Skells

By W.Wm. Mee

A new planet, a new home, a new enemy.
In the mid 23rd century humanity took to the stars; at least, those that could afford it.
Earth was a polluted cesspool and mankind’s only hope lay in a dozen great ships that took off in a dozen different directions.
This is the story of one of them.
Beta Nine turned out to be inhabited by two very different species. One that looked and lived like sword wielding Europeans of the Middle Ages; the other looked like nothing you have ever seen before. A tall, humanoid-like, nomadic race with a hard exoskeleton that’s main occupations were war and keeping human cattle as a food source.
Into this ‘brave new world’ comes Earth’s ill prepared colonists and a division of Deep Space Marines, led by Tribune Tiberius Augustus Collins.
So come along if you dare. Pick up a blaster and join T.A.Collins as he goes off to deal with the Skells.

• Language: English
• Publisher: W.Wm. Mee
• Release date: Feb 1, 2018
• ISBN: 9781370100149

W.Wm. Mee

Wayne William Mee is a retired English teacher who enjoys hiking, sailing and walking his Beagle hound. He is also a 'living historian' or 'reenactor'. You can see Wayne's historical group on Facebook's 'McCaw's Privateers' 18th Century Naval Camp' page. Building & sailing wooden sailboats also takes up a chunk of Wayne's time, but along with his wife Maggie,son Jason and granddaughter Zoe, writing is his true love, the one he returns to let his imagination soar.Wayne would like you to 'look him up' on FACEBOOK and click the 'Friend' button or even zap him an e-mail.If you enjoyed any of his books, kindly leave a REVIEW here at Smashwords and/or say so on Facebook, Twitter, Tweeter or whatever other 'social network' you use.Thanks for stopping by ---and keep reading!!Drop him a line either there or at [e-mail]'ll be glad to hear from you!'Rest ye gentle --- sleep ye sound'

Book preview

‘SKELLS’

by

W.Wm.Mee

A ‘New Worlds’ Novel

***

Dedicated to my son,

Jason Christopher

Copyright 2017 W.Wm.Mee

Smashwords Edition

Edited & revised in 2023

***

Background

By the end of the twenty-third century Earth was a burning cinder; a foul, pestilent place like something from out of the Bible. After centuries of poisoning the atmosphere, polluting the waters and ravaging the land, ‘Mother Nature’ had finally fought back --- and she did so with a vengeance! And what that angry old bitch didn’t do to us, we eventually did to ourselves!

The Four Horsemen

once again rode among us:

Plague, War, Famine and Death.

And the greatest of these was Death!

Those few of us that could, ran away; but the slow, the weak and the lame died in the billions!

Yet in times of war three things always flourish: science, creativity and business. They always have and sadly, they always will. When ‘Fusion Drive’ was invented in the late twenty-third century, what was left of Mankind finally had the means to escape to the stars!

Hundreds of planets ‘similar to Earth’ had already been found in far off, distant space --- but now, using ‘Fusion Drive’, mankind could actually GET to them!

Plans were made, ships were built and people were ‘chosen’. Soon a dozen giant space ships were built and flew off in a dozen different directions.

This is the story of one of them.

***

‘Well I dreamed I saw a silver space ship

flying in the yellow haze of the sun.

There were children crying, and flags a flying,

all around the chosen ones.

All in a dream; all, in a dream,

the loading had begun.

Flying Mother Nature's silver seed

to a new home in the sun.’

(Neil Young 1970’s)

Historical Report on the Formation of

The United Federation of Americas

Early in the 23rd century, decades before the invention of ‘Fusion Drive’, the United Federation of Americas was formed. Based loosely on the army of the early Roman Republic, it was formed to fight the growing world-wide chaos caused by the modern day ‘Four Horsemen’:

Disease, War, Famine and, perhaps the most insidious of the four, their newest member, ‘Political Unrest’.

The two ‘Primary Goals’ of the

United Federation of Americas were:

1: To ‘aid all people in need,

regardless of race, creed or colour’.

2: To ‘preserve human civilization’

by the finding New Worlds to populate’.

Sadly, the First Goal proved

as impossible as ever to achieve.

As for the Second,

only time will tell.

***

Chapter 1: ‘Wakie - Wakie!’

