Bound for Glory

Spaceport Landing Pad 

A spider web-like latticework of glass and steel rises to form a 100-foot-high dome alongside a clean and efficiently maintained spread of tarmac and loading hangars here at the Sanctuary Memorial Spaceport.

From shuttles to heavy freighters, dozens of civilian ships come and go each hour. Cargo handlers can be seen loading and unloading the various vessels, while stern-looking Guardian Fleet customs officers screen containers for weapons, explosives and contraband.

The customs agents are aided by hovering scanbots and scent-catching black mastiffs.

Falkenberg continues to look around carefully. He moves between the shadows of a couple of parked shuttles, and glances around a little nervously.

The barrel of a plasma rifle pokes out of the shadows and settles against Falkenberg's neck. A sibilant voice hisses: "Ssssstand, ssssoft thing, and raisssse your handssss high above your head."

Falkenberg freezes. He raises his hands over his head very slowly. "Hey, take it easy. Just out for some fresh air, you know? And the spaceport seemed so pretty."

Lusiris walks down the ramp of the Nall scout vessel, followed by several talons of warriors, bound on a course for the Guardian Fleet dropship.

The Nall behind Falkenberg grunts, then pokes again with the rifle, this time at the small of his back. "Report to the L'Sssssoth. Ssssshe will determine your fate. Make no attempt to esssscape."

Dozens of Nall warriors are assembled on the spaceport pad, many of them encircling the battered dropship.

"I wouldn't dream of it," Falkenberg says, his voice steadier now. "Just point me to the, ah, L'Soth, and I'll be happy to report to him." His hands remain over his head.

"Ssssshe isss the glorioussss Child of Nalia approaching that dropsssship," the warrior behind Falkenberg replies, poking again. "I will sssseassssse poking when you have arrived."

Falkenberg nods. "All right, I get it, I get it," he says. "I just wouldn't want to head for the wrong one, you know? That would be embarrassing." He begins to walk over to Lusiris and the numerous Nall warriors approaching the dropship.

As Falkenberg reaches the vicinity of the dropship, the warrior calls to Lusiris: "I have captured another sssssoftsssskin ssssspy, L'Ssssoth!"

Lusiris swings her snout toward the warrior, bobs it curtly, and then lets her amber eyes settle on Falkenberg. Her forked tongue flickers out and she huffs air. "Go nowhere," she says unnecessarily, what with all those Nall warriors gathered around. Then she turns her attention to the dropship. "Sssssoft creaturessssss! Come out ssssslowly, unarmed!"

Falkenberg coughs a little. "Captured is such a harsh word," he says, approaching Lusiris, his hands still over his head. "Couldn't we perhaps say "temporarily detained?" I'd even accept "held for questioning."

The warrior behind Falkenberg hisses and pokes again.

Razorfang walks off the dropship ramp, his paws resting behind his head and a look of exhaustion in his eyes. He quietly heads next to the shuttle's ramp and waits in his position.

Falkenberg is waiting behind the line of Nall, his hands in the air, a gun pointed at his back by a Nall warrior.

Lusiris swings her snout toward Razorfang. "Ssssoft, furred thing."

Razorfang arches his browridge at Lusiris. He shrugs slightly and then answers with a question. "Yes?"

Silvereye pads down the ramp after Razorfang, looking quite the worse for wear. His tail hangs limply, suggesting that it's not quite functioning. Several shards of glass pierce his side, cutting up his shirt and leaving several bloodstains. His paws are in the air, though not behind his head.

"I am told there are wounded aboard that vessssel," Lusiris hisses. She gestures with a clawed hand at the dropship, then gnashes her fangs at Razorfang. "Help move them to that sssship." With the other clawed hand, she sweeps an arc toward the Minerva, her landing ramp lowered and swarming with Nall warriors.

Falkenberg is standing behind the row of Nall warriors surrounding the dropship, his hands raised and a gun pressed to his back by a Nall. He remains silent for the moment.

Razorfang nods at the Nall, his facial expressions remaining blank and calm. His tail swooshes back and forth slowly. "Sure thing." He says, and then lets his hands drop to his side. He begins to make his way to the ramp.

Tarkovsky walks unsteadly down the ramp after Silvereye, listing to one side so that her left arm hangs away from her body. It has a terribly wrong bend between shoulder and elbow, swollen red and purple. She looks around and unsteadily steps across to Silvereye. "Have to... tell them," she repeats, "Others can't... move." She lifts her hand to rub across her eyes, then hesitates and stops before she touches her black eye.

Harris maunders along easily - not quite done with the Ungstiri, one hand raised where the other is sling-ed, smiling humourlessly at the entire situation, "Mark. Don't." he half-whispers in a high, mocking tone, "Lesson one, Christine, if they can - they /will/. There's no /justice/, there's no /mercy/, here or anywhere."

Silvereye bobs his snout to Christine. "That's right. Head for that ship over there-" He gestures to the Minerva with a paw. "-We'll be right along to get you some help. Go ahead and get some rest. You need it." He turns to Fang. "Get Marlan, I'll see what I can do about Otterz."

Genive steps out of the Angel. She's wearing a battered and dirty Guardian Fleet uniform. Her head is shaved smooth. The left side of her is cut and scraped. The blood dried and congealing in spots.

Razorfang nods his head twice before running up the ramp and into the ship.

Lusiris swings her snout in a slow survey of the group. "Can any among you fly a sssstarssship?"

Falkenberg narrows his eyes, his hands still held aloft as he watches the activity by the dropship. He opens his mouth as if to say something, but then hesitates.

Tarkovsky sets her jaw and tries to ignore Harris. She turns away from him pointedly, though the movement makes her sway dizzily for a moment. She winds up looking across to the Nall, and her stance droops. Her only response is a slight shake of her head to deny any piloting ability of her own. She points a finger back towards Silvereye as he disappears back into the dropship, then looks across to the other ship she was pointed to.

Genive catches Sivereyes directions and steps to the side as Razorfang runs back into the ship. She lowers her hands, clears her throat and takes a step towards Lusiris.

Falkenberg clears his throat. "Um, excuse me...L'Soth, was it?"

Lusiris fixes her gaze on Genive and lifts her snout. Then, as Falkenberg pipes up, she looks toward him. "Yessss, ssssoft thing?"

