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The door slid open, and in stepped a tall, lean battle-scarred figure. He was wearing a stiffly pressed dress coverall, the collar tabs of a Raider warrant officer glinting at his throat.

The older woman in an unmarked Raider coverall smiled and said, "Ah, Chief Griffon! Welcome back! And congratulations on your mission!"

The secretary—receptionist? adjutant? Griffon mused that he never learned her actual title—waved him towards the door. "The commandant is waiting for you."

Griffon absentmindedly straightened his uniform coverall as he approached the metal door. Here goes nothing. He swallowed and lightly touched the button.

After a moment the door slid open, and from the interior of the much larger room beyond he heard the deep voice of the commandant. "Come."

As Griffon strode purposefully across the carpeted floor, he noted that the commander was alone this time,and he was sitting in the only chair in the room. Uh-oh, that can’t be good.

Griffon came to rigid attention, centered across the huge desk from the commandant, and snapped a precise salute. "Warrant Officer Griffon, reporting as ordered, sir!"

The commandant glanced up from the file he was examining and waved a half-hearted imitation salute. "At ease, mister."

As Griffon relaxed, the commandant snapped the file closed, leaned back in the high leather chair and grinned. "First, congratulations on a job well done!

"You and your team have accomplished the near impossible! By destroying the Brotherhood’s base in Kansas, you have set their operations back for years and opened up half the continent for us!"

Working hard to keep a straight face, Griffon snapped to attention and barked a quick, "Sir!"

The commander leaned forward, his smile faded into something else as he picked up a second folder.

Uh-oh! Griffon couldn’t help swallowing as the commander slowly stood, leaning forward on his knuckles until his face was mere inches from Griffon’s.

The commandant roared, "What the HELL did you think you were doing?"

Griffon felt himself actually rocked back on his heels by the blast.

Already knowing it was pointless, he started, "S-Sir, I..."

The interruption was at slightly lower volume. "Shut up and listen, you worthless wart on a bug’s arse!"

With an actual growl, the commander seemed to actually swell with indignation. Still leaning on his desk, but with a more controlled volume, he continued, "Warrant Griffon, do you have ANY idea the damage you and your bunch of gangsters have done?"

Snapping upright, the big commander started pacing in short steps, punctuating each word with highly energetic gestures. "WHAT do you think this war is all about? What do you think we’ve been fighting SEVENTY YEARS for? Are you capable of actually THINKING with anything else but your trigger finger?"

He finally slowed to catch a breath.

Griffon was actually becoming alarmed; the commander’s normal deep ebony coloring had gone absolutely purple. "S-Sir, I..."

Snapping around like a gun turret, the big man roared, "I said shaddup!"

It took a few moments, but he finally settled down enough to sit back down.

Leaning back, again the urbane controlled commandant, he asked, "Warrant Griffon, do you LIKE eating fungus supplements, yogurt and yeast extracts? Do you WANT to wear synthetic polyester underwear?"

The commandant went through a quick cycle of blinks and sighs. Leaning back he steepled his fingers and went on in a long suffering tone, "I realize you sleepers have missed out on all the history."

He paused and started counting off on his fingers. "The Plague, the Alien attack, the Conquest of the Earth, the virtual annihilation of all things human."

Again he paused to catch his breath. "The rise of the cybernetic Brotherhood, the decades, the generations of combat, all for the future existence of humanity itself."

He picked up the second folder and waved it in Griffon’s face. "The purpose of the war...The PURPOSE of all this, are these FRACKUPS...The people!"

Tossing the much abused folder to the desk, he went on, "Like these Oahkies and the Kashuns to the east, or the Mikans to the south, we’ve been working to bring them to our camp while the Brotherhood tries to bring them to THEIR side. Whoever wins gets the recruits, gets the fresh meat, vegetables, and real cotton cloth. Whoever wins will decide the future course of the human race.

