Chapter 19
Explosions

Hanene had her feet up on the control console. She had sent her message to Headquarters and was awaiting the reply. There were delays, but there were always delays - delays had plagued her life in the 24 months, 16 days, 15 hours and 7 minutes since the No Love Lost gun had lost everyone's love. Well, not lost, she reflected for maybe the five-hundredth time, but severely misplaced. Mois is all over Saburo, every second, and I only see Kururu in the early morning when we're both off-duty. Why, oh why, did Keroro make me the alternate communications officer?

She'd argued with her leader, of course. "Wouldn't Tamama be better?" she had asked and even mindstroked, but Keroro had been adamant. His "De arimasu" suddenly had become an order. Keroro had said "Make it so"; and so, she reflected, it was so. I'm the night-shift communications officer. At least I don't have to sneak my reports to Headquarters into the communication stream.

The console beeped and she was instantly alert. Her eyes focused on the viewscreen. Soon, the Third Adjutant to General Demoro would make his monthly appearance, comment upon her report, ask some pointed questions, and then retire with no enthusiasm or emotional investment. He'd been following that pattern for two years. He had reported that the General was well satisfied that Natsumi's obsession with Pokopen's Environment had limited her impact on any invasion plans. If, however, the General had any comments on Keroro's lack of substantive invasion attempts; the Third Adjutant had not voiced them. Hanene had been waiting for the order to mind-goad Keroro into a major assault, but no such orders had descended from on high.

And this time the screen refused to clear: a blurry hodgepodge of static cubes displayed. The speakers spoke only white noise. She twisted knobs and pulled levers and repeated her call sign and still there was no signal. I'm not cut out for this, Hanene sighed. All this old equipment? I didn't train on this stuff! And Mois lost the manuals! She slammed a tiny aquamarine fist on the console.

There was a chatter from within the console. More of Kururu's sound effects, she wondered as a slip of paper extruded from a slot at the top of the console. This isn't the bloody Heart of Gold and I'm not Zaphod Beeblebrox. She tore off the paper and squinted at the collection of dotty symbols that only barely approximated Keronian characters in the lowest resolution possible with pits of singed cellulose. Dot matrix printouts on thermal paper? Kururu, sometimes even I think you're an arsehole, but I still love you.

The paper bore five words above the usual certification, seals, and identifax codes: "Mission changes: Execute the Subject".

And just when I was beginning to like you. Hanene sighed, Ah well, all good things must come to an end... now how will I do this? Hanene put her feet onto the rounded edge of the console and reclined the chair. She considered her options from covert to destructive. Execute usually implies something spectacular, and I want to be certain I get it right. No escape. No mistakes. No second attempt. 

Trash it. I need Kururu. He has such a wonderful way of clearing my mind. She glanced over at the clock. Only nine hours until my shift ends.

----

He watched her at the communications console all night long. The half-breed, he thought, the half breed is dangerous. He had followed her and watched her. He had hung from ceilings. He had squirreled away in ductwork. He had kept his disciplined mind clear so she could not detect him. He stayed out of her gaze. When she bounced out the double sliding doors at the end of her shift, he dropped from the overhead grating down to command deck and rooted around in the trash. He read the words on the paper before moving it from the trash to the recycling bin.

"I will not permit you to take my Natsumi," he growled as he climbed back into the overhead ducts. "You will fail."

----

Sir Jeff was lounging in his recliner when Giroro entered the upper suite. He gently slid the biomechanical toes out of his pinch-toed Gucci shoes and into the Walmart fuzzy sandals that were Sir Jeff's latest affectation for guests to his inner sanctum. He trod the carpet, which somehow looked less opulent than it had three years ago - Not that my commander's taste has changed, Giroro reflected, I have. My promotion has led to all sorts of changes - a new apartment, a constant companion - perhaps a spy for the commander - then came the "pissing away money", as Sir Jeff likes to call it. And now comes these nightly strategy sessions. I might have stayed with the platoon for all the sleep I am granted...

Sir Jeff motioned Giroro over with a hoist of a tumbler of Scotch, which he immediately set down on a table between the two loungers. The loungers also had not changed, but to Giroro's eyes they now looked out of style. Charlene is having a bad effect on me, I no longer think like a simple soldier, when all I needed was weapons in subspace, a strattaker in my hands, and tent canvas over my head to be happy... Now I think of buying one of those Sony High-Definition Warm Lux 42 inch plasma video screens. She has been after me about that for months. The hired arm candy's squeak echoed in his head, "you need something to review your practice matches on, and I need something to watch Survivor..."

Sir Jeff's video wall was not displaying "Survivor" nor did it ever display any fiction television show, except the XWF itself. "I have people who finger the entertainment pulse of America, Giroro." Sir Jeff had once explained, "I just have to make the new deals so that We are the fiction everyone wants to watch. I watch the facts." Today, the wall displayed a fact, multiple channels of facts, 24 hour news casts from all over the globe and all muted: troops in battle gear swarming a position, vehicles exploding, missiles targeting personnel and armament alike - here a soldier; there a target. Dead bodies being carted away. Photographs of the dead and pictures of strangely dressed females obviously weeping over the dead or dying.

Giroro slurped down his saliva. Ah, vents. I'm drooling. Do I miss action that much?

As Giroro relaxed into the indicated lounger, his eyes seemingly locked on the screen, he could covertly observe that a new deal was exactly what Sir Jeff was arranging.The boss appeared to be talking to himself, a Motorola Bluetooth enabled headset glowed at one ear, the bauhaus curve of the custom adjusted microphone swooped to his mouth. "Yes, Mr. Secretary. I agree. A demonstration would serve both of us. I need an unusual venue and you need to show that a certain level of safety exists. My boys will go wherever I need them to... yes, yes, they're all insured? Spectacularly well. Fine, fine, you get the ring ready and I'll send my 'troops'..."

Giroro's ear would have perked had he possessed the sensory appendages, Troops? Is Sir Jeff planning an invasion? Is that why he's studying war? Is he going to ask me to command his troops or are these the battles already being waged? He has promoted me to leader. Is he about to promote me to General? Giroro straightened involuntarily. I had thought my career was over when I blew my lines years ago, but now... Calm. Down. Giroro,  he thought with sudden caution. This is a meeting just like any other. He noted with satisfaction that the man-equin's "breathing" had remained even.

Sir Jeff cleared his throat to attract Giroro's attention. The pulsing blue indicator on the earpiece had gone dark. His call had ended. "Well I guess you heard all that Giroro, my man?" Sir Jeff asked with an inquiring swig from his tumbler.

Giroro nodded. "So what do you think?" Sir Jeff asked breezily.

"I do not know what to think, sir", said Giroro flatly, "I do not know your battle tactic nor your strategy."

Sir Jeff yawned and his breath smelled sharply of Scotch."Well Giroro, the government of this wonderful capitalist country is at war: mostly with itself, but also..., " Sir Jeff waved at the footage on the screens, "Over There. The propaganda arms both for and against the war have been in full swing for years. The government, like all governments, wishes to convince the citizenry to continue funding their strategic pursuits. You get me?"

Giroro nodded sagely as he had often seen Zeroro do; he didn't understand the least bit what Sir Jeff was saying.

"Well, that's where we come in, Giroro. I need to boost the ratings on the XWF to get us into cable prime-time. We need a big event! Like Donny King's Rumble in the Jungle, only bigger and more spectacular. So I was thinking, and it hit me; 'Down-SLAM! in the Desert'! We send our XWF product over to entertain the troops. Marketing sent a promotional packet over to the USO, my barri...attourney pulled some strings in Washington. I glad-handed at every turn and now after a year of slog we have the green light!"

Sir Jeff rose and on his way to the liquor cabinet to pour, he thumped Giroro on the shoulder. "You my friend are going to be the first XWF product to headline a USO event for troops on active duty! In three weeks you're going to be bigger than the Lord our God!"

"Whomever this Lord God may be", coughed Giroro, "I shall destroy him!"

