth and the Jihad from a combined Lyran, Purple Alliance, and alien force. The Jihad counterattack, known as "Phoenix," had left a significant portion of the Jihad space fleet damaged or destroyed. Rebuilding the fleet had taken several months, and by the time spy probes were again sent to Sirius, the Alliance fleet had vacated the area, and Intel had yet to determine exactly where it was.

Then came the attack on Argentina. The BJSF had been charged with the duty of shutting down a space-based supply line from an unknown source. The blockade had been quite effective for a short time; with the aid of a new electronic warfare ship, the Black Hole, any Lyran or Alliance convoy that passed near Earth instantly lost shields, cloak, navigation, sensors, and communications, and became an easy kill for the Jihad forces. Unfortunately, it didn't take the Lyrans long to figure out the problem, and they responded by sending a battlegroup to break the blockade, and two more against the BJSF headquarters at Jupiter. The single battlegroup defending the Black Hole, consisting of the TCS Lexington and a handful of other ships, was outnumbered by more than two to one.

By the time the rest of the fleet managed to defeat the strike force at Jupiter and send reinforcements to rescue the Lexington battlegroup, only the BJSF flagship survived. The Lexington was damaged enough that her crew was forced to abandon her, and the decision was made to scrap her rather than attempt repairs. The operation cost the BJSF over thirty ships, including three Black Widow-class battleships and an Andromeda-class carrier, and it still failed to complete the mission.

It was therefore understandable that the admiral's confidence had diminished significantly. The fleet had been forced into multiple defensive actions, and had yet to launch even one real offensive.

As Davis scanned the intelligence report, he realized that launching an offensive now would be next to impossible. The fleet that had been building at Sirius was still missing, and there were no other Purple Alliance bases known to the Jihad. The report mentioned a few possible contacts from spy probes, but nothing was definite. He could not afford to send out ships to investigate them unless something more definite was discovered.

As the admiral reached the end of the list, one of the contacts caught his eye. The coordinates placed the possible sighting in the Enigma Sector, in a system known to him by the name "Heaven's Gate." Davis paused for a moment to consider his options. Enemy activity in that system could be devastating in several ways.

The admiral's thoughts were interrupted by the tone of the Comm signal. "Davis here," the admiral spoke aloud.

"Sir, we have an incoming priority one holotrans from Base One," replied the base's Comm officer.

"Patch it through to my quarters," Davis replied.

The images of the intelligence report vanished, and were replaced by the figure of Arsenal.

"Admiral, there's been a... unique development here that you need to know about. How soon can you be at Base One?"

Arsenal sat hunched over a computer console, bouncing back and forth between a book on trans-temporal theory and the schematics for the temporal backpack he had worn on his last time-trip.

"This makes absolutely no sense," he muttered. "In order to go backwards in time, a tachyon stream is all that's needed. But to go forward in time, like we need to... not even this book by Hawking is helping."

"Problem, Dad?" Twaeila asked, entering the room.

"Just racking my brain, Twaei." She half-sat, half-fell into a chair next to him.

"Workin' on how to get home?"

"Yeah. But there's something I'm missing, and I can't seem to put my finger on it."

Twaeila let her gaze wander across the bookshelves. "I didn't realize how much we'd lost," she whispered.

Arsenal glanced up to smile at her. "Well, let's just make sure we take it with us, eh?"

"Okee!"

Okee? he thought. She hasn't been anywhere near Pat since Rio ended. Has she?

"Well, this might take a while," Arsenal explained. "Why don't you find an interesting book to read."

"Okee." Hopping up from her seat, Twaeila wandered the bookshelves.

Shaking his head, Arsenal returned to his texts. "There can't be two people who use that word in this world, can there?"

Unnoticed by Arsenal, Twaeila picked up a book, flopped into an easy chair, and started reading. If he were to have looked up, he would have seen the title 1984 plastered on the cover.

As Admiral Davis's personal gunship/shuttle passed the orbit of Mars, he wondered what to do about the spurious contact from the spy probe at Heaven's Gate. While it was very possible that the contact was false, the admiral was unwilling to take any chances. If the system were to fall into enemy hands, the results could be devastating.

I'd better get some help with this one, Davis thought. He switched on the communications display and patched into Earth's network of communication satellites, finally connecting to NEBULA's headquarters in Halifax.

"NEBULA HQ here. Please identify yourself," requested a voice over the Comm system.

"Fleet Admiral Davis, BJSF. I need to speak with Fleet Admiral Stewart. It's urgent," Davis replied.

"One moment, sir."

Davis waited as the Comm officer transferred the call. A moment later, the image of NEBULA's commanding officer appeared on the video display.

"Hey, Mike, what's up?" asked Patrick Stewart.

"A couple of things. First, I just got a disturbing report from Blood Jihad Intell. It might be false, but I can't take any chances on this one. If the contact from this spy probe is real, we've got a real problem on our hands."

"Think you could be a little more vague?" Stewart replied sarcastically.

"Sorry, Pat, but I can't discuss this one over an open channel. That brings me to the other thing I wanted to talk to you about. Arsenal's called me over to Base One for something important. I'm not sure what it's about yet, but it sounded big. My ETA's 1 hour. Can you meet me down there then?"

"I'll be there. I hope all of this turns out to be false, though. We certainly don't need any more bad news after what happened with Rio."

"Agreed. See you in an hour. Davis out."

UpLink sat nearly motionless in his cot in the Base One infirmary, sleeping fitfully. Below the sheet covering him, one would never guess that he was a tangled mess of patched and sown flesh. The Lyrans had been absolutely merciless in torturing him, but had gained nothing they could use. After they realized their attempts to extract information from him were useless, they dumped him in one of their Purple Genesis Pits to be fodder for anything that might find him.

That was when he was rescued. Before the Lyrans could depart the area, they had been attacked and slaughtered by a squad of Williams/Dorshimer Inc. troopers in Skyjack Combat Armor, being led by the former Jihaddi Sandman. Sandman's squad had been contracted to collect chemical samples from the genetically active Pit, retrieve anyone they might find, and destroy the Pit when they left. They had not failed their mission.

Although Sandman had been offered a permanent position with WDI, he did not accept, but said that he would need time to consider the offer, as WDI had become a Jihad Autonomous Organization. He had taken his payment and left his e-mail address.

Waking suddenly, UpLink looked at the med. tech that had disturbed his slumber.

"Feeling comfortable, sir?" the tech asked.

"Hmmm, if I could feel anything, I'd probably be screaming my head off. Thanks for asking, anyway."

"Uh, yeah. Your welcome," the tech mumbled, rather embarrassed at having forgot about the virus deadening UpLink's nervous system below his neck. "Anyway, the docs say you can get up for a bit and move around, so long as you don't over exert yourself. They don't want you re-opening any of those wounds.

Wheeling down to the commissary, UpLink noticed Arsenal and several other people heading down a corridor, and changed his direction to catch up with them.

"Hey, Ted! Wait up!" he called. Ted Brock, Arsenal, stopped the lift door from closing, and held it open for UpLink to get his wheelchair into it.

"Hey, pal. Just the brain I need to pick."

"Oh? What for?"

"Ain't ya gonna introduce me, Dad?" Twaeila cut in. Looking at his daughter absent mindedly, Arsenal snapped back to the other problem at hand.

"Oh yes... Paul, I'd like you to meet Twaeila... the daughter I didn't know I had. Twaeila, this is Paul 'UpLink Station-Boomer' DeSanto. My best friend."

