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In this special two-part series finale, all the chickens come home to roost, and the plot threads stop unraveling and start coming together. Corinna and Bester spend some quality time together, and Arnie Tindall fights his toughest opponent yet: a corporate lawyer. The final chapter. Part 2/2

This is the last-last-last chapter of Steel and Fire and Stone_, and after the intensity of Chapter 8 I think we all both need and deserve a break. Don't you? Thank you so much, guys, for your support and your assistance in bringing this novel in for a landing -- now let's go and do this thing! As always, share and enjoy, and please chime in with criticism and feedback! If you like the story, that makes me happy. If you don't like it, the only way I can get better is if you tell me._

Released under the Creative Commons BY-NC-SA license. Share, modify, and redistribute -- as long as it's attributed and noncommercial, anything goes.

Steel and Fire and Stone, by Rob Baird -- Ch. 8.5, "In spring, the darkened wall"

---

Child, I know not, in this storm That mingles everyone: the good, the evil, heroes, bandits What brought you to this fight, but I say: That your untaught soul is yet sublime. Good and brave, you -- in the depths of the abyss -- Took two steps: one to your mother, and the other to death. The child has candor: the man, remorse. And you will not answer for what you do: But he is beautiful and brave who chooses Over escape, and life, and the dawn of carefree days In spring, the darkened wall where fell his comrades.

• Victor Hugo, "Sur la barricade"

Cleanup operations had taken the better part of two days, which Tindall had spent in his Swartrenoster, the hatches open under clear skies. When he returned, the former Kingdom base -- now Fort Concord, after the nearest friendly hamlet -- had been completely transformed. Generators had been set up; lights were flashing on the radio tower, and the cold drink one of the marines pressed into his hand offered the promise of running water.

He wanted a shower and a hot meal. More than that, he wanted to slow down. His mind had been racing nonstop, trying to put together everything that had happened. Tindall sat at the edge of his bunk. His boots were still tightly laced; he leaned back, and told himself that he would undo them in a minute. Just a minute...

It was either still light or light again when he awoke, though a quick look at his communicator told him that it was the latter. His muscles ached; his mind seemed still to be muddy, surprised by unfamiliar faces and smells. The navy shower he permitted himself removed only a fraction of the grime from his skin -- just enough so that he felt vaguely human again. His fatigues were still a mess, and they reeked.

Someone else's problem.

Lachance intercepted him just outside his Swartrenoster. "General Waverly wants to see you, sir. It's about the other moreaus -- not the 2130s."

Tindall glanced through the notes in his communicator. At some point he had spoken to a German shepherd named Shura Narrakja. Yes -- there it was. They had lost thirty killed in action, taking the brunt of the assault to the west and his last, desperate attempt to secure a defensible position in the north. This had not seemed to bother Shura, particularly; again he was reminded of how clinically the canines reacted to the prospect of death.

Waverly had commandeered a spare room in the barracks; it was already covered in maps and reports, with computers unrolled on every wall. He knocked, and stepped inside. "Captain Tindall, reporting as ordered."

"At ease, captain. I'm getting bugged here -- could use some information. You raised an auxiliary 2130 company here?"

"No, sir. They were refugees, from a corporate campus to the west."

The general nodded. "Ready to hand 'em back? Corporate guys landed a lawyer on the last boat."

"I don't speak for them, sir."

"Who does?"

Tindall was not actually certain. It might've been the short, big-eared dog who tagged around with Alruklhan, or Shura Narrakja, or nearly anyone else. "They have some kind of ruling council. Sir, I have to admit, I'm not super comfortable with giving them back. I think they should be given the right of self-determination. We would've lost without them."

"That makes them useful, son, not human. Look, their lawyer's asking for a meeting. You get who you want together; I'll find some guys from our side. I trust you on this one, but..."

"'But,' sir?"

Waverly started to speak, and then seemed to decide that what he had meant was no longer meaningful. "As far as I'm concerned, son, we owe you for holding this place. I'll do what you want on this one."

"You're certain, sir?"

"I promise. You know this place better than I do. You're still commander of the planetary forces, after all. Just be sure you know what you're doing."

Shura Narrakja pointed him to Runtuuika Øthachidat, who pointed him to someone named Khanån Ranetaja Sålunait. With the short, big-eared dog -- Iskoshunja -- they made up the Commonwealth's ruling council. Iskoshunja, they agreed, was to speak for them. She glared at Tindall as soon as they were alone. "You can't give us back."

