A Beast Who’s Lost His Place “There’s nothing more dangerous than a beast who’s lost his place.” Ban-Dai Visual(Sunrise Sotsu Agency),”The Real Folk Blues, Pt. 2,” from the animé series Cowboy Bebop 20 JANUARY, 2226 12:01:27 TAI “I, Cynthia Louise McKinley,” the treacherous bitch daring to call itself Chief Justice of His Supreme Court said to His fucking Gilda, that black bitch repeating the words, her filthy hand defiling a copy of His Word, the so-called fucking Chief Justice then going on to say,”Do solemnly swear.” “Do solemnly swear,” the little bitch parroted. “That,” the traitor swearing her in said,” I shall faithfully execute all the duties and responsibilities of the office of the Governor of the Republican Union of—“ “Goddamnit,” Guy Thomas Zellner, Governor of the Union, shrieked at the HV,”I’m your Governor, I am your motherfuckin’—“ “—Governor,” fucking Gilda told him back,”of the Republican Union of Terranova.” “To faithfully uphold, defend and execute the Terranovan Articles of Union—” that bastard so- called fucking Chief Justice had balls to say, his Governor screaming,”goddamnit, I said those were null and void, null and v—“ “—and,” that miserable, troublemaking litle black piece of fucking pootie repeated,”the Official Code of Terranova, to the best of my abilities, so help me G—“ “So help you God is right!” her Governor screamed, getting in the face of the HV projector now a million fucking pieces burning holes in the Grade One Axeminster, His California-Winchester M2149 rail pistol smoking, blistering the hand that held it, the Governor of the Union, the He who was over all others not noticing a damn thing, shouting into the dead air,”so help you God is right, bitch!” the foam on His lip cooling as it evaporated. “Guy?!” His man whined and puled like his little whore of a fucking sister. “Guy?!” Matthew repeated, still not acting like a fucking man was supposed to, all His efforts at training him fucking going to waste, same as always. “Guy?!” Matthew said, in an even bitchier, whinier tone, as his Governor turned and looked down upon him, His body trembling, jaw clenching in frustration. “Guy, are you aaaaahhhhhhhhhhahahahahhhhhhhaaaaaaaaa!” “For all you motherfuckers!” the Governor of the Union repeated, His Capitol carrying out His command without hesitation, the He who was over all others stomping the twitching, flailing body of His little bitch onto his back. His Lord smiling, as He looked down upon him. 20 JANUARY, 2226 13:00:00 TAI They’d sworn in a new Governor, but the fighting was so far from over it wasn’t even funny. Lieutenant Coloniel Carson Selkirk led his Commonwealth Forces Intelligence Arm field reconnaisance team deeper behind enemy lines, his second, 1st Lieutenant Meghan Polk, bringing up the rear, the other eight women under his command, and the Mid reporter who’d been with him through the worst of three decades’ worth of war and false peace between them, all of them cautiously making their way through woods running parallel to Intercounty Highway 75 as it headed south towards Metter, the team already within sight of the bridge indicating the first of the city’s three exits on the intercounty. The access ramps to Terranova Highway 121 were locked down tight, no ground vehicles on any of IC 75’s twenty lanes, a column of DNSB Teüfelhund Schwerpanzers, bristling with armament, thundering the wrong way down the southbound lanes at well over Mach times three and a quarter, the eleven of them hunkering down behind trees, peeking out, knowing that those trees wouldn’t do them a fucking bit of good if those gay Nazi ass pirates had actually spotted them…. They hadn’t, Carson turning his attention back to the access ramps, their blocking fields up and running at full strength, hastily-erected and heavily-armed checkpoints set up behind them, a pair of tanks —Sakuran Type 824s—sitting behind each of the checkpoints Carson was facing, ready to hose anyone who’d gotten that far. The polynoculars built into his suit zoomed in on 121 itself…ground traffic moved, but not at all your typical Friday afternoon post-lunch hour rush, especially with a Sam & Bill’s girdling both sides of the highway near the northbound on ramp and a somewhat smaller South Candler Mall sprawling across both sides of the street near the southbound exit ramp…too many of the groundcars he was seeing bristled with 90-millimeter railguns and 25 mm Gatling railers grafted on to them, these trolling the highway like cops, except they weren’t, the National Police having been formally disbanded immediately following last month’s recall election. Citizen’s volunteer