Sir Jeff merely laughed and shook his head in his all too familiar Giroro-you-slay-me wobble and went to pour himself another Scotch and Soda.

----

Kururu was seated on his lab stool, hunched low over a long steel lab table that was littered with parts, pieces and tools, where he'd been all night. He meticulously joined two seams with a tiny screw that was nearly hidden among the ridges of his current project. He poked a minute screwdriver at the next screw in the chain: 10 million years of technological evolution and nothing has replaced a good screw, kukuku. His music was not cranked to 11 as normal for he was on the lookout. Two years before, Hanene would visit him every Friday night, but ever since he had vacationed with her, she would "visit" him at exactly the same time every morning. If he was asleep, she would crawl into bed next to him and wait until he awoke. There would sometimes be small talk, but the other times, she would not even greet him before...

Art by Juliene

She does the most erotic things. His fingers twitched spasmodically and the screwdriver scraped metal with a harsh squeal.

"That doesn't sound very good," a voice silked. The subject of the hacker's thoughts walked through the door. The door shut with a swish. She watched as Kururu stiffened over his project. "Is something the matter?"

Kururu barely turned his head enough to glance at her out of the corner of his eye. He suppressed a shiver. These morning are always more fun when I'm awake. "None of your business," he snapped to signal his mood effectively. He waved the screwdriver derisively before slamming it to the metal table top. "I've been up all night screwing and I'm in no mood for your antics. Just do what you came for and leave."

Nonplussed, the aquamarine frog sidled up behind him, placing her hands on the table around him, effectively trapping him as she pressed herself against his back. "Someone's grumpy this morning," she husked over his shoulder. "Screwing all night? Hmmm?"

She lifted one hand to trail her digits over the yellow frog's trembling ones. First you tease me, Kururu thought loudly, knowing she would "hear" him. She slowly rubbed herself against his backside, and then you compliment me: my eyes, my mouth, my emblem...

Her wandering hand tickled up his arm and back down again. "Such experienced hands," she murmured against his shoulder.

Kururu felt the warmth of her breath. You want something? What is it you want this morning? His mind teased.

She straightened, patted down her skirt where the pleats became bent oddly, and turned submissively toward the door without another word.

Kururu smirked imperceptibly. He reached out a finger toward a small remote with a single button that lay on the table among his mess of parts. His glasses glinted. "Pochito." he declared and pressed the button.

Ports opened in the ceiling and floor at the doorway. The Keronian's favorite mode of restraint struck from the openings: white rope biomechanicals snaked through the air and wrapped each of Hanene's limbs. Her arms and legs were wrenched outwards and the biomechanical beasts pulled her off the ground. She hung, completely spread eagled, with her belly at his eye-level. Her ever-lidded eyes widened in surprise as the ports above and below rotated about on an unseen axis and spun her around to face a smug Kururu. As she focused on his victorious face, she smirked. She chuckled. Unable to hold herself back, her laughter rang clear and loud over the humming and beeping of machines.

Kururu's expression changed into that of utter bafflement. "What in Keron are you laughing about?"

She got herself under control, muffling the last few snickers. "I was wondering when you would react," she proclaimed, amusement still in her voice. "You certainly know how to keep a girl hanging! I was starting to think you were a eunuch."

Kururu stalked up to her until the suspended female's belly was directly in front of his round face. He reached out a finger to trace the wing symbol upon her belly; the skin twitched underneath in reaction. There was a muffled giggle. "Hanging, hmm?" he drawled.

She couldn't see from where he drew the short pole, but she certainly felt the ostrich feather on the end as it tickled her thin belly skin.

"I'll show you what this 'eunuch' can do," he cackled maliciously, drawing the feather across her skin again. He enjoyed watching the creamy-blue frog writhe within her bonds. "After all, I have lots of catching up to do. Kukukuku.."

----

They slept together for much of the day cuddled face to face, and cheek to cheek, resonating softly in turn against each other's earpads. Hanene's eyes opened to find herself looking into Kururu's swirly-lensed, gaze-distorting glasses. She traced his snout with one fingertip. I have a problem, she mindtalked to him.

Kururu eyes snapped open behind his glasses. He pressed one hand to his temple against the voice projected into his brain. And the other shoe drops... That's too loud. Don't you come with a volume control? she read from him.

Sure, she answered, just as loudly, loud and louder. "Open your mind," she said hypnotically.

"Just use your frotting voice." he moaned. "At least until I wake up." He lay back and pumped his spindly yellow legs against his belly and then extended with his toes en pointe several times. Circulation began a slow return to his toes. "Now what was your problem?"

She explained the situation in a whisper at his earpad and with each elaboration on her true mission and how she had succeeded in her efforts with the Love Lost and Found gun by sheerest accident. She explained the change in her orders and concluded her short history by theorizing how she might accomplish the directive to execute Natsumi. "Is there anything you can do to help? I need something spectacular."

Kururu cackled, "Sure. Read this!" and he raised his glasses so she could look directly into the myopically expansive gold eyes.

She stared into him, reading the basic drive straight from the instinctual brain stem, before reading the irreverent elaborations in his higher brain. She fell back against the mattress and embraced herself as peels of giddy laughter possessed her. She thumped him with a playful punch to his belly and girlishly tossed her locks. "Oh youuuuuu eeevil frog! Of course we can do that!" She rolled him over and straddled his back. She rubbed his shoulders and spine, "And after we're done you can tell me all about your idea for Natsumi."

Kururu groaned pleasure at her touch and mumbled. "I have an idea, but two weeks will be required to together it all."

"Two weeks!" Hanene mocked petulantly. She stopped massaging. "This better be good!"

"Oh, it will be. I have to dig some stuff out of storage."

----

Two weeks later, high over Europe outbound from Germany, a DC-9 was alive with the excited chatter of wrestlers, each reclining at ease on an overstuffed seat. On the outside, the aircraft looked like every other C-130 that rolled down the strip, but a heap of desert-camo paint and the lack of a ventral access marked this craft otherwise. Giroro, alone, sat silent in his own seat, knowing that it was just a normal aircraft ride, yet he couldn't help his body's natural reaction. His hearts quickened and muscles tightened as he mentally relived the paratrooper drop training during Basic Training. Whereas Keroro, the everlasting coward, did his best to hide under a seat and hope they forgot about him, Giroro was first in line and leaped of his own accord, needing none of the shouts and pushes the other trainees were given.

The feeling of adrenaline tinged with fear? Few sensations can live up to it. But even as he thought it, a memory rose unbidden to challenge the claim; Natsumi's touch, the pull of her eyes, the scent that would make him go weak in the knees if he let it...

Near the front of the cabin, a large, middle aged man dressed in desert camo stood and waved for silence; the noise immediately stopped and all eyes fixated on him. A muted gold oak leaf on each side of his collar indicated a Major. "I'm going to make this short and sweet," the Major said with a voice that was hoarse from years of yelling at troops. "This area is strictly classified. Most of the grunts down there don't even know where they are, and we'd like to keep it that way. The less they know, the less the enemy can learn if they ever get ahold of one of our guys." He paused a moment to let that sink in, and take a swig of his bottled water. "You are going into a war zone, plain and simple. The people you are to entertain were trained to kill and ask questions later. So, when any, and I mean ANY of them yell to get down, you better be eatin' dirt before the last syllable comes out of his mouth. If not, I'm not at fault if you get your own head blown off for not following orders. Get me?"

A few of the wrestlers gulped, while others nodded severely. Giroro merely shivered in anticipation.

----

Two weeks later, Kururu was still hunting through his junk drawers and cabinets, tossing single button remotes of various shapes, sizes, colors, and configurations over his shoulder. "I know I put it here somewhere!" He dug more furiously. There were a lot of remotes and the drawer was very deep. The remotes at the bottom were much more dusty than the ones at the top and the yellow frog sneezed as he had to half crawl into the drawer to reach the ones at the very back. Hanene reacted with mirth as he simultaneously shouted "Ah-ha!" and banged his head against the drawer's overhead.