"I'll try," he said, quietly.

"That's not what I meant," the dog snapped -- fierce despite her stature. "I mean you don't have the authority. If they think they can put us back in bondage, I'll kill them."

It was not what Tindall really wanted. The meeting was scheduled for the next day, and he found a dress uniform that very nearly fit for the meeting. Waverly was joined by a trim man, Major Trujillo, who announced himself as the senior legal advisor for the 13th Orbital Assault Division. Captain Runshana, the moreau he had met five months before, sat as well. She carried her formal uniform, Arnie decided, far better than he himself did.

"Andy Childress, legal affairs," a man in a dark-suit said, shaking their hands one at at time -- even Runshana's. He only skipped Iskoshunja who, for the occasion, was not wearing any clothes at all. Her lip curled every time she laid eyes on him. "I hope we can make this quick. I'm glad that we have been of help to you, but, ah, this is a substantial investment for us, so -- now that we've reestablished control of the planet we'd like to begin operations again..."

"Now that we've bled sufficiently for your profit-books," Waverly suggested.

Childress frowned, and fidgeted with an expensive watch. "I don't think that was necessary. We do, of course, appreciate your sacrifices. And we'll... find some happy medium, I think. We just need to agree on the return of our dogs -- I'm to understand from your accounting that there are still... seventy-eight units, that's correct?"

"That's correct," Tindall said. "But unfortunately, we're no longer in control of them. Iskoshunja here is the representative from their council. Iskoshunja, is return an option?"

"We would die first," the corgi growled.

"We had discussed this before, briefly -- just prior to the meeting," Arnie clarified. "It seems that we are unlikely to come to an agreement, however."

Andy's frown deepened, his forehead lining. "This is a farce, General Waverly. There's no such thing as a doggy parliament. These are owned and operated by my corporation -- it's as simple as any other machine. We'll pay you for the upkeep you expended, but... come on, general, please don't waste our time."

"You don't own anything," Iskoshunja spat.

"I submit that it is improper to exert ownership claims over a sentient, intelligent being. Slavery is expressly against the terms of our constitution, General Waverly," Tindall said softly. He was not a lawyer -- only someone with a keen and growing sense of what was right and wrong.

"It's not slavery," Andy rolled his eyes. "The Supreme Court has upheld this numerous times, most recently not ten years ago in Williams v. Quintana. Williams clearly demonstrates that we have a legitimate claim to the property we invested in, we created, and we maintained. They're not independent, General Waverly. Major Trujillo, can you please..."

"They're clearly independent," Tindall interrupted. "Captain Runshana is a decorated soldier with two Silver Stars and two Alliance Crosses in only eight years of service."

"Jules Verne owns its liberty deed," Andy Childress said wearily. "None of these dogs do."

"Due respect, sir," Runshana said. "I believe you run the risk of confusing what is legal with what is right. Even when my company held a piece of paper with my name on it, I do not consider that I was owned."

Childress threw up his right hand. "Consider what you want. The fact of the matter is that Williams upholds our legal authority in these affairs, and I'm not going to be drawn into a debate on settled matters of law. Please provide all seventy-eight units for transport tomorrow morning."

"Major Trujillo?" Tindall prompted gently.

"He's right," Trujillo shrugged. "It is indeed a 'settled matter of law.' They have no intrinsic right to self-determination; that was decided in Holley v. Hackworth, back in '56."

"And affirmed in McIntyre v. Honeywell," Childress added.

Trujillo thought about it, and nodded. "Correct. As a matter of simple fact, Captain Tindall, they're property. Plain and simple."

Arnie Tindall considered this carefully; his shoulders lowered. "Look," Childress reassured them. "I'm sure they were friendly with you. We treat them nice -- it's even open to inspection. It's a good life. Your pups'll be fine, Captain Tindall."

He ignored the lawyer. "I'm sorry," he said to Iskoshunja, as gently as he could. "I didn't want to have to do this."

The corgi growled, her teeth baring. "You worthless, honorless..."

"It's wrong," he told her. "I know."

"Ready, captain?" the general asked.

It was wrong; he hated to do it. But he raised his voice once more anyway. "Of course. Mr. Childress, I appreciate your articulation of the company's desires."

