Security Clearance: CLASSIFIED
Verification code:  9172RMC.421X


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01.02.2005

I told the doctor to be honest, and he was. He says I'm lucky to be writing this right now. I might just
as well have titled this journal entry my "Last will and testament", since that's about what it's going to 
be. 

Lucky. About as lucky as the Scions on Core.

My "doc-du-jour" is some kind of head shrinker sent by ISDF High Command. He said to write out everything
that happened, and maybe I'd remember something I didn't recall in the debriefing session. Fat chance.
I'll remember the sight until the day I die--even if I surprise all the doctors and survive for more than
a week or two.

I'm figuring he's a shrink but I don't really know. Hell, I'm not even sure he's a new one. None of these
guys tell me their names, though they all insist on calling me "Larry," like we're old pals or something.
I can't even read their name tags, since they're tucked inside their radiation suits.

"How about if you start out by talking about your mission orders, Larry?" he asked, sitting beside me on
the bed. He gave a chummy smile, but the thick leaded mask magnified it into a leer. I was too tired to
argue. To keep him happy and keep the morphine running, I rattled off my story for the forty-seventh time 
that week.

"Standard Core Planet orbital insertion flight," I began.  "AJ-27 Hawk (recon-modified), with 18-hour
observation path over major Scion settlements. Do not deviate from planned orbit. Rendezvous with
StarTender HIRAM J OWENS at 0800 following mission completion. Coordinates to follow."

Telling those orders triggered a wave of memories, and I was back inside the Hawk's cockpit once again.
Funny thing about those orders--they make the Scions seem downright hostile. Instead, all we were doing
was monitoring what was going on down there and seeing if we could lend a hand if anything went wrong with 
all their new fancy technology. I still can't believe how the Scions went from being the biggest threat
Mankind had ever faced to a population of quiet benefactors that started shipping invention after
invention to Earth. Braddock must've done one hell of a job making them look bad.

There I go, rambling off topic again. Shrink-dude doesn't like that.

Anyway, everything went smooth as glass until about halfway through the mission. I'd already communicated
with the Scions on the planet a bunch of times, and even received a "happy flight" message from Shabayev,
the Space Babe herself. I tell you, she is one exotic lady! Can't help wondering what she looks like now
under that Scion protective suit.

Then the radar didn't go absolutely freaking nuts. Yep, you've read it right - it DIDN'T go nuts. But it
should have.

Take your basic map of the Solar System and draw a line from Pluto's moon Charon to the Core planet in its 
distant orbit - call that twelve o'clock. With the current orbital position of the two planets, that would 
put the Sun at about seven o'clock. I was at about twelve-thirty in my elliptical orbit, and was a good
distance out from the planet just then. As a result, I caught it before any of the Scions on the planet
did.

Dots. Lots and lots of little yellow glowing dots. Hundreds of them. And not a single one of them
appearing on my radar screen.

I opened a channel to the Scion monitoring station and asked them if they were getting any of this. The
techie there said they saw nothing, but he knew what to do - he requested a realtime download hookup from
my forward-facing camera, and then ran it through an image-enhancing program and loaded it back up to me.

Two separate waves of at least a few hundred radar-cloaked rockets each were aiming straight at Core, and
the first was due to impact in about forty minutes.

I'm not sure which one of us broke off communications first, my Scion buddy to go get his supervisors and
figure out how the hell to stop those things, or me to contact my own boss and explain the situation.

Admiral Min-Tsu himself responded to my message; apparently Third Fleet was monitoring my transmission.

"Sorry, Larry.", he said. "Looks like you're out of this one. With no weapons on board, there's no way you 
can do anything." He didn't even have to say it wasn't our side that had launched on the Scions. His voice 
told me we had nothing to do with it.

So I got to watch and listen, at least as well as I could while my orbit took me around the rear of the
planet. I saw the blue glow as some kind of planetwide forcefield dropped into place, and then caught the
reflected glare from the other side of the planet as the first of the rockets impacted and touched off.
And then the strobelights began.

I imagine you've figured out what's wrong with that last sentence - "'glare' from a single missile hit on
the other side of a planet?", you ask. Well, whoever built the missiles figured out some funky new things
you can do with Biometal. Like multiply the strength of the biggest freaking hydrogen bomb mankind has
ever set off by a factor of about a hundred.

I have to give the Scions credit for their technology. Their shield held through the entire first salvo,
and it gave most of them enough time to reach their dropships and get off the planet. But the forcefield
was looking sick and flickering badly when the second wave approached, and I knew Core was doomed.

Then HE spoke.

You know, when someone dies, they should just have the decency to damn well stay dead, and stop
interfering with the people who are still living. But not him. I swear I could hear the gloating in his
voice.