"Now remind me what this does again? And remind me why you didn't just build a new one instead of looking for the old one?" she said, her eyelids drooped, but her pupils widened at the hoary collection of sensors, scanners and remotes that were now scattered across the floor, and the army of little robots that was emerging from tiny mouseholes to form a conveying line between the scatter and the drawer. She hopped up to the counter to avoid being over-run by the mechanical beasties and sat cross-legged. She patted the space next to her and Kururu scrabbled up to join her. He placed the three button remote on her lap with a flourish.

"Pochi" he said to her, "Go ahead: you press. Nothing will blow up." She pressed the topmost button and he added, "yet." There was hum in the ceiling and a pair of optical panels parted. All the robots stopped working and whistled and chirped a rising fanfare as a thick two meter long, torpedo shaped missile on a holder rack was disgorged. When the rack stopped, all the robots projected a mock intake of breath through their speakers and then returned to moving the scattered remotes back to the junk drawer. "I invented this for the Pachydorman Incursion before General Demoro ever sent us to Pokopen. I designed it for assassination. It is a seeker missile that works in a standard skimmer bomb carrier. It seeks on DNA coding so when you drop it, it will search out the pre-programmed target. Foolproof. Never misses. And I didn't build another because Keroro's budget-butt is so tight, I haven't been able to extract so much as a credit from him since I built the affection exchanger."

"What is the range?" asked Hanene with a dubious lift of her eyeridge. "And the blast radius? I don't want to take out the whole city."

"That's the beauty of it. You drop it from orbit and it expends its fuel in seeking the target. The remaining fuel is the explosive. Enough to take out a particular Pachydormus in a herd." Kururu giggled. "A small Pachydorman masses as much as ten big Pokopenians. The missile will reduce Natsumi to unidentifiable bits. Very small unidentifiable bits."

"Okay, so what I need is..." she ticked off on her fingers, "One, a skimmer with a bomb rack. Done. Two: a zero-gee flight suit for orbital work. Done?" At Kururu's nod she continued, "And Three: a sample of Natsumi's DNA."

"Also done," declared Kururu. "I found that last week in the cold storage. Keroro ordered me once to create a virus tailored to Natsumi. I have the original genetic sample. I knew it would be beneficial someday."

"You think of everything." she hugged him with one arm, "So we attach the rack to my skimmer and then load the sample into the... the... what's it called?"

"The DNA Seeker Missile." Kururu provided helpfully.

Hanene eyes opened wide, "What? No sly, off-color, cynically descriptive name?"

"Nope." he made a razz of derision."I only give my guns neat names. Bombs blow, but guns are forever. We can be ready by tomorrow."

----

He lay in the duct and listened. An orbital missile? How will I protect Natsumi from an orbital missile? I'll have to destroy it now, before they ever fire it. He waited for the two to leave, and for the robots to complete their task, and the lights to darken into power saving mode before he swung down to the lab table. He jumped down to the floor and padded through the deep shadows to the bomb rack.

There was an access port on the belly. He opened the panel and reached inside in search of controls, wires, a substructure, machinery,... something... there was nothing. He reached all the way to his shoulder, until his hand contacted the opposite side of the casing: nothing. He swung his arm. There was nothing within reach. He withdrew his arm, put his earpad to the casing and tapped, and tapped, and tapped. He slid along the black metal surface, still tapping. The missile sounded exquisitely, exactly, precisely and universally empty.

He slumped by the side of the rack. This isn't the missile. This is just a shell. A floor model to impress visitors, impress the blue bitch. And they're going to fire the real one at my Natsumi. Where is it? Where is it? He straightened and closed the access port. A short burst of a spray bottle from his pack erased his own DNA presence. He retraced his steps, backing towards the lab table, spraying in his wake. He leaped to the tabletop exactly into his own tracks and then a bound straight up into the air circulation maintenance hatch.

The bottle extended, misted a final puff of presence eraser on the spot his feet last touched and then withdrew.

The hatch closed.

------

The jet landed with a surge of desert sand, dust and grit, and soon the coterie of wrestlers were disembarking into a chorus of cheers. A sea of digital camo met the wrestlers' eyes and they roared in response, pumping their arms, giving and receiving handshakes and backslaps as they threaded through the throng. None of the wrestlers, not even Giroro, knew where they had landed, and Giroro suspected that the troops knew as much as they; their location was classified to only those that needed to know, and neither the wrestlers nor their intended audience needed to. So, the wrestlers basked in their warm welcome, Giroro acting as pleased as the rest. In a way, he was; he was among the military, people he could understand better than any other.

With their welcomes over and their rations served, the wrestlers convened to their tent, each one shaking the hand of their guard as they filed in. Their tent was no different than the ones that the troops stayed in, showing that they were equals that didn't need any special treatment.

Long after the sun had set, Giroro lay awake within his man-equin, unable to sleep. The time zone, not to mention the cold, arid environment was more alien than any he'd experienced on Pokopen and prevented sleep. He tried drinking two canteens of water to refresh his parched tissues and though his skin stayed moist and the small ceramic heater kept him warm he still could not sleep. I'm spoiled by a comfortable mattress and central heat and air and a bathtub. He rose to seated and slid on the citizen camouflage he was told to wear. I shall inspect the ring for our event. That always helps me sleep. Not that I doubt whomever assembled it, but one can never be too certain.

A word with the barracks' guard sufficed to prompt a radio call for another nameless soldier as escort for Giroro to the makeshift stadium and the ring assembled at the center. The army guard stood by at military ease as Giroro checked and rechecked each buckle, bolt and strap. Finally, he climbed into the enclosure and jumped a few times to check the canvas' bounce. He charged the ropes, flipped off and dive rolled across the ring, rose to his full height and howled to check the acoustics. Satisfied, he looked around the large empty space that tomorrow would be packed with American Pokopenian troops of every size, shape and color. He reflected on the event's effect on them, and in turn, every soldier's effect on his world.

He unhooked his belt buckle, having long since parted company with the bandoleer of which it was once a member. He pressed the cover so that it flipped open to reveal the weathered picture of Natsumi at her most stubborn. He gazed at the picture, his face softening as he traced the small cheek with the simulacrum's finger. As fake as these victories are, my Natsumi, they are for you.

----

Kururu had finished his work in the vehicle bay, while Hanene took her uneventful nightly shift at the communications console. He met her outside the sliding doors of the command deck. "I'll need some help moving the missile," he whispered furtively and giggled. She peered into his eyes, but saw only visions of mostly naked teenage Pokopenian females wrestling in vats of yellow rice curry. Their breasts were free and bounced enticingly.

I really don't understand his mammary obsession. Keronians don't have them! "Your thoughts border on bestiality. Cavorting with lower forms of life." she laughed. "What are you hiding from me?"

"Kukukukuku" he chuckled behind his knuckles. "Come, you shall soon find out." They boarded the adjacent slidewalk and let it carry them to the terminus at his lab. He triggered the door and the lights with a wave of his hand before the console. "I would have moved this myself, but its a bit... errr... heavy." He ushered Hanene through the doors.

Hanene walked directly to the rack where the missile still hung. Its black casing glistened in the overhead lights. It was as beautiful as it was deadly. "Do we need the forklift?" she asked. Without waiting for a reply she experimentally grasped one of the two handles apparently intended for portage, braced her feet, and lifted as hard as she could. She lost her balance and toppled backwards, her skirt flipping up over her torso. The missile was far lighter than its bulk would indicate. In fact, she realized as the weapon bounced back to its rack with an empty thrum: the missile was an empty shell.

Behind her Kururu was giggling uncontrollably. He looked as though he might suddenly collapse in uncharacteristic belly laughter. "That is just the floor model," he explained between gasps for air. He motioned to her, "come here."

"You are a wastehole Kururu. If I didn't love you so much; I'd lobotomize you." Her dignity and feigned disinterest nearly failing her, Hanene followed him back to the lab table on which they had first sat when he had revealed the seeker missile to her.

He handed her the three button remote. Kururu indicated the middle button, "Pochi."