"Certainly."

Tindall gripped the table firmly to steady himself. "Executive Order 36, signed unanimously by the Jericho Colonial Administration and ratified by the Business Advisory Council -- including your company, Mr. Childress -- grants the senior Alliance defense agency on this planet broad authority to expropriate corporate property in exigent military circumstances, without any expectation of return or recompense. Captain Carignan and my subordinates will testify under oath to the exigent need, and you yourself have granted the military utility."

"The hell..." Childress muttered.

He continued, cutting the lawyer off. "Therefore as Commander, Alliance Forces Jericho, I regret to inform you that the Colonial Defense Authority has assumed ownership of seventy-eight moreaus, has used and is using them in the capacity of planetary security, and will not be able to return them to you."

Andy Childress sputtered. "This is ridiculous. General Waverly, you outrank Captain Tindall. Tell him to see reason."

"Hasn't he?"

"Please, let's not make a scene about this..."

Waverly was smiling wryly, caught between the awkwardness of the situation and what, Tindall supposed, was some vicarious pleasure in needling the corporate lawyer. "It's correct that I outrank the captain, but Tindall has never been officially relieved. He is still the planetary commander, Mr. Childress."

"That's absurd."

"I didn't sign the executive order. It sounds like your corporation agreed, though -- hell, have to find some way to get us to secure your precious company property. Well -- most of it, apparently..."

"General Waverly!"

"Please, Mr. Childress," Waverly grinned. "Let's not make a scene about this. Captain Runshana, would you please escort Mr. Childress back to his shuttle?" The grey Border collie saluted and stood; when Childress did not follow, she took him firmly by the hand and led him from the room. "They're not going to like that, Captain Tindall."

"I know, sir. It was not... what I wanted."

"But eighty dogs were? What do you want with eighty dogs?"

"To free them, sir. On their behalf, I'd like to request that they be granted temporary asylum until they can figure out the best way to move forward with their goals."

Waverly looked from Tindall to Trujillo; the lawyer raised his hands. "Don't look at me, sir. He's a maverick. I don't know how he thinks this is going to end up for him."

"Captain, I hope you know what the hell you were doing," the general shook his head. "'Commander, Alliance Forces Jericho,' indeed. C'mon, major, let's figure out how the hell to spin this." Chuckling, he stood, and with Trujillo left the room.

"It wasn't what I wanted," Tindall said again. It was a legal maneuver; hollow, devoid of philosophical weight.

Iskoshunja's ears were flattened. "Your heart was... pure. For a human," she amended, lest her statement be taken as a sign of weakness. "My mate was... very conflicted about you. At times, he resented everything about humanity -- like I do. But he saw something in your Alliance, for reasons that escape me. He died saving the lives of two humans. I hope it was worth it."

"I hope so too. And I hope you can find some place for yourself. Somebody's got to have room for seventy-eight... nakathja."

"Råk nan ratag," she told him softly. "And besides, it will be more soon enough." He arched an eyebrow, and the corgi glanced downwards, towards her belly. It was a few seconds before she lifted her eyes again. "We... underestimated you. I am genuinely grateful for what you did."

*

"Well, you gave the hornet's nest a good whack; what were you expecting?" Waverly asked.

"I don't know."

"They want you out. They'll settle for your unit -- without that, you don't mean much anyway." Waverly had summoned him to an emergency meeting, and then revealed that the CODA military board had convened a special session to revoke the status of the 2130 company. There was no particular reason to challenge Tindall on the grounds of his command decisions, but the loss of the DEC moreaus had led someone to question the loyalty of the OTH soldiers.

"What am I supposed to do?"

"It's a boilerplate message, captain," General Waverly told him. "You give it to your men, and that's it. You don't get to put up posters or make a stirring speech about truth and justice and all that BS. This message. They agree to these terms, they get ten thousand obols, and their military contract bought out -- a return to civilian life, no questions asked."

"Bastards."

"What did I say about hornet's nests?"

He put the message up on the company net -- what was left of the company, anyway. Wayne Eisenberg met him in his briefing room; Tindall lifted his head briefly to acknowledge the man's entrance. "You okay, captain?"

"Shitty way to end this whole thing," Tindall said quietly. "Damned shitty way."

"You think they'll take the offer?"