"People of Earth," a deep voice crackled over my hyperwave receiver.  "This is General Braddock of the
ISDF. The delivery of this message indicates that I have not sent a "CANCEL" order to my secret base on
Charon, and a massive attack is under way. At this point in time either I am dead, or the loathsome Scion
mutants have managed to neutralize Earth's defenses--perhaps both are true. In any case, an automated
factory on Charon has been manufacturing a score of biometal-tipped nuclear missiles every month since our 
final battle on Rend. By now, well over one thousand missiles have apparently been constructed and are
speeding toward Core. These will be sufficient to neutralize the Scions, and to gain humanity its
independence from their influence.

"Some of you will not understand my actions. Some of you will see the wisdom of them. But, for better or
for worse, we are beyond the point where any action on your part can reverse this decision.

"By launching these weapons, I am performing one last duty as a soldier and citizen by ransoming
humanity's future from the polluting influence of mutant humans, creatures which could never hope to
understand our superior race. You now have the ability to decide your own fate. Use it well. That is all."

Braddock. That unbelievable bastard acted like he was the father of the human race! He was willing to
genocide an entire friendly culture and species just to protect us from some imagined threat!


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01.03.2005:

The shrink came back today, asked me to finish up my story. So here it is...

Braddock's message finally quit just as my Hawk rounded the planet again. I could clearly see the
remaining half of the nuclear salvo approaching the Scion shield. Folks around here are always asking me
why I didn't move my ship to the other side of Core, to protect myself from the radiation pulse. It's
obvious they don't know much about the Hawk. My bird is great at recon and survey, and carries enough
cloaking equipment to fool even the canniest radar and LADAR gear. But all that stealthiness comes at a
price--despite the fancy name, the Hawk is phenomenally underpowered; she takes about as long to break
orbit as a cargo barge. Despite five full minutes of flame-up, my burners had only raised my orbit by a
thousand miles. I had no chance of avoiding the impact from the second wave of missiles.

My radio crackled again. Min-Tsu's voice, distorted by the leftover radiation from the explosions, came
through. "Status report, Mason!"

"Sir!", I replied, "At least fifty dropships have lifted off and are moving toward a rendezvous point near
the wormhole exit. Looks like they're going to warp out of the system. Yes, the wormhole is opening up!
They're getting out okay, sir! They're get..."

And a Scion voice overrode my commentary on the radio. It sounded old. Very, very old.

"This is Padishah Burns, leader of the Scions. We have learned today of the cost of treating the human
race as equals. We will never make this mistake again. Do not attempt to rebuild the portal to Mire or
communicate with us." The speakers hissed with a tired and disappointed sigh. A long silence followed, but 
Burns finally continued speaking. His voice was soft and almost inaudible.  "We pledge no retaliation for
your infamous act of aggression, but we beg you to leave us in peace. Any attempt to contact us in the
future will be seen as an act of war." 

The click of his transmission ending was as loud as thunder.

The familiar blue eye of the wormhole flared open and swallowed their ships. In the last moments before
the portal entrance closed forever, I imagined hearing the sound of mocking laughter through the radio--
gloating, triumphant laughter. I pictured Armand Braddock sitting in my co-pilot's seat, grinning broadly
as our allies and friends left us behind.

Fifty thousand miles from my ship, without any planet in the way to block the force of the explosion, the
second wave of biometal nukes slammed into the failing Scion shield. Even though I'd closed the canopy
shield, enough light penetrated the cracks to burn my face raw and scorch my eyebrows away. The last thing 
I remember before the shockwave hit and it all went away was some crazy thought about understanding why
Quasimodo went deaf.

Then I woke up here in the med ward on Titan. Apparently, I've been out for over a week. I couldn't tell
how long I'd been asleep - my beard won't grow in any more, and my eyebrows are gone forever.

Everyone I ask about Core just shakes their head a little or turns away. I wonder if there's anything left
there at all.

Whenever I bring up General Braddock, I see an instant of raw hatred before the person clamps down and
says nothing. Good. I hope he rots in hell.

I did overhear about the riots on Earth, though. Thousands dead, and all that.

It's January 3rd, and Armand Braddock has given us the "gift of independence". So, Merry Christmas and
Happy New Year to you.


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01.04.2005:

The radiation sickness is getting to me. I bruise just from turning over in bed, the last of my hair has
fallen out, and there's some problem with my stomach that keeps me from eating. Today I asked the doctor
for a cigarette and he finally gave in--came back with a whole carton of unfiltered Camels. 

That tells me more than anything else about how bad my prognosis is. I heard two orderlies taking bets
outside my room; it doesn't take a genius to guess what their wager is about.


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01.06.2005:

Can't write today. Fever and chills, coughing up blood. Shrink didn't bother coming; I guess he figures
there's not any point.

Damn Braddock.  Damn him to hell.


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01.07.2005:

Nurse's note: patient expired at 7:26 a.m., verified by cessation of spontaneous heartbeats and
respiration, along with complete flatline recording of brain activity. Per patient's request, body is
being donated to ISDF Medical Corps for research.

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