Hanene dutifully pressed. On the missile rack there was a superspatial shimmer in the open rack above the empty missile shell. the rainbow hued glow, darkened, deepened, formed the outline of an identical missile and then solidified. "It has an NMP antifield?" Hanene queried incredulously.

"Wouldn't make much of a clandestine personal personnel assassination weapon if it didn't, now would it? It also has standard electromagnetic stealth technology: radar, lidar, even visual sightings are insufficient. It only becomes visible to sample possible targets." he explained. "And since it is only a problem to the target, whom I guarantee it will destroy, almost no-one else can see it."

Hanene pondered. He's right, as usual, this will be a very clean kill. Even I was fooled. "So, ummm... why did you need me?"

"I didn't," he confessed. "I just wanted a peek under your skirt."

"I'll give you a peek!" Hanene warbled and pounced on him.

----

Before their match, the following morning, they were driven in a line of armored hum-vees to gather the special guests to the event; 15 members of the Iraqi parliament were to attend the match in a bid to strengthen American/Iraqi relations.

Feh. I do not see this plan working, Giroro thought as he watched the native people either run up and wave their hands as the wrestlers passed, either with smiling faces or to make obscene gestures and shout foreign obscenities. More people dislike the American Pokopenians than they favor them. As much armored guard as is provided, it will still not deter attackers. Still lively people even for such a dead city? It stinks of rot when the wind shifts. Don't they disintegrate their dead? Or burn them? Or even bury them?

As they disembarked into the miasma, at least part of the smell had a source; the wretched corpse of a road-killed dog lay some feet away from the first armored car of their entourage. How nauseating, he thought, as he coughed surreptitiously into his biomechanic hand. It's no wonder that, in so many years, the American forces haven't made much headway here. You can't help someone who can't--or won't--help themselves.

They turned in the gated entrance to a walled compound flanked by guards armed with M-16's. The driveway was long and flanked every few feet by guardposts. The security was certainly beyond impressive for what amounted to fifteen loosely dressed men in white cotton. The cameramen whirled around them as the wrestlers greeted the dignitaries in single file, Giroro realized just why they were requested to accompany the guard to collect the dignitaries; media. This screams spot promotions. The Iraqis greeted them genially with smiles, handshakes, welcomes and thank-yous.

With the greetings over, they all trooped out through the lines of guards to the waiting armored cars. Giroro noted more than just M-16's; each also possessed a belt-carried 9 mm and at least one hand grenade. Giroro nodded in approval. Leaving nothing to chance. The sun beat harshly down upon them as they began to file into the cramped cars. Unbidden, he again glanced at the pitiful sight of the dog carcass. The animal had been dead for many weeks by the smell and the state of decay - yet the hair that had fallen from the smouldering corpse had not collected on the sidewalk. He squinted. Something else seemed wrong about it--

A wire, tiny and black, protruded just the tiniest bit from the dog's gaping maw, and at once the undeniable scent of something chemical and reactive wafted from underneath the putrid scent--

Oh, shit.

The deafening explosion obliterated the armored humvee parked closest to it, throwing the next car on its side and everyone to the ground. The soldiers closest to the bomb, and within the first car, disintegrated in a cloud of red mist and tattered kevlar. All was pandemonium; the surviving guards screamed "DOWN! GET DOWN!" as shots fired and zinged all around them. Giroro covered his head with his biomechanic hands, screams of terror and shouted orders rung against his ear pads. A clink made him look to his right; a large canister landed and spun in place, then issued a thick, choking white smoke that obscured everything.

Giroro rolled over and squinted against the acrid sting. A soldier rose to fire upward through the cloudy confusion. At a distant shot, his back arched and his gut exploded, spewing feces, blood and bile. Intestines snaked from the wound and the remains of the soldier's liver splashed across the armored car and Giroro's face and chest. The guard, standing, but already dead, toppled onto Giroro's legs. The sharp odor of his lifeblood and excrement soaked through his kevlar--

It was too much. This was a battle, a war zone; his blood boiled. He could not, would not just lie here while his comrades in arms fell around him--

Underneath the cover of the smoke and the chaos around him, Giroro crabbed forward until the man-equin was half under the armored car's rear bumper. He rolled over and punched his chest: once, twice, thrice and the chest split and levered open. His emblazoned XWF t-shirt and buttoned cotton overshirt ripped. He crawled from the sensory foam and hung his necklace over the bare neckspace. He sealed the suit. The suit was empty, but only he would see it that way. Anyone who happened to look, even carefully, under the vehicle, would see exactly what they expected to see, which depending on their preconceptions would either be Giroro prone and panicked or Giroro dead. Either way, he'd be back before anyone noticed. A hard twist to his emblem and in the mayhem even his froggy self was unnoticed.

He reached into subspace with wrists, elbows, ankles and feet and mind and pulled. Missile launchers materialized on his wrists and thighs and twin, recoil-less heavy assault antipersonnel parabellum formed in each of his red hands.

Now, he thought, to business...and with a Keronian battle cry, he gathered himself and leapt upwards, out of the smoke and into the fray. Even after years, it still feels familiar..like going back home.

Hooded figures crouched above the eaves of the flat rooftops of two of the opposing buildings. There were at least eight such men, evenly spaced in pairs: one pair forward of the entrance to the compound and one behind the entrance. A final pair crouched atop an adjacent building nearly above their position. These American Pokopenians do not know it yet, but they are surrounded.

He twisted in mid-air and fired all four missiles. Left side to the rear attackers. Right side to the forward attackers. He backflipped and landed with a thump on the wall of the compound. He heard the missile seeking their targets, but saw nothing. He was running, running full out. Whether the missiles took their marks or not, he would soon be a target unless he could avoid the sightline of the closest attackers.

The missiles hit with a resounding roar and a friendly-familiar concussion. Giroro jumped higher in the air, his hand weapons out, his small body arcing to the roof with the final pair of insurgents. He landed on the retaining wall directly between them - a gun snout pointed into each startled face.

They stopped firing. There was uncomfortable silence broken only by a building collapsing.

What was my line? Giroro mused, Ah yes...

"Die Pokopenian scum!"

And he pulled the twin triggers and grinned carnivorously as blood splashed over his small body.

----

Hanene and Kururu carried the invisible bomb out of the lab and down the slidewalk to the service equipment lift. They were unaware that he was following them. Scampering over the ceiling tiles and then hurriedly dropping onto the roof of the lift just before it dropped. He watched as they exited with their burden on the dolly. Agile Hanene pushed and hunchbacked Kururu steadied the load as they carted the missile to the skimmer. They worked silently with socket wrenches to adjust the onboard rack to accommodate and balance the missile, which was much heavier and broader than the standard load; it would only half-recess into the belly of the skimmer. He waited while Kururu wired the remote into the skimmers left foot-console.

When they leave, I shall sabotage the weapon. Destroy the innards. He hefted the micro-edged wakazashi. This will serve.

"Okay. That's all." Kururu's voice echoed through the hangar. "Let's get to bed."

Hanene chirruping voice didn't echo, but he heard it just as plainly. "No way. Its bad luck to partner before a mission. I always sleep with my skimmer. You can sleep here with me though and take a shift watching the skimmer and checking the work of the flight crew."

"But... but... but...," Kururu protested, "The skimmer isn't going anywhere. And I'm your flight crew."

He didn't hear what Hanene whispered to the hacker frog, but he heard Kururu's groan of response and he heard the myopic hunchback's hasty retreat up the stairs of the hangar. When he peeked out onto the floor, he could see Hanene in a sleeping bag, curled on the skimmer and he knew he could not approach, let alone concentrate for long enough to destroy the missile without revealing himself or disturbing her. The half-breed's mindscream would take me out and I'd not be any use at protecting Natsumi. Damn flygirl! I shall have to find another means to stop them.

He slipped into the darkness of the air recycler to plan further.

----

The match was delayed for a day to honor the fallen soldier. A memorial shrine was set up on a small table inside the only brick-and-mortar building in the encampment; it consisted of a two stair step block with the soldier's boots on the first step, with his rifle on the second step muzzle down, with his helmet resting over the hilt. His ID tags hung from the trigger.