"We have to work in the shadow of the aliens. Anything, EVERYTHING, that attracts their attention is annihilated! Humanity is facing extermination and what do you do?"

He swiped an angry hand at the folder. "You and your team aren’t happy with destroying a Brotherhood base. Oh, no! You have to go out of your way to virtually annihilate one of the few human enclaves on the CONTINENT!"

The big man settled back into his desk chair and was visibly trying to regain his composure. Griffon waited patiently, his expression carefully neutral. After a few moments the commander continued, "I’ve decided to post you and Fineous to our training section. It seems to be the best way for us to take advantage of the unusual...Let’s say unorthodox combat techniques you and your team have demonstrated. For some reason, and don’t ask me why, Sergeant Sanchez and his entire squad have asked to be assigned to your command. For the life of me, after what happened to his old sergeant and about a third of the squad on their last mission with you, I can’t imagine why. Anyhow, the two technical experts of your old 24th Planetary Exploration Team, Gillian and White, are going to be busy on their own projects...Dismissed."

He returned Griffon’s salute. But before the other man could make it to the door, the commander called him back. "That is, IF you think you can handle a training mission, WITHOUT getting half the trainees killed?"

Griffon just gave him a rueful little smile before saluting and exiting stage left.

As the door slid shut behind him, he answered the knowing smile of the commandant’s secretary with a weary shrug. Once in the hallway outside the office, Griffon made his way to the elevator. Punching the button for the recreation level, he leaned against the rear wall of the elevator and closed his eyes as the car slid silently downward.

Making his way to the workout rooms, it took him a few moments to locate the one he was looking for.

Later in the men’s locker room, they were able to get to the more serious side of the conversation.

Fineous turned the shower taps to full. He stepped out of the stall, leaving the door open. Steam billowed out, along with the covering noise of running water.

The little man glanced at his companion. "Ok, what’s the verdict?"

Griffon shrugged. "We get to host a training rotation."

Fineous got a sour look on his face. "Great, we win their first real victory in decades and what do we get? Wiping trainee snot!"

Griffon nodded. "At least it gives us something to keep our hand in while we let phase two simmer." Glancing about to make sure they were alone, he asked, "How are things going at your end?"

To keep up appearances, Fineous began toweling off furiously. He seemed uncommonly agitated. "Yeah, just great. I’ve managed to finagle a source."

Griffon froze, glancing up. "What? Already?"

Fineous shrugged. "The other side was desperate to do their own finagling. We just had a meeting of the ways as it were."

Griffon thought a moment. "Who?"

Fineous, glancing about, shook his head. "No. The codename is Janus. But that’s all you get."

Griffon’s eyebrow slowly rose. "And when did you decide this? What do we do if something happens to you? How can we cross-reference the planning if we can’t make contact?"

Fineous just shook his head. "No. This is too good a source, and it’s too close to the edge. If you want to talk to Janus, you do it through me." He gave the larger man a rare serious scowl. "I mean it, sir, don’t EVER ask me again."

Griffon slowly shook his head. "I don’t like it. You’re playing it too close to the vest again." He shrugged. "Ok, you’re the expert in skullduggery."

After a few moments’ thought he added, "Um, say Finn...why Janus? Wasn’t that an ancient god of two-faced liars, back-stabbers, spies, and sneaks?"

Fineous returned to his usual sardonic grin. "Actually, it was the ancient Roman god of Gates and Doorways."

"I thought Janus was the Two-Faced god?"

Finn nodded. "He was, as in ‘the door swings both ways’."

Griffon nodded. "I hope not." At Fineous’ questioning look, he added, "We want to get in, not let them out."

As Fineous shut off the shower and went to his locker to get dressed, he caught Griffon’s eye. "I should tell you." He glanced around to make sure nobody could hear, before continuing sotto voice, "It looks like we’ll get a quick chance to check Janus’ reliability." At Griffon’s raised eyebrows, he smiled. "The first report said there was already a Brotherhood agent among the, um, volunteers for our team."

