Abducted Asides for Father’s Day

In the embattled Capitol, the Triple City of Rahneen-Krell-Thep (A city so nice they named it thrice!), on the
Markov Homeworld, Girreenjaya-

Prince Krell noted with sorrow that the Autocrat's Hall of Treasures was smoldering, and nearly half of the great
bulk lay in ruins. The Xenological Gardens looked intact, and he'd been heartened by a news item concerning its
evacuation. The Staff had discharged their duties faithfully, removing flora and fauna, and only then carrying away
their dead and wounded. He was not in the least aware of any irony in that, nor would he. As a Markov, he felt pride
that some had died knowing their life and hearts' work was not for nothing. See how they strove! See how they
worked, together! Gods and Ancestors, we are Markov, always Markov! As a Ranger, he knew that all true wealth
was biological.

His peers would do well to learn from this, to make their apologies to the Autocrat and go to the grel pits.

Somehow, he doubted that they were so moved. Looking to the North and then to the Southwest, he studied the
aerial dance of Loyalist and Rebel gunships, as they warily orbited Imperial Spaceports numbers 3 and 2. No. 1 was
firmly in Loyalist hands, and being repaired. He'd just come from there. The Immortals were not allowing any space
to ground traffic direct to the Capitol. Instead, he had a leisurely airship journey, ducted fans pushing the Autocrats'
air-yacht at a mere 100 m/s. Prince Krell supposed that he being honored, but instead he felt like he was being
painted with targeting lidar by every defensive gun in the Capitol. Just possibly, he was.

At last, they came in to lightly land in the East Field of the Residence. The great complex at the heart of the
Autocrat's power was bustling with squads of Immortals, Residence Staff, and others. A ready flight of gunships
lifted off as he stepped from the airship, shrieking away to the East. As he watched, they boxed in what looked like a
commercial passenger aircraft. The lead gunship demonstrated its' willingness to shoot the intruder down with a
very tight shot across its' nose, and it prudently turned east by southeast towards the Loyalist Spaceport.

"It takes a brave man to walk on the soil of the Residence in that uniform, Ranger." Krell turned and saw the young
Lt. Commander standing behind him, in the (truly ghastly, in Prince Krells' opinion) Imperial purples and greens of
the Autocrat's Immortals. The Immortal sketched an ironic salute, which the Prince returned in similar fashion.

"It was free, and the aliens threw in a ride home plus the lives of my bodyguards," Krell said, and then he hugged his
son for all he was worth.

"Free, free is a good price," the Immortal replied. He was having a little trouble speaking. They held the embrace for
a long time. When at last they were done, Prince Krell sighed.

"I mispoke in jest, son. This uniform isn't free. Perhaps you'd say I pledged my soul in a deal with two devils, who
both will surely feel cheated, come the day. I must serve the interests of the Conservancy, as well as the Imperium, if
I'm to be of any use to anyone."

Captain Paolo Davilla woke in pain, his mind sluggish. The Markov around him, doctors, nurses, and technicians,
were blurry, but his uncle was clear and standing by his bed. He also realized he was seeing with one eye, his right.

"Awake, good. You may have figured this out, but I'll tell you plainly, I'm dead. Of course you know this,
subconsciously, 'coz you're having a heart-to-heart with me while you're a half-dead prisoner." His former Chief
Engineer beamed at him, idiotically smug.

"You did good, boy, and I'm proud of you, proud of our crew! I'm even proud of that maniac Metzov, who burned
up a squad of shock troops and got us shot to hell and gone for it. I mean, really, they're going to think we're crazy
for going around starting fires, on purpose, on a perfectly good space vessel..."
The world tilted, swung out of focus. "Whoa, there, nephew. Listen! You know this too, but I'm going to prattle on
with a little un-asked for advice before I go, okay? Keep your head about you. You're still alive, and that's not bad,
considering the alternative." He cackled. "I kill myself... Anyway, you've got a couple of breaks, work them hard.
Don't give up! Hell, you're on their Command Carrier and you always were a clever, not to mention lucky, boy."

He half turned and looked over his shoulder at something only he could see and hear. "Alright! I'm coming! Damn,
you're in a tearing hurry, for an athiest, Metzov..." Then he reached down and squeezed Paolo's remaining hand.
"Goodbye. I love you, boy. And, oh, yeah, I almost forgot, why don't you ask that cute little girl to marry you? What
was her name again?"