Transport Ship #9: The U.F.S. Achilles

Cryo-Quarters #4: 800 occupants

9th Legion of Deep Space Marines

Present Star Date: 2657.364

It was the horns that woke him; horns that, in his chemically induced cryo-sleep, felt like some demented blacksmith was pounding madly away on an anvil.

CLANG! CLANG! CLANG!

‘Alright already!’ he thought. ‘Hold your bloody horses!’

How he just loved those ‘old sayings’.

‘No way, Ho-Say!’

‘Chill out, Dude!’

‘My way or the highway!’

‘Hang tough, Mutherfucker!’

Weak as a kitten, he somehow managed to sit up on his cryo-bed. Pulling out a few tubes and hoses, his stomach heaved and he puked its contents over the side. Slimy little puddles steamed on the heated floor.

‘Sim-chicken’ he thought absently, remembering his last ‘real meal’ before they put him under. ‘Takes a lickin’ n’ keeps on tickin’!’

Wiping drool off his stubbled chin, he glanced down at his ‘dog’ tags.

Second Tribune

Titus Augustus Collins

9th Legion

United Federation Ship ‘Achilles’

Inter-Planetary Expedition Nine

Departure: Stardate:2346.213

Groggy, feeling as though he had just awoken from a four day drunk, Second Tribune T.A. Collins, ignoring the calm, female voice of the ship’s computer urging him to stay in his cryo-pod, looked over at the large red digital readout flashing on the info-screen.

PRESENT STARDATE:

2657.364

DEPARTURE DATE:

2346.213

TIME ELAPSED:

311 years 151 days 17.3 hours

‘Shit! Over three hundred bloody years!’ Collins thought, his mind still groggy from the drugs. ‘It was only supposed to take thirty-five! Somebody really screwed the pooch this time!’

CLANG! CLANG! CLANG!

Fumbling around, he managed to hit the ‘off’ switch on his consul and kill both the horns and the voice of the ship’s computer. Once his stomach settled and his bowels stopped churning, there was only blessed silence.

‘Over three hundred fucking years!’ his mind repeated. Still in a daze, he read the rest of the info on the screen, each bit hitting him harder than the last.

DISTANCE TRAVELED

UNKNOWN

PRESENT POSITION

UNKNOWN

ORBIT

DECAYING RAPPIDLY!

SITUATION

SHIP WILL CRASH IN

59 Hrs & 23 min.

RECOMMENDATION

ABANDON SHIP ASAP!

That last part really got his attention!

He swung his legs over the couch/bed/prison, making sure to stay clear of the puddles of ‘sim chicken’. The warm tiles ‘tingled’ at the touch of his bare feet.

‘Boots!’ he thought. ‘Get some bloody boots on, marine!’

‘And a weapon!’ the Ancient Part of his brain advised him--- calm and collected as usual.

It was that ‘Ancient Part’ of him that had kept him alive back on Earth during all the looting and the killing; especially during the riots caused by the ‘Choosing’; that corrupt, careful ‘selection’ of people with the ‘necessary skills’ needed for survival of the human race.

Besides the ‘egg-headed’ scientists, doctors and technicians, people with the basic skills to ‘start over’ in a ‘brave new world’ were chosen. Farmers, tradesmen and craftsmen. Like Noah and his Ark, animals had also been gathered for transport as well; unlike Noah however, only essential domestic farm animals were collected, along with some cats, dogs and riding horses. The ratio for the animals was two females for every male. With the humans (surprise, surprise) that ratio went up to four to one!

For most of the males, besides their main skill, their size, strength and stamina were also considered. Human females however had a somewhat ‘different’ criteria: besides their main skill, priority was given to attractive young women with wide hips for easy childbearing.

At first these ‘selection requirements’ had been strongly denied by the Federation, but as the plagues, the famines and the food riots became world wide, such ‘physical profiling’ --- or ‘pussy picking’ as many called it, became obvious --- and a source for even more civil unrest and ‘confrontations’!

The ‘Choosing’ of course, continued anyway.

Soldiers were also a very high priority, especially officers and non-coms with a decidedly ‘right wing’ point of view.

And of course there were your ever popular ‘politicians’!

Towards the end however it became quite clear that ANYONE who could help the ‘Powers That Be’ STAY in power were ‘recruited’ --- regardless of faith, creed, color or skill!

Memories of those last few terrible months flashed before 2nd Tribune T.A. Collins as he stood shaking by the edge of his cryo-pod.