Griffon came to a sudden stop. Shaking his head at his smaller companion, he said bitterly and a bit overloud, "Not another one of those DAMNED assassins!" He almost spit out the next. "I suppose you weren’t able to get a name?"

Fineous shrugged as he quickly dressed. "I don’t have a name, a sex, or anything." They exited the locker room and turned down the hallway to meet up with their ladies. "I’m not even able to say what their mission is. Maybe it’s just to observe and report?"

Griffon caught his elbow. "Don’t take any chances. Nail the bastard if you identify him."

Their smiling companions ended the conversation.

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Of the two Brotherhood Abataurum that accompanied her, Consul Bushnell outranked her, and Praetor Gruenspear was her senior in seniority. But Praetor Olivia Cromwell, as the commander of the local prefecture, oversaw the proceedings.

The three were comfortably seated under a protective canvas awning. They were perched on the cleared foundation of the burnt-off ruin of the old townhouse. It served its purpose quite nicely under the rapidly clearing morning sky.

Flanking the three were a full dozen of the massive Battleborg war machines. More or less human in shape, their impassive sensor turret "heads" and heavy weapons covered the bleating Oahkies massed before the trio.

Olivia noted that at least Dortmunder was showing a bit of spine in his stance. Too bad. Sitting up a bit straighter to draw the attention of the Oahkies from the Battleborgs, she ostensibly scanned the list in her hand for the second time, before speaking, "Not once, but twice, you allowed a group of...Reavers..." She had to access the appropriate file with her cybernetic implant to remember how the Raiders were called by the locals. "...To escape. The first time they caused some destruction and disruption.

"The second time they..." she started reading down the list in her hand, "destroyed or seriously damaged over half the buildings in your village. They also burnt off two-thirds of your crops. Stampeded your herds to be decimated by the beasts of the field..." Here she gave him a withering glare. "You then failed to secure or recapture the Raiders. All this AFTER I handed them over to you personally."

To his credit, Dortmunder managed to respond without a quaver in his voice. "M'Lady! These...These Reavers... Demons they were! Walk through walls they can...Invisible they can become...Even destroy your own base they did..."

That was as far as he got. Commendable or not, his opposition only sent the Brotherhood Cyborg into a white-faced frenzy.

She leapt to her feet screaming, "How DARE you?"

The Oahkie leader flinched as if he’d been physically struck. The other elders blanched and began to quake. A collective moan swept through the massed villagers.

The white-clad woman stepped forward. Still screaming, "How dare you make excuses? Are you daring to insinuate there is ANY similarity between the well-orchestrated military strike, done with the full support of our enemy’s military?" She was actually spitting as she sneered, "And your inability to hang onto four helpless prisoners?"

She waved her hand at the crowd in an expansive gesture. "And, after I...at great personal risk and discomfort..." She ignored the amused message that came over her cybernetic implants from the other two Abataurum. That last hadn’t been quite true. "Handed them over to you personally for safekeeping."

She finally got control over her temper.

As she returned to her seat, Dortmunder tried to salvage what he could of his defense. "M-M’Lady! I would never, could never such a thing even think."

His voice faltering, he stuttered, "I...I, um, I...Only their sheer deviousness and abilities meant to say. These Reavers, unlike any we have dealt with were!"

Olivia sat slumped in her chair. She gave an arrogant, dismissive wave of her hand. "Whatever. The simple fact is you failed in your trust...Twice."

She paused, eyes shut as she accessed a previously flagged file via her implants.

The other two Abataurum said nothing, though they were exchanging amusing anecdotes via their own implants.

Finally Cromwell opened her eyes and straightened in her seat. With deliberate pontification, she pronounced the verdict. As if there had ever been any doubt. "Almost two hundred years ago, a man named Hal Woodrow said," she read off the entry that was projected by her implant onto the inner surface of her retinas, "'It is usually impossible to tell the difference between incompetence and conspiracy'."