"Will you?"

Eisenberg chuckled, and grabbed the seat opposite him. "Already have," he grinned.

"Liar."

Wayne shrugged, and pulled out his canteen, taking a drink. "Maybe," he said lightly. "You can't tell, sir."

"I can. You read the message? Moreaus only. Buy out the fuckin' contract -- isn't that a brilliant move? What the hell are they supposed to do when the money's spent, huh? Not a whole lot of room for emancipated dogs..."

Tindall had joined because there was nothing really for him on Proxima Draconi, his boyhood home. Now he was a full member of the Alliance, in good standing. He could join the Ecclesia, the body of the voting public; he could emigrate freely, or own land, or start any business he chose.

Very specifically, the buyout proposal did not extend such rights to any moreaus who took it. They were still stateless, and little more than drifters. It was a bald statement of the respect CODA spared for its servants. Arnie sighed, and looked towards Wayne's canteen. "What's in there?"

"Who's asking?"

Tindall laughed hollowly. "Commander, Alliance Forces Jericho."

Eisenberg tossed the canteen over, and Tindall caught it in a weary hand. "Neue Tiroler whiskey, from my family's distillery. Twenty years old. Needs to be drunk."

"That's two of us." The alcohol had a smooth fire, a smokey taste that burned at the back of his throat. "If I resign, what happens to you?" He took another pull from the canteen, and lobbed it back to the tall sergeant.

"I get hung out to dry, probably, to be honest. Been in this for too long, captain." Wayne looked at the canteen warily, and then drank from it again, holding the whiskey in his mouth for a long time. "Can't keep getting lucky."

"Is it luck?"

"Hate to think you had this all planned," Eisenberg pointed out. He tilted the canteen over, and Tindall nodded, taking it back from him.

It was good whiskey; a shame to be drinking it in the way they were, like wayward men at the end of their life. What else could they be? Heroes? The absurdity of that thought gave him the strength he needed to take another long sip. "You know what bothers me the most?"

"What's that?"

"I got this reputation for being a 2130 guy, you know? I mean, sergeant, I don't even like dogs and cats much. I wouldn't keep 'em on my own. But these guys, they kinda... they came to me."

"You look trustworthy."

Tindall snorted. "Fine. After that first battle, we got... thirty more men? And then a dozen more after we got glassed here. I don't..." He swallowed heavily; the whiskey was no longer appealing to him, and he set it on the table. Eisenberg didn't bother to pick it up. "I don't know their names. I don't even know if we have records. They're just... dead. I don't know what to do with that. And the thing is... the thing is... was it worth it?"

"The problem with that, sir, is it ain't your question to answer."

*

Such a simple message. It was addressed to "all participants, OTH experimental units, Colonial Defense Authority."

Your service to the Yucatan Alliance has been invaluable. The experimental 2130 companies you have staffed have proven successful beyond our hopes and aspirations, as a result of your valuable and inspirational service. To show our regard for your brave service, we now offer you the opportunity to end your contract early. By agreeing to the below conditions, you will be formally discharged from the Colonial Defense Authority; specific remuneration details to follow...

"Not me, then," Carla Martin asked.

"Not you," Chanatja agreed. "Can you not retire 'cause of the injury, though?"

"Four points," the human woman shrugged. She was sitting up in bed; the color had long since returned to her face. "Probably got another six months to a year until I can buy out. It depends on if we get a bonus for this operation. Some times I'm not really sure why I signed up..."

The shepherd grinned. "Civic duty." The only real reason for a human to sign up, excepting that the pay was good. Two years service, or the monetary equivalent, bought you the right to call yourself a citizen of the Yucatan Alliance. Preferential treatment in business paperwork, the right to hold office and land, suffrage -- a number of things that, as a moreau, Chanatja would never have, and did not care about.

"Are you going to take it?"

"Perhaps," he admitted.

Carla smiled, and reached out to feel for his paws. He had to move somewhat gingerly; a piece of shrapnel had ripped open his left arm, and everything was still somewhat sore when he tried to move. Her fingers stroked softly through his fur. "What would you do, if you left here?"

That was, of course, the real question, and truthfully the shepherd did not have a particularly good answer. "There are lots of things I could do... I have my corporate training, at least. I've kind of thought I would like to be a writer, though. I had this idea for a play..."

