UNIVERSAL TURBULENT

LIV - INDEPENDENT EARTH

The recruits trotted off the parade ground, missile launchers swung toward the northeast, and the entire base went to the highest stage of alert.

Marco raised his glasses. "Tag the friendly, and order fire control to leave it alone. Tell the poor Special Operation Bases that we will fire the moment they cross the thirty mile marker. And Fo..."

"Sir?"

"Tell them that the first round is beers is on me".

* * *

Due to the fact that Shola's body was so vast, and her intelligence so widely dispersed, she didn't regard herself at being invested in one particular part of her anatomy. The fact that humans were convinced that their existence was centered in their heads seemed strange indeed.

She could focus her beingness on the input recieved from selected sensors, however, and that being the case, she chose the gulf of Eden.

Lacking any means of propulsion, the Say'lnt had been forced to expand a considerable amount of time following the Agulhans current toward the Indian Ocean. The journey was only partially completed, since a significant portion of what the humans might have referred to as her rear end still flowed through the waters north of Australia.

Why she had gone there was less easily explained. The truth was that Shola had journeyed to Africa for reasons more felt than though, and now, as she extended both her physical and mental presence farther in every direction, the Say'lnt became increasingly aware of the life forms that drifted, swam, undulated, crawled, walked, and flew all around her. She could feel their emotions and, in certain cases where the more evolved species were concerned, think their thoughts.

There was so much life, so much input, that Shola found it difficult to focus. She applied mental filters, felt much of the static fall away, and came into contact with something strange. It was a being the extraterrestrial had first encountered among her family's memories. A human they thought highly of and once followed into battle.

His name was Marcus Doug Douglas, and he was most uncomfortable. In spite of the fact that he lived in a synthetic body, sensors continued to feed input to his brain, which didn't like the transport's gyrations.

She knew he was afraid, but less so than the man at the transport's controls, or those who followed. Their fears centered on the SAMs, the navy's aerospace fighters, and their own superiors.

What to do? That was a question that had plagued Shola since lifting from IH-4762-ASX41. Each day brought millions, perhaps billions of possibilities. There were crimes, accidents, and all manner of misunderstandings that she could have managed to prevent.

But down that path lay madness, for in spite of the Say'lnt's ability to control minds, she couldn't control all of them at once, especially on a planet as populous as Earth, which meant that she had to choose when and if to get involved.

Not only that, but there were even larger philosophical issues involved, the kind of questions that her elders had meditated on for hundreds of years, and that she was only starting to consider.

What happens when sentients are forced to be good? Are they really good? Because they want to be, and understand what goodness is? Or because they have no choice? How can an entire species learn and grow if someone makes all of their choices for them? And who was she to decide?

That is why the Say'lnt was determined to limit the scope of her actions, to focus on what her senses told her were key individuals, and to minimize the extent of her involvement.

That being the case, this decision was relatively easy. Doug Douglas had been critical to the successful resolution of the last two wars and might be again.

Shola could have destroyed the pursuing pilots, much as her parents had been forced to do, but there was no need. Not here, not now.

* * *

Lieutenant Julia smiled grimly as the transport settled into the center of the HUD's sighting grid, heard a tone, and armed her missiles. The blockade runner was good, very good, but his luck was about to run out.

Julia was just about to fire, just about to splash the loyalist bandit, when she thought a turn to port. The fighter obeyed what it interpreted as an order, and her wingman followed a similar inclination.

The pilot struggled, tried to force the nose around, and wasn't able to do so. Something, she didn't know what, had control of her brain. Not all of it, but enough. That scared her more than the rest of the situation did.

The east African coastline appeared ahead, and she wondered what to do. How would she explain it, the force that had taken control? There would be a brief court martial followed by a hastily assembled firing squad. Unless...

Julia attempted to turn toward the north, confirmed that the force would allow her to do so, and eyed her fuel. There were airstrips, plenty of them, not to mention the desert itself. She would land and run like hell. Who knew? Maybe the rebs would take her in. Her wingman would agree; she knew that, but wasn't sure how.

The transport skimmed the steadily advancing waves and crossed the coast. Hudson heaved a sigh is relief. Safety was at hand.

* * *

Marco listened in open amazement as Fo gave the news. For reasons they couldn't begin to fathom, the mutie fighters had turned tail and disappeared toward the north. He ordered the SAM batteries to stand down, reduced the state of alert, and allowed himself to relax.

The transport came down over Ras Bax, crossed the Gulf of Tadjoura, and made straight for the fortress. Marco fought the desire to duck as the aircraft passed over his head, and turned his back to the landing.

A silly pretense, given the extent of his curiosity, but necessary nonetheless. Especially if he wanted to maintain the lofty, nearly godlike persona the troop preferred. Not that he could blame them. After all, who would want to entrust their lives to someone they knew to be just as fallible as they were? Captain Lucy interrupted the train is thought. "Colonel?"