She gave the clustered elders a slow, evil smile. Like a cat with a mouse, she was enjoying playing with them. "Luckily, the penalty for both is the same..." Now in a quiet voice, the cat pounced, "The sentence is...Eradication."

Dortmunder actually staggered back. A low keening swept the crowd. Many began to sob openly.

In a final effort, the leader of the Oahkies fell to his knees and sobbed to the more senior Abataurum, "Lords, please. With me do what you would, but on my people mercy have!"

His plea fell on deaf ears as all three Abataurum, linked via their implants, were already having a heated argument. Praetor Gruenspear was the first to speak, "Consul, this is totally unacceptable! There’re almost thirty-six hundred people here. I’m the one responsible for both manpower recruitment and indigenous peoples. This is unacceptable!"

Despite her public show, Olivia Cromwell was coldly efficient as she counted off her points. "First, until a new main-line base can be brought on-line we cannot maintain positive control over this area. There is a possibility of contact and compromise by the Raiders. Second, an example must be made, if discipline is to be maintained. Third, I am the commander of this prefecture and disciplinary action is my responsibility. Fourth, while the manpower availability in this region will be hurt...I’m sure the other praefects will appreciate the augmentation."

As Gruenspear started his retort, Consul Bushnell brought the debate to an end with a single click of his implant’s override icon.

He paused a moment to form his reply. "The pros and cons of both sides are now moot. When Olivia publicly announced her sentence, she sealed their fate." A bit of bitter irony tinged the emotional-monitoring chip. "No matter what the mitigating circumstances, we cannot now give a lesser sentence. To do so would give these sheep the impression that they can appeal or beg off on unpleasant orders. Besides, they might even start thinking THEY have some sort of right to justice, consideration, or even mercy."

The matter was settled before Dortmunder had finished his appeal. Consul Bushnell rose and announced to the quaking mass, "The sentence stands."

Now people were starting to crack. Even the threat of the Battleborgs couldn’t hold back the growing tide of terror.

Olivia rose and stepped to the front of the platform. Deep satisfaction tinged her smirking face. She accessed her implant function and linked to the loudspeakers on each Battleborg. Her voice boomed out, "Dortmunder, all the village elders, their immediate families, and extended families to the second degree...are sentenced to be impaled." She savored the terror and the music of the screams. "The rest of the population will be subject to evaluation. Those found acceptable for immediate draft will be required to assist in the execution of the eradication. Those that are too young, too old, injured, sick, or otherwise determined to be sub-standard..." she was almost purring now, "will be turned over to the vivisectionists as training material." She couldn’t help giggling as she added, "For those accepted for the draft to practice on."

She linked to the other Abataurum for a quick private sidebar. "Let’s see how they like cutting apart their living friends and relatives."

Back to addressing the crowd, she added, "Hesitation or refusal will result in immediate...reclassification of the recalcitrant. Those who are left will be scattered among our subject peoples."

She waved a hand at the surrounding remnants of the town. "To prevent anything falling into unfriendly hands, the town and all outlying facilities will be destroyed. In addition, all crops, livestock, and other animals will be eliminated."

She turned to the Consul, who gave her a simple nod. A signal sent via implant to the Battleborgs started things moving nicely.

While those selected to live were sharpening stakes—Olivia had specified they be quite blunt and thick ones. Slim sharp stakes allowed those impaled to die so-o-o quickly—she accompanied the designated Battleborgs in razing the town.

Forming a line abreast, the heavily armored machines started marching forward.

Laser fire from the HELBORes, the Gatling gun-like High Energy Laser Beam Ordinance and incendiary rounds from the grenade launchers, soon had the damp, but well-seasoned timbers of the town shattered and flaming. The assorted debris of life—clothing, furniture, tools, children’s toys—all added to the rapidly growing conflagration.

As she strode through the town, Olivia reveled in the smoke and destruction. She was amused to see a fat cur bitch run from a burning ruin. The dog was carrying a furry butterball of a pup in her mouth. Three other stumbling puppies staggered and stumbled in behind her.