"So that's why the name 'UpLink' sounded so familiar earlier! You're the guy who blew up all those Lyran bases?"

Trading confused glances with UpLink, Arsenal replied, "Actually, he blew up one of our own."

"He did what?!"

"Hey, it was that or let it be over run by Loved Ones," UpLink interjected on his own behalf. "Besides, I did get most of the research info we had there transmitted to the Base One computer. Anyway, that's the past. What mess do you need me to clear up this time?"

Taking a breath, Arsenal laid it out. "We're trying to figure out a quick way back into the 23rd Century. Our Temporal Backpacks can't do the job, and I thought you might have some ideas."

Exiting the lift, the party went a short distance to the Joint Chief's Meeting Room, and sat down to discuss the possibilities in a more relaxed setting.

"Well, there's cryo-sleep," UpLink began. "Kinda risky, but if the apparatus isn't disturbed..."

"Too risky... No safe place that won't go undisturbed in three hundred years."

"Hmmm, yeah. What about the TCN jump drives on Mike's ships? Don't they 'bend' space-time?"

Massaging the spot between his eyes, Arsenal muttered, "Those were blown up in the last battle."

"Sneck! And I never did get the design specs loaded into the data base!"

"But if we can work out a means of modifying the hyperdrives on the survivors, and let's not forget we installed the jump drives on the Andys...."

"True. We might be able to get them to bend more time than space. You could collapse the engine core, form an artificial event horizon, and 'jump' to the 23rd...."

"Actually, as I understand it, all a jump drive does is take advantage of natural warps in space."

"Hold it!" UpLink said, suddenly getting a brainstorm. "Drop the technobabble, and listen up. Tesseracts! Their physics are almost all time, aren't they? And you've got a couple o' tess generators here at the base."

"D'OH! Why didn't I think of that?" Arsenal exclaimed, smacking his forehead.

"The absurdly obvious, and all that?" UpLink suggested, grinning.

"We can mix the tess-generators and the hyperjumpdrives for the effect. At least, we should, right?"

"Could somebody explain all this to me? In English, perhaps?" Twaeila broke in again, feeling very confused.

"I think we just found a way to go home," Arsenal told her.

"Agreed. See you in an hour. Davis out." The image of Admiral Davis vanished from Stewart's vidscreen on his desk to be replaced with the BJSF insignia. On the screen next to it, which displayed the hotlines to major Jihad installations and personnel, the green light next to the word "Wingnut" faded to an inactive red.

Stewart looked around the office. The pile of post-Rio paperwork was still depressingly high, but Admiral Davis seemed worried about whatever he was worried about. I really hate security sometimes, he thought as he arranged a flight to Base One. Twenty minutes later, a transport craft launched vertically out of a hangar on the NHQ complex to low orbital altitude.

The transport then lit its maneuvering thrusters and set course for Pennsylvania. As it traveled on its way at a relatively low altitude of 400 kilometers the shuttle passed a small piece of drifting, scorched metal. "It'll be awhile before the debris clears," Stewart muttered to himself. "A lot of ships were lost in the past year."

The rest of the trip was relatively uneventful, aside from a brief conversation with Davis' incoming shuttle and Base One's landing control systems. The NEBULA shuttle descended through the atmosphere upon receiving clearance from the Base, and touched down fifteen minutes early (one of Stewart's problems was that he could be too punctual in terms of going from place to place). The small craft landed on one of the landing pads, which lowered into the main hangar bay. The shuttle's door swung open, and Stewart exited the craft.

"Fifteen minutes early," Stewart muttered under his breath as he leaned against the hull of the shuttle. He glanced about the hangar bay. Like most, it was a general scene of organized confusion, with a number of fighters and other small craft that survived Operation Rio being worked on. A pair of F-15C fighters taxied onto two elevators, perhaps being prepared for a patrol flight. The Jihad ownership of the Atlantic skies had become less than absolute following the Argentina disaster, and any little bit would help.

Eventually, Davis' shuttle came in, right on schedule. The admiral's Orion-class gunboat – candidly referred to as The Flying Toilet by people behind the admiral's back – floated to a quartet of unused berths and settled to a stop.

"Hiya, Wingnut," Stewart greeted Davis as he walked out of the ship.

"Hey, Chuck," the admiral replied. Stewart winced, sending a mental 'Touchè!' to the BJSF commander. Davis smiled to himself and started walking towards the hangar exit.

"So, sir—" Stewart began.

"The formalities aren't that necessary, Pat," Davis replied. "You're a JAO commander – you outrank me pretty much anywhere off the Reliance's bridge, and maybe even then-"

"We're in a Blood Jihad facility," Stewart shrugged. Davis shrugged as well. "Oh well. Anyway, I'm assuming you were in None Of Your Business Mode about that Intell report for a reason?"

Davis reached into his pocket and held up a small diskette. "The report's right here," he said. "I'm presenting it to the JCS. Of course, you're included in that group."

Stewart nodded. "I want to see what all the fuss is about."

The admiral just nodded, not saying anything else in response. Davis wasn't known to be a talkative officer, that's for sure, but he was easy enough to communicate with.

The rest of the trip to the Joint Chiefs Meeting Room was rather uneventful, with some discussion about Blood Jihad and NEBULA repairs following recent campaigns. Neither looked very promising at the moment; the very lightest of the BJ/N losses were amongst the BJSF, and the recent disasters shattered twenty-five percent of the Fleet.

The two finally found their way to the meeting room and entered. Arsenal, Keili and UpLink greeted them, along with a young blond girl whom Stewart couldn't recognize. "Who's the newcomer?" he asked, nodding politely to her.

"This is a curious crowd today," the girl said, almost to herself. "The name's Twaeila."

"I see," Stewart said. "Well, hello there I'm Fleet Admiral Patrick Stewart, commanding officer of –" he paused for a moment, "NEBULA. And w-"

Arsenal and Twaeila seemed to know the question before it was asked. Both opened their mouths at the same time, and glanced at each other as they realized they had. "I'll explain it this time, kiddo," Arsenal said.

"Okee," Twaeila replied.

Stewart and Davis both blinked cartoonishly. "Two of them?" Davis asked himself under his breath as a general chuckle went through the room. The two admirals ceased looking confused as Arsenal went into the story of who Twaeila was and how she got here.

"I swear I've seen this in a movie before," Stewart said when Arsenal finished telling the tale. "Join the Jihad, See Weird Things Happen!"

"You're still not used to the screwiness yet?" Ars asked.

"Elf."

"Guess you are after all."

Davis suddenly straightened out a bit more, as if there was something he had forgotten. "People," he began, "I've still yet to present this Intell report."

"Go ahead, Mike," Arsenal answered.

The admiral walked over to the nearest computer terminal and inserted the disk he brought from Jupiter Base. With a few keystrokes, he dimmed the lights in the room and activated the holoprojector. A starmap appeared in the center of the room, centered on Sol. Picking up a laser pointer, he returned to his former place in the room.

"As you can see, we don't have much solid information right now. A few of our probes have picked up possible contacts, but nothing is definite. After the poundings we took in Phoenix and Rio, our resources are severely limited. We can't afford to send enough ships to handle a large Lyran or Purple Alliance fleet to each of these, and smaller patrols wouldn't stand a chance against a battlegroup, not to mention a fleet the size of the one that was building at Sirius."

"Have you figured out where they're hiding it yet?" asked Stewart.

