MAG.E 6/MAG.E 6 (Disk 1 of 2).adf/Sci_Fi/15/15

Text File | 1977-12-31 | 56KB | 1,040 lines

@3Kevin Murphy                                                  May 1993
@1
In an infinite universe, mankind spread his seed among the stars.
They sought out space to breed, planets to mine, knowledge to
discover, and maybe, just maybe, the chance of meeting alien life.
Soon, they began to wish they'd stayed at home.
In an infinite universe, the chance of meeting another individual
whose fate you share, is infitismal.
Fate tosses the dice...


  @2                          Aliens : Fury
@1
                         01 >>> The Hatching

Clemens watched from behind the half closed storm shutters of Andrews'
office as the giant clenched fist of metal slowly began to break free
of the planet's 0.92 G's and put more distance between the ground and
itself, spewing burning white tendrils of flame from it's acre-wide
rockets as it did so.
   The passive, shaven headed face barely squinted against the light
of the steadily rising supply ship's thrusters, which sprayed heat in
waves across the landing pad, toasting a couple of wooden ox-carts
which had been forgotten nearby.
   In moments the massive craft was gone, and with it the penultimate
load of prisoners and equipment that would see their next dawn on
another planet, in another prison, another leadworks. Weyland-Y had
decided, in their infinite wisdom, to make the facility on Fiorina 161
redundant, to relocate the inmates to a cleaner, safer and more secure
holding elsewhere.
   The final trip was due to take place the next day, Clemens, the
staff and the fifty-three remaining convicts were to be shipped out to
another part of the galaxy.
   Clemens turned to Andrews, and took another sip of his tea.
   "The next ship leaves tomorrow." Andrews informed him, reclining in
his executive chair, "And whispers are that a certain disruptive
element within the prison may be planning a rather daring escape for
when it lands."
   "Interesting rumour." commented Clemens, "And one which I myself
have heard. But what of it? Those prisoners couldn't organise an orgy
in a brothel, excuse my analogy."
   "Well I can't let the break-out go ahead, I need your help to stop
it."
   "Me?"
   "You, my dear fellow, are the closest of my staff to the
prisoners."
   "I beg you pardon?"
   "I don't trust that idiot Aaron," snapped Andrews, "And now that
Shepherd and Hajim have left you are my best source of reliable
information. I want you to poke around and find out what you can, I
need to know whether it will be necessary to organise a military
presence with the next ship."
   Clemens strolled over to the desk and sat opposite Andrews. "I'm no
spy." he stated simply.
   "You're the nearest I've got, and unless you want me to recommend
the company review your contract you better damn well do as you're
told."
   "I didn't say I wouldn't," Clemens defended, meeting the older
man's gaze, "It's just I would be taking an awful risk, for a med-
tech. The prisoners could get violent if they think I am poking my
nose in where it doesn't belong."
   "Should you discover evidence leading to the suppressing of the
escape attempt it will be forwarded to the company in my final report.
You may even receive commendations."
   Clemens stood up and placed the tea on the desk before him. "I'll
think about," he said.

The prisoners had always favoured the showers as a meeting place. Men
coming in from scavenging trips in the tunnels or duties in the
leadworks tended to gather there before lock-up. Amid the thundering
of antiseptic water and behind the flimsy plastic curtains the
convicts could indulge in a little private communicating without the
ever-present Andrews or one of his deputies sticking an ear where it
wasn't wanted.
   Prisoner William discarded the towel from around his spare-tyre
belly and pushed the curtain along it's runners to seal himself in the
communal shower. Before him stood three other prisoners, all clothed,
dry and looking like men who are feeling more than a little arrogant.
The largest, central figure, the heavily built Afro-American ex-merc
Reynolds was standing with his right hand on his hip. The other arm
was as equally muscled, but was hanging limply by his side, almost as
if it were dead.
   Anyone meeting him for the first time may have regarded this as
strange, but William, along with every other prisoner on the colony,
knew the burly convict's history. The left arm was artificial,
cybernetic, fitted after a gruesome defeat, and possessed strengths
and agilities far superior to conventional biological transplants.
   Unfortunately, as a prisoner, Reynolds was forbidden his mechanical
member although, to cut the cost of a potentially expensive
amputation, the Company had merely de-activated the limb's nuclear
battery to render it useless. This, understandably, pissed Reynolds
off, and he had added three years for manslaughter to his sentence
before he had even landed on Fury, when a prison ship warder made a
crack about the flimsy piece of hardware.
   Reynolds was hedged by two less awesome, but nevertheless nasty,
prisoners. Hal - nine years, second degree murder - and Cotton - life,
for serial rape.
   "Oh, guys," William said in his deep, throaty voice, "Didn't see
you there."
   "You in?" Reynolds snarled.
   "In ..? In what?" William was not very convincing at playing
ignorant.
   "You must've heard." Cotton said incredulously, "Every fucker apart
from Andrews knows about the break-out."
   Several feet away, behind a water heater, Clemens grinned.
   "Oh, right, the break-out." William frowned, "Well, I don't know,
y'know ..."
   "Well, perhaps I can persuade you?" Reynolds grinned humourlessly,
his cyber-implant suddenly snapping up and grabbing William by the
fleshy neck.
   ".. the fuck!" gagged William, "It's working."
   "Yeah," Reynolds made William grimace with a burst of his breath at
close range through yellow teeth, "Friend of mine on the last supply
ship fixed me up, fixed me up good."
   "No shit," choked William, "Hey, man, I'm in, like, yer know."
   "Good." William collapsed to the floor as the grip was released,
"You make thirty-three. I'll be round to tell you your part of the
operation, soon. Real soon."
   "Kay, boss." William grabbed his towel and shuffled out, suddenly
feeling he didn't really need a shower.
   Clemens waited until he had gone before leaving himself.
   Reynolds watched the med exit with a fanged grin.