The wrestlers were allowed to pay their respects first. Many removed their facade of bravado and wept, kneeling and saying a prayer, or touching the boots or tags. Giroro did not linger. He stood before the memorial and saluted the items, first with a fist across his chest and a slight bow, then again with the American salute. I did not know him, he gave his life for us, his troops, his country.

The soldier's surviving comrades filed by, and Giroro slipped out the exit to wander around the base. He noted, to his satisfaction, the increase of sentries and guards. Where there used to be one guard, it was doubled; each post had, at least, one extra soldier. 

----

The sun was just setting when Hanene awoke and called to Kururu over the intercom. She could easily do a final inspection of the skimmer herself, but she wanted Kururu to inspect the missile. He arrived in a fine fettle, a perfect hacker's mood. He had brought her flight suit and a fishbowl helmet and air hoses. As she unselfconsciously stripped her skirt an helmet and donned the one piece suit, Kururu loaded the missiles DNA detector with a syringe of cloudy liquid. He ignored her nakedness, didn't even remark about her legs or sweet bum. He kept up a steady stream of talk.

"All you have to do is go planet stationary and drop the missile," explained Kururu as she donned the custom fitted environment suit and adjusted the straps. "It will scan the planet and then drop out of orbit. Within 24 hours there will be a BOOM! and no more Natsumi."

"Big boom?" Hanene queried with a laugh. She couldn't wear her cap under the fishbowl helmet, so she stowed it in the skimmer's small personal items compartment.

"Big bada BOOM!" he had emphasized with a spread of his arms and a chittering chuckle. He then sprayed himself, the missile, and her skimmer with presence eraser, "just in case we've some loose DNA on us." He offered her the nozzle and she obligingly rotated as he spritzed her.

He opened the egress hatch and late afternoon sun filtered down. She bordered her skimmer and blew him an imaginary kiss through the fishbowl helmet.  She hooked her air intake to the recycler on the control deck, ramped the polarizing bubble and antifield up to full and then pulled sharply back on both sticks. The motivators whirred and whined to life and the tiny craft with missile nestled beneath, rose majestically through the iris hatch.

Beneath her Kururu alternately waved and snickered, but, perversely, did not close the iris until she had floated through.

----

A shuriken was not his preferred weapon, but this was no ordinary shuriken. There was a single pulsing jewel in the center. The blades were micro-fine and the entire body was magnetic. He was hidden in the bushes by the egress hatch for the underground hangar. The door irised open and he watched as Hanene and her skimmer emerged. As the flygirl frog oriented her craft for a high altitude climb, he rose and side-armed the shuriken at the half-recessed missile. The gripper claws adhered firmly to the ventral side of the casing and the gem began to mutely pulse. With a sigh of both satisfaction and relief, the little blue ninja settled back into the bushes and Hanene, unaware of the additional equipment, rocketed skyward.

----

That night, the preparations were finally complete for the long anticipated demonstration. This time there was no press gaggle, no opportunity for operational failure: the guest dignitaries were transported onto the base without any incident by a well armed helicopter. Each was accompanied by one to three personal guards in civilian dress. In the makeshift stadium, which had once been a soccer field or a parade ground, soldiers of all different branches and lower ranks thronged around the square of sixteen by sixteen, talking excitedly, close to the ring the dignitaries and higher officers had a raised section of real seats all to themselves.

A tent at the end of the walkway to the ring was thick with wrestlers showing their pre-show jitters in different ways; there, Sinister Serpent paced back and forth muttering his lines; Ferocious Frederick was practicing his moves against an invisible opponent, and Derek the Daring and the Unmovable Wall tossed joking insults and taunts at one another.

Giroro merely chugged yet another bottle of water. It is harder to keep hydrated here than back in Osaka or even New York City, maybe even Vegas or Reno, he grinned as he chucked the bottle into the trash bin, which was rapidly filling with empty plastic. He had just broken the seal of his third liter when the familiar cry of the announcer broke through the sound of the crowd.

"HOW IS OUR BRAVE MILITARY TONIGHT?!"

Simultaneous cheers met the outcry, and the announcer continued. The amplifier was tweaked to roar over the crowd, "Let's Slam Down in the SANDS!" And the gathered military proved they were quite capable of drowning out even the volume cranked to 11. The announcer pumped them up to a crescendo of applause and then they quieted as he announced the first match. Daring Derek marched down the aisle to his theme music, which was slightly altered to not offend the Iraqi guests. Many changes had been made to be politically accommodating.

"Man, these outfits are bloody hot." commented a voice to his elbow, "but look at you boyo: you're not even sweating." The voice was Sinister Serpent's.

"You are not sweating either," Giroro observed. The new uniforms the XWF costume designers had sent were spare and utilitarian. The tunic completely covered the wrestlers' chests and backs and the shorts covered their legs down to their knees. Frederick had been stripped of his ceremonial jewelry, including his earrings. The Unmovable Wall lumbered down the aisle now and he was not flanked by his marketing-prescribed entourage of models. The scantily clad Pokopenian women, who were part of every XWF event were gone.

Giroro gulped another mouthful of water and croaked, "When on Sirius, do as the Sirians do, Walter."

Serpent laughed as much at Giroro's pun as at the reference to his ancestry and the use of his real name. "You need some serious geography lessons Giroro." he quipped in return. "I may be built for this heat, but this is about as close as I ever want to get to Syria. You studied your script?"

"Of course," was Giroro's instant retort. "I request you should not tear my top like you did in New Haven last year."

Serpent/Walter eyed the action in the ring. The Unmovable Wall - Charlie when he wasn't on-stage - was working with ham handed grips to Derek's limbs and open handed slaps and shoves. He was deftly avoiding grabbing the loose, dun cloth of the new costumes. The bare skin, they'd been told, could be quite offensive. "We can replace it maybe?" sighed the wrestler as he thought of alternatives. The costume tear was his trademark trash move, "How about I just poke you in the chest and ad-lib."

Oh that would be a wonderful way to start a match. He pokes me three times and my suit opens on live video to the whole world. "How about you poke me and I break your fingers?" Giroro growled. He emphasized his words by tightening his fist under the Serpent's nose until the biomechanoid knuckles popped audibly.

"Okay. Okay. No need to get violent." Walter laughed and playfully batted Giroro's fist away. He ruminated, "What if I just kick you while your back is turned and give you some power-trip speech while you're coming off the canvas?"

Giroro took a long, long swig on the water. The bottle was empty and he tossed it to the bin with the other spent containers. "Yes, that will work as a replacement. Now, I should like to be alone." He closed his eyes and knew full well that the Sinister Serpent was already slithering away, probably headed for the preparation tent and the shade. Giroro reached out with all of his incredible senses and filled himself with the thrill of the audience until he was heady with their collective excitement: the raucous babble of the cheers, the sharp tang of testosterone in their sweat, the thick fruity smell of their shouted breath... and underneath it all, a mere whiff on the breeze of something - distant, familiar, ammoniac, and...

Gone. For the moment gone...

He opened his eyes.

It's the smell of war.

----

Hanene and her skimmer were in high orbit. Below her, though below was a matter of uncertainty without gravity to make one direction a preferential down. "I think of down as the direction my feet are pointing," her flight instructor had once explained and Hanene was not one to buck that traditional explanation. So, down below her was the deck of the skimmer and below that the seeker missile and below that, down in the gravity well, was the sprawl of Pokopen.

Its pretty. Hanene admitted as she hovered over a fixed spot above the largest ocean. Less DNA to scan over the ocean, or so says Kururu.

She toed the first button on the remote. There was a silent shimmy under her feet as the missile disgorged from the belly of the skimmer. She waited until the tremor subsided and peeked over the nose of her craft. She could just see the nosecone of the missile poking out like an extraneous third thruster nacelle. She dialed a slight amount of forward thrust with her left hand to balance against the expected thrust from the missile's engines.