"Unfortunately, no. Ever since they abandoned Sirius while we were fighting off the Lizards, we've been looking for that fleet, but it hasn't shown up yet. We think they must have figured out somehow that we knew what they were up to, and decided to relocate to a safer position. So far, they seem to be keeping that fleet in reserve for something. Not a single ship from it was involved in the Phoenix or Rio actions. I'm worried about why they would choose to keep it away from the action, though. If they'd added that fleet in with the one that hit us during Rio, they probably could have wiped out our entire fleet. I think they've got something big up their sleeves."

"Any guesses as to what they're planning, Admiral?" Arsenal asked.

"Just one," Davis replied. He switched on the laser pointer and aimed for a star system near the edge of the map. As he pressed a button on the pointer, the map zoomed in to focus on that system, and a second display appeared alongside it, listing the important statistics about the system.

"This is HD 457. It's a binary star system, composed of a white dwarf, HD 457 A, and a neutron star, HD 457 B. For obvious reasons, there are no planets. On the surface, it appears to be a rather boring place. In this case, appearances are quite deceiving.

"This system, which we call Heaven's Gate, is the location of the warp in space and time which allowed my ships and I to cross over from our own timeline into this one. The warp works like a regular jump point, other than that. The effect works both ways, as well; ships can cross from this universe into mine.

"Ever since we came here, we've had probes set up in the system to detect anyone who came in or out. The latest data from Intell shows a possible contact in this system. The readings aren't conclusive, and it could be a malfunction of the probe, but I'd rather not take that chance. Letting B'harni take control of an active warp like that could be devastating, especially if there's a way to control where and when you come out, like some of the scientists on the other side studying the thing believe."

"Wait a minute," UpLink almost yelled. "There's a natural time-gate there?"

"Yes."

"I think I see where this is heading," Arsenal muttered. "Paul, collaborate with Mike on our time-travel theories. When we go into the future, we might as well make sure we clear out that system along the way."

"What do you mean, 'when we go', Chief?" UpLink asked. "Earlier we were only talking 'if'!"

"I've been talking 'when' ever since I heard Twaei's story the first time," Arsenal explained. "I'm going. Paul, Mike, Kei, I'd like volunteers from your divisions. Pat, from NEBULA, if you're willing to spare any."

UpLink's response was almost immediate. "Are you crazy?! No, don't answer that." Considering Arsenal's intentions, he consigned himself to the fact that the entire Navy and Marine Corps would jump at the chance to do a little time-fragging. "Okay," he sighed. "I'll send out a general notice to the branch about this."

Pat thought about this for a minute.

"After Rio... NEBULA's down to fifteen percent intact forces. We're reeling from the operations of the past year. It wouldn't take much for them to finish us off here; for all intents and purposes my forces can no longer effectively contribute in this time. Maybe it's best to send them someplace they can."

Keili replied next. "I'll see what I can drum up from the Army and Air Force. Just one thing. I'm not going with you, and I don't think I'll be able to take command of the Blood Jihad. Personal reasons." All present nodded their consent.

"I think I should mention that," Davis began, "at this point, we're probably gonna have the entire Space Fleet volunteering. So far, all we've done is defensive stuff, and I can tell the troops are itching for some offensive action."

"So," UpLink asked, "who do we leave in charge?"

Arsenal watched as UpLink's shuttle moved rapidly from the airstrip up into the atmosphere, then disappeared from sight. That was another member on inactive status, he told himself. The way things were going, there may soon not be much of a Blood Jihad left. With UpLink off-world to get advanced treatment for the wounds he'd received at the hands of Lyran interrogators, Arsenal knew he'd have to choose his replacement staff carefully. Most of the people he most trusted were either away, or... He didn't finish the thought, and returned to his office in Base One's main complex.

Base One's library was respectable both in size and in content. Not the biggest room in the headquarters complex by a long shot, certainly, but several thousand volumes stocked the shelves nicely. Stewart wandered into the library, being unable to sleep, even if it was past two AM. These days, such things were both a curse and a blessing.

"Who's there?" a cautious voice asked from around a corner. Stewart looked around the shelf to see Twaeila, who was herself wandering the shelves. "Oh.. hello, Admiral," she said, straightening up noticeably.

Stewart waved dismissively. "Formalities suck. Besides, I'm off duty." He glanced up and down the shelves himself. "I think I can tell why you're here."

Twaeila nodded. "This many books in one place… God, it's something the Underground cells dreamed would happen one day. I remember when I was ten, my mother told me that things like this were actually common – that there were more titles in single rooms than there are in my time's country-states." She glanced at the book in her hand, then across the shelves again. "I didn't believe her; I thought it was just a fairy tale of some kind."

Stewart nodded as Twaeila went on. "It's one thing, to be told what you and your family and your friends are fighting for – dying for. This, though, it's real. Kinda sticks." She seemed like someone from a famine-starved country, when confronted with a buffet restaurant at dinner for the first time.

It was then that Stewart noticed the book. "Which book, by the way?" he asked.

She held up the cover for him to see, and presented him with a paperback copy of 1984. "Kind of ironic, I guess," she said. "It's - well, it's science fiction here in the twentieth century. In my time...." she trailed off and shook her head sadly. "If the Underground got my time's reality to this level, it would be a victory."

Stewart slowly let out air from between his teeth; he didn't realize he'd been holding his breath as Twaeila described the 23rd century. "That's bad," he said, "Geeze.. that's worse than what I pictured would happen even if we lost the war now." He shook his head. "Even now, we may very well be losing on this front. The Blood Jihad's most likely out of the fight for awhile until they rebuild. NEBULA's staggering, ready to collapse in upon itself at the slightest push."

"Do you think that might be why my father wants to go to the future?" Twaeila asked.

"It may have been, yes," Stewart replied. He thumbed through the shelves and pulled out a title of his own. "We've both got the experience, and this time's forces also have a lot of the history remembered." He glanced at the book; The Art Of War by Sun Tzu. Twaeila didn't seem to recognize the title on the cover, but she understood the principle behind what Stewart was getting at. She nodded.

"A fighting chance is something Underground cells in my time live for," Twaeila said, almost to herself. "The chance to force a standup fight, or to make an attack worthy of the name – from the time I came back here, there hadn't been anything like that for ten, fifteen years. There hadn't been a battle – I remember being told about those. The ability for our people to fight the Beast on his own terms.. I don't think we've had the chance for a hundred and ten years. And now we have a chance to really take it to them." The hardness and determination in the girl's voice reminded Stewart that she had probably seen things that almost any Jihaddi of the twentieth century couldn't imagine.

She put her book on top of the other books in the shelf, face up so that she could retrieve it, and took the book Stewart was holding. "We have to take this chance. Just the surviving Blood Jihad forces in this time alone would be more than perhaps the planetwide Underground forces in my time. With them, we can fight the Beast on his own terms again. We might even win."

"Not 'might even,'" Stewart said. "'Have to.'"

Arsenal wandered into the launch tube his personal Stingray fighter was nestled in. Sleep had eluded him, and so he had found himself wandering the hallways of Base One. Somehow, he had ended up here.

The Stingray resembled a traditional atmospheric fighter, with the notable exception of forward-swept wings settled on either side of the twin engines, and small canard-wings near the nose of the plane. Nestled in the bird's nose sat a pair of laser cannon. Underneath each wing was a housing for four missiles... eight missiles in all. The fighter sat motionless

Running a hand along the underside of the fighter's fuselage, he reflected on the events of the past year. A fight to the death... a phyrric victory in Argentina... a rescue-op in the Pacific gone sour... and, probably most importantly, although he didn't realize it as such, a visit from the Stranger.

Arsenal recalled the Stranger's words clearly, as if they had been spoken yesterday.