After he had made his report to Andrews, Clemens found his way back to
his new quarters in the infirmary and discovered was unusually
nervous. A heavy adrenal prescence in his blood flow made his mind
race as he contemplated the details of what he had heard.
   So, Reynolds's arm was working, that should tip the balance
slightly. Clemens felt a small worry that, should his part in the
uncovering of the plot come to light, those chrome fingers might be
used on his own throat.
   Clemens may have appeared cool and collected in company, alone he
was strangely anxious.
   His eyes darted instinctively to the medicine cabinet, then he
dropped them in shame. A small clear bottle of liquid within winked
light from the overheads back at Clemens.
   Without looking, Clemens could see it, third shelf up, twelth
bottle along, an odourless mixture of two parts muscle relaxant, one
part micro-surgery anaesthetic and one part illegal hallucinogenic,
confiscated from a prisoner by the previous medtech who had resided
here.
   A tightening claw of yearning seized his gut, his conscience
gripped by a struggle of morality.
   Within moments of the desire, welling in Clemens's body, he was at
the cabinet, fumbling with the lock. The door swung open and the now
panicky medic grabbed at the bottle. Desperate to fill his veins with
the warm nirvana of the drug.
   The bottle fell from his shaking fingers and shattered on the
floor, leaving a stream of the manufactured narcotic to run down the
gaps between the tiles.
   Clemens whimpered as he watched his dependancy trickle away. A few
tears of unnecessary emotion formed in his eyes.
   Desperately trying to steady himself, Clemens wandered to a bed and
knocked back a couple of Quik-Doze sleepers with a glass of misty
water.

It was six-thirty the next morning and fifteen or so prisoners were
gathered in the assembly hall, fists raised aloft to the sky, mouths
chanting a prayer, unintelligable amid the cocktail of accents and
dialects.
   "Until the day." the prayer concluded.
   The formidable figure of Dillon boomed a solid "Amen" and the
prisoners echoed his cry.
   As the convicts began to break up and wander their seperate ways,
the solitary entrance to the multi-leveled chamber groaned open and a
bustle of armed prisoners began pouring in, amid a storm of aggressive
grunting and muttering.
   The grimy, muscled bunch carried a mixture of blades and
bludgeoning weapons, sticks with nails through and rocks.
Reynolds made his way to the forefront of the mob, "Brothers!" he
mocked, "The day has come. Our 'saviour from the heavens' has arrived.
Me and this bunch of gents are going to go joyriding in that 'heavenly
chariot' cargo container that's setting itself down this afternoon."
the gang around Reynolds cheered, "Who's with us?" Reynolds yelled.
   The converts looked instincively to Dillon, who climbed atop a
stump of piping. "You're crazy, you can't escape from here!" he cried
back, "We're not with you." A lump of black Fury rock was hurled at
his head, he fell from his pedestal. His followers crowded around him.
   "Then fuck you all." Reynolds condemed out loud, "Give it to em,
boys."
   His thugs began hurling all their available missiles at the group
of agitated religious converts, and began to pull back through the
lone portal.
   The converts, Dillon among them, made a mad scramble for the exit,
but before they could make good their escape, the heavy ceramocarbide
door slammed down, leaving them sealed within.
   "Fuck!" cursed Morse.

Clemens was awoken after a vivid dream of teeth and tentacles, by the
buzz of the room's com.
   "Clemens, Superintendant Andrews wants to see you in his office
immediately." Aaron's voice said shakily over the crackling channel,
"Be as quick as you can."
   Clemens blearily slipped into his boots and stumbled out into the
corridor. Judging from his watch it was midday, and he noticed with
little interest that most of the complex seemed empty as he passed
through it. Not even the duty cook was present in the mess hall.
   He continued his half-asleep wander along Fury's many dismal
corridors, not passing a soul as he went.
When he arrived at Andrews' office he forgot to knock, and merely
barged in.
   Immediately a sweaty hand closed around his neck and slammed him up
against the tiles. "Mornin' Doc." the grimy prisoner sneered.
   When Clemens caught his breath he muttered calmly, "I think you'll
find it's now afternoon."
   A fist was slammed into his gut and he doubled over onto the floor.
When he raised his head he took a few moments to take in the rest of
the room.
   Andrews and Aaron sat back-to-back against a wall, cuffed and bound
with rope. Reynolds was swinging moodily around in Andrews chair,
cleaning his fingernails with the blade of a pencil sharpener.
   "Sorry, mate," Aaron said apologetically, "They made me."
   "That's perfectly alright, Deputy Superintendant," Clemens said
pleasantly, as a couple of prisoners slapped cuffs on his wrists, "Any
man with a half-interest in self preservation would have done the
same."
   As Clemens was manhandled into position next to the other two
captives and strapped to them, Aaron whispered into his ear.
   "Don't worry, there's no chance for them to escape. Thanks to your
information we managed to cancel the cargo ship's landing. There's a
military vessel on it's way right now."
   Clemens shook his head at the younger man's lack of subtlety.
   "Excellent." Reynolds said from the other side of the room, "Then
everything is going according to plan. Cotton, is our 'volunteer'
ready?"
   Cotton nodded with an evil grin.

Thousands of metres above Fury, a U.S.C.M. troop carrier slid into
orbit, bearing the name "Sulaco".
   "Do we have the link yet?"
   "Hmm?"
   "Do we have the .. Hudson?" Lt. Stevenson wrenched the sonix-plug
from the Comtech's ear, "Do we have the link yet?"
   "Oh, yeah, almost." Hudson replied, disappointed that the hard rock
track he had been listening to had been removed, "I've just got to by-
pass the colony's security, shouldn't be too tough."
   "Yeah? Well hurry it along, Private." Stevenson instructed, and
turned across the operations lounge to Bishop, the synthetic science
officer, who was tapping away at a keypad. "You ready yet, Bishop?" he
asked, "The dropship prepped yet?"
   "Few moments, sir."
   Stevenson surveyed the small console room, then glanced out of the
shatterproof internal window onto the main cargo hold and dock floor,
many feet below. Two dropships squatted side by side on the deck
floor, one being equipped by a bored Spunkmeyer in a powerloader, and
one standing redundant by several large yellow cargo containers,
currently empty.
   A couple of marines were performing warm-up exercises, notably
Drake and Vasquez routinely acting out a smart-gun drill. Hicks was
conversing with Wierzbowski and Frost by a stack of air to ground
missiles:
   "Man, I've got a bad feeling about this drop."
   "Christ, you've always got a goddam bad feeling ..."
   Apone was instructing a group of rookies in the art of the pulse
rifle and the rest of the crew were otherwise busy with routine ship
chores and weapons strip details.
   Stevenson regarded the platoon critically, and turned to Hudson,
"You finished yet?"
   "Yes, sir." Hudson drawled, "Colony 'base interfaced, we have a
successful mating. I'll just boot up a P.D.T. floorplan file."
   Instants later the monitor screen flicked up a smallscale blueprint
of the colony, freckled with the blue pulses of P.D.T. tranmissions.
   "Right, sir, what we looking for?"