Marlan is laying on a stretcher carried in Razorfang's hands. Her normaly pale face now taking on a ghostly palor. A guardian fleet uniform has been cut open to reveal her skin, mottled purple and blue. Her chest too appear to have been cut open and a chest tube snakes its way out from between her ribs dripping fluid. Her head is turned to the side, mouth bloody and her left leg seems to be turned at an odd angle. Her hair appears to have been recently shaved, a few days growth already showing.

Genive stops as Falkenberg speaks and turns her gaze on him.

Falkenberg looks at the Nall and blinks several times before speaking again. "Well, I've been known to do some flying in my time. If you needed my assistance, I'd be happy to offer it. However, I can see you're very busy, and I'd be equally happy to go about my business and let you do whatever it is...you're going to do to these people. I can stop by your, ah, office or ship or whatever, at a later date if you like."

Jaw dropping open in amusement, Lusiris hisses and shakes her snout before pointing a clawed digit at the Minerva. To the warrior guarding Falkenberg, she says, "Take him. He will be of usssse." She then swings her snout back around to face Genive. "Sssspeak."

Newt walks towards the Nall, towering (ahm) over them.

Razorfang disembarks the ship, holding the stretcher in both hands and moving very slowly. "Where should I bring 'er, eh?" He asks Lusiris, as if she was a humble worker.

Lusiris gestures with a clawed hand toward the Minerva.

Tryklynn is holding his muzzle tightly shut, ears flat down his head, whiskers along his muzzle, being carried by Silvereyes.

Genive arches a borw at Falkenberg and then hurriedly returns her attention back to the Nall. She straightens up and licks her lips,"One of our crew is critically injured and will expire without immediate medical attention from a trained doctor. Its imperative that we find someone."

Lusiris bobs her snout at Genive. "If you are cooperative, we will sssssee that medical care isssss provided."

Razorfang nods, and then, after a large yawn and obviously not a stretch, for he would drop the stretcher if he did. "Ok. Thanks there." He walks towards to Minerva slowly, carefully.

Newt says, "Hay. No fair. I'm the pilot of the Minerva." Obviously putting two and two together as he walks.

Falkenberg looks from the Nall to the Minerva. He sighs and mutters something to himself.

After another glance cast across the assembled Nall, Christine also begins shuffling towards the Minerva, maintaining her leaning stance to prevent her arm bumping against her body.

Silvereye returns to the landing site, Lotorian in paw. His step continues towards the Minerva.

Harris smiles thinly and thrusts his good left hand into his pocket, "And slimy things with legs walked upon the slimy sea." He murmurs absently, falling in with the majority heading to the Minerva.

Rifle cradled in his talons, Nithis quickly trots down from the Minerva's shuttle bay. He stops near the bottom to quickly look across the landing pad.

"We will cooperate, thank you." she states with a nod. She steps back and eyes Falkenberg, as she to starts towards the Minerva.

Finally, Razorfang reaches his goal, the Minerva's bay. He slowly walks up it with Marlan in hand.

Lusiris walks along, trailing the stragglers from the dropship and approaching the Minerva. She beckons Nithis with a clawed hand.

Falkenberg walks over to the Minerva with a depressed sigh.

Tarkovsky reaches the Minerva and follows the others inside.

Nithis starts off towards the L'Soth as soon as he's summoned. He quickly scans the faces of those that he passes. The Nall's tail swishes from side to side in his wake.

Lusiris stops a few feet from Nithis, raising a tattooed palm in salute, her jeweled tail lashing back and forth. "Ur'Huluth. The sssship issss ssssecure?"

"Assss ssssecure assss ssssuch a sssssoftsssskin vessssssel can be, honored L'sssoth." Nithis replies, showing his own tattoo for a few seconds longer than necessary.

Lusiris bobs her snout, then gestures up the ramp. Speaking in a low voice, she hisses: "Our dessssepsssssion issss complete. The Vril sssssycophantsssss believe they have our fealty. We will fly thissss vesssel," a gleaming claw indicates the Minerva, "toward the government ssssenter, assss if we intend to crassssh into it. But we will dessssselerate at the lasssst possssible moment, land on the roof, resssscue Vokssss Urka of Hatch Kithar, and then make for Luna."

Razorfang runs outside, shaking his head slightly, looking still even more tired. He is heading for the ramp to the dropship.

Nithis bobs a snout to Lusiris, flashing milky membranes across his eyes. "Why bring the sssssoftsssskinssss, honorable L'soth?" He inquires back at the L'soth in a quiet hiss, "Do you eksssspect that we shall be forsssssed to fasssse-to-fasssse combat?" Nithis and Lusiris stand near the base of the Minerva's ramp.

Viola wanders into a rather orderly scene. Orderly in the sense that it has been imposed by nearly 100 Nall warriors moving among their fighters and scout ships, many of them surrounding the dropship. Others are helping passengers aboard the Minerva.

"Inssssssuranssssse," the L'Soth replies simply.

Viola tries to see up over the heads of the taller beings, though the Nall don't really fit into that category. Her mouth is pursed and she's scowling which makes her look very much like a child who is putting on an angry face. "Great. I've lost Linus and now I can't even get off this ball of mud," she mutters to herself.

"Oh, you can get off," hisses a voice behind her, a rifle barrel poking her in the small of the back. It's a Nall warrior.

"I shall watch them closssssely, your glory." Nithis states after a few moments, clacking his jaw once in punctuation. "They may be bitter about our capture of their war-cafeteria."

Viola ows and stumbles forward a step, reaching back to rub at her back. "Hey!" she says in protest, but when she turns her head to the right, she manages to figure out there's a mean lizard behind her with a gun. "Oh. Uhm... am I in the way? I'm sorry..."

The Nall warrior gestures from Viola to the Minerva. "Walk, ssssoft thing. Board. The L'Ssssoth demandsssss it."

Lusiris bobs her snout at Nithis. "May Nalia ssssshine on thissss endeavor."

Viola blinks at the Nall with her good eye, but she does start moving toward the Minerva. She wears a mystified, 'Whatchoo talkin' 'bout, lizard?' kind of expression, but she walks. "Uh," she says as she traverses the landing pad from the direction of the spaceport. "The L'Soth wants to see me?"

"And may she shine on you, honorable L'sssssoth." Nithis hisses before turning and walking up into the Minerva. He slings his rifle over his shoulder as he ascends into the vessel.

Razorfang walks off the ramp carying Volidana in a gentle posture. He heads towards the Minerva, not paying the Nall any attention.

"The L'sssssoth demandssss that you board the sssssoftssssskin vessssel," hisses the warrior following Viola.