"You are to receive a gift from your past, and inherit a legacy from your future.’," the Stranger had said.

"Damn you, Stranger," Arsenal muttered. "Could you have been more vague about my daughter's existence?" He received no response.

Early the next day, Stewart returned to NEBULA Headquarters to explain the plans of the previous day to his men and women. Most seemed to understand the reasons for the jump out of the timeline, and they were willing to go along; only 327 wished to stay, and were transferred to the United States to serve alongside the Blood Jihad contingent who had made the same choice.

The number of NEBULA personnel who chose to follow Stewart and the BJ personnel, while larger than those who wished to stay, was still not awe-inspiring. 5,253 soldiers and naval personnel, ground weaponry, and fifty-nine aircraft made up the bulk of the forces. Another group of perhaps 650 would arrive in Halifax later that day, bringing another 71 fighters from the wing in New Brunswick, but it was still not much compared to what NEBULA had had pre-Rio.

A third of a division was all that was left of what was once a powerful force. A relatively formidable force of aircraft still remained, but NEBULA's armed forces were now woefully and pitifully insignificant to put up a fight worthy of the name. Six thousand troops can certainly accomplish something, but with damaged goods, low logistics, and nearly nonexistent morale are rather crippling factors.

The trip to the future had been a shot in the arm for the new contingent, which was awaiting a fleet of shuttles and transports from the BJSF for transport to the Fleet at Jupiter. Fighters were being "packed" for placement in the heavy transport ships, while the troops milled about, taking what may very well have been their last looks at 20th-century Earth.

Was it really worth it? Would more be accomplished in the 20th century or in the 23rd?

Stewart pondered that for a minute. The Blood Jihad and NEBULA were crippled in a world where the Jihad force was still mighty; TRES Corps or the Doberman forces could both easily outnumber the BJ/N combined forces two or three to one. These two crippled forces were headed to an era where the "Jihad" consisted of a dozen guerillas here, a half dozen there, scattered thinly across an entire world. In such a time, where B'harne may have held absolute superiority over the planet but also be confident as to his victory, unprepared for an assault of, when looking at the Blood Jihad and NEBULA forces combined, the equivalent of an entire corps – to say nothing of massed orbital bombardment of the Beast's facilities should the need arise. There was always something to be said for surprise.

Stewart nodded to himself. That made sense. Perhaps his ragtag group had a hope after all.

That, and anything was preferable to several kilograms of paperwork.

"Hey, Marlene."

"Ted!" Lt. Marlene Montano looked up from her paperwork to greet her old friend from SEAL training. "What brings you here?" She took a look at the blond teenaged girl in a Blood Jihad uniform next to him. "And who's this?"

"Marlene, I'd like you to meet Twaeila. My daughter."

"Pleased to meet you, Twaeila. Wait a minute! Daughter?!"

After quickly explaining the circumstances surrounding Twaeila's past, Arsenal ended with, "We're going back there, and I need a favor."

"Shoot."

"I'd like full survivor's benefits for the families of the volunteers that are going with us."

"'Survivor's benefits', Ted? You sound like you don't expect to live to come back."

"I won't."

The next three weeks passed in a hectic flurry of activity. The surviving BJSF ships were worked on around the clock, upgrading and modifying the hyperdrive systems for the trip. Tanks, mecha, fightercraft, and several megatons of ammunition were loaded into storage bays. Courses were plotted, timetables were set, simulations were run, and final good-byes said.

Yet amid all the activity, time was found for a formal Change of Command ceremony. Aboard the BJS Artemis, acting flagship of the Blood Jihad Navy, Arsenal, decked out in full dress uniform for the first time ever, named Captain Arinna Mahtasha, the Artemis's Commanding Officer, as the new Commander-in-Chief of the Blood Jihad.

As the ceremony drew to a close, a formation of four F-14 Tomcats buzzed the tower, followed shortly by a similar formation of F/A-18 Super Hornets.

"Commander on the bridge!" a lower ranking officer called as Arsenal strode onto the bridge, followed closely by Twaeila.

"As you were," Arsenal ordered. "Commander Nedwich," he turned to the man standing up from the center seat, "take over in the CIC. As the Widow's XO, you're probably more familiar with the operations there than I am."

"Are you taking command of the fleet from Admiral Davis?" Cmdr. Nedwich asked.

"No. However, as this ship predates the Blood Jihad, I felt it fitting that I take over as CO for this voyage."

"Aye, sir." Nedwich left the room.

Arsenal let his gaze wander around the small bridge. A mere ten feet long and fifteen feet wide, the bridge consisted of only five stations. In the middle of the room was the Command Chair, sitting on a two-foot pedestal. Settled on the forward wall was the helm and navigation stations. Behind the Command Chair, facing the rear wall and on either side of the door, were two communications stations. Each station, with the exception of the Command Chair, possessed it's own 20-inch monitor. To the right of the Command Chair sat a holostation. The bridge was small, slightly claustrophobic, and totally functional.

Sitting in the Command Chair, he motioned for Twaeila to take one of the communications stations.

"Open a channel to the Reliance," he ordered.

"Channel open, sir." Arsenal turned to face the holoprojection of Patrick Stewart that appeared.

"Stewart here."

"You ready, Pat?"

"We're loading the last of the supplies now. As soon as this last shuttle docks, we'll be set."

Arsenal nodded in reply. "Same with us. And Wingnut's got the Andy waiting for us at SpaceDock, as well as the bulk of the fleet. Our groups are the last two stragglers."

"Let's hope this works," Pat exclaimed with a sigh.

"Getting cold feet?"

"Nah. It's just that we've had our asses handed to us so much lately, that a repeat would really suck."

"I hear that."

"Sir," the other communications officer stated, "the final shuttle just docked."

"Good. Pat, I'll see you at SpaceDock."

The holo de-rezzed, and Arsenal turned to face the front of the room.

"To quote Jim Kirk, 'Thataway'."

"So this is really the only way to handle it?" the weapons officer said, glancing over the controls. "In my opinion, this is really, really extreme."

"There aren’t too many other options, if you ask me," Stewart replied, looking at the moon in the viewscreen. "Luna Base can basically do anything our old installation there could do, only better. They can’t maintain two bases there, and we can’t let the base get taken by Purple Alliance troops or worse." He watched the viewscreen some more, and pushed a few buttons at the console in front of him. The realtime view of the moon, with part of the dark side ‘visible’, was replaced with a green grid of the moon’s surface. A yellow blip at one part of the surface, hidden away from Earth-based eyes appeared, representing the NEBULA moon base the Reliance was built at.

"Fire when ready, Lieutenant," Stewart said after a pause.

The lieutenant at the tactical station nodded and worked the controls for a few moments. A deep klaxon sounded throughout the huge ship as the lights dimmed slightly. Crosshairs centered on the moon base, with precise coordinates and ranges appearing next to the base.

With a deep rumble resounding throughout the ship, the lights dimmed further. The coordinate view of the moon was replaced with a realtime view. A red, glowing bolt, several kilometers long, left the top-forward IPC bank on the Reliance, and sped towards the moon. Two thirds of a second later, it struck the NEBULA moon base.

Even from 175,000 kilometers away, the impact was spectacular. The IPC blast struck the moon’s surface, and immediately, a pinpoint of red light appeared. The spot brightened, going from red to orange to yellow to white in a quarter second, becoming bright enough that Stewart had to blink. A fountain of debris shot a dozen kilometers into the air, the white hot column of stuff spreading across a large area of the surface in moments. A shock wave ruffled the layer of dust for thirty kilometers each way, dissipating as it sped outwards at several thousand kilometers per hour.