   "Okay, people. It's gametime." the Lieutenant began, as he
addressed the squad.
   "We've run a preliminary scan of the leadworks complex and we now
have a good idea of the rebel prisoners' defences. There seems to be
two main concentrations of rebels, a group of about sixteen who appear
to be inside the assembly hall on sub-level 01 and a larger group who
are have just gathered in the mess. There are also several guards
posted at various places around the complex, and a couple of prisoners
in the superintendants office, which is also where the three hostages
are being held.
   "You have all been briefed thoroughly on the nature of this
mission, and apart from the information just given, there are no
further updates. Any questions?"
   He was only half-surprised when Hudson chipped in, "Where do babies
come from?"

On the planet's surface all was not at ease among the revolters. The
cargo craft had not met it's deadline and the majority of the rioters
were becoming increasingly under the impression that the entire affair
was a potentially dangerous waste of time.
   Reynolds was standing on a table in the middle of the mess,
surrounded by a crowd of his followers and bordered by permanent
fixtures Hal and Cotton.
   "Okay, ladies, now listen good." he growled at the mob, his
cybernetic arm squeeking slightly as he used his hands to lull the
crowd, "That bullshit tale I used to recruit you was exactly that -
bullshit."
   Jeers from the crowd.
   "Quiet, trust me! We aint goin' to steal no cargo ship, that was
just a piece of crap to throw Andrews off the scent. And as it
happens, it was necessary to our cause for him to latch onto our plan.
I gave the super' a hint of our plan through that buttkisser Prisoner
Crawdwell. Who is now, incidentally, floating face-first in molten
lead." the crowd of half-stupid, mostly psychotic killers were slowly
beginning to come around to Reynolds plan, most of them were grinning
or cheering during the speech. "I used that pussy Clemens to help
Andrews get the full picture. As soon as he discovered the escape
attempt he had the company redirect a nearby military vessel here
straight away. That, gentlemen, is our ticket to freedom."
   Blank faces.
   "Face it guys. None of us knew how to fly a surface-to-orbit cargo
shuttle anyway." Reynolds heard murmurs of reluctant agreement, "But
our good friend Frank, here, can fly himself a military dropship. And
THAT is our ticket to freedom. We use the dropship to fly to the USCM
mother ship, and program her to take us wherever we want. I hear
Thedus is nice this time of year."
   The mob cheered as they realised the German-owned colony would
quite likely give them political assylum - no extradition laws.
   "How the fuck are we goin' to deal with a fully armed squad of
marines?" pointed out a Plutonian accent from the crowd, "We aint even
armed proper."
   "The answer, gents, is in the question." Reynolds said
triumphantly, "The marines themselves will be fully armed, we need
only to 'borrow' some of their weapons. Our good friend Herr Haber is
at this very moment preparing to relieve any passing marine of their
heavy equipment. Isn't that right, Haber?"
   Across the room, a man with a torso that put Reynolds to shame was
being injected with synthetic adrenalin, stolen from the infirmary.
His veins bulged and surged with the fluid obscenely on his bare chest
and up his legs. He had a large bandage secured on his neck and smears
of blood tanning his shoulders. In his hands was a crude hatchet.
He made a grim thumbs-up.

                           02 >>> Predator

The dropship tore down through the cloud cover of the planet, slicing
through the rain at MACH x.
   On board, Ferro skillfully piloted the craft over the warped
terrain of the terraformed rock. In the distance, embedded in the rock
beside a sea of shimmering ebony, sat the colony itself, the
incandescant glow from a number of exhaust towers emitting more light
than the shrinking semicircle of blood red which was the planets
second sun, slowly disappearing over the horizon.

Golic, by now, was looking a bit on the wild side. He swung down from
an overhead coolant pipe and landed on his haunches, arms dangling
between his legs like an evolutionary missing link.
   "We should have gone with them." he chirped blankly, chewing on a
rubbery looking candy bar, a number of which he appeared to have
permanently stashed about his person.
   "Say what, brother?" Dillon pretended he hadn't heard.
   "We should have gone with them." David echoed, "I agree with that
crazy fuck, we're not going nowhere stuck in this hole."
   "I'm sorry you feel that way." Dillon said calmly, "I thought you
were one of us. Thought you were a believer."
   "I am, man, I am a believer." David protested feebly, "But we're
gonna starve in here if they don't let us out. What happens if those
other guys escape and everyone forgets about us? We could die here."
   "We could always eat each other," Morse said crazily, flashing his
metallic replacement teeth meaningfully.
   "Any of you other guys feel the same way?" Dillon asked. The group
of surly men remained silent. "Looks like you're on your own,
brothers." he said to David.
   "Maybe you're right," David agreed reluctantly.
   "You bet your ass he's right." Jude chipped in.
   "But what are we gonna do to get outa here? Even if the marines do
stop Reynolds, they may not know we're here, we could be here for
weeks, months."
   "Just relax, brother, the company knows how many of us they are,
they'll kick Reynolds' ass and get us out of here before you know it.
As for your idea of getting out of this damn room, I've been giving it
some thought. But first, do any of you guys know anything about what
Reynolds is up to."
Silence.
   "Come on, brothers, one of you must have heard something."
   "I don't know if you noticed in the excitement," Gregor began, "But
I saw that his arm was working. He told me it could punch holes in
steel once.
   "Right," Dillon said, "Right, I did see that, now you come to
mention it, but that doesn't realy tell us much about his plans, does
it?"
   "I say we just hold up here until the marines come, I don't trust
that Reynolds. I've seen that crazy look in the eyes before." said
Morse, who might have been talking about his own reflection.
   "Somebody better think of something, soon," David butted in, "We
can't stay trapped up in this place for long without strangling each
other to death."

