Six months pass, and the prodigal returns once more. . .

"So, what do you think they're doing?" Quinn asked.

"Who do you mean?"

"The Krynn, of course." Lieutenant O'Malley said, tapping a finger lightly over the big red button on his console. "Damn strange way to fight a war. Declare war on everyone, then spend the next six months doing absolutely nothing?"

"Maybe they realized they made a mistake," Vashti mused.

"Then why don't they surrender? I'm telling ya, something weird's going on. . ."

"Cut the chatter. Blood in the water," Captain Keller said, looking up from her scopes. "Quinn, get me a ping."

"Pinging. . . got it," O'Malley said. "Looks like a Class Nine Transport. Flying Arcean colors."

"Fair game. Give me a firing solution."

"Got it. . . inputting now. . . missiles primed and locked."

"Fire."

"Fish in the water."

"Take us out of here," Keller said, folding away her scope and stretching out.

TAS Birmingham silently drifting away from the cover of its asteroid, the stealthed missiles it had fired slowly drifting towards the unsuspecting transport vessel. "What do you suppose they were carrying?" O'Malley wondered.

"Weapons. . . food. . . supplies. Maybe VIPs. Damn, I hope it's carrying VIPs," Vashti said bitterly. "Give them a taste of their own medicine."

* * *

Bradley rubbed a hand over the stubble on his chin. The man in the mirror was a far cry from the vibrant, energetic man who had gone to Piers six months ago. He looked tired, withered. . . old. And he felt older.

In the wake of the disastrous conference at Piers, the full extent of the Arcean plot had been revealed. Out of the dozens of heads of state who had arrived at the asteroid, only five had left alive: Ynrhed Eidden of the Krynn, Alan Bradley of Earth, Lord Vega of Arcea, Elys Mue of Altaria, and Kralax of Korx. The I-League, its entire leadership decimated, had been easy pickings, the Arcean warships trampling over the remnants of the independent worlds with ease. Altaria, still reeling from the effects of the long war, had fallen to the Arcean warships as well: once again, Elys Mue found herself the head of a desperate resistance movement, against a new foe this time. The Krynn had simply disappeared, retreating to their core worlds and destroying any ship that came too close. As for the Korx. . . well, the Korx were the Korx. Damn bastards were probably figuring out some way to make a profit from this whole mess.

A soft chime rang on the intercom. The world-weary face of Victor Prakash, wearing a humorous necktie depicting bunnies and eggs, appeared on the screen. "Mister President," Victor said, "the ambassador will be arriving shortly."

"I'll meet him in the conference room. Any other items?"

"Just one. The National Planetary Society has finished surveying the Krynn Seven worlds. They have detected no traces of any threats, biological, mimetic, nanotechnological, or radiological. They have, in fact, declared them safe for colonization. With your permission. . ."

"Check them again!" Bradley snapped. "The Krynn MUST have something up their sleeves! No one sets a foot on one of those planets until we find it!"

"With all due respect, Mister President," Victor said quietly, "The refugee situation is getting untenable. We need a place to put them all."

"We're not going to put them in the middle of a Krynn deathtrap! No one goes in there unless. . . no, no, you're right, we need to. . ." Bradley sighed and rubbed his forehead. "Star Force Corps of Engineers goes in first. If they find anything odd, stop the colonization immediately. Was there anything else?"

"Just one more thing. Dr. Clef has finished his analysis of the Krynn Data Packet. It looks clean."

"He's certain? I was sure at least that would be tainted. . ." Bradley shook his head. "Victor, am I to believe that the Krynn just up and gave us seven planets, a lifetime's worth of data, and then declared war on us? Why the hell would they do that?"

"Perhaps to make it a fair fight?"

"Ha! Sportsmanship to a Krynn is that they'll stab you in the front instead of the back."

"And where do you intend to stab them, Mister President?" Victor asked somberly.

"Anywhere I can," Bradley admitted. He glanced down at his watch. Showtime. "I'm meeting with the ambassador now. Keep me informed."

He closed the channel and walked into the conference room. Outside the striking wall-to-ceiling windows, he could see the dull grey shuttlecraft with the insignia of the Korath Clan approaching the space station.

"Now let's see if I can make a deal with the devil to save Heaven," Bradley muttered.

Back again! Hope we won't have to wait six months for the next chapter ... 'cause I can't wait for the next one!