Viola's back arches as she tries to avoid another jab from the rifle. "Okay, okay," she quickly says, putting her hands up and side-stepping toward the Minerva. "I'm going. I'm going. Give a girl a minute, will you?"

Aboard the Minerva...

Shuttle Bay 

This large chamber serves as a shuttle hangar and a cargo staging area. Warning stripes have been painted along the floor, marking out shuttle landing pads, cargo pallets and variable gravity areas. Two massive doors guard the threshold leading out of the ship. There is also a personnel airlock to the port side of the hangar doors.

Nithis walks back into the shuttle bay, climbing up the ramp at a quick pace. His tail weaves from side to side behind him as he makes his way towards the cargo hold.

Lusiris ascends the ramp, passing through the airlock and gnashing her fangs as she turns to press the controls for the retraction mechanism. The ramp begins to draw up from the tarmac.

Falkenberg is standing talking to Newt and Harris.

Viola is prodded aboard the ship by a Nall warrior who has a rifle. She's got her hands up, but she's glaring none-too-happily at the lizard. "I didn't mean to get in the way," she says toward him in self-defense. "I.. don't think I'm supposed to be here..."

The Nall following Viola huffs and gestures to the cargo hold. "Ssssilensssse, ssssoft thing."

"Quite." Harris continues to smile that faintly knowing smile - no humour there, just bitter amusement, running his left hand through the layer of stubble only just beginning to re-grow on his shaved head, "I was rather hoping the lizards would drop us off at a nice restaurant for tea and scones. You never know."

Lusiris steps toward Falkenberg, sharp talons on her feet clacking on the deckplates. She jabs a clawed finger at the Lunite. "Go to the bridge, sssssoft thing. Ssssoon, you sssshow ussss how well you fly."

"I will assssssemble the loyal warriorsssss and have them prepared, L'ssssoth." Nithis hisses to Lusiris as he passes and continues to make his way towards the cargo bay.

Lusiris bobs her snout at Nithis.

Viola grunts and shuts her mouth for at least a good ten seconds. "I'm not just any softskin, you know," she mutters as she passes Harris and Falkenberg with her blindside toward them. "I'm a -engineer-. Bloody lizards."

Falkenberg scratches his chin. "All right, but it might take me some time to find the bridge," he says. "They didn't show it to me the last time I was...I don't know where it is." He moves toward the exit.

Newt looks between the shorter Lusiris and the rather taller Falk and protests, "Hey! I'm the pilot of the Minerva not him."

Lusiris gnashes her fangs and flicks her eye membranes as she stares at Newt. Then her jaw drops open. "You are but a larval ssssoft thing."

"You looking to go two-for-two on the crashing front, kid? Jesus Christ, I'd rather have the dyed-in-the-wool bastard in the driver's seat." Harris raises an eyebrow, "No offense, Falkenberg."

Lusiris flicks her eye membranes once more, her snout swinging sharply around so her eyes can fix on the Lunite. "Falkenberg?"

Newt looks over at Harris, "Why don't you go bite your bum." and then back to Lusiris, "I am NOT a larva."

Quite a few Nall in the shuttle bay stop and turn to stare at the utterance of that name.

Nearly at the door, Falkenberg winces and turns slowly. "Yes," he says simply.

Lusiris jabs a clawed finger at Newt. "Ssssilensssse, dwarven creature." She lopes toward Falkenberg, then draws up short, head raised on a sinuous neck. Her eyes take in the humanoid as if for the first time and her jaw falls open in amusement. "Yesss. It issss you. Her Glory hassss an appressssiasssssion for irony. Alwaysssss. You fly thissss vessssel. Mosssst fitting, under the circumsssstanssssses." She swings her snout to look at the others. "The resssst of you, gather in the cargo hold. Caussssse no trouble. Your cooperasssssion ensssssuressss medical care for the othersssss."

Falkenberg exhales. "My life has been a string of ironies," he says simply. "I see no reason for that to stop." He resumes his course for the door.

Something in that tone triggers alarms all over Harris' brain. And it /is/ true what they say, there /is/ honour amongst thieves, "Falkenberg? No, I said Falcon Bird. It's his nickname." It's lame, admittedly, but Harris never /could/ lie, but there's no hesitation, "... Oh come on, like any of /you/ could do any better." He looks around the assembled, "Fine, I'm /going/."

Newt crosses his arms, looking down at the Nall. "I am NOT a dwarf. I'm taller then YOU are. So NYER."

Lusiris gnashes her fangs, then turns and heads into the cargo hold.

Cargo Hold 

Cargo shuttling robots handle a lot of the heavy lifting in this 100-foot-square, 40-foot-high hold, which is capable of carrying several months worth of food and supplies for the ship's crew with plenty of space left over for commercial and scientific payloads.

A quartermaster oversees the arrivals and departures of cargos, checking manifests to make sure that what's on the list matches what's in the crate.

A wide archway, accessible by the cargo bots, leads to the ship's shuttle bay. In one corner, occupying 40 feet square, is a wall of crates, 12 feet high, with one column left open to pass beyond them. On the crate above the opening, inscribed with a cutting torch, are the symbols of three stylized dunes below fast-moving clouds.

Falkenberg moves across the cargo hold heading for the corridor.

Nithis stands a dozen or so feet from the shuttle bay, having gathered a small group of Nall warriors around him now. He alternates between speaking to the Nall and talking into a small commlink gripped in one of his talons. The Ur'huluth's tail thumps rhythmically against the deck.

Short sword clanking against her side, Lusiris stops to address her subordinate. "Ur'Huluth, remain with thessssse ssssoft creaturesssss. Alert me at onsssssse if they sssseek to rebel. We will eksssssecute their wounded firsssst, then move on to them until they behave. Issss thissss undersssstood?"

Harris finds a suitable crate to sit on, against the wall, and once he does crosses his legs Buddha style. In about five seconds, this gets boring, and he drums his fingertips impatiently against the crate. A further ten seconds, and he begins to sing under his breath, "... show me the way to go home... 'cause I'm tired and I wanna go to bed..."

Silvereye looks up at McConnell from where he is seated on crate. "I'm one of the people who escaped Area 16. Silvereye, on a more personal level." He glances towards the corridor. "I should probably be in the medical bay...Got bombarded by the Nall. Barely made it out alive." He rises, ready to undertake another voyage.

Viola is herded into the cargo bay with a group of other beings, though she's far better dressed and isn't nearly as smelly as most of them. (Especially the bald ones that sing.) Her nose wrinkles as she presses further into the crowd and tries to find some elbow room.