"Okay, team, I want you up through the east lock, nice and slow.
Scanners say there are no hostiles in immediate vicinity, but watch
out for the automatics, this place could be wired." Stevenson gave his
orders out calmly over his mic, one eye on Hicks's cam, one on the PDT
scan. The marines showed as pink dots, the prisoners as blue.
   First squad carefully made their way through the east lock, down
the ramp that lead into the largely subterranean complex. Lights were
minimal, overheads limited in this rarely used section of colony.
   "Okay, team, you know the drill. Hicks, I want you and Frost taking
corridor 3c. Drake carry on and take up a defensive position in the
piston chamber, take out anyone who comes near. Hudson and Vasquez
enter service tunnel 5b and follow your individual orders." Stevenson
was relatively at ease with this mission. The handpicked team of five
terrorist-expert marines were to follow a stealthy path through the
leadworks to approach the area where the hostages were held from two
directions at once. Once the safety of Clemens and the warders was
assured, Apone would lead an assault on the prison with the remaining
marines, who were currently sitting it out on the APC.
   Casualties were no object. "Just don't do to much damage to the
structure."
   Drake's strength was stretched to the limit under his load of one
smart gun along with the remote sentry unit he carried. He stumbled
into the disused piston chamber, grumbling to himself, and dropped the
bulky box heavily onto the floor before begining to set the complex
apparatus up. His object was simple - back-up, to cause distraction
among the enemy, and to pick off anyone who tried to escape when the
others flushed them out.
   Hudson shadowed Vasquez into the service tunnel. It was barely five
and a half feet high, roughly cylindrical, and the two marines had to
bend their heads to progress. Hudson tried in vain to stop his
helmeted head repeatedly smashing itself off the roof, his helmet
torch wavering with every impact.
   "I hate this part," he moaned.
   Vasquez, catlike, ambled her way agiley along the passage, "Chin
up, man." she pepped in her husky Latin-American accent.
   Hicks and Frost were stepping steadily along their designated
corridor, their guns levelled ahead of them, Hicks holding a tatty
computer print-out map to his headlamp.
   "Left," he whispered.
   "No need to whisper," Stevenson said over the 'com, "The nearest
hostile isn't within five hundred metres."
   The two marines took a curve left, into an identical corridor edged
with piping and air purification vents.
   "Care pays." Hicks replied sagely.
   "Damn, Hicks, these convicts are unarmed, scruffy, ugly, we know
every goddam move they make through the PDT scan. Man, we could take
'em out by fluttering our eyelashes."
   "I don't know ..." Hicks said, "Remember Arctura?"
   "Christ, how could I forget."
   Shortly they approached a junction.
   "Time to split." Frost said, and broke away from Hicks, giving him
a friendly pat on the armour.
   "Keep in comlink." Hicks warned, and began his stealthy wander down
his corridor.
   The webwork of corridors below Fury were a confusing prospect to
say the least, Hicks carried with him a map just in case the link to
Stevenson was somehow broken, or he needed to make a hasty escape
without help from the APC.
   One corridor looked very much like the next, and all were secreted
in the pitch blackness of Fury's night. But Hicks wasn't looking for
the light switch, he didn't need anyone knowing where he was. This
operation was based on stealth and secrecy primarily, Hicks had been
picked thanks to his efficient, methodical work, and his close
partnership with Frost.
   The corridor extended indefinitely before Hicks, a multitude of
side passages sprouting off at regular intervals. "Right, this could
get complicated," he muttered, "Frost, you read?"
   "Yo."
   "You set?"
   "You betcha, babe."
   "Okay, I'm proceeding to my point. Report when prepped. Out." Hicks
clicked his mic off, drew his IR lens over his eyes and checked his
LED counter on his pulse rifle, before setting off alonmg the tunnel.

Clemens, Aaron, and Andrews had been allowed zero movement since they
had been captured. Reynolds had left a while ago, leaving a single
guard, but had now returned. He was sitting in Andrews' chair, much to
the Superintendant's dislike, dragging on a narco-stick.
   "Are you going to kill us?" Clemens asked.
   "Don't be foolish," Andrews snapped nervously, "We're the only
reason, the marines haven't already nuked this place. If we died
they'd just come in and slaughter them all. We're their only chance."
   "That's a maybe." Reynolds said, without bothering to turn to face
them, "But I could kill one, or even two, of you and the marines would
still keep coming. Better keep quiet, jailor-man, or I may be
prejudiced in my decision of which one of you to sacrifice."
   "He's bluffing, sir, don't worry." Aaron assured his boss.
   "Maybe," Reynolds said lightly, spinning his chair around and
blowing a few malformed smoke rings.
   "How exactly are you planning to get past the marines to get to
their dropship." Clemens asked cooly, "I presume that's what you're
planning."
   Reynolds regarded him coldly. "The same threat goes double for you,
doc." he snarled.