militia, backed up by Ranger Light Infantry and Reggie pissboys in combat sleds and Meat Wagon armored personnel carriers, there to make damn skippy the slobs in the unarmed ground vehicles went about the business which required them to be on the road in the first place and not do anything construed as treasonous towards their Governor; otherwise…. He trailed off, thinking about their situation instead of visualizing even their enemies being jazzed by the neural servos they’d willingly had implanted into their medulla oblongatas a month ago…their cover extended only to the back of the MegaCenter; from there, it was urban sprawl all the goddamn way down to Unionsboro—that was where they had to be—they might as well be as naked as a bunch of freakin’ Topaz for all the good that cover would do them…even with Zellner’s restrictions on civilian travel, especially on shopping, there were still way too many people out there for his liking. “Not good,” Jay Todman said over his link, the Mid reporter standing shoulder to shoulder with his old friend. “Smokes some fat bone, I tell you what,” Carson replied. “I love these missions where we have to paint big fucking bullseyes on our backs,” he added,”and with flourescent paint too.” He sighed, the sigh feeling tighter in his chest than it should, Carson not wanting to think about what that meant, instead telling Jay the very obvious. “But, we got to get to Unionsboro, somehow.” “You think the back of that Wal-Mart’s being trolled?” That was Meghan now, thinking what he was thinking, trying to come up with some fresh ideas, that being part of any good second’s job…she was just seventeen, having compressed two years’ worth of Academy into one, wanting to get her butt out here to serve her Commonwealth as quickly as possible…. That had him thinking about how old he’d been when command of his old team had fallen to him during the J-War. Which had him just as quickly wanting to think about something else. Anything else. Even their current predicament. “It’s a safe bet, Leftenant,” Carson replied,”equally a safe bet their one-tens ain’t the ones doing the trolling, you’d never catch any Wal-Mart employee outside the store except the cart pushers.” “Knowing Wal-Mart,” Jay commented,”they probably got them armed, dangerous and skulking about in the back.” “Yeah,” Carson replied,”all one of ‘em, along with about a good two, three dozen Microsoft Security icewarriors and a tac unit or three of Mountaindickhead colonial deps, maybe some citizen’s volunteer militia thrown into the mix…League regulars’ll be in the store or out front, I’d reckon on about one or two companies’ worth on this side alone.” “Five hundred meters,” Meghan observed,”of woods between them and us.” “And,” she added,”no way to go but through.” Nodding his head, Carson led the way, his Browning M3 assault railer at the ready. 20 JANUARY, 2226 13:18:47 TAI Saturday had been the twentieth anniversary of the attack on Bearclaw Station. Naturally, the Movie Board had gone out of its way glorifying the “great League victory against the forces of Babylon the Great,” as See BS’ Harrold Osgoode had put it in the ‘cast of the Saturday Early Morning Show devoted exclusively to the destruction of an unarmed terraforming station, the eventual slaughter of 3,500 of its ten thousand personnel and the nine years’ of bloody, brutal, unrelenting war which had followed on the heels of that “great victory.” Osgoode and the three women forced by men’s fists and men’s pricks to be his mouthpieces had interviewed Yanker and Mountaindick spacers who’d been there—including her alcoholic bastard father and the commander of the League Mobile Force—their memories being a bit hazy owing to two decades of opportunity to recreate the “battle” in their image, grafting guns and shielding onto the first of the Middies’ permanent terraforming stations, increasing the number of Commonwealth Forces warbirds present at said combat by a factor of ten, twelve and a half or even twenty or thirty thousand, depending on which of those veterans was recalling his part in carrying out the twenty-third century‘s 9/11. Hell, the His Story Channel’s infinity of shows dedicated to telling tales of masculine derring-do set during 9YW and all the wars before it had its army of experts pinning down the number of Commonwealth and Midnight Sun machines at no less than five divisions apiece, along with ten or twelve armies of ground forces which had been sent to Big Sky to force its “loyal Mountaindove citizens” to obey the will of “offworld dyke feminist troublemakers.” Lord knows, the History Channel never lies.