The bitch must have thought the white-clad human was going to help. In her terror she ran right at Olivia.

A single burst from a Battleborg’s laser torched the pups and sliced through the yowling mother, exploding her internal organs in flash-fired steam.

The single puppy she had been carrying fell and rolled to Olivia’s feet. Noting the "friendly fire" threat, the Battleborg held its fire.

A smile of pure ecstasy etched Olivia’s features as she felt the pup’s tiny skull crunch under her grinding heel.

Finally, night had fallen before the ravaging of the land and the people was completed.

Backlit by the flaming ruins, the survivors were being herded into the heavy maglift trucks that had been brought for the purpose.

Among the still living victims of the mass impalement, Olivia Cromwell was giggling and dancing to the keening screams and counterpoint moans of her victims.

Consul Bushnell and Praetor Gruenspear stood watching. The smiles on their faces masked the messages they were sending on a private channel.

The senior Praetor mused, "I’m really starting to worry about her."

The Consul gave a Gallic shrug. "Why?" He swept the scene with a wave of his hand. "Because of this? A lesson was needed, a point was made."

Praetor Gruenspear couldn’t help giving a sardonic cock of his head. "I’m just not sure where the show she puts on for the peons ends, and her real personality starts. Worse, I’m not sure if she knows."

The Consul gave a short laugh. "So long as she gets the job done, does it really matter? Besides, history has shown that every...properly ordered state has needed its Beria, its Himmler..." He turned to the Praetor and cocked a thumb towards the still dancing figure in the bloodstained white. "It’s Cromwell."

Praetor Gruenspear nodded. "True." He closed his eyes to bring up another file. "Now, for the next problem..."

The Consul’s mouth drew down into a bitter grimace. "The Raiders, we have to slap them back a bit. We can’t have things getting out of hand."

Gruenspear nodded. "True. Who do we put in charge?"

At this the Consul just grinned, and tilted his head towards the figure prancing among the stakes.

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Griffon entered the training section’s briefing room, careful not to spill his mug of coffee. A quick glance around showed many familiar faces, a few strangers, and one big surprise. In the front row sitting side by side, but body language showing a gap of miles, were Fineous and his wife, Janine.

A quick double take of their mutually stiff and angry expressions sent a chill up his spine. Looks like the onset of a new Ice Age.

In the few minutes remaining, he did the quick rounds. He was surprised to see the unit they were supposed to be training today hadn’t arrived yet. Also, there were several new faces among the troops who had been assigned to bring the training squad up to full strength. He went around shaking hands, greeting old comrades or introducing himself, as each case warranted. Sergeant Sanchez was there and all the surviving members of the old Recon team. Griffon also met the three strangers: Privates Peterson and Twain, and Corporal Tsong.

He’d just made it back to his seat beside Fineous when the door opened and three figures entered. Two were familiar, the other one new; they went to the chairs on the raised dais at the head of the room.

The two familiar ones were the remaining survivors from his old Challenger survey team: pale, drawn and haunted Doctor White, and the heavily muscled red-haired dwarf of an engineer, Gillian. He caught their eye and gave them a quick smile and a nod before turning to study the third.

This was a huge, heavily muscled, black man. Almost seven feet tall, short cropped hair, and a lantern-jaw that could never look shaved. The twin bars of captain’s rank flashed from his collar.

The newcomer stood, black eyes flashing as he said in a gravelly voice, "I am Captain Grant, Crugger Grant. I have been selected as the commander of this expedition." He motioned to the other two. Each stood as he introduced them. "This is Doctor William White and Chief Engineer Gillian Macentire. They will each brief you on their part in our upcoming mission." With a casual gesture he indicated the far end of the first row. "Since some of us are new, would you please stand and introduce yourself. Please give name, rank and position."

First was Janine. "I am Janine Antoniou, Lance Corporal, Courier and Recon Specialist."