He was gone. Paolo realized he was crying, and cared not a bit. He licked his dry lips and spoke.

"Brandi."

Marianne received a comm from the Ranger ship and took it out in the hall, leaving Frank alone with Premier
Yarborough for a while. The Green Beret had sat uncomfortably in his seat for almost half a minute before blurting,
"I'm sorry for your loss."

"Thank you. I'm having a little trouble dealing with it-" He looked out onto the Peace Bridge. Snouts and humans
were draping it with ropes of woven flowers in the predawn twilight. "Actually, I'm having a lot of trouble dealing
with the loss of Captain Davilla. Paolo was like a son to me. I should, perhaps have told him that, but I didn't want to
play favorites. I had thought that he would be... he could be the one to take over for me."

He nodded to Marianne. "What about you and her?" She was talking excitedly into the air, beyond the half-opened
door. "From what little I know of Rangers, they travel light." His smile was sad.

"She wanted something from me- and no, not just that sort of thing. I was surprised to realize I wanted it too. And,
well, she needs someone to watch her back, and keep her from... hunh."

"Quite." Yarboroughs' mouth turned up in a smile. "Watch her back and keep her from throwing her life away in the
service of her people. You'll do, I think."

"Show me!" Marianne poked her head back into the room. "I'm terribly sorry, Premier, but something has come
up..."

"Very well, Ranger Boyle. Run off and do whatever it is, then be sure to tell me what it was that really brought you
back here." Marianne and Frank looked at him with surprise. "Go, go!"

A short runabout hop later, they set down on a beach east of there. The sun, Krasnaya, was just an hour past
daybreak and very slowly making it's way towards noon. The beach was full of sea monsters, come up from the surf
to sun themselves on the rocks. An Oddity danced up to them. "How did you know?"

"A feeling. Someone described the sea monsters to me, after we left, and I looked at some views of them. Eight fins,
when the dominant body plan here is vertebrate quadrupeds, like Earth, actually. Furry, warm-blooded, carnivores."
Her smile was radiant. "The Universe is kind." She hugged Frank for joy and stole a kiss before she ran ahead.

She stopped before a youngling, and growled at it in Hunter. "Who, what are you?"

It reared up to her height, teetering precariously on its' hind fins, and roared proudly back. It could barely make itself
heard over the roars and barking of the older sea monsters. "I-we are Hunter!" Then it went over on its' back with a
yelp.

"Everything that lives, dies."

"Huh?"

"Sooner or later, you get that lecture, on the practice field or in a class. My mother likes to get it out of the way first
thing. 'Death is a part of life, and sometimes the job, (The Work), is to do dangerous, deadly things, so that other
people get to live.' Also, my earliest memories are of Old Complications, the Hunter who adopted human strays,
took them out of deadly situations and brought them home. I suspect he's the source of the lecture, it's that old."
They were speaking English, but she used the Ilshani for 'The Work.'

***

Old Complications was talking to his visitor when a little whirlwind of energy ran into the room and up his lower
back to crouch in her customary place on his middle back, leaning against his upper torso. She hugged him and
waved a scrap of flimsy around. He transferred his drink carefully to his cruder lower right hand, and patted her on
the head, over his shoulder, as he reached around to take the offered missive with his upper left hand.

"Ol'Cee, Ol'Cee! I drawed you a pichur!"

"I see that, Little Hunter." The old Hunter winked at her horrified mother, who had come in right behind the chaos.
"It's alright, Karen. I'm sure the Commandant doesn't mind." She withdrew, the look of mock horror fading into one
pride and love.

"I'm not here as the Commandant," Ranger Commandant Dorza protested. He'd noted how the old ranger had
relaxed with the arrival of the little human child. It hurt that Old Complications had assumed that he was here with a
mission, and not just to visit his old teacher, who was healing. The Living legend, the last Hunter in the wider
Galaxy, had come home injured, again, after his latest mission. Gods and Ancestors, how often he did! But he
always came home, and he rarely failed.

The drawing was technically crude, but the composition was very interesting. ‘Little Hunter’ gave commentary.
"This one, on the mountain," it was a triangle in the top left corner, with a very small stick figure,"is grandpop,
who's sad be-cause he can't come home from Ooli-drif' an' meet me, coz the dumb ol' wormhole don' wanna work.
Bad Wormhole!"