The mobs screaming at the gates. Mothers holding out their children to be taken. Soldiers with guns, his soldiers, pushing them back!

Then came the order that he had been dreading. ‘Keep them back, tribune --- at all costs!’

At first the firing had been above the crowd’s heads. Then only the loud mouthed agitators had been ‘targeted’. But in the end, as panic set in, the crowd itself became the target! The screams, the blood, the dying!

Then he recalled the friendly hand on his shoulder; the words of praise whispered in his ear. Good work, Tribune!’ Legate Smith had smiled. ‘I knew I was right to have chosen you!’

Collins remembered smiling back, trying not to scream. ‘Thank you, sir! I won’t let you down!’ But would he? Hadn’t he already?

‘And where the hell is the Legate now?!’ Second Tribune T.A. Collins inwardly yelled. ‘He’s the one responsible for the Legion, not me! I’ve got more than enough to worry about with my own cohort!’

Then he remembered; not being overly bothered with the effects of cryo-sleep, he had been chosen to wake up first; to ‘guide’ some of the others that were more ‘disoriented’ than he was --- sort of like a sailor immune to seasickness tending to those poor souls that suffered from it.

‘Ya, like a bloody nurse maid handing out meds and bedpans!’ he thought

‘Stop bitching Collins and move your ass!’ the Ancient Voice in his brain barked. ‘You’re bloody lucky that you did wake up! Take a look around you, marine! A lot of your fellow shipmates weren’t so damned lucky --- and by the looks of it that smiling puke of a Legate was one of them!’

Collins wobbled down the brightly lit corridor passing row after row of cryo-pods. Modeled after the ‘glory days’ of Ancient Rome, the United Nations of Americas’ 9th Legion was made up of 800 hand picked men and women. As Collins looked around the vast room he could see that about half of the pods were now lit up and the occupants were in various stages of awakening --- most of them puking their guts out far worse than he had. The other half however were not moving at all. Their cryo-pods were not filled with the ‘fake yellow sunlight’ that was supposed to greet the groggy sleepy-head, but a pulsating red warning light.

Collins glanced towards the officer section and saw that it was just as his Ancient Voice had said, Legate Smith’s pod glowed red and his shriveled, mummified body lay bathed in the harsh, red glow.

Frantically Collins checked the next few rows looking for his counterpart, First Tribune Jala, the man that ran the other half of the 9th Legion, but he too was only a mummified corps!

Panic grabbed Collins’ testicles and squeezed. Tribune Jala, like Legate Smith and all the other high ranking officers were dead --- had probably been dead for nearly three hundred years!

‘That makes you Numero Uno, Titus’, the Ancient chuckled away inside him. ‘Wouldn’t your dear ol’ daddy have been proud?!’

‘Shut the fuck up!’ Collins growled and stalked off to see who else had survived.

‘Boots, Asswipe!’ the Ancient reminded him. ‘And a weapon! A big muther of one!’

Second Tribune T.A. Collins mentally shot the old bastard the finger. ‘It’s strange’ he thought to himself, "just how much that ‘Ancient Voice’ sounded like his old drill sergeant. How I had hated that bastard!’

***

An hour later Collins and five of his surviving ‘staff’ were sitting around the command table and doing their best to ‘sort things out’. Of the eight hundred hand picked men and women of the 9th Legion, only three hundred and ninety-three had been greeted by the welcoming ‘fake yellow sunlight’. The rest had gone the way of Legate Smith and First Tribune Jala.

Second Tribune Collins, now the highest ranking surviving officer, turned to his old friend and now second in command, Centurion Michael Hamilton. Okay, Mike, let’s have it. What the Hell went wrong?!

Hamilton fiddled with the table consol and a simulated recreation of the ‘accident’ showed on the big screen. From a quick look at the ship’s log, T.A., we were hit by a meteor storm a few years after we left our own solar system. It tore the shit out of the starboard side. Most of the scientists and other eggheads were lost, along with all the animals --- but somehow we kept going! How, I have no fucking idea!

Collins turned to the closest thing he had to a ‘science officer’, Optio or Lieutenant Conswayla (Connie) Gomez who, besides being a pilot and a hell of a shot, had a masters in space engineering.

"Okay Connie, why are any of us still alive?"