Then it was Fineous’ turn. "Fineous Telerim, Warrant Second, Vehicle Operations and Archaeological Expert."

Griffon stood in turn. "William Griffon, Warrant First, Operations and Archaeologist."

So it went, each in turn, mechanic, communications, heavy battlesuit, riflemen, medic, team sergeant, etc., until all had announced themselves.

Captain Grant nodded. "Thank you. Now, the first thing I have to tell you is the training mission you were scheduled for has been scrubbed." He gave them a quick grin. "For those of you who wish to reconsider...Tough. You’re stuck." This was greeted with a brief smattering of confused laughter. He continued, "For that matter, the entire normal training cycle has also been canceled."

This brought a solid silence. Experienced soldiers know exactly how important such training and sorting out can be, and how critical the situation must be for the command to forgo any SOP, Standard Operating Procedure.

The big officer gave them a moment to think about that. "What we’ve been tasked to do is simple." At a gesture the lights dimmed, and a detailed terrain map appeared on the screen behind him. It showed the lands to the west of Comanche Base. "We’ve been tasked to go here..." A bright red circle appeared, several hundred kilometers to the west. "And search for an underground base that was supposed to have been abandoned in this area."

As the map zoomed in, he pulled a datacomp from his breast pocket and used the stylus to bring up his notes.

"According to a check of pre-invasion records, the old American government was supposed to have had some sort of super-secret base buried under the Archuleta Plateau, two to three miles northwest of the old town of Dulce, in their state of New Mexico."

Out of the corner of his eye, Griffon saw Fineous give a sudden start. He glanced over to see the strange little man staring intently at the map. His eyes almost seemed to gleam with the intensity of his concentration.

Griffon turned back as the captain continued, "Unlike most of the old bases, this one wasn’t reactivated during the early days of the crisis."

He glanced up from his notes. "We have no idea why not. Or why it was abandoned in the first place. Or what it was originally intended for. Or..." He shrugged his massive shoulders. "Or even documents showing that it really existed at all."

The map faded as the lights came back up.

Grant let the smattering of whispered conversation fly around the room for a bit before cutting it off with a raised hand.

The captain slipped his datacomp back into the pocket of his coverall. "The High Command has decided to try something different. We still don’t have the ability to construct adequate facilities: not enough people, material, or equipment. To date we’ve concentrated on reactivating, then expanding existing facilities. After all, there were an awful LOT of them.

"However, this leaves us vulnerable to the Brotherhood. They have the same listings and database on existing facilities that we have. Even with minimal information they’ve been able to track in on our installations, and see to their elimination with disturbing ease."

He nodded towards an upraised hand. "Yes, um, Fineous?"

The little man stood and asked, a sardonic grin twitching at his lips, "Yes, sir. Do they know why the Brotherhood hasn’t wiped THIS base out?" He gave a rueful glance at the others seated around him. "We’ve had experience with confirmed Brotherhood agents. They’ve obviously given them information, which would allow them to pinpoint us in an instant. Why haven’t they taken us out?"

The big captain shrugged. "No idea. That question has been asked in many a command briefing and never received an adequate answer." He paused for a moment before continuing, "The best I’ve heard is it fits their needs to keep us alive."

That caused Fineous to blink. "Sir?"

Grant gave him a rueful, lopsided grin, "The psyche-boys believe the Brotherhood uses us as, um, 'bogeymen' to keep the peasants and peons in hand."

He unconsciously started to pace the length of the dais. "Sort of like letting the sheep in the pen see an occasional wolf to keep them satisfied that there’s a need for sheep dogs, and that the occasional shearing isn’t such a heavy price to pay for safety."

He stopped, turned to look Fineous directly in the eye. "They feel the Brotherhood considers the occasional loss of a sheep to their 'pet wolf' worth the price."

Fineous nodded and started to sit. Catching himself, he straightened and asked, "What about the Hivers? Aren’t they a big enough wolf to satisfy the peons?"

