As Mac left Citram's hub of screens and consoles, he felt the rage and hatred boiling just below his skin, along with a tinge of shame at the display and his lack of self-control. He should not have damaged the door to Citram's Mission Control Center. Seeing Saedah like that had sparked his emotions into a frenzy. He rarely lost his temper. This level of sheer volatility had not overcome him since he had found Vorn tied to that post, bloody and in a state of delirium.

He shook himself. Those were thoughts for neither here nor there. This was a new emergency. One of his family had been taken. One of his family had been hurt.

"Detecting elevated heart rate. No immediate danger identified. Are you well, Dr. LaMora?" The digitized voice of Kitty, the Ghost's AI, asked from his earpiece.

"Peachy." He mumbled, using one of Saedah's unusual sayings. How one assumed the attitude of a fruit was beyond his understanding, but it occasionally amused him. He was stalking through the HQ corridors toward the Medical Wing, hardly noticing the men and women that scurried out of his way. "Alert the senior doctors that I wish to meet in my office."

"Confirmed, Doctor." The AI responded.

Several of the senior doctors and a select few nurses knew that Mac and Flux were one and the same. That was a consequence of the last time, with Vorn. Again, he had to force the thought from his mind. This was Saedah. This was Dirge. This was a different situation.

But was it, really?

When Mac reached the medical wing, he was met with a flurry of activity. Nurses and general staff were already readying the triage units. Carts of supplies were being checked and stocked. Mobile deployment med-kits were being loaded onto transports to be taken to the hangar.

Before entering the meeting room, Mac requested the inventory. Everything looked to be in order. Which, of course, it would be. In Citram's words; He ran a tight ship. He was planet-side, but the saying somehow meant the same whether or not one was on an actual ship. Despite the adeptness of his team, he decided to err on the side of caution and request a few supplies from the top-side city.

Mac did maintain a clean and efficient crew. He made sure everyone received adequate training to be self-reliant, to the degree the varying levels of medical staff could be. He looked toward the door to the meeting room. He knew there was little reason for the meeting, other than his need to reassure himself that they could manage the influx likely to take place. The anger in his stomach was waning, leaving behind a feeling he was not ready to name.

Shoving his discomfort aside, he strolled into the large meeting room. His senior doctors had all gathered, waiting on him. The youngest was a male in his late twenties. The oldest a woman approaching her seventies.

These were his generals or 'Strategos' as Vorn called them. These were his ten chosen champions. The ten people who advised him and helped him manage the massive and growing machine that was Conclave Medical. Without pausing, he launched into the procedures they were to follow through the coming hours.

"Sir, all due respect," the elderly woman interrupted, taking a deep breath, "Do you believe us to be invalids?"

The question caught him by surprise.

"Not particularly." He responded, removing his helm. It wasn't exactly necessary in the confines of the meeting, anyway. All present knew everything about Flux, down to his blood type and the damnable birthmark on his left foot. "This was an effort to streamline and bypass any possible snags while I am out."

"I will choose, then, to not take offense in having been directed to this useless meeting as though I was a resident. We are at war, I believe, and we should be out there," she pointed to the door, "directing the ones who actually need it."

The others nodded. Mac struggled with the implications, not yet ready for what was happening.

"Meaning, sir, that we never expected you to hold our hands indefinitely. You are Flux. You are more soldier than doctor, and while efficient and a great source of knowledge, you can tend to micromanage." The second-youngest man, older brother and near carbon-copy to his sibling, spoke with concerned eyes. His scales of iridescent gray and blue shimmered as he moved. He offered a rushed, "No offense." as he bobbed his head apologetically.

"We know the policies and procedures. As do the rest of them," a middle-aged man spoke, waving his hand to indicate the door and the whole of the medical wing. "Go kick some ass and bring our guys back." He had come seeking reassurance, so there was no reason to be irritable at having been reassured, was there?

"Very well. I can tell when I am no longer needed," Mac began, rising from his chair, and turning to the door. Before replacing his helm, he continued, "But first, I must say this: It is an immense honor to have witnessed this operation develop from a multifarious collection of medics, falling over one another in disorganization, to this. You have all been key in the success of this base." His accent deepened as he fell into the sappy nature of his upbringing. To his people, honor and sincerity were viewed as the highest virtue any being could possess. It often led to him speaking in a way that would make others uncomfortable, if not offended or outright scandalized. He never spoke falsities, and he always spoke from the very core of his being.

However, in his culture, praise was something rarely given. It was expected that one should act and perform to the utmost of their ability without the need for praise. One should act solely to achieve and maintain honor. Actively seeking an expression of approval was considered dishonorable. So when Mac had the urge to give praise, it was a matter of great respect and distinction. To those under him, there was nothing greater than earning his commendation.

His chosen senior doctors rose as one to bow their heads to him, reciting the creed:

"I am a medic of Conclave. My mission is the care and wellness of those in need of my aid and assistance. To this end I will aid all those who are needful, paying no heed to my own desires and wants; treating friend, foe, and stranger alike, placing their needs above my own.

Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

I seek no reward for my efforts for the satisfaction and honor of my accomplishment is sufficient. This I do so that others may live."

That was how he left them. He didn't know how to feel about it. He was proud, but he also felt like something dear to him had been taken, lost forever. The development of the medical operations was, in essence, his baby.

Suddenly, he found that his baby was all grown up and did not need him any more. Conclave Medical no longer needed him to hover and direct. It was surreal and left him wondering what he was going to do with his time. He would have to figure that out after he managed to get Saedah and the others back.

