Brontes IV

January 8th, 2500

-- Ghost No. 32748--

I stared down at my bloodied hands with an impassive face, casually spinning my combat knife between gloved fingers. Our transport tumbled along the unpaved ground, jostling the bunched up group of liberated militia soldiers into one another. I wouldn't have needed to be a psychic to sense the troopers' unease. Keeping such distance between us and them couldn't have been comfortable in the overcrowded vehicle. Perhaps it would have been smarter to let a few more of them die off as we left the facility.

35 spoke up beside me, making a few passengers jerk up in surprise, "Quite the mission."

Neither I nor the other agents visibly reacted. It had been a mission like any other. Locate the rebel installation, infiltrate, and sabotage. Simple. Clean. Just a normal day at the job. As much as any mission during a war against two other races could be considered normal.

It had remained as such right up until we met our dear informant. He'd betrayed the Confederacy, only to sell out his rebel friends for a chance at survival. Upon reflection, his latter decision appeared far more logical than the first, since it turned out that the Fist of Redemption certainly didn't have many redeeming qualities.

Shortly after the donating the incriminating evidence, the defector had been rewarded with a painless death. Traitors were traitors after all.

I belatedly projected to my colleagues.

27 grunted in the affirmative. It summed up the situation quite well. Turns out our local rebel group was more than just unhappy with Terran leadership, as if that hadn't already been bad enough. They and their ex-ghost of a cult leader, a man by the name of Atticus Carpenter, were rapturously convinced the Zerg will bring salvation to their people. A ludicrous opinion, of course, and making sure their plans did not come to fruition would be for the greater good of all humankind. Were it up to me, I'd simply nuke the hell out of those xeno-loving freaks and be done with it.

My grip tightened around the knife in my hand as my agitation momentarily spiked.

It was not up to me.

[Approaching vessel, please announce affiliation and designation] the base's adjutant announced through our APC's speakers.

"ID 8829642. Codename: Shroud," 43 sent back.

"Fucking finally," mumbled a liberated marine before getting smacked over the head by one of his fellows.

35 stood up and walked up to the soldier, making the others immediately shy away from the two. "What did you just say?" she softly questioned, slowly reaching for his neck.

The marine stayed silent and I sensed his distress violently flare up. Neither I nor the other agents made a move, except for 27 shaking his head. Just as the marine seemed about ready to wet himself, 35 clapped the man's shoulder and rasped out an airy laugh.

"Fucking finally indeed," she agreed while grasping the man to make sure he didn't collapse to the floor when all the tension left his body.

"I'm not going to snap your neck for speaking your mind," she assured and gestured to 29, "Though she might."

29 on her part didn't deign to respond, instead opting to silently walk toward the now motionless APC's exit.

35 swiveled to stare at me. "What's a bit of heckling among friends?" she paused to gesture at the white-faced marine, "He's a toughie, I'm sure he'll get over it, won't you?"

Noting that last bit was aimed at him, the marine quickly stammered a response, "S-sure thing ma'am. Ain't half as scary as one of them Zerg."

35 spread her arms apart as if that proved anything.

"See?" she moved closer and playfully elbowed my ribs, "We're all good."

This conversation was a waste of time. I pushed past her and joined 29 at the exit. We'd finally arrived.

I left the armored transport moments later, making sure to spend a few minutes scrubbing my HE suit clean before reporting to the local commanding officer, Bill Constantine.

By my measure, the man was a wholly unimpressive individual, but at least he remained loyal to the confederacy. I could tell as such just as easily as I could sense his apprehension whenever he found himself in the same room as us. Ghosts weren't as well-known out in the fringes and Bill was not a courageous person.

"We duly thank you for lending us your expertise. The information you recovered will be of great benefit in dissuading rebel sympathizers and recruiting more people to our cause," Marshal Constantine declared upon our entrance, "Err, your proposition of how to handle the insurgents is noted, but I believe the damage caused to the surrounding infrastructure would be greater than we can afford."

As out team leader, 43 responded in everyone's stead, "In that case, we will remain in reserve and await further commands."

The Marshal briefly glanced at each of us and cleared his throat, "Uhh, yes. You are dismissed."

With nothing of importance left unsaid, we vacated the meeting room.

We did not, however, simply remain in reserve as announced. After all, the Shroud had its own set of standing orders.

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January 14th, 2500

-- Ghost No. 32748--

In the week that followed, Marshal Constantine sought to garner support among the somewhat disgruntled populace and bolster his forces. The Confederacy itself was already spread thin across the sector and could not afford to directly provide additional military assistance. On my end, I was kept busy scrutinizing the locals and surreptitiously removing any volatile persons before they could cause a stir. Having always been an exceptionally talented telepath, even among my peers in the ghost program, made me especially suited to such a task.

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Concurrently with my search for dissidents, I'd also gathered that the previously retired Jack Frost, a supposed tactical genius, was brought back into the fold after witnessing the recording on the data disc we'd retrieved from the Fist of Redemption's facility.

Providing solid evidence of said genius, commander Frost managed to handily defeat the combined rebel and Zerg forces and purge them from the installation we had infiltrated six days ago. To my personal surprise, however, when I'd aimed to investigate the man more thoroughly, I uncovered that the Officer had refused any further involvement shortly following his success.

This left the followup mission, the investigation and eventual destruction of the treasonous Atkinson Corporation and their rebel associates, in the hands of one lieutenant Tsuname. Background check turned up a whole slew of interesting information and inspired a remarkable amount of respect.

More than twenty years of dilligent service, even after suffering dismemberment at the hand of Kel-Morian outlaws during the Guild Wars. If he had any psionic potential Tsuname would have made a fine Ghost operative.