She toed the second button. There was a shimmer bright enough for her to glimpse from beneath the skimmer's deck. The missile had phased into super-space and the protection of the NMP field. "We won't be able to track it," Kururu had confided. "It really is as invisible as technology can make it." The hum of the missile's motivator against her magnetically shod feet was palpable. She started a silent countdown, carefully wheeling the skimmer to give the missile the broadest possible aperture for the initial scan.

She toed the third button. There was a sudden shift of mass as the clamps opened and the missile tumbled away, but the auto-gyros quickly stabilized the skimmer. At twenty meters, the missile's motivator lit, fins sprang from the bullet-form shell, and the drone powered itself into a scanning orbit. Hanene watched the motivators low-power glow fade, at first into a dot, and then a pinpoint, and then the missile disappeared into the blue and white and gray curve of Pokopen. She sighed relief.

On her way down she buzzed the Pokopenian's pitiful excuse for a space station. She stopped out of view of any porthole and with her little laser cutter scribed her name-glyph on the primitive metal surface.

Hanene was here...

----

"And now for our final match. Coming down to this cor-nerrrrrr, The powerhouse from parts unknown: the most Sinister... Serpent!" The audience hissed and booed as Walter vaulted the ropes into his corner. He was not not as tall as Giroro, nor as well known, but he was amply built. His muscles bulged behind the skin tight wrestling suit. He wore an athletic support to hide his manhood, but the bulge still played well with the ladies - at least back home - but here in the desert protection and not insulting his hosts made disguise and discretion the better part of advertising. Nevertheless the roving cameraman had shot him upwards from near the floor so as to make the bulge look even more impressive.

"And in this-s-s-s corner-r-r-r the Most Dangerous Man in the Known World! eXtreme Wrestling's own Giroro!" Giroro ducked under the ropes and stood tall. He made a circle of the ring, taking his time, allowing himself to be seen and admired from all angles as the camera followed him and then was passed off as the cameraman slipped from the ring and the video was switched to a ringside view. The crowd was pumped by the earlier action. They chanted his name in a wave of sound that ping-ponged back and forth across the sea of faces and bodies. Spotlights played over the two wrestlers and then settled. With his excellent night vision Giroro could see the diplomats on their raised spectators platform. They had the best view, but seemed unimpressed by Giroro's antics.

As he paraded passed Serpent a second time, he hissed "Now!" through clenched teeth and dutifully turned his back while accepting the cheers of the crowd. Serpent darted across the ring and performed his Serpents' Strike: he airborned at the last possible second, pulled his knees to his chest and executed a perfect pump kick with both legs into the small of Giroro's back. The crowd booed as the surprisingly agile Walter put his feet to the ground and used remaining momentum to stand even as Giroro pratfell against the ropes. Giroro used the spring of the leylines to whip himself back, tucked into a roll with a half twist and stood facing Walter, who did his best to feign surprise, even though he'd seen the acrobatic move in practice thousands of times.

Giroro roared, on cue, "I shall destroy YOU!" but permitted the actor playing the role of referee to separate them. He stamped to his corner and Serpent preened and strode his way around the ring all the while pumping his fists in the air to a chorus of boos and hisses, most of which were provided by a well synchronized and carefully modulated soundtrack for the benefit of the home audience.

Giroro mentally reviewed the plot of this scene, Walter cheats his way to within a slap to victory, then I surge back and we both retreat, then I power back in round two and pin him. A metaphor for war as Sir Jeff says? I don't know about that, but what foot soldier ever completely knows the mind of his commander? The breeze shifted and the acrid smell of testosterone whipped around him and brought him the scent of excreted progesterone. He glanced over his shoulder. The female attendees had been assembled in a wedge just behind his corner directly opposite the dignitaries who were behind and to the left of Walter's corner. That must mean something as well...

The bell rang and the crowd roared as Serpent darted forward.

Giroro shrugged off the scents and bent towards Serpent. He grasped Walter by his hair. "Pound", he whispered. And raised his knee while slamming the wrestler's face towards it. Walter relaxed and turned his head ever so slightly to avoid breaking his nose on Giroro's knee. After three calculated pounds, Giroro drew up Walter's head and and with one hand knotted in the slighter man's hair slapped him: once, twice, and a third time - palm, backhand, palm. Walter spun on the third slap and Giroro pushed Serpent back to the corner.

Giroro pumped his fists in the air and resonated loudly, seemingly ignorant to his opponent's sudden acquisition of the metal stool from outside the ring. He advanced on the seemingly ignorant Giroro. "Back," he hissed as he came into range and slammed the short stool into the unguarded small of Giroro's back just above where a human would have kidneys. He let up on the travel only at the final instant, even as Giroro was moving slightly forward. The contact looked serious, but the force was, in fact, minimal. Giroro grasped at his back as though in serious pain and levered his shoulders properly so that he seemed to take the stool-seat across his earpads. He went down face-first and Walter delivered two more fake hits before tossing the chair away.

He leaped on Giroro's back and pounded his fists into the back of Giroro's head. A spit of "Now. Now. Now." helped Giroro keep time by bouncing his forehead against the canvas. "Up." He ordered in a hiss.

The drag from the canvas by the back of Giroro's neck looked painful, but was not. Giroro's head was down and he was already moving in the proper direction as the Serpent pushed him away to the Serpent's own corner. Giroro wrapped himself around the corner pole and spewed spit onto the floor below. The audience was in shock. He looked hurt. He looked like a furious pitbull, growing angrier and more rabid by the moment. He inhaled their scent and...

There it is again... so familiar... like the solution I washed the kitchen... like the smell of Keroro disinfecting the Pokopenian waste extraction facility... like... like... his short term memory flashed to a dead dog, and his olfactory memory to a smell from its festering innards, and his earpads to the dimly imagined hiss of a fuse, and...

"Oh shit." he breathed as the Serpent grabbed him from behind and spun him dizzyingly before drop vaulting him head over heels onto the flat of his back. Giroro reflexively rolled and was ready as the Pokopenian slithered in behind and locked him in a seeming Full Nelson - a potentially spine-breaking submission move.

"Push me to the ropes. And when I jump, throw me as far as you can." Giroro hissed as he arched his back in seeming agony.

"That's not in the script."

Neither is our dying in an explosion. "FUCK THE SCRIPT. THROW ME."

The Serpent obligingly let Giroro free himself, and swung him to ropes and then pratfell as though the recoil of Giroro's release had been too much. Giroro climbed the ropes and was up on his corner post. He inhaled twice through his mouth and let the Jacobsen organ at his jaw scent directionally. His eyes followed, all in an instant: there, a man in ill-fitting military garb and uncharacteristic night-jacket pushing sidelong through the crowd toward the box and the diplomats. Giroro braced into a dive position toward the slowly rising and rotating Serpent.

Walter gave the slightest nod and Giroro spread-eagled himself and pounced.

Walter caught him and gave Giroro a microsecond to adjust his trajectory as he launched him over the opposite ropes. Giroro spread his arms and screamed a Keronian warcry as he flew out of the ring. Over the first row of soldiers, and the second. The crowd at the end of his ballistic flight scattered except for the startled man swimming in somebody else's purloined uniform. He looked up in shock even as he scrabbled under his shirt. His hand emerged with a thin handgrip capped by a single red button.

Time seemed to slow. Inch by agonizing inch Giroro plummeted as the man raised his thumb. And millimeter by millimeter the thumb dropped. And Giroro contacted the disguised insurgent at the shoulders. His outflung arm was already at the man's wrist. The weight of the man-equin drove the man to the ground. Giroro tightened his grip. The bio-mechanoid fingers crushed the man's wrist. The trigger fell to the packed earth.

Giroro's fists were out. He straddled the stranger and pounded him in the face, neck and gut. He could feel packs of explosives under the jacket and over the shirt and he avoided pounding them. He grabbed a handful of wires and ripped them outward even as flanking Marines pulled him off their seeming comrade. "Hey!" they yelped, "What the hell are you doing."