Kitty opened the door as he approached the restricted area of the hangar. The Ghost ships and other specialty vehicles rested within. A rare sense of eagerness washed over him. It had been too long since he'd been behind the controls. Now that he was this close to his ship, he was looking forward to a fight. The bike gave him a modest rush, but nothing so glorious as the rush that came from being within the cockpit of his little fighter. He could use the outlet for his anger.

The four ships currently resting in the hanger would have easily bought the city top-side twice over, if not the entire planet. That is, if they weren't already under Conclave dominion. They were magnificent.

The first was Saedah's ugly monstrosity. The infamous and highly revered Pegasus. The crazy man had stolen it directly from the garage of the Mokesh of Gaea a couple years prior, with Vorn's help. Saedah promptly went full geardo-geek on the luxury speedster. New hardware, weapons, software, and paint. Saedah had a twisted sense of humor. Painted down both sides were the rot-green depictions of angry, decaying zombie Pegasi.

The second bay housed his own bird. The Drakkar. It was simple and small. The deep black matched his Skin. A dark gray, sinuous dragon rippled down each side. It was by far the smallest of all the Ghost ships. The single-seater fighter was nimble if nothing else. It was not nearly as fast as the Pegasus, but it could do donuts on the point of a needle. Absolute precision.

And undetectable absolute precision was often the deciding factor when their mission inevitably went the way of a volcanic eruption, giant toxic cloud and all. He climbed up his elevator to toss his helm in the cockpit and remove the port-covers.

Before he could begin the process of starting the Drakkar, however, he noticed Vorn in the tower from across the nose of his ship. The two made eye contact, then Vorn nodded toward the last and empty bay. Mac flashed the confirmation light from the HUD and made his way up to the radios.

Just past the Drakkar sat the Kitsune. This was Citram's ship when she was outfitted as Penance. Flashy blue, with a black nine-tailed fox painted down the sides. She claimed she chose the ancient mythological creature because she could decide to leave a person in peace, or raze the very earth beneath their feet for generations to follow. It suited her.

The next was Vorn's Phoenix. It was the newest model of stealth fighter. However, the stealth part was a joke with two bright, reflective birds of flame painted down the sides. The ship made next to no sound for a three-ton war machine. It was virtually undetectable, despite the brilliant paint job.

The last two bays were empty. The first empty bay was the home of Vector's Leviathan. Vector, as the last Ghost recruited, had chosen the handle of 'Raze'. The Leviathan was a black, older model of the Phoenix, with a simple depiction of a deep blue water monster on the side. The blue matched the shade of his eyes, just as Vorn's golden eyes matched the birds on his craft. The last bay was the home for Vidian's Valkyrie, when she deigned to grace them with her presence. She had chosen the handle of 'Ker'. Her's was a hulking and bulky black ship, with two purple war-angel silhouettes painted down the sides.

He reached the stairs and sprinted up the winding stairwell, taking the steps two at a time. he returned Vorns nod as he entered the radio room. Before calling Vidian, he listened to a few short words from Vorn's side of the call.

"- tonight, Delta will be late. When can we expect you? Yes. We'll start without you, but save you some pie."

Mac held the receiver to his ear, waiting for Vidian to pick up.

"Val." She growled into the link. She knew it was one of them, and dispensed with the pleasantries. She was never one to tarry when the clock was running. And the clock was always running for Vidian.

"Hey, honey. I've just been invited to a fundraising event. The entire family is invited. Would you want to go with us?" He carefully held his voice aloof. She remained silent for a long moment before speaking.

"Who's all going?"

"Charlie, Papa and the kids. Delta is going to run a bit late, though."

"Delta, huh? That's unusual for him. Work-related?"

"Yea, he got caught up in a project. Shame, really."

"Well, let me know when and where, and I'll be there."

Mac sent her the location via encrypted packets. Her biometric signatures; iris scan, genetic analysis of her breath, and unique brain patterns served as the key to unlocking the data within. It was too much in his opinion, but Saedah and Citram had joined forces on the topic of data security.

"It'll take me about an hour to get ready. Is that ok?"

"I'll meet you in the park, then."

"Ok."

The connection cut off. There were few things worse than having to learn the code used to announce that one of the Ghosts were down. Using that code was one of them. Vorn and Mac looked over the bay to find Citram running the three ships through the preliminary checks. As she moved around the bird, checking the payload and other items manually, the giant ship dwarfed her already tiny profile. She looked like an ant climbing over a dead falcon. The Kitsune, alone, carried enough payload to leave the base a charred cave system of death.

"We had better get on with it. Time is ticking." Vorn stated, clenching and unclenching a trembling hand.

"Yeah. I almost feel bad for them." Mac was referring to the bad guys, of course. The Triad military.

The preliminary checks were cleared by the time Vorn and Mac made their way back to their ships, checked the payloads again, replaced their helmets, and strapped themselves in. The opposite wall, which separated them from the hangar proper, began to drop as a long, bone-jarring alarm thrilled four times. By the time the meter-thick wall had vanished into the earth, there were marshallers, flagmen wielding giant glowing rods, guiding traffic around their exit.

They had gained quite the audience, too, since it had been such a long time since they made such a public appearance and actively participated in the war.

Get used to it, Mac thought. Seems like I don't have much left to do around here. He would definitely be requesting more active-duty positions after he returned.

The Welkin Guard, having received the orders to escort, gave them one hell of a send-off. The Fomentor fighter pilots knew there was no way in Hell's infernos that they'd be ready to jump with the Ghosts, the living legends. So, as the three Ghosts burst from the underground fortress and through the atmosphere, the six squad-leaders remaining at the base were in formation, making a pass over their departure point.

As one, they dipped each wing in a wave.

The Ghosts waved back and Jumped.