"Shit." Stevenson cursed, fumbling with the keypad before him, "Frost.
Frost? Christ. Frost, if you can hear me, but your mic's out, blip me
on your morse coder." he tapped the same sentence out on the morse
code feature of the communication setup.
   Ten seconds ... twenty - no reply.
   "Vasquez, Hudson? Where are you?"
   "Just approaching a vertical ventilator, looks like shaft 18.
Preparing to ascend. What's the prob?"
   "It's Frost, I've lost his link." Stevenson muttered urgently, "Can
one of you two go look-see what's up. He's around stairwell E3,
totally stationary, he may be injured, but there's no enemies in the
vicinity."
   "That's a yo," Hudson drawled, "I'm on it."
   "Vasquez, you keep moving, Hudson'll catch you up." flipped a
switch, "Hicks? Damn - he's turned off." flipped again, "Drake, we've
got a bit of a problem, things may not turn out on schedule. Just keep
a lookout, okay?"
   "What kind of a problem?" but the Lieutenant had flipped channels
again.
   Hudson consulted his map. "Stairwell E3 ..." he chuntered to
himself, keeping a close eye down the corridor he had emerged into,
the same one Hicks and Frost had recently traversed. "Left." he
decided, and ran in the cover of the wall, down the sloping passage.
   The Lieutenant took a moment to survey the situation as a whole. He
tried to think back to his wargaming days back at the military academy
on Zeta II, the days when war was a computer simulated game of
checkers, marines were chess pieces to be expended and sacrificed to
further the cause. He remembered the minutely scaled battlefields
drawn up, with the counters placed at strategic positions. Red for the
goodies, blue for the baddies.
   It was much like that now, on his computer screen, except the
counters were humans with lives and experiences and probably families,
although the marines never delved very far into one another's private
lives.
   The playing field was the southeast section of the Fury complex,
incorporating the mess, infirmary, assembly hall and a large portion
of the leadworks. The blues were clustered together in the mess, there
were four guards at, frankly, strategically unwise posts around the
area, sixteen in the assembly hall and a group of six in Andrews
office. He knew that at least three of these were staff so that meant
they were being guarded by three prisoners, one probably being the
ringleader.
   The pinks, Stevenson's men, were scattered less liberally about.
Frost's blip alone was unmoving, Hudsons closing on it. Hicks was
making quick progress through the maze of tunnels to his strategic
position near the mess, Vasquez was squeezing along a 5" diameter
service tunnel towards the infirmary and Drake was pacing the piston
chamber, awaiting the order to advance.
   The pictures on the POV camera relayed back pictures detailing
these positions.
   Stevenson sighed and broke through to Hudson, who had reached
Frost's position.
   "How is he, Private?"
   "Never mind that, where is he?" Hudson replied immediately, "I
don't see him ... wait. There's something ..."
   Hudson yelled and let off a burst of fire as Frost's unconscious
body was dropped from an overhead shaft and landed, crumpled on the
floor. He had been stripped of his armour and equipment.
   "What's going on, Hudson?" Stevenson yelled, "There's nobody there
but you and Frost, what are you firing at?"
   Hudson's trigger finger eased and the corridor was once more
plunged into murky darkness. "There's definitely someone in here ..."
   "Hudson, cool it, the nearest hostile is hell and gone from your
position. What the hell's the matter with Frost, gimme a picture."
Hudson took a quick glance at the silent body, more for his
Lieutenant's benefit than his own.
   "He's had his things taken," Stevenson observed belatedly, "How the
hell?" he quickly asserted himself.
   "Private, I want you to check on Frost's status, and give me a slow
search of the immediate area."
   "Frost's alive." Hudson said without looking, "Crude bludgeon wound
to the head, his breathing is minimal, he'll survive."
   He took a step forward, the creaking of the rusting metal beneath
his feet made his jump, he pointed his gun randomly about.
   "Easy ..." Stevenson breathed, sharing in the Private's anxiety as
he shared his eyes. He tried not to notice Hudson's pulse rate begin
to quicken on his status screen, as it often did before one of his
panic attacks.
   "Where are you ..?"
   "Easy ..."
   "You sure there's nothing around here? I can hear something,
something close."
   "PDT scan says diddleyshit."
   Hudsons breathing became heavier. "You tried adjusting the
frequency? Maybe it's a different series PDT." His eyes scanned the
curtain of dark.
   "This is a universal receiver, Hudson - all frequencies. If there's
something moving in their it can't be one of the prisoners."
   A clatter of metal from the darkness.
   "I'm switching to infra-red."
   Footsteps.
   "Use your motion tracker, dammit!"
   Shapes, blacker than night.
   "Sweet Jesus Chr... *bzzt*"
   Hudson's screen blanked.

"Okay, it's decided." Dillon said authoritatively, "We bust outa here.
The only question now is : How?"
   "I've got an idea," said Morse quietly, as though he was regretting
his input before he began, "Don't know if it'll work."
   "If you think you know a way for us to get outa this room you
better tell us, brother."
   "As far as I can see, the only other way out of this place is
through one of the vents, right?"
   "We already thought of that, Morse, they're all too goddam small."
Dillon said, half aware that circumstances were leading him to break
his vow of keeping a clean tongue before god. The converts fortunately
ignored his blasphemy.
   "Not the one over by the tank," Morse pointed out, "I've been down
there once before, to steal some fags from the old machine on Sub-
Level 3 after lights-out. The vent runs about twenty-five metres
before it comes out near the furnace."
   "Anyone else know about this shaft?"
   Prisoners turned to look at each other, heads were shook.
   "Show us."
   Morse led the bigger man over to a large storage tank of some
description, which was possibly out of use, which Jude sat on top of.
   "Here." he said, indicating a few slices take out of the wall.
"After I got out through it, the screws got wise and replaced the old
removeable mesh with this plaster. It's thin, though, we could break
through it." Morse grinned, evidently pleased with himself.
   "Okay, brothers," Dillon announced, "Looks like we got ourselves a
plan." he paused for effect, "We smash this thing through and Brother
Morse crawls down it and comes up the other side of the door to let us
out."
   Morse's face suddenly lost it's grin.
   "Me. Why me, all of a sudden?"
   "You're the only guy who's been down there, Morse, you're one of
the only ones who could fit, for Christ's sake." That wasn't a
blasphemy, Dillons beliefs didn't include the Christian messiah.
   "Hey, man, that tunnel is narrow as hell, and stuffy. Besides, even
if I could get through it, I would have to go right through the
furnace and round the entire east wing to get back to outside of this
hall. It could take hours, if Reynolds' men are about."
   "Which makes you the ideal man for the job," Dillon said, "You an
ex-thief, ain't you. You're real light on your feet. Besides you're
gonna live forever, right?"
   "Right."
   Five minutes later Morse was squirming down the box-like
ventilator, gripping a makeshift club the rest of the converts had
managed to slap together.

"Okay, Vasquez, stop where you are, here's the deal. Hudson and Frost
are down."
   "Dead?"
   "Negative, whatever downed them hasn't killed them, yet. But ..."
   "Whatever?"
   "What?"
   "'Whatever', you said 'whatever'. What the hell's going on, amigo?"
   "Whoever got them doesn't show up on the PDT scan."
   "Meaning?"
   "Meaning they probably aren't prisoner here, perhaps not even
human."
   "Bugs?"
   "That's a maybe, but the fact that they haven't been killed
suggests moderately intelligent life. Perhaps an automatic or
something similar. Now, since this thing doesn't show on PDT, you'll
have to use your motion tracker, okay?"
   "Okay." Vasquez booted the device up, and ran a wide range scan.
"Right, I got one signal, somewhere over to my right."
   "That'll be Hicks. You see anything else?"
   "Nothing ... Except ..."
   "What?"
   "A blip has just appeared, moving rapidly. It must be going for
Hicks. Hicks, you hearing this? Get outa the way, man, lose yourself."
   "He can't hear you, Vasquez, he's activated radio silence to
maintain the secrecy of his location, he's on his way into enemy
territory."
   "Well, can't you broadcast over an emergancy frequency? We've gotta
warn him!"
   "Emergency frequency? No such thing, babe." Drakes voice came
crackling over the com, "Someone'll have to go in person."
   "You're nearest, Drake, hurry it up, man."
   "I'm on my way."
   "Hurry, Drake, the goddam blip will reach Hicks in less than a
minute."
   Drake, running through the labyrinthine corridors, detached his
armour and helmet in mid stride, the headset in the helmet clattering
oin the floor and leaving him totally isolated from radio
communication.
   "Damn," Stevenson said, suddenly aware that things were not going
as planned, "Apone, take your squad and pull Hudson and Frost out of
there. Take Bishop, a med-kit, and try at least to maintain some
secrecy."