McConnell puts a hand on Silvereye's arm and shakes his head, "Don't move, I'll check you out, I hear we've got casualties coming in, and you don't look too badly wounded, wouldn't want to overload Ms. Ranix." he replies.

"Yessss, your glory." Nithis replies before turning to the nearest Nall warrior. "M'thosss," he hisses, "relay the L'ssssoth'ssss orderssss to the sssssentinelsssss in the medical bay." A Nall or two enter the room as he speaks.

Falkenberg continues on for the corridor, muttering something to himself.

Newt continues to head int he direction of the Corridor.

Lusiris bobs her snout, then moves toward the corridor. She blocks Newt's way. "No, ssssoft midget."

Silvereye blinks at McConnell, his eyes not daring to leave him. "You're a doctor? She needs your help more than I do. She got hit the worst in the blast...Then...Well, she got hit even worse. She's in really bad shape."

McConnell shakes his head slowly, "Not a doctor, but I'm Combat Lifesaver qualified with the Vanguard. I can do first aid..." he trails off for a moment, and then asks, "What happened to the doc?"

Harris lets out a snort of laugher at Newt's progress, "Soft midget." He echoes.

Newt stops infront of the Nall, "I am NOT a midget."

Leaving the two warriors that just arrived to secure the exit, Lusiris drops her jaw open in amusement and then steps into the corridor.

A short while later...

Command Center 

The central operations facility of this Wasp-class destroyer is a blunted trapezoid that angles from the 15-foot-wide forward bulkhead and graduates to 30-feet-wide at the aft end of the command hull.

A holographic viewscreen provides amplified visuals of the surrounding cosmos, while square portholes can be found to starboard and port on the bulkheads until reaching the elevated console station "U" that cradles the command chair and the navigation console.

A pair of steps can be seen port, starboard and aft, leading from the command well to the rail-encircled "U" that houses the science, communications, atmospheric monitoring and cargo management consoles.

The "U"-deck and the top of the encircling rail are covered with navy blue impact cushioning. The lower command well, forward to the prow, has uncarpeted gray metal plates - some marked as AUTHORIZED ACCESS ONLY - BREACH CONTAINMENT RISK.

Directly aft from the command chair, at the bottom of the "U," is the hatch that leads to the rest of the vessel.

Falkenberg is standing over the navigation console.

Lusiris bobs her snout as he emerges into the command center from the corridor, and works her way down into the well. "Are you asssss good asssss legend sssssuggesssstssss, Falkenberg?"

"Better," Falkenberg says simply. "I'll get you wherever you want to go. Which, by the way, is where?"

Lusiris makes her way to an auxiliary control console, tapping in commands that swivel an exterior camera so that the image on the viewscreen is that of the Consortium Government Building - the tallest skyscraper on the San Angeles skyline.

Falkenberg frowns at the screen. "We're flying there? That's it?" He shrugs. "Short trip, but all right." He lowers himself into the navigator's seat.

"I have told the followersssss of Voksssss Ock of Hatch Vril that we intend to fly this vesssssel into the top floor of that building to martyr ourssssselvesssss and assssasssinate the ekssssile Voksssss Ulka of Hatch Kithar," Lusiris says.

Falkenberg blinks several times. "Um. When you say "martyr yourselves," you mean, ah, the glorious Nall warriors will leave the ship to do their glorious martyrdom thing, and then I'll fly the ship to some safe location, right?"

Lusiris drops her jaw open in amusement, her jeweled tail lashing back and forth. "You mussssst fly thisssss vessssel assss if you intend to collide with the building, asssss we have promisssssed the Vril loyalisssssts. But at the lasssst possssible moment, you mussssst desssselerate and land atop the building. We will retrieve the Voksssss, then we musssst go immediately to Luna, which isssss under Kithar control. You musssst act quickly after the Vokssss isss aboard, for the orbital cannonssss already are aimed at that building. The Vril will fire without hessssitassssion onsssse our dessssepssssion issss apparent."

Falkenberg exhales. "Oh," he says. "Is that all? I can do tha...orbital cannons?"

The L'Soth settles into the command chair. "If you fail, we will perissssh along with our gloriousssss Vokssss. It issss an honorable death."

Falkenberg mops his brow with one hand. "Well, no offense, but I'll pass on that particular death today. You just be sure your people tell us quick when the Vox is on board, and I'll do the rest." He taps a few commands into the console, cycling the engines through their preflight warmup.

The ship's engines whine to life.

Falkenberg smiles as his hands grasp the controls. "Now, let's see what this baby can do, shall we?" He engages the thrusters and keys in the launch sequence.

Lusiris bobs her snout, claws clutching the armrests of the chair.

The thrusters kick in and the ship jolts slightly as it lifts off the pad.

"There we go, baby," Falkenberg says. "That's a nice ship. We're gonna get along JUST fine." He glances at Lusiris. "I'd tell the others to hold on tight." He gooses the throttle, and guides the ship through a hard turn as it moves over the city.

Several Nall warriors file into the command center, plasma rifles held ready. One of them says, "L'Sssssoth, the ekssssstracsssssion team issss prepared!"

The Minerva thrums forward through the San Angeles sky, banking hard to port.

Falkenberg banks the ship hard in the opposite direction. "Yeah. That's what I like." He jags the ship back to port, and brings it in line with the government center.

The Minerva jinks to starboard, then stabilizes to a set course. Through a porthole, one might notice the ship isn't angling toward the heavens, but instead remains over the city at a relatively low elevation - maybe a few hundred feet.

"All righty," Falkenberg says. "Here we go." He aims the ship at the center of the tower and throws the throttle against its stops.

The Minerva lunges as the thrusters are pushed to full speed, rattling crates as the atmosphere buffets the spacecraft. One might notice through a porthole that the ship appears to be aimed directly at: The tallest building on the skyline.

Falkenberg holds his course until the building fills the entire viewscreen. At the last POSSIBLE second, he reverses thrusters and pulls up hard. The ship screams in protest and skims the very surface of the building, rising upward, the bottom of the hull inches from the steel and concrete face. Just barely, the ship bobs up over the tip of the tower, and moves in to hover over the roof.

The Minerva, at the last POSSIBLE second, reverses thrusters and pulls up hard. The ship screams in protest and skims the very surface of the building, shattering several windows, rising upward, the bottom of the hull inches from the steel, glass and concrete face. Just barely, the ship bobs up over the tip of the tower, and moves in to hover over the roof...