A minute later, it was as if nothing had ever been there. The only thing left in the place of NEBULA’s moon base was a small, glowing crater, several kilometers in diameter, which would fade to black over the next few hours.

Stewart sighed. "Well, that’s over with."

"Yes, sir," the tactical officer replied. "I think that was the right one."

The thirty-four other bridge officers, as well as Stewart, all spun around to stare at the lieutenant at the same time. The tactical officer shrugged. "Jesssss’ kidding."

Stewart shook his head and chuckled to himself. It was nice to see that some people were willing to try and lighten up the mood of the past few weeks. Tension in the bridge visibly dropped a few notches. "Resume course," he said.

With a somewhat noticeable acceleration towards the stern, the Reliance and her escorts, the cruiser Aradhati and the destroyers Quarterstaff, Stormbreaker and Maeve the Feral following. After a few minutes of increased thrust, the battlegroup fell in with the Black Widow battlegroup on course towards SpaceDock. Earth receded behind them for the last time.

"Admiral on the bridge!"

"As you were," Admiral Davis replied. He walked from the lift to the command chair and touched a control on the armrest. "Engineering, give me a status report."

"The modifications to the hyperdrive should be completed within the hour, Admiral," answered the Andy’s chief engineer.

"Good work. Keep me informed. Davis out."

The Blood Jihad Space Fleet was in the process of mobilizing its forces for the trip to Heaven’s Gate and the future. As the admiral had predicted, most of the fleet’s personnel had volunteered for the mission to the 23^rd century. The few that chose to remain – mostly those with families on Earth – were offered a transfer to the Williams/Dorshimer corporate fleet. The volunteers were more than enough to fill the crews of all the BJSF’s remaining ships and fighters.

In addition to the warships, a fleet of transports was making preparations for the journey to the future. Once the modifications to their hyperdrives were complete, they would head to Earth to pick up the remaining personnel and equipment of the Blood Jihad and NEBULA. The transports carrying these troops and their equipment would be, in one sense, the most important ships in the fleet, since without their cargo, the Jihad forces would be incapable of doing anything besides orbital bombardment of the planet. The Jihaddi wanted to retake Earth, not to bomb it back into the Stone Age.

Since the initial report from the Heaven’s Gate probe, the system had been completely silent. Even the probe’s regular telemetry data had ceased. The apparent failure of the device immediately after its report of a possible enemy contact seemed to be too unlikely to be a simple coincidence. The admiral, a bit pessimistic as always, was assuming that someone had destroyed the probe until he saw some evidence to the contrary. For that reason, he was already considering a battle plan.

Jupiter was a very big place, and it was fitting that a very big fleet assembled there. The one hundred and four ships of the BJSF orbited above SpaceDock along with fifteen giant transports, each housing five thousand troops and equipment, escorted by seventy-five of the much smaller WDI starships. The spaces between them were a flurry of activity as hundreds of small craft, fighters and bombers flew between the ships, replenishing carrier loads, transferring personnel and supplies, and in some cases just taking their last look around this timeline.

One hundred and eighty-one thousand BJSF personnel were on those ships. Along for the ride into the future was another seventy-five thousand land-based personnel, making a total of a quarter million Jihaddi preparing to launch an offensive on a world where B’harneii had long since won.

After a few more hours of preparations, the BJSF fleets assembled into their battlegroups, task forces, and the full formation of the entire navy. Fighters landed on their carriers and prepared for the journey. Personnel went to their stations. The WDI fleet settled into an escort formation, following the Fleet to the Oort Cloud as an honor guard, and with a final seventy-two fighter flyby from the complements of the WDI ships, the massive fleet surged forward as one towards Heaven’s Gate.

The Fleet was cruising through hyperspace at a relatively slow pace of fifteen light-years per hour. At this rate, the sixty-eight light-year trip to the HD 457 System and Heaven’s Gate would last approximately four and a half hours. Stewart spent what little free time the people on the Fleet’s ships had left by poring over the orders of battle, supplies, and other logistical concerns.

"Will it be enough?" he wondered to himself out loud. At that moment, a soft buzzing at the desktop computer intruded into the relative quiet of the small, sterile quarters. Stewart checked the console, to see both Arsenal and Admiral Davis were waiting to speak. Raising an eyebrow, he opened the lines. Davis and Arsenal both appeared on opposite sides of the screen.

"Hello, Ars, Wingnut," Stewart said, nodding towards the image of each one in turn.

"Hey, Chuck," both replied at once. Stewart winced again as the other Jihaddi chuckled to themselves. Arsenal spoke up again, more seriously this time. "How’s your logistics situation going to be for this campaign?"

Stewart glanced over the reports in front of him. "I think I’ve got enough supplies to do fairly well. We’ve got enough ammunition stockpiled on the Ganymedes alone to keep a six-month land campaign – four months if we go bonzo on the offensive. That’s not taking orbital bombardment into account, and such. We’ve also got manufacturing plants on the three NEBULA-laden transports; that’ll keep us in ammunition indefinitely once they get up.

"Basically, I think we’re set for a good, long land war, though. By the time that four-month period goes by, we’ll be established in any war zone enough to begin to retool factories on the surface."

"That," Arsenal said, "and we’ll certainly be taking advantage of the 23^rd century weaponry. Lotta energy weapons, lot less ammo required. There’ll still be something said for our fighters, tanks, and mecha, though. We’ve got enough armored units, certainly – almost seven hundred total."

Davis then spoke up. "We’ve got nine hundred and thirty-two fighters and bombers ready to launch off the carriers, plus another hundred and forty-two packed in the event of attrition. We’ve got more than enough ammunition, being able to take advantage of the shipboard factories, and there’s enough ammo along with us to send each fighter in the Fleet on at least twenty attack sorties. Now, we won’t do that, so this will last us a long time."

"Most of the ammo attrition will be in the initial assault, then.." Stewart half-said, half-assumed.

"Yeah," Davis said.

"So basically," Arsenal concluded, "We’ll be able to keep the campaign going at least to the point where we can get planet-based industry to contribute." Stewart and Davis both nodded. "That’s good to hear."

"We’ll be coming out of hyperspace in a couple more hours," Davis said. "We should get the Fleet ready for an action. You all remember the briefing about the potential contacts in HD 457."

Stewart and Arsenal nodded. "That would be a good idea, yes. Let’s get the ships ready, then," Arsenal said. "I’ll see you both in realspace. Good luck." The channel closed.

"Ante up!" Twaeila called out, tossing out a number of cards to everyone seated at the table. "Game’s seven-card anaconda. Deuces wild, jacks or better to open."

Seated around the circular table, Twaeila, Arsenal, Nedwich, and three other lower-ranking officers picked up their cards.

"So," Nedwich asked, rearranging his cards, "what’s our exact target, Commander? What year?"

"2283," Twaeila replied before her father could. "Don’t get me wrong, this century is a great place to live, but that’s Home."

"Homesick?" Arsenal asked quietly.

"Kinda." Shaking her head, she looked at her cards. "Dad, you open."

"Oh, yeah... I open with two."

Bets were placed, and cards were passed to neighbors before the conversation picked up again.

"The rumor mill says that B’Harnii actually rules that time period," one of the junior officers sitting at the table mentioned. "Please tell me that’s not true."

"I wish I could," Arsenal replied. "But the rumor mill is correct. There’ve been times when I wished I’d never left there. I never did like leaving a job unfinished. Still, we won’t have to deal with Lyrans this time out."