"Things seem to be going well," said 35, ripping me from my thoughts, "You reckon we can get off this backwater planet any time soon?"

We were currently both seated in one of the base's barracks to replenish our energy reserves while keeping an eye on the crew's morale. The building was somehwat dilapidated, but I could hardly evaluate how this corresponded to the planet at large.

I responded nonetheless, realizing that was not what she'd been getting at, "Would be too easy."

Over a day had passed since our victory at Atkinson Airfield and there had been zero reports of rebel activity since. While I wasn't prone to superstitions like some Ghosts, it felt....

I added to my previous statement as my trigger finger instinctively twitched.

35 turned her head towards the crowded table in the middle of the room where a Marine was accusing another of cheating in their round of poker. "Sure thing, 32. Quiet."

Though she attempted to keep her voice carefully monotonous, I could feel the amusement ebbing off 35 her in waves. I refrained from rolling my eyes at her nonchalance, as such an action was beneath me. Something was definitely off about tonight, and I was going to get to the bottom of it.

Before I could hear any rebuttal, I grabbed my C-10 rifle, stepped outside, and engaged my cloaking device. It was fairly late and the sun had already set. While the camp was not quite bustling with activity as it would during the day, people certainly kept active. As they should, since leaving a military installation unguarded for hours each night would be lunacy.

I heard noise blaring from one of the barracks as I casually walked past its inattentive guards, who were animatedly boasting to each other of their past successes at procreation.

>Undisciplined.<

People's moods seemed to be on an upward trend. The rebels were getting pushed back and the Zerg didn't seem to have enough interest in the fringe world to invest many ressources into its acquisition. Personally, I could not derive enjoyment from the situation. Happy soldiers made sloppy soldiers, which is why I typically preferred to work alongside resocs.

Despite these gripes, I couldn't find anything acutely amiss within the camp. The night shift was dutifully keeping watch of the installation's key locations. It would take a highly specialized operative to...

I instantly stopped my patrol and went on full alert. It'd take someone with a personal cloaking device. A psionic special operative. In other words: A Ghost.

The appearance of a high-powered unknown psychic within my range of detection could explain why my sixth sense had left me on edge.

Retracing the steps I'd just taken throughout the base, I initiated short-term psi enforcement and stretched my telepathic perception to its maximum. I then patrolled every inch of our encampment and mentally noted any and every security deficiency, staying up long past my usual shift and turning up with... nothing.

Absolutely nothing.

If Atticus had somehow managed to infiltrate, his skill far exceeded realistic projections.

Eventually I was forced to accept I'd simply been acting paranoid and nothing more. As I walked back to the barracks to wake 27, I found myself staring up at the central command structure. Tapping my holster in agitation, I figured it could do no harm to check out one last location.

I deactivated my cloak and walked inside.

The building was mostly deserted. The few people I did stumble across were part of the night shift and jumped up in fright whenever they noticed my presence, but weren't doing anything of interest. That is, until I walked in on two people arguing up in the mission archive room.

"You had no right, Norman! Those could have been innocent people!" an agitated man hissed. The Atkinson Airbase's case data was holographically projected above the table between the two men.

"Look at the files, Vane," responded a gravelly voice, "Their transactions quite obviously indicate they were affiliated."

"That doesn't-" he hectically broke off, staring straight at me. "Ghost."

I impassively stared right back from my spot in the doorway. "Pilot."

Norman Tsuname rolled up from behind the desk and crossed his arms. His scarred face was stretched into an aggravated grimace.

Gesturing back to the case files, I once again opened my mouth, "Explain."

Ghosts were not normally permitted to read a comrade's mind without permission. Thankfully, reading someone's truthfulness was permitted in my case, and the Brontes militia wasn't officially part of the greater confederate military.

"Norman Tsuname lead yesterday's mission to investigate whether Atkinson corp had jumped ship, and if so to take them out in conjunction with the rebels stationed nearby," the pilot calmly announced.

"They were traitors!" spat the wheelchair-bound veteran.

None of this was new information. "Already known."

"You had no proof!" the younger man, Charlie Vane I now recalled, shouted.

Lieutenant Tsuname pointed at the projected files. "There's your proof."

I stepped up to the table and reviewed the hologram myself. The corporation's transactional history was entirely incriminating.

Clasping the knife at my waist, I shifted my attention back to Vane. "Problem?"

"We got these files after we'd been ordered to, and I quote, kill them all," the wraith pilot responded through clenched teeth. Though his thoughts were clouded with rage, his statement was entirely truthful.

Tsuname rebutted before I could ask further questions, "We knew they were planning to meet with the rebels. Pressed with time as we are with no large-scale reinforcements in sight, the evidence was more than damning enough."

"They could have been pressured into the decision!" Charlie shot back. "Or maybe they didn't even know who their business partner was!"

"We know in hindsight that none of those options were true," Tsuname intoned, "But even if they had been, we could not afford to let the deal go through and for the rebels gain air superiority. Every minute wasted could have made the difference between victory and defeat."

So, the lieutenant chose ruthless efficiency over a thorough investigation. I internally applauded the man's fervor.

"Commendable devotion, lieutenant," I sincerely told him, idly spinning the knife in my hand. I then turned to the room's remaining occupant. "Pilot, is disciplinary action necessary?"

The man hesitated for a moment, recognizing the thinly veiled threat. "No..." Charlie Vane eventually replied.

>Good<

His loyalty was wavering, but so long as he remained opposed to the Fist of Redemption and Zerg, a skilled pilot was too valuable a piece to preemptively remove from the board.

I gave a slight nod before sheathing my knife and heading out the door. My mental energy was almost entirely spent from keeping my cloak and neural net up for so long. After finally waking 27 from his slumber, I blacked out as soon as my bunk lights went off.