Lusiris checks a display, waiting.

Falkenberg sets the ship down gently. "No sweat," he says. "Your turn. I don't look good wearing a bullseye."

Lusiris bobs her snout. "Now! They are opening fire!"

Falkenberg pulls up hard and throws the throttle forward.

The night sky is suddenly illuminated by the familiar searing white glow the work camp refugees might remember: A mass driver pellet, hurtling down from the heavens, zeroing in on the Minerva and the government center building. Almost too late, the Minerva arcs away from the roof and thrusts in the opposite direction - just a second before the pellet strikes the roof of the skyscraper, exploding the structure and sending out a billowing cloud of flame, dust and debris. The Minerva is briefly caught in the mushrooming cloud, intakes clogging with dust and causing the engines to sputter dangerously, then she breaks free into the otherwise clear night sky. Well, clear except for those six Nall fighters moving to intercept.

Falkenberg lets out a whoop. "Oh, YEAH!" he shouts. "Let's see the Cajun do THAT!" He points the ship toward the sky and heads for orbit. "Um, L'Soth, you might want to have some gunners man their stations. We have company."

Lusiris lifts her snout. "We are unfamiliar with thessssse weaponsssss," she grudgingly admits. "Fly well."

Falkenberg sighs. "How did I KNOW you were gonna say that?" He shakes his head. "All righty, let's see what they've got." He continues to head for orbit, pushing the Minerva through a quick corkscrew maneuver.

As the Solar Consortium Government Center tower collapses in a rumbling cloud of wreckage, disaster in the heart of San Angeles, the Minerva hurtles along and then goes into a twisting corkscrew maneuver, blowing past the phalanx of Nall fighters as the VES ship rockets toward orbit. The Nall are stubborn, though. They arc around to pursue.

"Stubborn little bastards," Falkenberg says, eying the sensor displays. "Let's see if they can hit us." He puts the ship through a series of hard zigzag maneuvers as it arcs through the upper atmosphere.

The Minerva jerks port. Jerks starboard. Bobs up and down. The pilot seems to be doing everything he can to evade the doggedly pursuing Nall, who close the gap to the Minerva. The lead fighter launches a salvo from its plasma cannons, and the Minerva lurches as her hull is pounded. Crate containment fields fail, sending cargo scattering.

Falkenberg continues to put the ship through evasive maneuvers, wincing as the blasts rack the hull. "I don't think they like us."

The Nall fighters appear to be closing rapidly on the Minerva, the VES ship angling for a milky white crescent moon that may be one of the last sights its passengers will see. Another fighter unleashes its plasma weapons. The first blast goes wide to port. The second plows into the lower hull. Hot steam pipes in the cargo hold rupture and hiss, spewing burning, pressurized geysers of mist.

Lusiris gnashes her fangs and leans forward in the command chair. "You mussssst do better, sssssoft thing."

Falkenberg throws the throttle against its stops and twists the controls, spinning the ship along its axis of motion in an effort to dodge incoming fire. "Don't you worry about me, I'll get us there," he says confidently.

The Minerva suddenly spins along her axis of motion, dodging another deadly salvo of incoming plasma fire. The Nall fighters continue to pursue, while the Minerva continues toward the sliver of Luna, the city of San Angeles a sparkling abstraction on Earth's night side.

Falkenberg holds the throttle at maximum, and begins another set of zigzags and dodges, throwing in the occasional twist. "I don't suppose your friends are planning to send an escort?"

Lusiris drops her jaw open in amusement.

The Minerva widens its lead on the Nall fighters, breaking through the atmosphere and into the chill of outer space, still bound for the moon. But it soon becomes apparent that it isn't because the Minerva is going all that fast. The Nall fighters are simply slowing to cruising speed, marking time. Why? Because between Minerva and the moon are about twenty hulking Nall capital ships.

Falkenberg looks at the sensors for a moment in disbelief. "Please tell me those are yours," he says to Lusiris, keeping the ship on a general course for Luna, continuing to make erratic shifts, dodges and jukes.

Lusiris shakes her snout. "Sssssadly, our capital assssetsssss were desssstroyed early in the conflict." She clicks her fangs together, leans back in the command chair and adds: "Fly well."

Falkenberg looks at Lusiris for a very brief moment in disbelief. "Oh, s***," he says. "Well, the shortest distance between two points..." he continues to drive for the moon and the row of Nall cruisers, and throws the ship into another long roll.

The Minerva rolls again, bearing down on the fleet, hoping to outmaneuver them. Instead, one of the smaller capital ships rakes fire across the port hull. Anyone not securely tied down is going to get hurled around as the ship jerks hard to starboard.

Lusiris clutches the armrests of the command chair as the ship lurches.

"Damn! My bad," Falkenberg says. "Got it under control, though." He aims for a gap between two ships, putting the ship through a sequence of sweeping, spiralling maneuvers, his course like a twisted, three dimensional snake.

Out of the void emerges a ball of white flame, streaking towards Earth orbit between the Minerva and the Nall fleet. The white glaring flame dissipates, revealing Galactix himself. No words are uttered as Galactix' main cannons charge up, shining with the sheer power of anti-matter which is unleashed in a pair of sparkling white beams that streak towards the nearest Nall vessel. The beams strike the hapless craft, piercing the shields and dragging along the hull like a surgeon's knife, slicing through the hull and the interior, leaving destruction in its wake. Debris and bodies float away from the crippled ship as it begins to list, racked with explosions within the exposed area. Then, over the commlink comes Galactix's booming voice. "The Minerva is under my protection. Any further attempts to harm it will result in your destruction."

Falkenberg blinks. "Way to go, GX! Eat hot antiprotons, you Nall bas....um, you traitors."

Lusiris flicks her eye membranes. "We have not made it ssssafely yet, Falkenberg. Land on the ssssentient vesssssel. Luna no longer appearsssss to be an opssssion."

Falkenberg nods. "Right-o." He angles the ship toward Galactix, continuing to dodge hostile fire.

The Nall fleet seems troubled, but otherwise unimpressed, as they turn, trying to maneuver to mass their weapons against the sentient starship.