"Why not?" Nedwich asked.

"For some reason, the Lyrans abandoned their plans to dominate Earth. Seems B’Harnii was just too powerful at the time, and for some reason the Lyrans didn’t want to get involved."

"What about the Lizards?" a Lieutenant asked.

"Lizards?" Twaeila asked.

"I take it that means that the X’Hirjq haven’t returned," Arsenal replied. "For once, that’s a good sign." Taking a quick look at his cards, he picked up three red chips. "I open at fifteen."

"I fold," Nedwich stated, tossing his cards out.

"Wuss," Twaeila muttered. Arsenal glanced at her, then started chuckling.

The lower-ranking officers met the bid, but only Twaeila raised it... to twenty.

"She’s gotta be bluffing," the Lieutenant remarked, tossing in another red chip.

Minutes passed in relative silence as cards were passed again, this time in the opposite direction.

"Once again, I open at fifteen."

"That’s it," the Lieutenant remarked, tossing in his hand. "I fold."

"Same," replied the two ensigns.

"It’s down to you and me, Dad. I raise by five."

"I’ll meet your five, and raise by ten."

"Thirty, huh? Fine. I’ll raise you another thirty."

"You don’t have another thirty. Another ten."

"I’ll borrow it from you. Another twenty."

"Okay, I’ll meet. Whatcha got?"

Smiling, Twaeila laid down her hand, as Arsenal’s face fell. In her hand were four aces and a deuce.

"Five of a kind, Dad. That pot is mine."

Arsenal looked around at the others at the table. "New hand, anyone?"

"Entering the Heaven’s Gate System, returning to realspace," the navigation officer said.

Stewart nodded. "Begin the system entry procedures." As per Admiral Davis’ orders, the Fleet was to take every available precaution. A dozen fighters left the decks of each carrier, and the ninety-six small craft sped off on a largescale patrol. A screen of Battleaxe-class destroyers pressed ahead of the Fleet on a forward sweep, with modified JB-11 Kodiaks carrying AWACS accompanying the side, upper, and lower patrols. It was the basic pattern of a fleet going on the offensive into a system garrisoned by the enemy. It was also the largest single such maneuver the BJSF ever undertook.

Several tense hours passed as the massive patrol and sweep went through its paces. The Fleet began to head towards "Heaven’s Gate", the singularity that would lead the new fleet to the future. Suddenly, an AWACS ship based off the Reliance reported back to the ship.

"Black Five to Fleet!" the pilot called over the link to the ships. "We’ve encountered something here! I’m sending camera and scan footage back now.." The pilot’s reports filled the main screen and Stewart slowly came to his feet.

"Oh my God."

The bomber pilot stared down at his long-range scanner. A solid wedge of red filled the forward arc of the display. There was no way to even identify individual ships. Even at a distance of over three hundred thousand kilometers, the Purple Alliance fleet was impressive, if not downright frightening.

The computers built into the AWACS equipment began to process the data from the long-range scanners, and soon began reporting back figures on the fleet and the ships in it. The pilot paled as he began to read them. Three dreadnoughts, eight carriers, and eleven battleships made up the primary force, with forty cruisers and fifty destroyers as escorts for the larger ships. One hundred and twelve ships in all. It was also eight more warships than the Jihad fleet had.

For a few moments, the pilot could do nothing but stare at the scanner as the full significance of the data hit him. When the initial shock wore off, he sent the data, along with the pictures his camera had automatically recorded, back to the rest of the fleet.

He didn’t have time to worry about the fleet after that, as his missile lock warning went off, and he noticed the approaching purple and green fighters.

"Oh, shit!" Arsenal half-muttered, half-exclaimed, sitting up straight in the Command Chair. "RED ALERT!"

"Red Alert!" Twaeila spoke into a microphone. "All hands to battle stations! Red Alert!"

"Twaeila, send a message to our escorting Battleaxes. They’re to protect the Sports at all costs. Also send the Apogees and the Phoenix to do what damage they can to the enemy fleet. Helm, take us into firing range of the nearest Dreadnought."

"Right, dad!"

"Aye, sir. Firing range in fifty-seven minutes."

"Commander Nedwich," Arsenal asked, opening a direct line to the CIC, "I trust all weapons systems are online?"

"Prepped, primed, loaded, locked, and ready to kick ass, sir!"

"Good. Make sure every hit counts."

"Yes, sir!"

Turning back to the holostation, he pulled up the sensor scans on the Dreadnought. According to the report, it measured over two miles long, half a mile wide, and almost as high. The sensors had also indicated a pair of guns on the Dreadnought that appeared to be similar in use, if not appearance, to the Ionic Plasma Cannon built into the Reliance’s hull. There were also numerous plasma cannon on several turrets on many of it’s sides.

"We’re definitely in trouble if it fires those IPCs," he muttered. Without thinking, he hit the comm button on his seat. "Nedwich, once we get in close enough, try and nuke the IPCs on that Dreadnought."

"We’ll try, sir. We may have to leave that job to the Monsters, though. A ship that size has to have a shitload of PD guns."

"I know."

The Fleet was well-prepared for an unexpected attack, however contradictory that seemed. Within a minute and a half of the enemy fleet being detected, the BJSF fighter force was forming in space in attack formations. The orders were simple: The enemy fighters were not to close with the Fleet.

Still, the BJSF order of battle was one based on a strong offense. Twenty-six cruisers, thirty-two destroyers, five Black Widow battleships and the entire force of Phoenix corvettes pushed onward to the attack. The Ganymedes and Andromedas, along with the six other cruisers, twelve destroyers, and two battleships stayed back to defend the transports.

The fighter/bomber force was placed aggressively as well. Out of the more than nine hundred fighters the BJSF had up and running, a stunning six hundred were committed to the attack; roughly one hundred and fifty bombers of various types escorted by hundreds of Y-11s, JF-18s and JF-29s. Three hundred more fighters flew CAP over the transport fleet itself, in case the attack line was broken.

The Fleet didn’t expect to annihilate the enemy force here. The BJ/NEB forces’ mission was clear: get past the enemy fleet so that the transports and capital ships could jump to the future. As soon as that position was assured, the rest of the fleet would follow through. The enemy fleet, without their jumpdrives modified, could not hope to follow.

It was, however, between the Jihad forces and the Heaven’s Gate Anomaly.

"Here they come!"

"Keep it steady, people.. Hold your formation.."

"Kodiak and Monster crews, activate turret weaponry.."

"Don’t let them get through our line!"

"Steady.. Steady.."

"Entering weapons range! Break! Attack! Attack! Attack!"

Steel clashed with steel as the two forces collided, fourteen hundred Purple Alliance and Jihaddi fighters slashing through each other. Hundreds of swirling dogfights ensued instantly, coupled with the flares of exploding missiles, flashes of guns and turrets, and the fireballs representing destroyed ships.

As wing-scale attack groups on both sides hammered away at each other on the go-around, the hundred and fifty BJSF bombers held a tight formation, and with escort of about another two hundred Jihad fighters, they punched through the enemy line, driving onward towards the fleet. Dozens upon dozens of Alliance fighters pursued, but even more pushed onwards towards the nearest Jihad ships – the BJSF task force pushing on the attack.

The initial contact was brutal, with fifty-eight Jihad fighters and seven bombers lost within the first thirty seconds. The Alliance lost about eighty ships total, but had the advantage of numbers. Both sides wrought advantages in their attacks; the Jihad forces were split almost in half, with 350 pressing towards the Fleet and another 250 running interception towards the Alliance fighters and bombers which broke through.