Only a second of inspection was required for another to announce. "He's a bomb." and yet another to echo, "He's wired like a Christmas tree."

And the Marines released Giroro's arms.

The rest was pandemonium.

----

The herbs had kept him awake. Ninja jutsu and concentration had kept him functional. He had followed Natsumi and he'd watched the little dot on the screen of his wooden laptop. The dot was the missile and it had meandered over Pokopen for the previous 23 hours. It had scanned and descended over a city the Pokopenians called New York and dallied there at near ground level for several minutes, but it had risen again and followed the eastward curve of the the planet. It had spent a good deal of time scanning an island they called Ireland. It had sped over Europe, accelerated over Asia and the Indian subcontinent. It had slowed over eastern China, but then turned northward. When it found the Korean peninsula it had turned south and finally zeroed in on the Japanese archipelago.

Now, it was descending fast. It was flying straight and true on a line for city of Osaka.

He was on his blue skimmer and flying to intercept. The dot was flying straight toward him and he straight toward it. Two hundred clicks, one hundred clicks, one click at speeds so high they tore at his mask, and rammed air from his lungs. He banked in a wide curve around his invisible foe, streaking up behind the dot until it was directly beneath him. The suburbs were streaming by - a whiptorrent of colors smeared into incomprehensibility by their speed. the missile knew its target.

The missile was still unseen even though he knew it was just 10 meters below him.

He drew his wakazashi and leaped. The missile became visible to him as he landed full astride it.

"It's my problem now," he whispered. He pried loose the lateral inspection hatch, held the blade on high, and stabbed downward with a scream of victory and all his strength.

----

There had been no boom as promised. Kururu had watched the house monitors. He'd seen Natsumi exit her room, shower, dress, eat breakfast, check her garden, pull a few weeds, set the sprinkler timer and leave for class. He'd watched the city news. There were no reports of explosions. He had no explanation for Hanene. The missile was out of fuel and it hadn't hit the target. Hanene was angry.

Kururu was in full denial mode. "I know it works!" he screeched. "It has to work. I tested it out the vents!" Then he screamed as Hanene's projected fury nearly overwhelmed his synapses.

Eventually he calmed her and convinced her to come to bed, "we'll think of something new tomorrow. TIMTOWTDI."

They could smell it before they saw it. His bunk was a mess. Charred remnants of missile casing had been dumped on the clean double sheets. They were still smoking hot. The sheets were ash beneath the scrap and the mattress had melted into a soupy hydrocarbon goop. The air purifiers were whining with the effort of removing the noxious fumes. A note was pinned to the unburned sheets, hand printed and neatly addressed to him alone:

Kururu,
I have spent years watching from the rafters and I know your every move and every effort. If you attempt this again, you or the half-breed bitch, she will find you dead before you even notice you are gone. I stopped you this time and I will always stop you. Stay away from my Natsumi!
In your darkest nightmares, I await you. 
-Dororo

"Okay," gulped Kururu, "maybe There Isn't More Than One Way To Do It."

Hanene grimaced at the note, "There are always alternatives."

----

And here I am again, Giroro thought bleakly. I save lives and here I am in a locked room. The room was four meters along the longest wall and like the questioning cell in the New York police station, this cell had only one door. However there was no window, nor was there a long mirror on one wall. Instead the walls were blank and featureless white concrete. There were two cameras high on the ceiling, beyond his reach,  unless he exited his man-equin and jumped for them. I'm sorely tempted to do just that, but they're watching. They have to be, ever since they brought me here last night. And no-one has even talked to me. His real stomach rumbled. He gulped absent saliva, and I'm hungry and thirsty. This air is too dry. They're trying to make me uncomfortable. They're trying to break me. They shall have nothing of me, because I know nothing to tell them.

What though should I say? When the questions come? Name, posting, serial number? He thought of the titles he had held. Giroro? Giroro, Most Dangerous Man in the Universe? Giroro, Keronian Regimental Platoon A12 assigned to Sector Terra One, identification: G66?  Giroro, outcast and deserter, no number? Giroro, local hero and professional sports entertainer XWF, Resident alien tax ID#6651-6996? Giroro, prisoner, soon of Guantanamo Bay, Cuba? He tapped the toe of his shoe against the floor in a rough imitation of a Keronian marching jenny - anything to relieve the boredom. He stopped. Toe-dancing makes me seem nervous. I must force myself to be still. He straightened, slitted his eyes and gritted his teeth. He was immobile and stayed that way.

And he waited. And waited. The soldiers took the Rolex chronometer: Charlene's Christmas gift to me. They wish my time here to be measureless. He chuckled mirthlessly, And they wanted to take my "mask" too. I dissuaded them by offering to remove their faces.  Walter was there to stop them or maybe to stop me.

I wonder where Walter is? In another cell? Being questioned? Tortured? Debriefed. I have heard stories of what these American Pokopenians do to their prisoners. They are not civilized. Even an Interrogator would not leave a man without water for hours in this heat only to drown him as means to convince him to talk. Well, they cannot drown me. I can hold my breath for far longer than any mere Pokopenian. He was starting to feel sleepy. He wriggled his hand into his pocket and tapped the hidden button to turn off the sensory foam's response. The man-equin locked into steady state and Giroro fell aslee in the foam's embrace. He seemingly fell asleep awake.

He heard a snick as of a hammer being drawn back on a sidearm. He was instantly on alert. He pressed the button and the suit was back under his control. The lighting hadn't changed, but he sensed that many hours had passed. Are they going to shoot me? The sound was followed by another and then a third, and the door cracked open. Giroro relaxed marginally, The sounds were just the door locks and magnetic seals. The door opened wide and an armed soldier positioned himself with one hand holding the door open and the other on his sidearm. Giroro knew from the smell of encased gunpowder that the primitive pistol was loaded and his sharp eyes could see that the safety was off. I also see that he doesn't intend to shoot me unless I move. I shall say still.

Next through the door was The Major from the plane flight. The one who was the wrestler's liason and the one who warned them about the dangers of war. You were accurate my brother-at-arms, Giroro thought, I should have just hunkered down and let the soldiers deal with the enemy-bomb. The Major sat on the seat at the head of the table to Giroro's left.

The next Pokopenian through the door was David Mennings. The lawyer was dressed much as he had been the night Giroro had first seen him: perfectly pressed silk blazer and a perfectly angled black tie with a perfectly starched shirt tucked into perfectly creased black slacks. He clutched at his black leather briefcase, but held it loosely by one hand. He clucked at Giroro like an old mother hen. "Giroro, Giroro, Gi-ro-ro. We have got to stop meeting like this." He seated himself opposite Giroro with the Major at his right. He placed the breifcase on the table and snapped open the combination locks. Giroro noticed that neither Mennings nor the Major were wearing timepieces of any kind.

The armed one closed the door and the bolts were fastened from the other side.

"This interrogation errr... meeting is being recorded. Time obfuscation protocols are in effect. Lock time, please," announced the Major formally, "Will you please identify yourselves for the recording?" He paused and then said "Major Thomas G. Harlowe. Major. USO Liason. Ground Forces base X-Ray Foxtrot One." He motioned to Mennings.

"David Carlos Mennings. Ensign, US Coast Guard, Retired. Now with the Law firm of Menning, Shugart, Wi, Chatham, and Howe. I represent Mr Giroro and the eXtreme Wrestling Federation." he motioned to Giroro.

Why do they skip the armed one? Is his rank too low? He wears military fatigues, but there is nothing military in his bearings. He listens. He watches like a bird of prey. He must be the real brains here. Military Intelligence. Civilian Intelligence. Observer? He gulped around his swollen tongue and rasped, "Giroro. Sports entertainer. eXtreme Wrestling Federation." he slipped in at the end "Citizen."

Mennings smiled at him. The Major nodded curtly. The armed one was silent.

"Are you in good health Mr Giroro?" asked Mennings.

"I have been better. I was not injured nor yet mistreated. However, I have not been given water or nourishment since my imprisonment here."

Mennings whistled, "You haven't been fed for the last..."