With a soft grin, the human let him go. "Yeah?"

"The people I know; the things I've seen... maybe I'm just overconfident, but I think it would be worth at least trying..."

But he had a slight fear, too. For all intents and purposes everyone he knew was in the company. Once, with access to a public terminal, he'd looked up the nakathja that he'd known in Washington. Yashpal, and Blish, and Chja Etaja, and the rest. All of them were dead -- accidents and disease, mostly.

All that was left for him was the company. Tremaine was long deceased, now. Now Szanto, the one other human he'd felt a bond with, had also been killed. He had tried to explain himself to Silverberg, and the red colliedog had nodded patiently. It probably sounded like rank naïveté to him, Chanatja supposed: Silverberg's spine was broken, and he would walk again only after months of therapy.

But there were others, after all, still. Even Astra; he found her lying on her back, staring up at the ceiling of the barracks. "Hey, jankito," he told her; she rolled to her side, and nodded lightly. "How are you holding up?"

"I think it was my fault," she said.

"Your fault?"

"I should've been looking for the calibration pulse from a recoilless battery. If I'd done that, I could've seen them before they fired." She flopped onto her back again. "Kingdom's recoilless rifles have a characteristic double-pulse in their rangefinders, to compensate for parallax. If I'd been looking, I could've seen it... could've taken evasive action..."

"Things were rather stressed, there, Astra..."

"I know," she said. "I'm not dwelling. I've found something more productive."

"Which is?"

The muskrat had long since burned away the fat that had curved her form; her teeth looked positively vicious when she spoke. "They're going to fix up our mech, and then I'm going to kill every last one of those fucking bastards."

*

"Five... four... three... two... one..." With a sighing hum the systems shut down, and the inside of the cockpit darkened.

"Test impulse pattern one... check. Pattern two... check. Pattern three... check." Suresh tapped his computer once for every success. "No faults in the test circuits. I'm opening the fuel gates now."

The Rooijakkals had four fuel cells for her nuclear reactor. Theirs should've been swapped out weeks before, but the blockade had prevented it -- and then the annihilation of the Alliance base, and the battles that had followed... Towards the end, Stennis admitted, he had needed emergency power to even charge the capacitors for their railguns.

Outside, the ground crew had brought up a crane to remove the heavy fuel cell blocks. It took a few minutes, but soon enough one of them gave her a thumbs-up, and Corinna tapped the final line on her checklist. "Alright, guys, we're depowered. Should get some more in a couple days, I guess..." If it mattered. "You're dismissed. See you at 0800 tomorrow."

0800 was when they were supposed to have come to some decision on CODA's offer to let them leave the service early. Corinna thought she would probably not accept the deal -- but it occurred to her that the unknown of what was to follow was in some ways even more troubling. If there weren't enough men for a proper company, then they'd be scattered again. Where too? Would she stick with her platoon?

Or would she be back to driving trucks again, signing slips for an apathetic quartermaster? It was not a particularly appealing thought. She hadn't talked to the others; nobody had said, but the rumor was that such talk would be seen as evidence of some conspiracy. Typical paranoid humans.

Suresh and Stennis excused themselves. Only Bester remained, sitting in his pilot's chair. The straps were undone, and the cockpit shields were up -- they could see out on a hangar that was increasingly deserted. With the fuel cells removed, the ground crew had left; the lights were dimming.

"You okay, mate?"

Bester's paw caressed one of the control sticks for the mech. They did not look entirely dissimilar: the metal of the joystick was nicked, and the black paint had started to fade. Bester's fingers, too, were worn and seemed vaguely industrial, the calloused pads rubbing thoughtfully over the buttons on his controller. "Yeah, I'm fine. Just thinkin' it's... it's been a hell of a ride, that's all."

"Hasn't it, though?" The cockpit was cramped, but she stood up, carefully threading herself through the gap between the hull and his seat so that she could look out the windows with him. "I think we've done alright, though."

He laughed; an easy chuckle. "Always do. What did I tell you, stripes? I didn't think we were gonna buy it here..."

"Yeah, canine optimism."

Rolling his eyes, the Rottweiler leaned up to grab her with one big paw, pulling her close. "You know you love it, stripes."