The diminutive dark eyed beauty flashed him a smile and shrugged. Fate? Dumb luck? The hand of God? Take your pick. Optio Gomez shrugged and continued. "The damaged sections were automatically sealed off and apparently we just kept chugging along for nearly three hundred years! Not everything worked, but enough did to keep Life Support going and somehow we ended up here --- wherever the hell ‘here’ is!"

Collins then turned to the second of the three women sitting at the table. Any ideas on that, Vedha? Have we reached the place we were headed for? Is this Beta Nine?

Optio or Lieutenant Vedha Hajead was another exotic beauty of mixed ancestry, most of it Middle Eastern and Asian. She had an IQ well over one fifty, several doctorates, was an expert in hand to hand combat and for a number of years had been a Nazerite terrorist working to bring down the very world government she now ‘claimed’ to work for.

The tall, dark eyed young woman uncoiled from her seat like a stretching panther, did something to the small hand module she was holding and the screen changed to a large holographic image of their present position --- in orbit around an ‘earth-like’ planet --- except for the two moons.

This is what the ship’s sensors are picking up, Vedha said, her slender fingers flying over the palm control. "However, thanks to that little meteor storm we passed through a few centuries back, most of them are not working very well. I can’t tell you the name of the planet you are now looking at, or even where we are, but I can tell you that it is very ‘Earth-like’."

You mean like with air, water n’ shite? Decanus or Master Sergeant Basil ‘The Baz’ Wentworth asked, his heavy English accent sounding even deeper than usual. Sergeant Baz was a tall, lanky horse-faced Brit with overlarge teeth and a winning smile. He’d been born in Liverpool and spent his youth working the rough dockyards till he joined Britain’s ‘Special Forces’ a dozen years ago --- that’s not of course, counting the three hundred plus years they’d all been in cryo-sleep!

Vedha turned her almond shaped eyes on the big sergeant and did a good job of copying his accent, even laying it on a little thick. "Roit! Air, water n’ shite up yer wazoo, sol-jah! N’ plenty o’ rare n’ exotic life forms as wall!"

Humans?! Tribune Collins asked, getting right to the point.

Vedha nodded. "I’m getting at least two different types of humanoid readings, sir. One almost exactly like us --- but the other is, ah, different --- but definitely an air breather walking around on two legs."

Maybe it’s apes? Corporal Mary O’Riley put in. O’Riley was a red headed Irish lass and the group’s demolitions expert --- and self proclaimed ‘romantic and old film buff’.

"I once saw this real old flat screen flick called Planet of the Apes. It was corny as hell and the sound was awful, but it still was a real trip! These astronauts had crash landed on a distant planet where the apes were the highest life forms and the humans were treated like animals! The double twist came at the end when we learned that they had somehow landed back on Earth but thousands of years after a nuclear war and good ol’ Mother Nature had gotten things all fucked up! Maybe we got something like that going on here?"

I don’t think their apes, Mary, Vedha said, stabbing at the hand consol. Too tall and thin. Most are well over two meters. Also, they are too solid to be apes or any kind of homosapiens.

"Homo-what?!" Mary smiled as groans went round the table.

"Solid ? You mean like a fawkin’ rock?!" Baz asked.

"Not that solid, Vedha replied. More like a crab or something with a hard outer shell."

A seven foot crab walkin’ around on two legs?! the sergeant from Liverpool said. Fawkin’ lovely!

This brought a reaction from the third man at the table, Evocati or Lance Corporal Jason ‘Hamlet’ Knowles.

Knowles had earned the nick-name ‘Hamlet’ because he had a doctorate in Literature, had written his thesis on Shakespearian tragedies and often quoted from the bard’s bloodiest plays. --- especially when ‘Sergeant Baz’ was around, for he knew that it dove him bat-shit crazy.

Putting his hand on the tall Brit’s shoulder, Knowles grinned. There are more things between Heaven and Earth, Basil old boy, than are dreamt of in all your philosophies!

Ya? N’ bullshit baffles brains, mate! Seven foot fawkin’ crabs or no!

Baz lifted the heavy pulse rifle he had picked up earlier while checking supplies. "But this little darlin’ here should take care o’ any two legged bastards ---soft or hard shell!"

***

Chapter 2: ‘Home Sweet Home’

What the fuck are you?! Optio Connie Gomez demanded, drawing her sidepulser and pointing it in a very threatening manner at the glossy white android that had suddenly presented itself before them.