A few kilograms of antimatter could ruin your whole day, Commandant Dorza thought. The little human girl was
too young to understand just what a tragedy the dark wormhole was. The Conservancy had yet to duplicate the
Builders’ wormholes. But we will, he thought with fierce pride. We will!

In the foreground was a human couple on the right. The man, a Scout from his eclectically mission-patched grays
(his 'clown suit'), was crouched down and reading some tracks, with one hand up on top of the woman’s' hand,
which rested on his shoulder. The woman was a Ranger, he could tell from her black and yellow duty uniform
("Black for space between the stars and worlds, yellow for the promise of sunlight in the valley of the Vault of
Ages! Wear it with pride, recruit, and earn a place in The Valley…" So many had. There were fewer and fewer
wearing that uniform, every year.). She was glancing down, smiling, but her body was turned to the right.

The Hunter, in the background, was familiar. His characteristic black and orange markings and four pairs of limbs
were marred by white patches. He was also oriented to the right, but was looking back over his shoulder at the little
girl perched on his backs. "This is you an' me, and this is Great Mom-mom and Pop-pop Boyle. This is my brother
and his," her voice dripped childish scorn, "'Grrrl-friend!' See? I drewed them holding hands!"

"Mommie and Daddie are here, and Daddies' trackin' a Mocker that hurt Lucy." She pouted. "It's only a pichur,
though, coz they wouldn' let me go along. They catched it an 'leased it over on the Big Island, near the bye-oh-re-ac-
tor ," she was clearly proud of the big word, "that Pop-pop and Mom-mom builded."

The three rangers defined the corners of a triangle, or points on a circle surrounding the group. Clan Boyle, as it
were, Dorza thought, including an absent member and an alien. The Hunter and the human woman were touching
loved ones, but ready. Ready to act and be deadly.
"I've often wished for such detailed reports from all of my Rangers," Dorza said mildly. Old Complications flicked
his ears and he nodded, acknowledging the dig. Then he hrummed with pleasure as the child reached up and
scratched behind his ears.

"Bed-time, Marianne! Time to stop bothering the nice Rangers, honey. I'm sure they've got important hush-hush
business to discuss, don'cha?" The girls' father marched in and plucked her off of Old Complications. "Got to clean
you up, I bet there's enough dirt behind these ears to grow corn!" He turned her over, upside down, as he checked
and she giggled, then he tucked her under his arm and sketched a salute.

Marianne wriggled out of his grasp and landed gracefully on her feet. She drew herself up and thumped her chest,
clenched right hand to her heart and then held out, arm bent at the elbow in a Roman salute, which the Human
Rangers had adopted. Then she smiled and raced out the door, around her dad, who looked thoughtful.

If he was thoughtful, the Rangers were chilled to their bones. After her father followed her, Dorza spoke soberly.

"We take them young, but not that young. And we heal the half-dead ones back up and I send them back out-" When
Commandant Dorza could speak again, he said, "Why don't you take another dozen recruits for me, and stay home
for a while? Or take that offer from the Engineers and head up that project they're putting together? It must be awful
lonely, being the only one left.”

The Last Hunter, he thought. Almost two dozen empty worlds, the homeworld and her daughter worlds were
cemeteries occupied by the Markov Imperium. My species did this, out of spite and fear! It hurt like hell, and the
only thing that made it bearable was the thought, ‘my species, not my people.’

“You know that the Immortals will keep coming until the job is done. They are relentless. And to think, there’s a
Markov proverb, don’t stand between a Ranger and his mission."

When his teacher still said nothing, just stared into the crackling fire, Dorza added, "You'd get to stay around and
watch her grow up."

"You fight dirty."

"I learned from the sneakiest son of a bitch in the Galaxy. Teacher."

Old Complications reached out and took the flimsy, tapping it meaningfully, then rolled it up and put it into a pouch
in his black and yellow tool harness. "You know that I won't do that, and you know why. I can't hide from them
among my human family. Now, tell me about the mission!" He leaned forward, eager.

"Yeah, well, about that… A Scout researcher has gone missing, on Earth. His base of operations is under a lake
called Michigan, near the city of Chicago." Dorza had brought a bottle with him, and they drank it up, toasting
absent friends, dearest enemies, and The Work.