Hicks checked his map once again. He was close to the leadworks. The
churning and groaning of heavy, elderly machinery on it's last day's
duty accompanied with the searing heat of the furnace likened the area
to Hicks' mental image of hell.
   Before setting off again, he took a brief glimpse of the liquid
crystal display of his watch. He was due to rendez-vous with Hudson
and Vasquez in seven minutes. He quickly lightfooted it through the
entrance to the leadworks, keeping his back to the wall the whole way.
   As Hicks's new directions now entered three dimensions his map of
the single sub-level was obsolete. He tucked it into a pouch on his
armour, and figure that he needed to be up a level to find his exit.
   Padding carefully up a rusty spiral staircase, Hicks pondered
whether he should report back yet, but decided against it. He must
keep his noise to a minimum, to in case the enemy came within earshot
or picked up his waves.
   The spiral mated with an iron-railed catwalk about twenty feet up.
He took the singular route with only the most brief of looks to the
bubbling cauldron of lead, periodically ejaculating minor gysers of
molten metal, below him.
   Now he was in danger zone, being on the same level as the enemy,
and nearing their front line by the minute. A clank from behind
momentarily threw his eye, to watch a scrap of metal pirouette through
the air and be devoured by the soup of metal with the merest of
flames.
   Hicks' animal instinct snapped reluctantly from Predator to Prey
Mode.
   He focused on the area of the piece of junk's descent, a large
control box shrouded in shadow. He flipped his infra-red into use, but
found it useless in the scalding heat of the furnace.
Motion tracker ... zippo. If there was something behind him it was not
moving.
   There was a chance that the metal had fallen by itself, a chance he
may have accidently dislodged it as he had passed, but it was a chance
that Hicks was not willing to undertake.
   He pulled his mic to his mouth and clicked it on.
   "Stevenson," he whispered.
   "Christ, Hicks!" Vasquez's urgent voice filled the earpiece with
the shriek of electric feedback, "Get the hell outa there, there's
something ..."
   A crudely sharpened lump of metal attached to a wooden shaft
thudded into Hicks's shoulder, slamming him up against the waist-
height safety rail. Hick's helmet and gun dropped into the firey
abyss.
   A second blow from the flat side of the hatchet blade gave Hicks a
solid THWACK which cartwheeled him over the edge, only the bulky
fastener on his left boot, jamming his leg between rails, saved the
unconscious marine from falling into the hellish white heat and
flames.
   The hatchet wielder stepped closer, the weapon hanging loosely by
his side. The smirk of a sadist flickered across the scarred face, as
a killer's curiosity within the bald head toyed with the helpless
marine's fate.
   A part of Haber was ready to deliver a solid kick which would seal
his fate, another part, a section which had been affected minutely by
the words of parents, judges and more recently, Dillon, thought about
hauling the young solider up and setting him down on the catwalk.
After all, Reynolds had only said steal the weapons and armour,
murdering hadn't been mentioned.
   Haber was no murderer. He'd told the judge and jury that. He'd
fanatically insisted his innocence to this day. Could he kill?
Fortunately for Haber, the moral choice was taken from him.
   Morse's club winded him, and the switch from predator to prey was
made again. Haber folded in agony, and Morse's second blow to the back
of the head sent the bulky German sprawled across the floor.
   Morse's weapon began it's third descent but before it met it's
target Haber's hand snapped up and blocked the blow. The fact that the
club must have delivered compound fractures to his lower arm didn't
seem to bother the convict, as he staggered to his feet and sent Morse
backward, jawing him with a fraction of his strength.
   As he lay prone, Morses tongue ran over his golden false teeth,
touching upon the taste of Haber's blood mixed with his own.
   Haber was talking gruffly about Morse's stupidity and treachary to
their cause, but Morse couldn't hear. The thick red liquid on his lips
carried him back to hazy memories of the fateful night on the
Saturnian orbital shuttle.
   "You listening to me, punk!?" Haber's clumsy boot struck Morse
squarely in the chest.
   With a growl of anger, Morse grabbed his club and took a swing at
his adversary. This blow fell true, and Haber crumpled, unconscious,
bleeding from a gash on the side of his head.
   After a moment's pause Morse gently pushed the body off the edge of
the catwalk and turned his attention to saving the dangling marine.
   Before he could do anything, however, a wail of gunfire echoed over
the sounds of the furnace, Morse instinctively raised his hands and
turned. Drake was climbing the spiral staircase.
   "Hey, man, wait!" Morse stumbled on his words, "I'm with you, man,
I'm with you!"

                             03 >>> Fury

"Haber's dead," Hal reported, "Someone pushed him into the furnace."
   "A marine?" Reynolds asked, concerned.
   "Morse." Hal replied.
   "Morse?" Reynolds repeated incredulously, "That stupid sonofabitch
should be locked up with the other bible-bashers, what happened?"
   "He must have found a way out. He went off with some marine guy,
Frank saw."
   "Who's Haber?" Clemens asked pleasantly.
   "He was the ace up our sleeve," Reynolds replied, "Only guy stupid
enough to volunteer for assasin duty. We had to remove his PDT first,
of course, to keep him invisible to the marine's scans."
   "PDTs are surgically implanted," Clemens said distastefully,
"Positioned near the jugular to obtain accurate function readings. How
the hell did you get it out?"
   "It was messy," Reynolds said, as he began to stand up, "But some
of your anaesthetic from the infirmary helped stop him squirming
slightly. Anyway, he fulfilled his purpose, we now have two pulse
rifles, a pistol, a pump-action shotgun, a motion tracker and a couple
of sets of armour. That should tilt the odds in our favour slightly."
Reynolds made for the door.
   "Hal, stay and guard the hostages. Cotton, come with me. It's time
to start getting sealed up. The marines will be attacking soon. How
are the barricades coming along? Let's go find out shall we?"