Meanwhile, the Alliance focussed more on breaking through. Of the eight hundred fighters committed to the offensive, five hundred and ten broke through, with 170 more running space-superiority against the Jihad attack. Squadron after squadron of Jihad ships broke off from the attack to defend the Fleet from the overwhelming breakthrough as half the three hundred defensive fighters attempted to reach the cruiser screen for extra defense. As the opening engagements ended, with a sphere of dogfights over ten thousand kilometers wide blossoming from the epicenter of the fight, one hundred and sixty Jihad fighters were escorting one hundred and thirty-four Jihad bombers towards the enemy fleet. Their equivalents going the other way outnumbered them almost two to one.

Lieutenant Commander Rick Hawthorne, commander of the Battleaxe-class destroyer Boulder Field, was in the thick of the attack. As the majority of the Fleet moved ahead to strike the Alliance forces a hard blow before they could rally, the Alliance did the same thing with a gigantic attack wave of fighters. The primary mission of the thirty-two destroyers in the front line was a close-in escort and defense of the cruisers and battleships, which were geared towards offensive action.

"Blue Squadron Rel reporting to strike fleet!" a JF-18 pilot reported, "We cannot contain the enemy strike wave! Repeat, we cannot contain the enemy strike wave! Anticipate four hundred plus incoming bogies, repeat, four hundred pl –" the pilot was rudely interrupted, most likely by his death.

Hawthorne cursed. Four hundred fighters and bombers could possibly overwhelm even the large force they were pressed with attacking. Perhaps they could even break through the force to attack the transport fleet.

"All ships in forward task force, this is Admiral Davis." The BJSF commander’s voice was suddenly heard on the seventy-four Jihad ships pressing ahead. "Cruisers and battleships, fall behind the destroyer screen by two thousand kilometers. Destroyers, Defense Formation Phalanx. The Alliance craft will be going for the heavy ships; we can catch them in a crossfire. Good luck. Davis out."

Hawthorne nodded. Suicide against those numbers, probably, but it was sound doctrine. "Helm, execute the admiral’s orders," he said.

"Aye, sir," came the response. The thirty-two Battleaxes settled into a pair of four by four formations, one flotilla on top of the other, each ship separated from its nearest neighbor by five hundred kilometers. The crossfire the ships created would make a large region of space directly in the path of the incoming attack uninhabitable.

Almost three hundred heavy bombers, with about two hundred light, medium and heavy fighters as escort, bored onwards. Roughly half of the force followed the anticipated maneuvers, pulling up or down to pass over or under the destroyer screen instead of straight through. Those craft were as good as doomed, the crossfire of missiles and guns from sixteen destroyers per force turning space into a gigantic abattoir. Jihad fighters that had caught up with the force swirled madly, a half a dozen caught by friendly fire, as they pressed the strike harder, causing more losses. Of the two hundred and twenty ships to attempt to dodge the destroyers, sixty-seven made it through alive.

It was then that Hawthorne noticed the other half of the force. They had turned around, apparently to retreat. That was good enough; unexpended ordnance was fine when it was the enemy’s. As the commander was about to breathe a sigh of relief, however, the purple and green swarm, interlaced with blue Jihad fighters and explosions, turned towards the phalanx again. As the bombers bored directly towards the destroyer flotillas, ignoring anti-spacecraft fire, Hawthorne couldn’t take his eyes off the torpedoes gleaming evilly under their wings.

"Dammit!" Josh "Sixpack" Campbell swore as the ‘retreating’ Alliance fighters doubled around and turned back again. He cut in afterburners, accelerating to twice the standard dogfighting speed to catch up with the "Bear" heavy bombers. The ships were slow, practically built out of turrets, and heavily armed.

However, the people in them were absolute idiots.

Three squadrons of Stingrays totaling half a wing of fighters swarmed on one segment of the enemy force; twenty-four Bears escorted by medium and heavy fighters. There was no contest. Even before they reached the destroyer phalanx, all the craft were gone, only seven JF-11s lost to turrets.

"Pull together!" the major commanding the half-wing ordered, "We have to stop that attack!"

The Stingrays spun around again towards the enemy force. They were set upon by a pitiful twelve fighters; the rest had taken the concept of close escort too seriously and were practically glued to their protegees. "All the better," Campbell thought to himself as he loosed his remaining missile. Six seconds later, another Bear exploded in a ball of flame. Eighteen Stingrays broke off from the interceptor group, covering the remaining craft as they attempted to bring down the heavy bombers.

"It’s too late!" a pilot yelled over the intercom. At that moment, several dozen Bears unloaded their torpedoes at the same time, and a cone of fire spread out towards the Jihaddi destroyers. Point defense filled the skies, even anti-missile-missiles causing enemy kills, but dozens of torpedoes still made it through.

Space blossomed with giant fireballs as nine Battleaxes were struck with atomic weapons. Six didn’t have a chance, shattered by the multi-kiloton weapons, with the other three suffering heavy damage. Eighteen others were damaged to varying extents by shrapnel, ramming, friendly fire, and strafing runs by the fighter escorts.

"Dammit!" a dozen people shouted over the comm. Sixpack growled as he brought his fighter to bear upon one of the heavy bombers, ignoring three hard hits he took to his front shielding by a "Locust" light fighter which a wingman dispatched. He opened up with his turbolasers, destroying the bomber. He failed, however, to notice the mass driver turret on the bomber’s companion aimed towards his cockpit.

Damage to Campbell’s fighter was minimal, but the pilot himself never had a chance.

Paul "Lunchbag" Ferdinand bit into his string licorice as he pulled his JA-59 Monster gunboat into a loop, trying to avoid the Alliance gnat that had fallen in on his tail, the multi-tandem maneuvering jets on both sides of the Monster's giant diamond wing helping him pull off this maneuver. Unfortunately, the enemy fighter was smaller, and much more agile than his gunboat could ever hope to be.

"Keep it steady, Lunchbag," he heard over the tacnet. "I’m on ‘im." A Nova slipped in behind the Alliance fighter, and let loose with a volley of laser fire. The Alliance pilot panicked, and accidentally hit the afterburners, right into a rocket launched from Lunchbag’s rear turret. The Nova flew through the resulting fireball, and resumed his escort.

"Thanks, pal. I owe ya one."

Lunchbag bit off another piece of licorice, and targetted the nearest dreadnought. Out of the corners of his eyes, he saw two other Monsters come in alongside his, aiming for the same ship.

"Remember, people," Charlie’s commander said, "Aim for the IPCs!"

"Aye, Sir," Lunchbag responded as he launched his torpedoes.

"Preparing to release payload," Major Yuri Lidov reported to his fellows. Attack Wing Bravo was an imposing force within the greater strike, consisting of twelve JB-11s, fifteen JA-59 Monster gunboats, and another twenty-three JF-25 Starduster fighter/bombers. There were four more attack wings in the fighter strike, with a hundred and fifty fighters running escort.

A moment passed as the Lidov’s miniature fleet approached the Alliance task force. All hell was breaking loose around the forces the BJSF put forward. The major was in awe at the sheer size of the target fleet, and the volume of fire it was pouring out. Attack Wing Charlie was taking it the hardest, being set upon by a full wing of spongin fighters, leaving Bravo and Alpha relatively unharassed to deliver their ordnance while Delta delivered more AA fire to Charlie.

"Form up, Bravo," the colonel in charge of the group said, "You know your targets. Let loose on my mark." The fifty fighter/bombers and bombers split into eight wedge formations, each aiming towards one of the carriers in the enemy fleet. Crosshairs and data centered on one of the carriers, now only ten thousand kilometers away.