(The Circle is made whole! That which was broken, is Reformed! That which was barren and dead, is Reborn!)

(The Work gives us meaning. The Work gives us hope. The Work goes ever on.)

(From an Aside in late September. And I got my tenses mixed up 8-) Wherever the install for the next heavy
replacement 'blaster' is still going on, Moose is hard at work on it. He doesn't notice Narice quietly enter the room
until she speaks.

"You need some help?"

"Gah!" Bruce says, and whacks his head as he tries to sit up. Groaning, he glares at Narice, and stops as he takes in
her reduced load of bandages, or high-tech burn regeneration whatnots.

"Are you supposed to be out of Medbay? And where's the munchkin?"

"The munchkin's right here," Dorotea said, coming close and squatting down next to the standing Narice and the
prone engineer. "Don't worry, I'll watch her, and she'll watch me, and we'll both watch you. Whatchya doin'?"

Narice smiled. "Was that supposed to be some terrifying war-cry?"

Moose scowled. "No, I was just ordering fresh Gagh!, and needed to get my Tlingan waiter's attention. You two
shouldn't be here, it's dangerous..."

"No more so than anyplace else on this ship. And Medbay is just little too much for me, just now." Narice looked at
Dee and added, quietly, "They think Henry is going to pull through."

Moose closed his eyes and sighed in relief. When he opened them, he looked at Dee, who was sorting his tool box,
and at Narice. "I wish we could do better for you kids. God, Narice, we could have- Look, you two just hand me
parts and such, okay?" His tone changed and he went on. "Computer, tunes please. 'The Engineers' Hymn' and then
play random, low enough for conversation. Thank you."

http://www.hobbyspace.com/Music/music7.html

Vince

"Wherever we want to go, we go. That’s what a ship is, you know. It’s not just a keel and hull and a deck and sails.
That’s what a ship needs. But what a ship is… what the Black Pearl really is… is freedom."
–Captain Jack Sparrow
"Everything that lives, dies." Ranger Boyle had the strangest expression on her face. One birth equals one death, she
thought. I hadn't thought of that, until just now.

"Huh?" Frank was lost again, he often was with Marianne, the child of an alien civilization, the Galactic
Conservancy. At sea in the Cee, he mused.

"Sooner or later, you get that lecture, on the practice field or in a class. My mother the Ranger likes to get it out of
the way first thing. She tells the recruits- 'Death is a part of life, and sometimes the job, (The Work), is to do
dangerous, deadly things, so that other people get to live.' Also, my earliest memories are of Old Complications, the
Hunter who adopted human strays, took them out of deadly situations and brought them home. I suspect he's the
source of the lecture, it's that old." They were speaking English, but she used the Ilshani for 'The Work.'

***

Old Complications was talking to his visitor when a little whirlwind of energy ran into the room and up his lower
back to crouch in her customary place on his middle back, leaning against his upper torso. She hugged him and
waved a scrap of flimsy around. He transferred his drink carefully to his cruder lower right hand, and patted her on
the head, over his shoulder, as he reached around to take the offered missive with his upper left hand.

"Ol'Cee, Ol'Cee! I drawed you a pichur!"

"I see that, Little Hunter." The old Hunter winked at her horrified mother, who had come in right behind the chaos.
"It's alright, Karen. I'm sure the Commandant doesn't mind." She withdrew, the look of mock horror fading into one
pride and love.

"I'm not here as the Commandant," Ranger Commandant Dorza protested. He'd noted how the old ranger had
relaxed with the arrival of the little human child. It hurt that Old Complications had assumed that he was here with a
mission, and not just to visit his old teacher, who was healing. The living legend, the last surviving Hunter in the
Galaxy, had come home injured, yet again, after his latest mission. Gods and Ancestors, how often he did! But he
always came home, and he rarely failed.

The drawing was technically crude, but the composition was very interesting. 'Little Hunter' gave commentary.
"This one, on the mountain," it was a triangle in the top left corner, with a very small stick figure,"is grandpop,
who's sad because he can't come home from Ooli-drif' an' meet me, coz the dumb ol' wormhole don' wanna work.
Bad wormhole!"

A few kilograms of antimatter could ruin your whole day, Commandant Dorza thought. The little human girl was
too young to understand just what a tragedy the dark wormhole was. The Conservancy had yet to duplicate more
than one of the Builders' wormholes. But we will, he thought with fierce pride. We will!