"Report." Stevenson commanded Bishop.
   The synthetic had just returned from attending the three injured
marines.
   "Frost is still unconscious, but stable, but Hicks and Hudson are
awake now, although I wouldn't like to see Hicks doing any more
strenuous duty for a few days. Hudson might be able to handle himself,
however, his head injury was relatively minor."
   "How are they getting on with the prisoner?" Stevenson asked.
   "Hyperactive guy," Bishop commented, "But Dietrich gave him a shot
and he calmed down. He's talking now. Apparently he's not one of the
rebel prisoners, but one of a few 'religious believers' who have been
isolated and sealed in the assembly hall."
   "Yes. That would explain the distribution of PDTs on the scanner.
What about our mystery stalker?"
   "A prisoner, his PDT may have been surgically removed. Although I
use the word 'surgically' in the loosest possible way."
   "Okay, Bishop. It looks like it's time to initiate Plan B. What do
you think?"

The APC ground to a halt outside the east lock once again and was
instantly showered in debris that the incessant wind constantly threw
about the colony.
   The door solidly slid open and seven pairs of feet leapt out onto
the alloy bay floor. Dietrich, Crowe, Wierzbowski, Drake, Vasquez, and
the queezy-looking Hudson, all lead by Apone, kitted out in full
combat gear.
   The marines clattered through several locks and corridor sections
until they came to a junction. Apone paused for instructions.
   "Right, Crowe, enter duct three, you know where you're going.
Hudson and Vasquez, take a 2-0-1 to the assembly hall and try to
bypass the lock. The prisoners in there may be worthy allies. Apone,
take the rest of them to the main corridor to the hostages, it looks
like it might have been barricaded. Just fend off enemy fire and make
sure nobody gets past you, understand? Let 'em shoot off as many
rounds as they like, their ammo won't last forever."
   "Okay sweethearts," Apone said in his much-practised football coach
gruff, "Lets get out there and kick ass."

Several minutes later, the scream of gunfire echoed throughout the
colony.
   In corridor 3M the marines were locked in combat with a group of
prisoners who were firing upon them through a high barricade crudely
constructed of heavy equipment and mining machinery. Wierzbowski was
laying in agony in a side corridor, rolling around after being hit by
a stray pistol shot. The bullet had failed to penetrate his armour but
the impact had cracked a rib.
   The other marines were pressed inside doorways or branching
corridors, taking occasional pot-shots at the barricade.
   "Cover me!" Dietrich cried out, and darted across in the direction
of the stranded marine, med-kit in hand. Apone and Drake laid down a
hail of bullets as she did so. She skidded to a halt beside
Wierzbowski, and began preparing some treatment.

   Crowe, sans armour, squirmed down a 3x3 air duct in the direction
of Andrews' office, the sound of battle raging beneath him.
   "God damn." he cursed, trying to keep his voice down.

   Vasquez covered the corridor with her smart gun while Hudson
hurriedly hotwired the electronic lock of the assembly hall.
   "You nearly there, Hudson?" Vasquez demanded, one eye on her M.T.
   "Almost in, baby." Hudson replied musically.
   "*bzzt* We've broken through the first barricade." Apones voice was
heard through the marines' headsets over the sound of gunfire, "Two
enemy casualties, 'Bowski is down, the remaining prisoners have pulled
back to another barricade. We're moving on."
   "I'm in!" Hudson yelped suddenly, as the door began to slide open.
The two marines trained their weapons on the gap which appeared.
   "Morse ...!" the large black spectacled guy who appeared began,
then stopped dead at Vasquez's command.
   "Don't move an inch!"

"Reynolds, the marines have penetrated the our preliminary defences,"
Cotton began, "Bremen and Dwight have been wasted, and we reckon we
may have picked off one of theirs."
   "How are things looking?"
   "The second barricade is holding, but we're running short on ammo.
The pistol's almost dry and we've only got about two magazines left
for the rifles."
   Reynolds was back in the office, sitting at Andrews' desk.
   "Everything under control?" Clemens asked with just a hint of
sarcasm in his voice.
   "Fine." Reynolds stared daggers, then removed Hudson's shotgun from
the desk, "Get Frank." he ordered, then muttered to himself, "We're
getting outa here. Hal, if they come anywhere near this room, kill the
hostages."
   The office door opened, and Cotton followed Reynolds out.
   The complex was a bustle of activity, with prisoners pushing pieces
of equipment and junk to reinforce the barricades and heavily armed
mobs standing ready to take over from the defences. The battle seemed
to be currently located about twenty metres down the main corridor,
the majority of the shots being fired by the attacking marines.
Reynolds had entrusted his most loyal followers with rifle duty, the
least trigger happy few, in order to retain ammo.
   Currently Prisoners James and Murphy were shooting through gaps in
the barricade with the pulse rifles, and Kevin was using the pistol.
   "Shit! I'm dry!" James yelled, although he was still reluctant to
cast aside the large metal rifle.
   Murphy's counter was also running low, it currently stood at 08.
Kevin had just slammed in his last ammo clip.
   A volley of shots from Apone blew a chunk from the barricade and
peppered James's body with holes. Immediately, a fresh piece of junk
was piled atop in place and James's body was added to the barricade.
Kevin returned fire with a quick succession of shots.
   In the office, Clemens began talking to the solitary guard, Hal.

Stevenson, in the APC with Hicks standing beside him, broke his steady
gaze at the POV screen with a quick glance at the PDT scan.
   "Apone, we've got three guys making a dash for the back door," he
noticed, "Heading out towards the south lock. Any way you can cut them
off?"
   "That's a negative. We're just about pinned down here, and there's
only three of us."
   "We could drive there and intercept." Hicks suggested.
   "Reasonable idea. Bishop, could we make it to the south lock before
they do." Stevenson often used Bishop as a glorified calculator, to
make brief probability studies before he made a decision. It was a
task that grossly under-used Bishops massive potential, but one that
the android didn't seem to mind.
   "Yes, if we leave straight away."
   "Hit it."

"I'm zeroed!" Murphy cursed, cast aside the useless pulse rifle and
hit the deck to avoid the shower of firepower which was unleashed
almost immediately.
   Kevin was standing pulling the trigger of the pistol. It exploded
thrice, letting out a flash each time, then began clicking as it
became empty.
   "Shit, me too." he cried, "Where's Reynolds?"
   "Gone!" a faceless voice answered from the bustle of prisoners,
"The yellow bastard took Frank and Cotton and headed off towards the
south lock somewhere."
   "Let's get out of here!"
   The twenty-odd prisoners suddenly became an unorchestrated free-
for-all with every man for himself in the rush to escape.