The Nall capital ships have broken off into two wings, moving to flank Galactix as the Minerva swings in a wounded arc, trying to make it to what might laughingly be considered as safety. While the scarred wreck of one dead Nall vessel drifts, inert and impotent, the turrets of the others come alive. Minerva jerks hard starboard, hard port, desperately weaving to avoid the blasts while still closing on the flight deck of Galactix and what sanctuary it might provide. The sentient starship provides cover fire, its own guns lancing energy bolts toward the enemy. One blast from a Nall capital ship seems about to hammer into the Minerva, but she drops low to avoid the sizzling blast, then slides into the flight deck of Galactix.

Falkenberg lets out a sigh as he eases the ship to a rest. He turns to look at the L'Soth. "Not bad for a softskin, eh?"

Lusiris bobs her snout. "Passssable. You have proven your honor to my people. Your debt isssss repaid."

Falkenberg smiles broadly. "Now THAT I like to hear. You're ok, too, L'Soth. I gotta tell you, this little plan of yours took guts. Crazy as all hell, but it still took guts." He powers down the engines and stands.

The Nall L'Soth considers the comment, then replies philosophically: "It required loyalty. It required determinasssssion. I wasssss prepared to die with my Voksssss, if I musssst, rather than ssssserve a falsssse Vokssss."

Falkenberg nods. "Like I said. Guts. Now what?"

The voice of Galactix comes over the speakers: "I have eluded the Nall fleet and activated spindrive. We will arrive at Concordance Station in a few minutes. I understand some among you require medical care. Concordance can provide it."

Lusiris lifts her snout to the ceiling. "Nalia deliversssss ussss to our nekssssst endeavor."

Falkenberg nods slowly. "O-kay," he says. "I guess I'll see how the others are doing. And oh, there's one human...one soft thing back there that might turn up not-so-alive in a little while. Don't let it trouble you."

"It issss not our conssssern," the L'Soth replies.

Falkenberg nods. "Good. An associate of mine has a grievance with him, and he really pissed me off earlier." He pats his holstered weapon. "Let me know if you need me for anything else. After I take care of this, I have nothing else to do."

Lusiris bobs her snout. "You are free to go where you will, from thissss point on. My conssssern now issss for the one true Voksssss."

Falkenberg nods. "All righty then." He moves toward the corridor.

Back in the cargo hold, Harris tries to help with the wounded, including his wife, Viola...

"Rip up the seams of both legs," Harris makes slashing motions up Viola's calves to demonstrate, with appropriate 'zzzzzzzp' sounds. Whilst Silvereye does this, he slips his own sling off his right arm, muffling a scream as the broken member drops limp to his side. He flattens the material that was supporting his arm into a pool of water beneath one of the ruptured pipes until it's thoroughly sodden, "See, this would be a lot easier if you didn't have to wear that jumpsuit, Viola. Makes your arse look big, too."

McConnell regains conciousness for a moment, and groans again, "My back..." though this is much quieter than his screaming earlier.

Viola just keeps rocking in excruciating agitation, though she shoots a black look at Harris with her good eye. "One hundred twenty four times one hundred sixty seven is twenty thousand, seven hundred eight! One hundred twenty four times one hundred sixty EIGHT IS TWENTY THOU... OUCH!"

Silvereye follows Harris's instructions, ripping along the seams without so much as a blink. Clothes are an accessory for Demarians, after all. His ear twitches as McConnell speaks and he calls back, "I've sent to Newt to get some bandages. He should be back soon."

Harris wafts the now-soaked bandage as if he were drying his laundry. Not ideal, but evaporation is more important than initial temperature, "Okay, Viola, this is going to hurt like merry Hell." Oh well, at least he's honest. He wraps the wet bandage gently around the blistered portion of Viola's leg, tracing the wound down, "Take off this boot, then go expose the wound on Captain Banshee over there."

Newt reenters the cargo bay and heads for Silvereye, "Uhh... That other guy... Falkenberg... He'll bring the stuff here."

McConnell continues groaning to himself, but a new twist has snuck into his speaking, a bit of delirium. He babbles, "Make sure my tea is piping hot within the next five minutes, or there'll be hell to pay...Cadet Panderyn! Drop and give me twenty!" he calls towards the sound of Newt's voice.

Viola's mouth opens but all sound from her ceases except for a shuddering inhalation. The engineer goes paler for a moment, hands balling into white-knuckled fists. By the moon, she's not going to scream. She's -not-. Dammit, she once gave birth to a -baby-!

Silvereye unceremoniously yanks off Viola's boot, tossing it haphazardly back among the disjointed crates. He walks over to the fallen Minervanaut, observing his blistered and bleeding back. "Oh Altheor's Teeth..." Well, the adrenaline is gone. "You there! Human! Don't worry...I'm going to rip this shirt off so we can get to this wound better." Silvereye unsheathes his claws, using them to rip open McConnell's shirt at the shoulder.

That's really all that Newt needed. More weirdness in his life, "Uhhh... What?"

Falkenberg walks in, carrying a few bandages and a box of cotton swabs. "The kid said someone needed these?"

A Nall guard stands near the door unmoving. Rifle held at the ready.

McConnell screams in pain for a moment as Silvereye rips the shirt from his back, and then bellows, "You stupid Nall! Don't ever do that again or I'll have you in the crate with Carlon so quick your scales will fall off!" upon hearing Falkenberg's voice he yells, "Private Martin! Why aren't you in the messhall peeling potatos?"

Viola writhes on the floor near to Harris, slamming one small fist into a puddle of warm water. Her exposed foot is raw and blistering now that cooling air can reach it. It looks more like a boiled lobster than a slender, female foot, however. From the way she's sucking in air, it won't be long until she's screaming alongside McConnell.

Harris slides off his coat (burnt and dirty as it might be) and arranges it to cover most of Viola's prone form, apart from the now-exposed and blistered burns, "If you start shivering, you should tell someone. I mean... me." He hops to his feet, "/Man/, I'm a good Doctor. Next please!"

Falkenberg turns and looks at McConnell. "Oh, hello there, McConnell. I wasn't aware you were still staying ahead of the inevitable grasp of natural selection. Just barely, it would seem." He sets the bandages down near McConnell.

Genive barges into the cargo hold and blinks at the disarray. She curses under her breath. She's wearing a tattered Guardian's Fleet uniform. The right side of her face is cut and bloody. She yells at no one in particular, "I need help. Doc is dying we have to get her to the med bay as soon as we land!"

Newt just watches, keeping his distance.

"It's Lieutenant McConnell to you, you pirate!" The greviously wounded man replies to Falkenberg as he passes, adding, "I don't need a pillow either!"