In the dwindling light she saw his grin -- just enough of his muzzle to give her a point of reference. It was awkward in the closed space, but she leaned down to kiss him, and when their lips met she felt his grasp tighten. "Maybe a bit," she admitted, pulling away. "Keeps me honest. I wouldn't want to --"

He leaned up, pressing his muzzle against hers, bringing a premature end to a sentence she had no real conclusion for anyway. Corinna felt herself melting against him; her eyes closed, and she let him draw her closer, his clutching for the fabric of her shirt, and the soft fur beneath it. Shifting, trying to get comfortable, she slipped forward in the cockpit, swinging one leg over his to straddle the big dog.

This made it easy for the thylacine to keep herself close to him, lips sweetly locked, even after his paws left the curve of her back. She felt them a moment later at her front, unfastening her fatigues button by button, until they were hanging wide open, and coarse paws roamed freely through her short-furred pelt -- sliding over her shoulders, her chest... then lower still.

She had not had cause to think much about her pouch since her first job as a caretaker of young children, years and years before. Now Bester's fingers caressed that opening, teasing gently as he explored her, and she heard herself gasp -- then a breathy moan, sighed helplessly into his muzzle. Nobody had ever touched her like that before; she shivered above him as dull, smooth claws pressed careful patterns into the bare flesh.

When she felt his fingers undoing the magnetic clasp that held her pants together she finally abandoned the kiss, gasping. "Do you -- ah -- do you want -- do you want to find somewhere more comfortable, mate?"

"Plenty comfortable here," the dog answered breathlessly -- then she felt the pressure of her pants release as they opened, and he guided them down, over her long, striped tail. On the way back he squeezed her rear with one paw, using it to pull her into his lap. Her shuffling legs slid her pants down until they fell in an unruly tangle in the floor of the mech.

She fell against him, into the barrel-chested dog, their lips pressed together in heated contact. Her tongue slipped into his blunt muzzle, wet, warm with raggedly gasped breath. Every new touch of his fingers through her bare fur seemed to come with sparks of light and heat and growing desire. She wanted him... and she'd been waiting so long, surely she --

The communicator at her wrist buzzed. Corinna glanced to it, cursing -- Bester was trying to chuckle, his chest heaving. "G'ahead," she managed to say, more or less coherently.

"Hey, boss, it's Red. You not still in the hangar, are you?"

"Mmf."

"You and Bester?"

"Ah -- maybe?" she said. The Rottweiler grinned fangedly. "I don't -- know!" This came with a helpless squeak as he groped her rump firmly.

"Well, uh, if you find him..." Stennis trailed off. "Uh. If you find him, tell him to remember to close the visual shields on the cockpit before he leaves. 'Cause otherwise, you know, people can see inside."

She blushed heavily, her ears splaying. "Thanks, Red."

"Uh huh. See you tomorrow, boss."

First things first, she bit Bester on the nose for the grope. His grin widened, and he sat up carefully, pulling the screens closed to shield them in darkness. "Not like you have a distinctive silhouette, or nothin'," he teased. "That muzzle o' yers..."

"What about that muzzle of mine?"

"Get to that later," he muttered. "No time..." His hips arched powerfully, and she felt something hot and firm grind between her legs, trapped by the heavy fabric of his pants. Then he shuffled beneath her, and this time she felt bare, stiff flesh slide up her thigh.

Her paws grasped his shoulders, steadying herself. She found the Rottweiler's muzzle by feel, kissing him again to muffle her gasp as he guided himself into her, and the pointed tip of his length pushed just inside. Shuddering, she lowered her hips to slowly take him inside -- hard and thick, filling her so thoroughly that she nearly lost control then and there.

His fingers found her hips, guiding her as she began to stroke herself onto him, her movements fluid and smooth. He felt wonderful, every thing she'd imagined from him. She whispered wordlessly into his muzzle, working herself a little faster; he squeezed her hips again in answer.

The Rottweiler was already straining beneath her -- the aching, feral need growing in his thrusts. Every inward plunge pushed her closer to the edge, to that needed, desperate release. Her pace quickened, driving herself onto him as the pleasure slowly threaded up her spine, sinking into her mind, blotting out everything but the raw need she felt for him then. Her paws clenched down hard as a shudder rolled through her -- he yelped, bucking upwards as if spurred.