I beg your pardon for disturbing you, it said very politely; "but The Moot thought that it might be prudent if I was to reveal myself to you --- before anything too hasty was undertaken."

The android, though it’s shape was clearly female, had a kind of very British Peter O’Tool type accent that reminded ancient film buff Mary-Kate O’Riley of ‘Lawrence of Arabia’.

Connie Gomez stepped closer and raised her hand blaster --- the laser sighting beam shone between the machine’s eyes. I said, what the hell are you?!

"I’m Samkin! Andromomedia model Unit-9.4! I’ve been sent here by The Moot to negotiate, facilitate and above all, to co-operate! PLEASE put that weapon down. Violence of any kind is abhorrent to my race!"

"Your ‘race’?! Optio Gomez demanded, pressing home her point with the tip of her barrel pressed against the robot’s molded chest. You’re a goddamn ‘machine’! A sweeper upper and bed pan emptier! A solar powered ‘peon’ created to do all the shitty jobs us Latinos used to do back in the good ol’ bad days!"

Samkin ‘seemed’ like she-he-it was actually frightened --- but then that’s ridiculous --- a robot with ‘emotions’?!

I’m --- I’m terribly sorry, Optio Gomez, if I have offended you in any way. I merely wanted to introduce myself to you all and offer The Moot’s assistance in your present predicament.

What did she say?! Decanus ‘Baz’ Wentworth demanded, his Liverpool accent thicker than ever. Sounds like more bloody Shakespeare to me! Wentworth glared Evocati Knowles, who wisely kept his mouth shut.

"I’m here to welcome you all, Samkin said, still eyeing Gomez’s weapon. I chose this particular bodygram as it is very non threatening. However, I understand that most male humans enjoy looking at the female form, so perhaps this one would be better?" There was a sudden shimmer and Samkin ‘transformed’ into something far more pleasing to the eye --- especially for a male.

"I didn’t want to appear too ‘riskay’ I believe the term is?" Samkin continued, her accent still very British, but ‘Lawrence of Arabia’ had suddenly become decidedly much more feminine!

Baz Wentworth’s large jaw dropped open and his eyes widened as he took in the lithe, supple form that now appeared before him. Over three hundred years of cryo-sleep had rendered all the awakening males highly susceptible to Samkin’s now very ‘obvious charms’.

"Ah, some ‘clothes’ might be a little less distracting," Tribune Collins managed to say, though a part of him was quite happy with things the way they were.

Samkin shimmered again and appeared with in yet another ‘bodygram’.

Is this better, tribune? Samkin asked. I see in your personal file that you prefer women with dark hair --- but I could change it if you’d like?

Ah, no, Samkin, Collins stammered. "You’re, ah, fine just the way you are. Now, suppose you tell us more about this ‘Moot’? Who or what are they? And more importantly, what do they want?!"

Collins had never really liked robots. He believed that they definitely had their uses; doing all the boring and repetitive jobs, or helping with the dangerous ones like firefighting and bomb disposal. The military had certainly taken to them like ducks to water, but Titus Augustus Collins had never really ‘trusted’ them.

"A thinking machine is a dangerous machine!" he’d argued to both his comrades in arms and a number of pro-robotic, gun banning, 23rd century ‘hippie-dippie’ vegetarian tree-huggers. His last girlfriend, a freewill/freelove piece of opinionated fluff, had laughed and called him a ‘throwback to the dark ages of the 21st century’. Or as the history books referrer to it, the ‘Me First Generations’.

Ya?, he’d argued at the time, pouring himself another Scotch while she relit her hippie-dippie water-pipe. "What if one day you want to turn the crafty little bugger off and it decides that it likes it just fine ‘living here in the free world’! What if it decides to zap your skinny ass with its bionic zapper?!"

Suzy Creamcheese had reached across and slowly slid her hand over his crotch. "I thought you liked my ass just fine,’ she said with a wicked little smile, though she’d almost ‘spoilt the moment’ by then going on and on about something called the ‘Three Primary Rules of Robotics".

And what are they? he had countered, at the same time leaning into her ‘massage’. ‘See no evil, speak no evil, do no evil?"

To which she had blinked her pretty eyes in bewilderment, pouted prettily and said: Sort of. Then she’d taken a hit on the water pipe, drew the smoke deep into her chest --- a sight that half in the bag T. A. Collins enjoyed immensely --- held it, coughed it out, then recited Isaac Asimov’s 1942 ‘Robotic Rules’ like a good little Catholic girl back in Sunday school.