"Time obfuscation protocol is in effect," interrupted the Major. "You may not tell the priso... Mr Giroro how long he has been detained."

"Can you at least bring him a meal? And a few gallons of water?" Mennings requested. His voice held an edge, "You wouldn't want me to sue for a human rights violation would you?"

"I'll check with my command." the Major seemed unruffled by Menning's direct threat. "You must remember Mr Mennings, you are here only as a courtesy and I can terminate this interview at any time."

"I am here," Mennings corrected, "Because I have papers from your Commander in Chief, the backing of half the US Federal Legislature and Court Orders from the Fifth District Court, which sat en banc to hear my plea for Giroro's case. Your commander is currently reviewing his orders and I expect that you will receive word from someone very high, very soon. We both know that under the Status Agreement and current orders Mr Giroro cannot be considered either an enemy or a combatant and is therefore not subject to interrogation."

"His opponent was a Syrian national." the armed one growled.

Mennings was undeterred. "And you have questioned Walter "Sinister Serpent" Alasir. He was born in the United States to naturalized parents. He is a Christian, well respected church-goer and community activist. He was on the US Olympic team before he came to the XWF. You know that he threw Mr Giroro at Giroro's request. You are only lucky that Mr Giroro landed on a terrorist insurgent, recognized the man as dangerous and saved your jarhead ass... ahem assets."

He continued excitedly, now babbling at Giroro, "Giroro, your rescue of these troops and the diplomats was seen all over the United States, Canada and most of Europe either live or on tape. It has been the buzz of the Internet. You are more searched than the Presidential Primary candidates or "Paris Hilton naked"! Trust me, I was filing papers for your release before we even knew for certain you'd been detained. Sir Jeff has been burning up the phone lines and cashing in all the favors he has. I flew here on a jet with several politicians whose constituents are demanding your release with marches and active protests."

"Enough," said the Major with a slam of his fist against the tabletop. "Enough Mr Mennings. Be silent or I will have you escorted out. You are here as a courtesy. Now. Shut. The. FUCK. UP." The Majors eyes were raging and bulging. They dared Mennings to so much as cough.

There was a knock at the door and the armed one stiffened to alert. A voice announced through a speaker grill hidden somewhere in the ceiling of the room. "Sirs, a packet of orders has arrived marked Urgent and For Your Eyes." The Major stared to the ceiling in disbelief. He and the armed one flashed a look of utter disgust at Mennings.

Mennings, for himself was smiling sharkishly - obviously pleased and just as obviously smugly satisfied. He closed his briefcase and stood. "Major," he nodded at the seated officer. "Agent," he nodded at the armed man. "I think this interview is at an end."

----

He sat at the foot of her bed and watched her sleep. She was safe for the moment: safe from Hanene, safe from Kururu, safe from the Imperium, from headquarters. From death itself, if I am able, thought Dororo, "I only wish I could tell you how I really feel Natsumi." She stirred sleepily, moaning and thrashing against some nightmare and he alertly jumped to the window.

He was safely to the ground before she awoke. "Someday, someday, I will tell you."

----

Not more than a half-day became history before the door of the chamber clicked three times and opened again. Giroro didn't look up. He hadn't moved from the seat. He was conserving energy and moisture. He looked up warily: he expected to see the Major or perhaps Mennings or maybe the armed one or perhaps someone more professional and skilled at torture and interrogation. He knew he was done-for.

The tray that was set before him by one of the two functionaries had at least three meals worth of food in separate containers. Two pitchers of very cool water were set down on the left and right.

Giroro's stomach rumbled. He was panting from his thirst. He didn't touch the food or the provided paper cup. He didn't drink the water at all. He snorted the fluid, washing the dust and dryness from his mouth and sinuses. He gargled to relieve his sore and raspy throat. He gargled deeply. He did not gulp. Only after he had dribbled some water from his hands into his broad eyes, and blinked several times to moisten them could he focus. The steward was still standing at the now closed door.

"I am sorry Mr. Giroro, but my orders are to watch you eat and then to have you escorted to the latrine and shower." He nodded towards the hot food. "It may taste good, but it will run straight through you."

Giroro nodded. I suppose I can pretend to use their toilet facilities and I could certainly use a shower. This suit doesn't sweat, but it absorbs dirt like an old tire. I wonder if he can smell me the way I can. "That will be sufficient." He opened the first tray. "I must be honest, I expected only stale bread and not such a sumptuous feast." He ate the meat and surprisingly sweet canned fruit before attacking the vegetables. He had been given only a spoon, but all the food was pre-cut. He needed no knife. He demolished one and then began on the next.

Four guards escorted him down the short hall of the bunker. There were three other cells and at the end a shower and unisex latrine facilities. He pretended to use the toilet, but with three guards watching he could easily explain his lack of digestion as "Shy kidney". The shower was next and he stood under the warm water, carefully cleaning the dirt from the syntheskin. He washed his face with plain water and lacking his wig, he ignored the shampoo. He dried himself with the proffered towels.

"Don't you ever take off that mask," asked one of his guards.

"Of course not," scoffed another. "He's Giroro. Like a superhero. He never shows his true face."

They led the dripping Giroro back to his cell. Are they going to leave me naked, he wondered. If Mennings doesn't get me out of here soon, I may have to stage an uprising. I wonder how they'd deal with a magnetic osmium strattaker and 200 rounds per second?

When he arrived in the cell there was clothing laid out on the table. His business suit as specified by the XWF proctors: Armani and Klein in marvelously fashioned counterpoint. The guards closed the door so he could dress privately. His belt, with the hidden picture of Natsumi was gone, but his chronometer had been returned. All the dials had been reset: to midnight of the first of the previous Pokopenian year, but the second hand swept perfect time. He knocked at the door and the guard opened it again and provided him with a superfluous mirror. The clothing was a perfect fit and always would be: a man-equin can no more gain or lose weight than it can sweat or piss. Well, they certainly believe in dressing me well for my execution. I assume that is what will happen soon. A last meal. My last real clothes. I shall take as many of them with me as I can.

"Where is my belt?" he asked the guard who appeared to be in charge.

The guard answered with the slightest shrug. "Probably aboard the plane. These clothes were provided by your lawyer for your release."

Release? Giroro smiled with all his carnivorous teeth. "you just said the most magical word I have ever heard."

The guards led him to the door at the end of the hall and then up a flight of stairs. Mennings was there at the landing with his signature suit and briefcase. The major was absent, but the armed man, still dressed non-discriptly and no longer armed was far into the background. Two Pokopenians with far more medals on their chest than the Major flanked Mennings. They are dressed more formally and severely than any active soldier should be. They must be Generals or Admirals or Someone very much in charge. The officers offered their hands and he shook them.

Mennings took him aside, "Your release will be very public. If asked either defer to me or say how thankful you are to be going home. If you can work in a thank you to the troops and the American people who demanded your release that would be nice." He pressed a sheet of paper into Giroro's hand. "sir Jeff FAXed you a script, just in case."

"Okay," Giroro scanned his lines. The monologue was very short. He folded the paper and slipped into his pocket in case he needed reference. "I am prepared," he said to the assembled. "Let us depart."

The door opened on the setting sun. He was facing the assembly area. He had expected to see bare parched earth, maybe a humvee to transport him to the airstrip, but what greeted his eyes were video cameras, and flash bulbs and rank after rank of orderly assembled soldiers. Everyone in the camp from cook to captain, enlisted to officer had turned out. The sun was nearly set behind them, but there were hectares and hectares of precisely ranked troops. As if on cue they all came to attention and all saluted. There was silence for a count of thirty before they all with cheered synchronously, their voices echoing across the desert, "Gi-ro-ro! Gi-ro-ro! Gi-ro-ro!"

Giroro looked out at them. The words he'd heard on the streets of Manhattan, so long ago, and so far away, when he was just another lost and despondent Keronian with no job, no money and a broken skimmer: Lookit what we got here... A genu-ine American Hero... "Yes," Giroro said as much to himself as to those afore him, "Yes, yes I am."