Closer now -- thighs trembling as her control ebbed, tense and quivering above him. He arched his back, hilting himself into her -- a thickening bulge spreading her lips steadily further apart. Her muscles locked up -- for a moment she thought she wouldn't be able to move, wouldn't be able to topple over that glorious, yawning abyss.

Then he thrust again, and the ripples of the thylacine's climax seized her; her back curled and she bucked and trembled, helpless to resist. A yipping wail left her before she found the presence of mind to bury her long muzzle between Bester's neck and the chair, her desperate gasps inhaling his scent deeply. He was still moving -- firmly, getting himself deep inside, prolonging the jolts of pleasure that had her toes curled and her eyes screwed so tightly shut the sparks that painted her vision came near to overwhelming her.

Let there be light -- she put the world back together in pieces of a ragged puzzle. It was made of warmth and pleasure -- a strong male dog below her, bucking smoothly between her thighs. The hard, hot spire of his manhood pushing deep -- her wet lips gripping at a thick, solid knot of hard flesh as he shifted and rolled, grinding it against her folds urgently.

He drew back his hips and an electric current sent flickers of light through her nerves. He was not pulling out. Then she realized he couldn't, that he was trapped by his own knotted length, buried to the hilt in his striped lover. She had wanted to see his face when he climaxed. In the darkness it was impossible, just the hitching gasps of his strained breathing, the soft grunts -- the shudder that gripped him, and way his claws danced on her hips...

Bester's thick shaft jerked swiftly, and a deep groan spilled from his muzzle, over-loud in the cramped cockpit. She could feel him filling her, a novel warmth blooming deep inside, spreading quickly as the dog emptied himself into her wanton, waiting depths. She rolled her hips atop him, squeezing down until she could feel every pulse of his throbbing length -- coming slower now, becoming more relaxed...

He was still weakly spurting into her when she lowered herself onto his chest, stroking through his shaggy fur, petting the dog soothingly. "Ah, Bester..." she whispered. She wanted him to know how much she had needed it, how long she had craved him, but... but then, he knew, and so instead she nuzzled the side of his neck. "So bloody good..."

"Told ya we needed to wait," he muttered softly.

She did not entirely agree. But she settled comfortably against his chest, as their breathing steadily returned to normal and the pleasure that had coursed through her ebbed into something warm and relaxing. Bester unlocked the window-hatch with his foot, and pushed it open. Cooling air filled the cabin; through the open hatch, and the hangar door, she could see the cobalt of nearing twilight. Sunsets had been brilliant since the bombardment.

Ten minutes later, he pulled himself from her; Corinna felt the warmth of his seed trickling down through the fur of her thighs, a twinge of regret tickling her. She felt for her pants, pulling them back on, shrugging her shirt over muscles that were still a little weak, still a little slow to obey.

"C'mon," Bester said -- and his voice was almost... gentle.

He led her out towards the edge of the base, on a shallow rise. From it, they could see to the plains below, and back into the bustle of the growing Alliance outpost. "Pretty crazy to think what this was just a couple days back..."

"Pretty crazy," he echoed. When she turned to look at him, he kissed her again -- just for a second, just enough to remind her of what it felt like.

"You reckon it's time to call it, mate?" He tilted his head. "Take the money and go?"

"Go where? Nah, stripes. Figured out something, I think. Ain't never known where I was supposed to be before. What I was supposed to do, any of that shit. You gotta believe in something, though."

"Do you?"

His paw sought hers; their fingers pressed together. "Sure." She heard him rustling; his other paw was at his chest. He pulled from it a metal cylinder -- the cigar case he'd shown her, months and months before. "When my boss gave it to me, he said I'd known when it was the right time. Always thought it'd be 'cause I'd finished somethin' big, or started it. Beginning or an end, either way."

"Is it now?" she asked him, and gave his paw a squeeze.

Bester's ears flicked. Holding the metal case in his paw, he turned to her. Their eyes met. She heard a click as he snapped the case open, and the hiss of the broken seal. "Reckon so," he nodded. The cigar was blunt, a dark shape in the twilight. The Rottweiler gave the tip an expert flick of one claw, separating it -- then he carefully lit it, working the flame all around the edge until it glowed in a perfect circle.

She was always surprised by the grace with which he could move, suitably motivated. Now, holding the cigar between his fingers, he took a slow draw -- then passed it over to her. She followed his example. The smoke was smooth, and tasted of hazelnut -- calming, much as the dog himself was. "Which was it? Beginning or an end?"