Viola tracks Harris' movements with her good eye, but she's no longer moving quite so much. In fact, from the look of her only visible eye, she's -this- close to finally blacking out for a moment. No such luck. The poor, petite engineer just lies there and suffers.

Silvereye glances at the bandages that have landed beside him. "Altheor's Teeth I don't know what to do with these..." He hears Harris utter 'next' "Harris!" He calls out, glancing in his direction.

"Falkenberg, you win today's prize for having four working limbs, go help carry the wounded." Harris kneels in a pool of water beside the downed McConnell, "Second-and-third, thirty percent area. What did you do, /aim/ for it?" He laughs wryly, "Okay, I can only repeat: This is going to be agony. Sorry." He doesn't /sound/ it, but he goes through the same process, dousing a bandage, cooling it and applying it to McConnell's back.

Falkenberg looks around at the wounded. "Carry them where? We'll be docked in a few minutes, why not leave them here for easy unloading by Concordance's med staff? I'm sure Galactix can radio ahead and have them on the flight deck."

McConnell grunts, "You sir, are not touch.....augh!" he groans in agony as the bandage is applied.

Genive glares at Falkenberg, "I need help getting her there," She shakes her head,"Forget it." She spins and hurries back into the corridor.

Viola makes a sound like a whine that turns into an agonized whimper. Sweat is beading upon her forehead as she struggles to find some area of comfort in her mind to escape the pain of her burned leg. The young woman pushes up on one hand a little, though the other remains curled into an extremely tight fist.

"No skin off my nose, but in /that/ case /you/ can have them in the airlock ready for /them/ on the flight deck. These two can wait, I imagine Marlan is busy dying, bless her little cotton socks." Harris pauses abruptly as he rises, then brushes something away with a little shake of his head.

Falkenberg looks around briefly. "Well, Harris, how about this. I'll go with you to see if you can help Marlan. After that, we're going to have that talk I mentioned. Then, I'll help anyone who needs it." He moves toward the corridor.

"MARCUS!" rings out Viola's voice. "Where are you going? Marc? Marcus Christopher Harris! DAMMIT!"

"Marlan needs an experienced surgical team, I'm... not that. And with this..." Harris nods down at his limp right arm, "I'd only get in the way." He turns on his heel and eyes Viola, "Come on, you, we'll treat you at home. CSMS is going to have a fair old waiting list for a few hours."

Falkenberg pulls out his pistol and points it at Harris. "No, Marcus, I'm afraid we ARE going to have a talk. In the corridor."

Viola stares at Falkenberg when he pulls his pistol. "No!" she protests from her place on the floor. "NO! Leave him alone! He has a baby girl that needs him, dammit, and so do I! You can't make him go out there. He can't GO!"

Newt just watches, not doing anything to help but on the flip side not doing anything to hinder.

"As much as Galactix and I have a /history/, he's a relatively nice chap, I gather, and I certainly don't imagine he's going to let you shoot me and then just saunter away." Harris reaches down his left arm for Viola's hand, he's not even /seen/ the pistol, "I'm not a fool, Falkenberg, but I am very tired. I'm going home."

McConnell doesn't seem to be very comfortable, what with the bandage and the burning sensation, he growls, "What's going on? Somebody help me up so I can watch."

Falkenberg looks at Viola. "Lady, the doctor in the medbay is in the shape she's in because of him, from what I'm told. What's more, he went and told the Nall who I was, intentionally or not. Now, thankfully, they've given me clearance to do what I need to do. But more importantly, this will please a mutual acquaintance of ours...Lester Haskins." He looks at Harris. "Galactix and I are actually old friends, and if you take another step you will be dead where you stand."

Newt doesn't say anything for a while and then replies to McConnell, "I think Doctor Harris is gonna get shot." Not a shred of emotion there.

Viola struggles to sit upright with determination and growing anger upon her face. "Lester Haskins is a madman who has caused more pain and suffering than Marcus could ever do." She reaches up to tightly grasp Harris' hand, stubbornly clinging to it. "If you cause any harm to my husband, I will make sure you regret it."

"Sir." McConnell adds, before replying, "And anyways let me SEE! If he did harm the doc I at least want to see him suffer for it..." he winces and mutters, "Or not, just leave me be..." one hand snakes around to touch the bandage on his back.

"Then surely it's in my own interest to let you shoot me? I imagine Haskins can do worse, bless him." Harris heaves Viola to her feet and lets the Lunite lean against his shoulder, turning to regard the pistol with half-drooped eyelids and a tiny sigh.

Falkenberg looks coldly at Viola. "Lady, a word from me and there will be nowhere you can go that men who live for nothing more than to carve people up piece by piece, live, while they watch, will not be able to find you. So I'd be careful who I threaten." He turns his attention to Harris. "Well, yes, Haskins could do worse. And he's an evil bastard. But he's offering 2 million credits for your death, last I checked. It's amazing no one's collected yet, what with you being such an unbearable prick and all."

Newt turns as if to answer McConnell but doesn't say anything. He just truens back and watches Falk, Harris and Viola.

Genive struggles with her end of the stretcher that carries Marlan as they enter the cargo hold. A battered Minvera crewmember carries the other end his steps slow and even.

McConnell grunts, "What's going on?"

Falkenberg is standing with his pulse assault pistol trained carefully on Harris.

Keyan is pushed out on a stretcher, with an orderly on either side and one at his head, pushing the large Qua.

Viola shudders in pain, but swivels upon her good foot to block as much of Harris' body as she's able with her own. Her back is to Falkenberg, but she wraps one arm stubbornly around Harris' shoulder as she serves as his shield. It is a mostly futile gesture, but it is a gesture nonetheless. At least one person is willing to die for Marcus Harris.

McConnell, in his laying helplessly on the deck, wounded horribly, obviously is not willing to die for Marcus Harris, infact he wants a better view, "Help me up Newt." he grunts at the boy.

Newt doesn't move for a while and then slowly begins to make his way to McConnell to help him up.

"I aim to please, I really do." Harris shakes his head, just a little, and the corners of his mouth play up in an empty smile, "I don't think you can. Not here, not with these witnesses, prick as I am, I can't imagine they'll just let it happen and not run screaming for customs... or perhaps they would, and that's not a world I'd choose to live in, because I'm tired, and we're going home." Acting as a crutch for Viola, Harris moves off as best he can to fall in with the departing stretchers.