The force was right on the edge of the fleet. Dozens of cruisers and destroyers turned towards the fighter swarm and filled space with fire. Tens of thousands of rounds of mass-driven shot filled the air, taking out several Jihaddi craft every few seconds.

"Three.. Two.. One.. Mark!" Just then, Lidov got tone and fired his weapons. The attack strategy for the Kodiaks was simple – convince the rather poor-minded sponge gunners to target what appeared to be the biggest threat while ignoring the main weapons. As a result, each of the Kodiaks was armed with eight high-speed (but relatively weak) dumbfire rockets, fired slightly ahead of the larger, more lethal 315-kiloton Mk. VIII nuclear torpedoes.

Twenty-four Mk. VIIIs sped towards six of the carriers, four torpedoes from two Kodiaks aimed at each. The Stardusters, each laden down with a pair of relatively light 35-kiloton missiles, joined in, while the JA-59A Monsters bore inwards for a much more personal killing spree. The other three groups, to their own extents, were damaged, so they released lower numbers of missiles. As the Kodiaks banked back to run for some distance, the Stardusters immediately broke off for escort duties; half covering the Kodiaks, half waiting for the Monsters to come back.

A few moments after the bombers turned off, space blossomed with fire near the carriers. The sponge gunners were in fact fooled, and their point defense prioritized the dumbfire rockets first. The missiles, however, had less of a problem, and nuclear missile after nuclear missile struck amidst the carriers and their hapless escorts. Several ships were annihilated in the inferno.

The Kodiaks banked the rest of the way and pointed back towards the enemy fleet.

"The next part in our attack is simple, people," the colonel said. "The Kodiaks have the biggest guns of our bombers; we aren’t letting the charge we’ve got go to waste. Every man for himself, but try to get the job d—" A hiss of static interrupted the colonel. A blue blip – another one, that is – vanished from Lidov’s screens. "Bozhemoi," the major said, shaking his head. "This is too thick for me." Even as he said that, he aimed his bomber towards an Alliance heavy cruiser.

The Kodiak carried an exceptional missile armament, but didn’t have enough combat endurance with just the ammo-based weapons to hang around long. That’s why they had a secondary weapon – a capital-ship-caliber laser cannon with enough energy for twenty charges.

The JB-11 fired, and one thirtieth of a second later, a forty-five centimeter, extreme-high-frequency laser blast slammed through an Alliance cruiser. Armor slagged, air superheated, bodies crumpled as the gamma-ray laser wrought its effects on the target, passing clear through without so much as a total impaling. The cruiser leaked air through the twelve-centimeter gap in its armor.

Lidov’s craft fired again, this time in sync with two other Kodiaks who chose his target. After the tenth shot, the cruiser began staggering; it appeared one of its engines was disabled with a laser blast. The JB-11s continued firing, and one suddenly got lucky, striking the cruiser’s deuterium fuel tank. The ship vaporized in a tremendous explosion that dimmed the stars.

"Yes!" one of the Kodiaks shouted. "Let’s get back to the Pasiphae before we run out of luck."

"Sounds good to me," Lidov said. His Kodiak swung back towards the Jihad fleet, the turrets on his bomber spraying fire at any fighters that got within range. As the three bombers began running towards the Fleet under the cover of Jihad fighters – who were still barely holding space superiority in the face of overwhelming numbers – an Alliance destroyer passed directly in front of them, turrets swiveling to track the JB-11s.

"Oh, shit!" Lidov said. He snapshot his last heavy laser charge at the destroyer, slagging one of its anti-fighter turrets, as he dove to try and pass beneath it in time. One of his newfound wingmen joined him; the other wasn’t so lucky, struck by a spray of mass-driver shot that crushed and shredded the bomber at the same time. As the two surviving bombers raced to get away from their pursuer, a large red bolt travelling at a stunning speed shot across space from the Jihad fleet.

"That’s a plasma cannon!" Lidov’s rear-upper gunner said in surprise. "The Fleet’s here!"

A second, third, and fourth bolt tore through space and struck the destroyer. These had a much more noticeable effect than the Kodiak’s lasers, slamming into the destroyer with a physical impact. Explosions erupted along the small ship’s hull as the plasma actually ignited the metal, sending sun-hot waves of superheated air down and up corridors. The ship’s lights flickered once, then died. Smaller explosions erupted across the hull as mass-driven shot – tachyon drivers, by the looks of it – tore into the ship at unbelievable speeds.

Lidov looked towards where the Fleet was coming from. A blip representing the BJSS Arachidna opened up with its plasma cannons again.

BJSS Dragonclaw
On Attack Approach

The madness of the largest space battle since Phoenix roiled the vacuum of space around the 11 BJSF Phoenix-class corvettes formed up for an attack approach. The Dragonclaw was at the front of the formation of ships, which was screaming towards the Alliance fleet at two thousand kilometers per second. The Phoenix corvettes were designed with this kind of mission in mind – that is, fast, hard attack runs against the enemy fleets. The ships sacrificed most defensive options such as thicker armor or point defense for the ability to deliver tremendous damage in a quick attack run. The upcoming attack was what these nimble warships were built for.

The Phoenixes were assembled in line abreast formation as they passed the fighter engagements between the two fleets. Alliance fighters that attempted to pursue the corvettes soon found the folly of their ways, as even their agile fighters were outpaced by the corvettes, which were accelerating for the entire trip over. The Alliance fleet loomed on their screens.

"All Phoenixes, prepare for shield discharge," the Dragonclaw’s captain ordered. "Target the center dreadnought and begin firing sequence at fifty thousand kilometers. Good luck to you all."

The eleven ships accelerated further, and were at 2500 kilometers per second as they passed 50,000 kilometers. As one, the force of ships began to glow as they transferred all available energy to shields. When they got close enough, the corvettes would basically throw their shields at the Alliance dreadnought just now noticing their presence. Several dozen plasma cannon started whipping through and around the space near the corvettes almost as chaff. Most missed. One didn’t.

The Dragonclaw was the unlucky victim. Being at the front of the fire and in the midst of the enemy fleet by this point, she was taking fire from many directions at once. Jinking up slightly to avoid a fusillade of missiles from an Alliance cruiser, the corvette presented its engines – beneath much more unstable shields – to a plasma cannon blast.

The crew inside was thrown around by the sudden impact directly underneath their command center. When crew returned to their posts, the helm officer realized that the ship’s engines were all but ruined – the ship could only maneuver the slightest bit.

As the Dragonclaw spun slowly, trying to right herself, the other ten ships passed ahead and discharged their shields at ten thousand clicks. Ten gigantic blasts of energy left the corvettes to slam into the carrier at the same time, tearing house-sized chunks out of the superstructure, armor, and interior. Despite massive damage over the majority of the ship, it still continued to fight. One of its main weapons – a gigantic IPC like those mounted on the BJSF Ganymedes – charged and discharged. A huge white beam crossed space, hitting the BJSS Dyoginys. The relatively small cruiser didn’t have a chance, simply annihilated instantly by the blast, taking twelve hundred people with her.

All this happened in two seconds.

In the next second, the Dragonclaw managed to right herself. The commander realized that there was no chance to get out of the way. He made one small adjustment to the navigation, nudging the ship just so. Then, the commander sighed, made the sign of the Cross over his chest, and closed his eyes.

The BJSS Dragonclaw collided amidships on the Alliance dreadnought at twenty-seven hundred kilometers per second.