Rule One: A robot may not injure a human being or, allow a human be injured.

Rule Two: A robot must obey orders given to it by humans beings, unless they conflict with the First Law.

Rule Three: A robot must protect its own existence as long as it does not conflict with the First or Second Law.

Suzie had then grinned like a cat in the cream and asked: So? What do you say to that, Big Boy?

That I still don’t trust them! Collins had muttered, downing his Scotch while staring at her breasts. "But since this is my last night before the ‘big sleep’, right now I’d rather flip your switch!’

To which she had replied with an impish smile. I thought you might.

***

Now, over three hundred years later, (though to some part of his groggy brain it still seemed like just last night), Second Tribune T.A. Collins found himself looking at a new and vastly improved version of the same thing that had gotten Sweet Suzie all in a twitter --- and he didn’t trust this one any more now than he had the others back then --- even though this one came in much prettier packaging!

So, Pussy Galore, Collins asked. What about this ‘moot’ you mentioned?

It took the robot a nanosecond to access the name Collins had called her and then something very close to a smile spread across her synthetic but very life-like features.

"Pussy Galore, the tongue in cheek name of a female temptress in the mid 20th century James Bond movie ‘Gold Finger’. Very good, tribune. I see that Corporal O’Riley is not the only one who likes ‘old movies’. As for what is the Moot, it’s our ‘collective consciousness’ --- what you might think of as a ‘communal brain’.

"Like a hive of bees?" Optio Vedha Hajead put in, her dark, almond shaped eyes narrowing.

Partly, only far more advanced, Samkin replied. "What one of us says or even thinks, all can ‘hear’ --- but of course it can be blocked at either end if so desired."

Explain, Vedha commanded, clearly more comfortable with AIM’s or ‘Artificial Intelligence Machines’ than Collins was.

Samkin made a slight gesture that ‘might’ have been seen as a flash of annoyance; then again, it might have just been a trick of the light. It’s like being on one of those old fashioned e-mail lists. The sender’s message goes out to all on the list, yet each one chooses to read it or not.

Telepathy? Vedha asked.

Samkin smiled sweetly. "Not really; it’s just that we are always ‘on line’."

How many of you are there in this ‘hive’? Collins asked, Sweet Suzie’s long passed charms having been replaced by present day duties and obligations --- and the stunning ‘creature’ standing before him. After all, like it or not, he was the commanding officer, so it was bloody well time he started ‘commanding’!

We are many parts of a whole, Samkin went on. I am but an outward extension of the collective being.

"And that ‘being’ is the ‘Moot’? " Collins asked.

In a manner of speaking, Samkin replied with a slight shrug --- a gesture that Tribune Collins did not like one bit. Moving forward, he grabbed the startled robot by her/its slender neck.

"Can your Moot see what is happening to you now?!" Collins asked.

Ahhhh, yes!

Collins squeezed a bit tighter. "Can they hear what I’m saying?! Can they feel what you’re feeling?!"

"Yes! Now please release me! We mean you no harm! We can’t harm humans!"

Suddenly Collins was smiling. "I know you can’t. The Three Rules of Robotics forbid it --- I was just checking to see if there had been any ‘robotic amendments’ to you’re ‘constitution’ over the last three hundred years."

You could have asked, she said, barely concealing her ruffled composure.

Ah, but you might have lied, Collins smiled wolfishly.

Samkin mimicked his smile right back at him. Perhaps I did, tribune.

Collins’s eyebrows shot up at that. "You really do ‘think’, don’t you?! You don’t just compute numbers and spit out facts, but you really do ‘think’!"

Samkin’s smile lit up the room. "But of course we do. All the Andromeda models have complete cognitive function. We have had for over two hundred of you Earth years. Everyone knows that!"

Baz Wentworth leaned in and winked. "In case you’ve forgotten, gorgeous, we’ve been beddy-by for the last three hundred years. The last robot I saw looked like a wee tank with a small camera and a fawkin’ big gun. All it ever said was BOOM!"

Samkin accessed the information. That was probably a TR 20, or perhaps a TR 23. They had the larger caliber barrel. Here, let me show you.

No, there’s no need to ---.

But Samkin had already accessed the file and was projecting a life size hologram into the center of the room, complete with engine sounds, movement and shouted background commands.

‘Point