Grant shook his head. "What I was told was that for this to work the—I guess you’d call them shepherds—need to be able to show the sheep they can hold the wolf at bay. If they can’t, then the sheep might feel they gain nothing for their shearing. The Brotherhood can’t do that with the Hivers.

"Wherever the damned bugs want to stomp, they stomp, and there’s nothing either us or the Brotherhood can do about it."

Finn nodded, then looked the captain in the eye. "And what effect on this will our blowing up one of their bases have? Won’t they want to slap the wolf around a bit?"

Grant’s face lost its expression of detached amusement. With cold hard eyes he said, "That’s one of the reasons for the rush to find this new base."

Nodding, Fineous sat down. He gave the big officer a sardonic grin and asked, "Do you believe all that psycho-frack?"

Recovering,Grant matched him grin for grin. "Whatever yanks their crank. All that matters is we aren’t dead yet and are trying to spread our eggs to different baskets."

Grant's expression darkened again, as he said, "Now for the rest of it. Another reason we’re being rushed into the field." He glanced about, making sure the door was shut. "This is classified. It hasn’t gotten around yet, so nobody spills the beans, right?"

At the collected nods of the team, he added, "Right. Doctor White," he waved for the pale-faced doctor to rise, "is one of the top people we’ve got on Hiver physiology, their creatures, and all that biology stuff."

The doctor gave a wan grin in response to the light chuckles.

The big captain continued, "This team was the first to encounter, let’s say, peculiar actions by the Jabberwocks up north."

Griffon nodded. With most of the group, he remembered a carefully executed pack-attack by the normally predictable, if ferocious, predators. He saw Sittai rubbing the scar where one of them had tried to rip her face off, along with evisceration.

Grant continued, "Anyhow, we’ve lost contact with two villages of the Tizos, the people under our protection in the White Mountain area. That and the fact the last patrol we sent in that direction reported an attack of some sort..." He paused to make sure he had their undivided attention. "Just before going completely off the air."

To fill the silence in the room he added, "Subsequent checks have revealed the entire team has been wiped out.

"It wasn’t the Brotherhood. It wasn’t the Hivers." He shrugged. "At least as far as we can tell. We really don’t know anything but the fact that the attack involved animals.

"That’s why the doctor will be accompanying us. He’s to evaluate anything we encounter, and we’re supposed to do whatever we can to catch some examples for him to examine."

He now waved for the squat, broad-shouldered Scot to stand, as well as Griffon and Fineous. "This is Gillian Macentire. He’s not only one of our top engineers, he is also one of the team of 'sleepers' who came in last year."

He waved to Griffon and Finn. "Along with Doctor White and these two. He’s developed a new power plant we’ll be field testing in one of the two vehicles we’ll be taking."

He motioned for the three to sit. "That’s about it. Now, if there are no questions? Good. We’ll have first call at 0600 hours. Weapons draw and equipment issue at seven. Upload and move out by nine. Have a nice night, and I’ll see you all in the morning."

As the room quickly emptied, the huge captain looked Griffon up and down before saying, "I’m afraid we weren’t able to get to know each other before moving out. I’ve read the reports on your last mission with a Raider team, and the attack you and your group made on the Brotherhood base."

Griffon, unsure how to respond, just nodded.

Grant continued, "I hope you understand if I’m a bit cautious about how to handle you and your men. I don’t know you, or even where you come from. As the team leader, I have no idea how to make the best use of your backgrounds or capabilities."

Griffon’s smile was earnest. Don’t I know. "Sir, we’ll try..."

Grant cut him off with a raised hand. "I just want to let you know I don’t hold the fact that you killed your last team leader against you. As a matter of fact, the traitorous pile of bug dung deserved it. But I did want to welcome you and your mates to the team."

He stuck out a beefy paw with a big grin. Griffon shook his hand, noting the smile didn’t reach the eyes.

Riiiight.

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