The Siege Against Tolkeen

Hubert Possman stood in front of some of the most powerful men in North America, feeling like a jerk and itching like crazy. The formal dress uniforms were made out of a slick, soft, very unnatural fabric that Possman believed he was allergic to. The ranger avoided wearing the itchy inorganic clothing whenever possible, but this time it could not be helped. One did not show up before the regional commanders wearing combat fatigues.

There were hot lights in the room and he was nervous anyway, so Possman began to sweat like a hog, making him sticky and itchy and smelly. He tried his damndest not to scratch, and hoped that he was keeping a straight enough face.

"Who gave you this disc?" asked an elderly, very bald field commander. "How did you get it?"

"While I was tracking down a group of enemy drones, I was approached by a young woman in combat armor, who claimed to be a member of a terrorist movement in Tolkeen. I think maybe she was a Juicer, since her reflexes and strength seemed to be very much above average."

"Hold on," said a younger officer. "You encountered a Juicer engaged in terrorist activities, and made no attempts to arrest or neutralize her."

Possman swallowed hard. He was really getting nervous. Stay respectful, he reminded himself. These guys can get you digging latrines.

"With all due respect, sir, that would have been suicidal," he replied. "While I could have attacked the woman, that would have alerted the enemy to my presence, ruining the ambush and endangering my life. Furthermore, I do not believe that the woman was a danger to the Coalition or humanity at large. She claimed that her group was pro-CS."

"Leave the predictions to the psychics," muttered the young officer, obviously angered.

"He's right, Philip," said an intelligence officer coldly. The woman was a psi-stalker. She was inhumanly pale, like a vampire, and had the large, slightly pointed teeth to back it up. She had absolutely no hair on her head, but tried to cover that up with a beret and sunglasses. "Rangers are typically issued laser weapons, which make a slight but clearly audible cracking noise when discharged. He would have alerted the enemy to his presence, ruining a perfectly good ambush."

The young officer snorted, but did not say anything. He seemed to be rather intimidated by the woman.

"Have you ever heard of Jack Perrin?" asked the elderly commander, who was staring thoughtfully at the CD, gazing at his reflection rather mournfully.

"Yes, sir," said Possman. "He was the subject of the Emperor's deployment speech. A scout pilot, I believe, who was shot down over Tolkeen."

"That is correct, Mr. Possman," said the old man, putting the CD down. "We thought that he was dead. But this message is from him. The computers have already confirmed that it's his voice pattern, and the voice stress test says that he wasn't lying."

Possman wanted to ask what Perrin had said on the mysterious disc, but didn't. Snooping around in classified matters was a great way to get a dishonorable discharge.

"You understand, of course, that this is all highly classified," said the old man, clearing his throat. "Anyway, Perrin says that in Grand Alamar, the sorcerers have created a super-weapon of enormous power, easily the equivalent of a class 10 nuclear warhead. Fortunately, he also has given us the coordinates for the weapon, so that we can destroy it."

"Uh, sir, why am I being told this?"

The intelligence officer crossed her arms casually, and began to speak. "We want to get Perrin out of there," she said. "He's a valuable resource, and a national hero. We owe it to him to pull an emergency evac. But we can't usually get rescue teams into Tolkeen. The best that we can usually send in at a time is a single covert operative."

Possman began to perspire even more. He had a terrible feeling that he knew where this was going, and didn't like it one bit.

"In three days, we are going to send you into Grand Alamar. You'll have a week to find or possibly rescue Perrin. At the end of that time, an air assault will be launched, with the dual purposes of destroying the super weapon and evacuating you and Perrin. An escorted vehicle will appear at coordinates 2:04:Bravo, and will remain there for 3 minutes. If you and Perrin do not show up during that time, it will depart."

"Why send me, ma'am?" asked Possman, unable to hide his feeling any longer. "I know the woods around Tolkeen, but I don't have a frigging clue about what those damned cities are like! There are plenty of special ops boys more qualified than me for this mission."

"Negative, soldier," she said, smiling ever so slightly to reveal those awful, sharp teeth. She lifted up a folder with Possman's name printed on it. "In your performance exams, you scored very highly on urban combat, search-and-destroy, and stealth operations, all qualities that will be valuable in this mission. And of course, you'll be given a complete briefing beforehand."

"What kind of equipment will I be issued?" asked Possman. "I don't want to be in enemy lines without adequate survival gear."

"You'll get standard issue equipment for spies," she said, rather coldly. "Most armors and weapons are illegal in Tolkeen, and would draw unwanted attention to you. You'll have Triax brand plain clothes armor, a laser sidearm, an automatic pistol, some light surveillance equipment, and costumes and clothing befitting a common citizen of Tolkeen."

Possman didn't like it one bit, but orders were orders. "Very well," he finally said. "Is that all?"

"Dismissed," said the old man, with a wave of his hand. A very much relieved Possman fled the room, at a speed very close to running.

Miles away, High Council member Tral Melenee, the recently accepted elf, jogged through the crowded parking lot to his prized hovercar. He personally had performed its techno-wizard conversion, and had been souping it up ever since. He finally got to the red hovercar, opened the door, and took a seat on the comfortable rhino buffalo-leather seats. Comforted to be back in his baby, he turned the ignition, and shot off through the parking lot at the highest safe speed.

Just then he spotted that the gate into the lot was closed. The guard was standing outside of his booth, checking the ID cards of a motorist. Finally, he nodded, gave the man his wallet back, and opened the gate so that the man could drive away. Melenee, curious what the fuss was about, slowed his car down to a crawl, and then stopped completely at the gate.

It was night out and Melenee was wearing sunglasses, so his vision was a little clouded. He had never known the guard so well, so he didn't notice that there was a different person in the guard's red Plastic-Man armor. And he wasn't at the right angle to see the bloody slashes in the back of the armor.

"Hello," Melenee said politely. "What's wrong, officer? You never checked outgoing IDs before."

The guard said, very nonchalantly, "Well, sir, there's been some talk of spies recently. Any precaution needed to secure our freedom is necessary. In fact, every precaution, no matter how extreme, must be taken for the good of our liberty."

Melenee shrugged, and handed his wallet to the guard. Patriotic babbling like that had become much more prevalent since the start of the war.

"You're a member of the High Council, sir?" the guard asked, looking at the identity papers and cards in the elf's wallet.

"Yes, can I please get on my way now?" Melenee said, getting a little impatient. He reached into a pocket of his robe, and began searching for a cigarette.

"The High Council is an abomination," the guard said.

"What?" said Melenee, looking up. He heard a high-pitched hum, and then a vibro-blade cut through the side of his head and sunk into his brain. He died instantly, slumping over onto the wheel. The guard grabbed the corpse by the neck, and stabbed it a few more times for good measure, just to make sure.

The man then walked back into the closet-sized guard booth, trampling the bloody body of the D-Bee guard. He took off the armor, tossing it down on the floor, put on a motorcycle helmet to cover his face and head, and then began to leave. Suddenly, he heard a slight buzzing from above him.

Turning, the killer saw a small eyeball mounted on a tripod, hanging from the ceiling. It followed his every motion, staring at him unblinkingly. "What an unnatural machine," he remarked, popping it off of the ceiling with his knife. Then, just to make sure, the killer stepped on the thing, mashing the mystic eye into paste. That done, he left, wiping his bloody boot on the pavement to get the gore off of it.

Next Chapter

By David Haendler.

Copyright © 1996, 1997, 1998 David Haendler. All Rights Reserved.