In the foreground was a human couple on the right. The man, a Scout from his ecclecticly patched greys (his 'clown
suit'), was crouched down and reading some tracks, with one hand up on top of the womans' hand, which rested on
his shoulder. The woman was a Ranger, he could tell from her black and yellow duty uniform ("Black for space
between the stars and worlds, yellow for the promise of sunlight in the valley of the Vault of Ages! Wear it with
pride, recruit, and earn a place in The Valley…" So many had. There were fewer and fewer wearing that uniform,
every year.). She was glancing down, smiling, but her body was turned to the right.

The Hunter, in the background, was familiar. His characteristic black and orange markings and four pairs of limbs
were marred by white patches. He was also oriented to the right, but was looking back over his shoulder at the little
girl perched on his backs. "This is you an' me, and this is Great Mom-mom and Pop-pop Boyle. This is is my brother
and his," her voice dripped childish scorn, "'Grrrl-friend!' See? I drewed them holding hands!"

"Mommie and Daddie are here, and Daddies' trackin' a Mocker that hurt Lucy." She pouted. "It's only a pichur,
though, coz they wouldn' let me go along. They catched it an 'leased it over on the Big Island, near the bye-oh-re-ac-
tor ," she was clearly proud of the big word, "that Pop-pop and Mom-mom builded."
The three rangers defined the corners of a triangle, or points on a circle surrounding the group. Clan Boyle, as it
were, Dorza thought, including an absent member and an alien. The Hunter and the human woman were touching
loved ones, but ready. Ready to act and be deadly.

"I've often wished for such detailed reports from all of my Rangers," Dorza said mildly. Old Complications flicked
his ears and he nodded, acknowledging the dig. Then he hrummed with pleasure as the child reached up and
scratched behind his ears.

"Bed-time, Marianne! Time to stop bothering the nice Rangers, honey. I'm sure they've got important hush-hush
business to discuss, don'cha?" The girls' father marched in and plucked her off of Old Complications. "Got to clean
you up, I bet there's enough dirt behind these ears to grow corn!" He turned her over, upside down, as he checked
and she giggled, then he tucked her under his arm and sketched a salute.

Marianne wriggled out of his grasp and landed gracefully on her feet. She drew herself up and thumped her chest,
clenched right hand to her heart and then held out, arm bent at the elbow in a Roman salute, which the Human
Rangers had adopted. Then she smiled and raced out the door, around her dad, who looked thoughtful.

If he was thoughtful, the Rangers were chilled to their bones. After her father followed her, Dorza spoke soberly.

"We take them young, but not that young. And we heal the half-dead ones back up and I send them back out-" When
the Commandant could speak again, he said, "Why don't you take another dozen recruits for me, and stay home for a
while? Or take that offer from the Engineers and head up that project they're putting together? It must be awful
lonely, being the only one left."

The Last Hunter, he thought. More than twenty empty worlds, the homeworld and her daughter worlds were
cemeteries occupied by the Markov Imperium. My species did this, out of spite and fear! It hurt like hell, and the
only thing that made it bearable was the thought, 'my species, not my people.'

"You know that the Immortals will keep coming until the job is done. They are relentless. And to think there's a
Markov proverb, ‘Don't stand between a Ranger and his mission.’" When his teacher still said nothing, just stared
into the crackling fire, Dorza added, "You'd get to stay around and watch her grow up."

"You fight dirty."

"I learned from the sneakiest son of a bitch in the Galaxy, Teacher."

Old Complications reached out and took the flimsy, tapping it meaningfully, then rolled it up and put it into a pouch
in his black and yellow tool harness. "You know that I won't do that, and you know why. I can't hide from them
among my human family. Now, tell me about the mission!" He leaned forward, eager.

"Yeah, well, about that… A Scout researcher has gone missing, on Earth. His base of operations is under a lake
called Michigan, near the city of Chicago." Dorza had brought along the spicy Markov beer that they both liked, and
they drank it up, toasting absent friends, dearest enemies, and (The Work).

***

(The Circle is made whole! That which was broken, is Reformed! That which was barren and dead, is Reborn!)

(The Work gives us meaning. The Work gives us hope. The Work goes ever on.)