Welcome back Themocaw!

Sentient species taste better...

aaaaaaaannnnnnnnndddddddd...............Hes gone again

I take it he's gone lol.

Only on this forum do people take the time to write up good stories without endings for no apparent reason.

Not I!

Dear whoever it was who stocked Galactic Civilizations II: Ultimate Edition in that one shelf at Fry's where it would be right there at eye level as I was walking back from buying a new hard drive to replace my old broken one: thanks a lot, buddy. My free time has a few words with you, as does my sleeping time.

There was little honor in slaughter, Centurion Naga knew, but it was satisfying nonetheless, in a primal, bestial sense, rather like the hungers that came with the onset of reproductive impulse. Warriors, by necessity, learned to sublimate such desires, often through violence: he sometimes wondered whether the Altarians being butchered by the thousands knew that.

He stepped over the slain body of an Altarian male burned to death by plasma fire, and walked through the rubble of the bombarded city, his gold-and-green powered armor suit whirring softly as the servomotors enhanced his already powerful musculature. Up ahead, he could see a swarm of dropships, each carrying over a thousand trained soldiers, descending from orbit like meteors, the interdiction fire of the fighters meeting the rising streaks of plasma from anti-space batteries, the false dawn of the scarlet energy illuminating the broken spires of the Altarian city.

"Centurion." A young warrior approached, his hand held across his chest in a ceremonial salute: Decarion Jarag, his adjutant. "First Talon has finished sweeping the caves to the East. They report no casualties, and the sector is secure. They also brought you something you should see."

"Very well, then. Order Second and Third Talons to continue the sweep. Continue to close into the capital. I want that city in Arcean hands by the next sundown. Carry on."

The field command center had been set up in what, his aides told him, had once been an Altarian gymnasium for children. The high ceilings and broad open spaces were well suited for Arcean physiology, more so than the cramped, low ceilings that the lesser races preferred. A massive, low-slung, beetle-like armored vehicle lay in a scorched field of grass, its engine taken apart, the plasma inductor coils being repaired by a laconic-looking repair team. A platoon of warriors rested on the hillside, chewing on field rations and polishing their weaponry. A trio of Altarian prisoners knelt in the center of a circle of warriors: one of them was calling out to his comrades, taking bets on how long they would last in a fight against a single warrior. Odds were against the prisoners.

He stepped into the makeshift prison cell, once a storage facility for athletic equipment, and smiled. "Well," he said, his scaled, green face twisting into a haughty grin. "This is truly interesting."

The Altarian woman was battered, bruised, and bloody, and she wore a black body suit that fitted too tightly, revealing the disgusting contours of her dwarfish, fleshling body. A bright blue glowing tattoo was on her right temple, and a badge in the shape of a silver dagger was emblazoned on her left shoulder. "It is good to see you again," Centurion Naga said. "Although I may not fully understand the concept that you call 'irony,' I can certainly recognize it when I see it."

"She was armed with this," the guard said, handing over a curved dagger. "So were her friends. They slew three warriors before we could react, then they fell back into the tunnels. Every attempt to fight them in those tunnels failed. . . they used their damned sorceries against us. In the end, we had to bring in a heavy artillery piece and collapse the tunnels. She was the only survivor."

"Why was she allowed to keep her equipment?" Centurion Naga asked.

"She has no concealed weaponry," the guard pointed out. He indicated the woman's close-fitting garment.

"She is Altarian, you idiot. Her clothing itself could be a weapon, for all we know. Their damned sorcerers work with invisible machines and molecular-level weapons. Have her stunned, then take away the garment and replace it with a frock. While you're at it, have her swept by a surgeon for hidden internals. Then put her in restraints and have her sent for interrogation."

"This seems like too much trouble for one weakling. Why not have her killed?"

Centurion Naga glowered at the young guard. "On the day that you understand the difference between a weakling and a warrior, you will find an answer to that question."

"Apologies, Centurion." The guard lowered his head in supplication.

"Carry on." Centurion Naga turned to the Altarian prisoner, who had said nothing throughout the whole conversation. "Please enjoy your stay as our guest, Field Commander," Naga said, mockingly. "After all, we're all friends now, aren't we?"

Field Commander Saya La'ir replied by spitting into Centurion Naga's face. The Centurion admitted that her accuracy was fairly impressive.

Awesome. Now please dont take so long to put up another freaking chapter again.