And a very strange rat thing is curled on a stretcher between two of the Minerva crew. His ears are tall, liestening, his muzzle hanging off the edge of his stretcher. familiar words catch his attention. he takes a breath, looks up blurrily. familiar words. Bounty. Credits. Harris. Trade. Trade. Few things more important than trade. A paw slips to his side, looking for his datapad and not finding it. He sees Harris. Bounty. trade. Harris. marlan. That's it. Trade. "Not much ... " A soft whimpered whisper. "Every credit I gotzzz ... add to Bountyzzzz. Tradez"

Falkenberg looks around. "Anyone here care if I shoot him, besides his wife?" He keeps the gun trained on Harris. "Speak now, or forever hold your peace. Marcus, if one person here speaks up in your defense besides the lady there, I may even let you go."

McConnell gets slowly lifted up by Newt, and then, careful not to have his back be touched by anything, leans frontwards against a crate, bent over at the waist, he props his chin on the edge of the crate and groans, "This.....hurts."

Genive slows her pace and takes in the scene layed out in front of her. She glances back at Marlan and then stares at the retreating Harris. Her face contorts into a grimace. She calls out coldly,"As acting Captain of this ship, I can say truthfully that the crew is to damn busy to notice anything that may or may not happen to /that/ man in the next few moments. " She glances around,"Everyones busy right?"

Viola's foot is burned so badly that she's lost the feeling in it. That helps her to bear walking, but it doesn't do much for her foot. She struggles to keep herself between Harris and Falkenberg, thickly speaking to the Doctor. "I love you, you know. Borono will make sure everything's alright. He'll take Leanne to Carduus and Jasra. Don't worry."

Marlan could not voice a complaint even if she wished to. Her eyes remain closed, fresh blood seeping out of her mouth.

McConnell grunts at Genive, "I'm dying, but don't mind me. The asparagus needs more stew."

Newt doesn't say anything, or do anything now that he's helped McConnell up.

Keyan is silent on his stretcher.

Harris chuckles bitterly, the clipped sound echoing across the cargo bay, "... Well, I hope you can all sleep easy at night... I never could." He just keeps on walking, with his broken arm dangling loosely at his side and his other wrapped around Viola's shoulder, and then more quietly, "I know angel. I'm sorry. I tried."

Falkenberg nods. "All righty," he says. "I thought so. Say goodnight, Marcus. And if you see a fellow named Leary, give him my regards." He squeezes the trigger of his pulse assault pistol, firing off three bursts at Harris and Viola.

Viola slams into Harris when the pulse blast hits her squarely in the back. It burns through her coat and her jumpsuit, but diffuses a bit upon the kevlar vest she's wearing beneath. Falling into Harris in what seems like slow-motion, she grabs at him and asks in a strange voice, "Marcus?"

Viola was far, far too slow, before she even moves he catches the first blast full in the back, and the Guardian Fleet jumpsuit he still wears smoke and sizzles as it burns, dropping him to his knees. The second hits him in the side of the neck - greasier smoke this time, and the sudden stench. He falls like a toppling tree onto his side and then his back. All this without making a sound, and then he heaves out something like a sob, staring straight at the ceiling, "... I never wanted it to be like this." He whispers at nothing, then grabbing and clinging frantically at Viola's jumpsuit, suddenly urgent, desperate, "... It wasn't your fault." Nonsense words, maybe, "... I love you and it wasn't your /fault/... I love you and... and..." it trails off into a rattle, and then... nothing. His head makes a dull thud as it hits the floor.

Genive gasps involuntarily as the man and woman fall. Her gaze moves from them to Falkenberg and back again. She focuses on Viola, her expression darkening. "Damn," she mutters and squeezes her eyes shut and looks away. After a moment, she shakes her head and grits her teeth. She tugs on the stretcher and quickens her pace,"First things first, we gotta get Doc out of here."

Tryklynn's ears flatten, at the scent of smoldering flesh. And while his whiskers fall and his tongue lolls a bit, it is tired, it is worn, and it is over. The lotarian rolls his head, looking to Marlan. "He can't hurtzzz you no more, Doczzzz ... good tradez."

McConnell grunts, "Good shot, Martin, now those potatoes ain't peeling themselves.." he babbles some more, and then falls unconscious.

Falkenberg holsters his pistol. "Well," he says, looking around. "That escape from Earth was dangerous, wasn't it? A shame Harris died of his injuries in transit."

The sound of approaching footsteps can be heard in the shuttle bay. Within moments Concordance emergency medical personel start streaming into the cargo hold.

Three teams enter, each carrying medical equipment as well as stretchers. The leader of each team speaks rapidly into his/her commlink. One team moves to Harris, another to Viola and a third to McConnell.

Tryklynn rolls his muzzle onto his stretcher, as if his head were the onlything he can move. maybe a whiskertwitches But hiseyes remain atleast a slit open, peering, one ear tall and listening, and while tired and shaky, curious at the going ons about.

Genive stares at Falkenberg and doesn't reply. At the arrival of the personel she turns her attention away from him and calls out eith urgency in her voice. "Over here! Please, help. She needs help immediately!"

Falkenberg moves to help bear one of the stretchers. He doesn't look at Harris's body again.

"Black." the captain of the first medical team, the one that reached Harris' side replies as he uses his medical scanner on Harris. He looks up as Genive begins calling and points the team in that direction. Meanwhile, the second team leader scans Viola, "We've got a red." she announces, squatting down next to the body and opening her medical kit, "We've got what looks like 1, possibly two burns to the back, looks like pulse damage. Starting an IV." the stretcher bearers meanwhile prepare to trandfer Viola onto the stretcher and to medical bay.

The third team reaches Tryklynn's side and exclaims, "What the hell is this?" but none the less begins a visual scan of the patient, "Looks like a broken leg bone...compound fracture, green. Lets transfer and take for x-rays." he says, the two others medics already preparing to transfer Tryklynn to the stetcher.

The first team leader looks at Marlan with surprise and looks down at his medical scanner, "How the hells she alive?" "Alright, we've got a red, work on her on the way." he replies and taking advantage that she's already on a stretcher, the two medics take charge of said stretcher and begin heading for the door. Team two, bearing Viola follows suit, "3 more teams up here, mostly greens and yellows." one speaks into his comm-link.

McConnell slips back from the land of the semi-concious and announces, "Greens are an excellent source of fiber."

Genive hefts up the stretcher and hands it to the team.,"She's bad off, internal injuries. We had a chest tube in her." Genive rattles to the team, "Her legs are broken..." she trails off as they head for the door.