Inside the rattling APC, speeding it's way around the complex
exterior, Stevenson was becoming increasingly tense.
   "Sir," Apone's voice buzzed over the com, "We think the prisoners
may be dry. We haven't had a shot in over a minute. And things are
sounding pretty noisy in there."
   "Sit tight for a few more minutes, Hudson and Vasquez are on their
way with a group of prisoner reinforcements."
   "I think I may have just spotted them." Apone said slowly, as
Dillon and his converts pounded around the corner, wiedling blades and
makeshift clubs of all descriptions.
   The barricade did not last long under the weight of the charging
horde. Machinery scattered and fell beneath the feet of the frankly,
pissed off, religious mob. The ensuing riot could only be described as
a tangled mess of marine fire and the flailing arms of prisoners.
   The crowd throbbed and heaved as men were brutally beaten and
stabbed by each other, years of tension building up due to the
restriction of imprisonment being released in a hellish orgy of
violence involving men biologically destined to be aggressive.
   Dillon charged through the men, swinging a piece of piping. David,
Golic, Jude, stabbing with razors, scissors and nailed sticks.
   "Phew ..." Stevenson commented, watching passively through
Dietrich's eyes, then flicking to Crowe's monitor.
   "Crowe, how's it going?"
   "Nearly there," whispered Crowe, crawling toward a opening of light
ahead.
   The APC stopped abruptly, as Bishop slammed on the brakes.
   "Here." he informed the Lieutenant.
   Stevenson slapped Hicks's armour, "Go to it, Corporal." The door
was wrenched open.
   Immediately a fistful of shot sprayed over the plate armour,
several pellets burying themselves into Hicks's shoulder.
   The marine dropped straight into a roll, loosing off several shots
on his rifle. Cotton, who wielded the smoking shotgun, took the entire
blast in the chest and fell to the floor in two pieces. Reynolds
grabbed the scattergun up and ran, hunched, across the wasteland near
the lock, Frank in tow.
   Hicks slammed himself up against the shell of a tractor, grimacing
in agony at his wound. He took a seruptitious look under the vehicle,
but could not see anything. The area was a dumping ground for waste
materials, piles of rubbish molehilled up out of the floor. It was
raining heavily, which didn't help visibility.
   Another shotgun blast rang out and the tractor window exploded over
Hicks, who aimed randomly in the direction of the attack and fired.
   "*bzzt* Hicks, they're headed for the landing pad. Shit! They're
going for the dropship."
   "Warn Ferro. I'm in pursuit." Hicks shouted back, gritting his
teeth against the pain of his two recent wounds. His head was
throbbing, the hatchet blow being worse than he had thought.
   He took off quickly, in what he hoped was the right direction.
   Reynolds and Frank were dashing at the dropship ramp when he caught
them, and he sent Frank flying with a disabling shot to the leg. He
aimed the gun at Reynolds, but found his LED counter winking 00.
   The dropship was begining to rise as Ferro took Stevenson's advice
to get the hell away, and Reynolds had just boarded the ramp.
   Hicks launched himself into a flying rugby tackle, grabbing
Reynolds around the waist, carrying them both off the 'ship and onto
the landing pad. The shotgun clattered to the floor.
   The downdraft from the rising ship blew rubbish across the pad,
rain into the wrestlers' faces. Reynolds delivered a solid blow with
his cybernetic arm to Hicks's shotgun wound, making him cry out in
agony.
   The corporal brought his knee up fast, doubling his adversary over.
A repetition of quick jabs to the face followed and a swift side-sweep
tripped the muscley convict onto his back. Hicks made a dive for the
gun.
   As he bent to pick it up, Reynolds, who had picked himself up
immediately, crunched Hicks's spine with a powerful elbow and followed
through with a kick to the guts as the marine lay sprawled on the
floor.
   Hicks lay, still, on the landing pad.

Inside Andrews' office Hal was a nervous wreck, the rioting outside
had prompted him to seal the door to the office. The three hostages
had scared looks on their faces and things were about to get worse.
   "You can't win this anymore," Aaron said simply, "It's over, why
not accept it."
   "Untie us and I promise I will have the jury look favourably on
you." Andrews offered.
   "This may be your last chance."
   "Reynolds said I was to kill you if things went wrong." Hal said,
toying with his blade. Clemens gulped.
   "Reynolds deserted you, don't you see?"
   "No, no I don't see." Hal argued, "Enlighten me."
   As Hal was pacing up and down, Crowe kicked the ventilator mesh
through and shot him in the forehead with a single pistol shot.
   "Consider yourself enlightened." Crowe said as he began untying the
relieved prisoners.

Reynolds laid in his fourth boot, this time to Hicks's face. Hicks
groaned as his nose broke, and lost consciousness.
   He picked up the beaten marine with the synthetic arm and prepared
to deliver the final blow. Hicks's unconscious face looked on blindly
as Reynolds swung his arm back ...
   A shotgun blast tore Reynolds's left foreleg from under him. As he
was forced backwards by the force of the shot he dropped Hicks to the
side. The APC skidded around the corner and sped over to the scene.
Stevenson leapt out, followed by Bishop.
   Three incapacitated bodies lay there, in various states of damage.
Hicks with his multiple cuts, breaks and bruises; Reynolds,
unconscious with pain and minus one leg; and Frank with his leg wound,
holding a smoking shotgun.
   "I never thought the plan would work anyway." the grimy prisoner
muttered to himself.

                           04 >>> Epilogue

"So," Stevenson began, as he stared out of a Sulaco portal at Earth's
horizon, "The mission was a success. Zero USCM casulaties, nineteen
dead convicts and three safely rescued hostages. We did quite well."
   "What's going to happen to the survivors?" Hicks asked.
   "Most of them have had their sentences lengthened as a disiplinary
measure. And some 'disruptive elements' have been relocated, notably
Reynolds, who now sports a cybernetic leg to match his arm."
   Hicks chuckled.
   "However, some of the survivors seem to have been 'born again'. The
company is considering a request put forward by the colony's
'spiritual leader' that he and his twenty-odd converts should stay
there to keep the furnace operating. I've no idea what the company
will think. And to be frank, I'm not particularly bothered. Prison's
prison, wherever it is."
   Hicks murmured agreement.
   "We should be back to full strength as a team, soon. Once 'Bowski
has left hospital and your headache gets better we should be top form
again."
   "Not exactly top form." Hicks said, scratching his shaven head.
   "Mmm. I agree." said Stevenson mimicking his action on his own bald
scalp, "Damn lice."

                  @2        >>>> The End <<<<