The tip of the cigar glowed with a friendly, living color; it covered an arc in the cooling sky as she passed it back over to him. Bester held it for a time without bringing it back to his muzzle. His ears were flattened in thought. "For me," he finally said, "it's both. The rest of us..." Now he took another draw on the cigar, letting it bring his words to elegant silence. "I guess we find out tomorrow."

*

Arnold Tindall straightened his uniform. It was neatly pressed, with the buttons shining. Wayne looked even more regal, and his stride was even and martial. "You should be prepared, sir."

They had asked the men to report to one of two rooms, depending on the choice that they had made. Emily Lachance was waiting in one, with the paperwork necessary to discharge them from the service. Ten thousand obols was not a great deal, but it was enough to get to a new planet; a new start. They had experience now, and connections.

He did not think that all of them would choose to leave. Some, though. The white shepherd, Chanatja, he had complained about his treatment since very nearly the beginning. The new hires, too, had been thrown directly into the grinder on Jericho; he doubted they had any real sense of loyalty.

"Twenty percent?"

"I think that's fair," Wayne Eisenberg nodded. "Perhaps a little higher, considering the last op. It's a decent buyout. If they hadn't offered it for 2130s only, you might could think they cared about us."

Mightn't they? Tindall knocked sharply on the door, and Emily bid him to enter. They were fifteen minutes early, it was true -- but 0800 was the final deadline to have made a decision. He took a deep breath, straightened up, and turned the handle.

The room was empty. Lieutenant Lachance sat behind her desk with a bemused expression, the stack of unsigned release forms at her side. "Should be the right time, sir. Nobody's buying."

Before Tindall could respond the door opened again, admitting Specialist Chanatja. He blinked at the captain's presence, and saluted to the two officers. "At ease," Arnie said. "I'm not so surprised to see you, I have to admit."

"What? I'm just here to file a request with the company XO, sir. Due respect we, ah -- I wasn't expecting you until 0800 sharp. Sir. I figured it was kind of a formality anyway, and Emily said that she'd be here until then, so... I figured I would stop by quickly."

"What's this 'request'?" Emily asked, shaking her head.

"Oh. Um. I have this from central command. It's my insurance re-enrollment form? My, ah, my name is misspelled, ma'am. There should be a 't', but I think they scanned my handwriting as an 'l' somehow." He had out a flexible computer, and was indicating the offending word on the form.

Captain Tindall was at a loss, and when he looked to Wayne the tall soldier did not seem to be any better informed. Chanatja was still explaining the potential consequences of a misspelled name to the hapless Lachance. Together, Eisenberg and Tindall crossed the room to the metal door that connected it to its twin.

Shaking his head, Tindall pulled the door wide and stepped through. The room was packed -- full to overflowing. "Room! Atten_tion!_" He couldn't even place the voice -- clear, a barking shout. The rustle of six dozen people coming to order was briefly deafening.

"The fuck..." he shook his head. He picked his way through them to the front of the room. All of their eyes were focused on him, the salutes held to angular perfection. Tindall returned it; he was still stunned. "At ease. Is this... everyone?"

"Chanatja went to find Lieutenant Lachance, sir," Corinna Benjamin told him.

"I saw him already."

"Beyond that, yes sir, it's everyone fit to serve. Sixty-nine in total, sir."

He dismissed them, still not quite able to believe it. It had occurred to him that taking the buyout would be the sort of rational self-interest that CODA claimed to prize -- it would also be a very mercenary admission that there was no loyalty beyond that of their paychecks. It had not been a fair game.

"I'd like to see General Waverly, sir," he told the man's secretary. "At your earliest convenience."

"He's ready for you now."

General Waverly was facing the window when Tindall entered; he turned around to return the offered salute. "Well?"

"Sir, A Company, 2nd of the 49th has declined to take any compensation for early termination of their contract. It was apparently a... unanimous decision."

"Afraid of that," Waverly muttered, though his hazel eyes held a light twinkle.

"You were, sir?"

"No. But others should've been. That little weasel Childress, for one. It was a terrible idea. Think of how insulting that would be to come out of something like this and be told you could get kicked to the curb for your thirty pieces? I told 'em it would come down like this. Going to be a problem for some people."

Tindall was lost; he shook his head. "I don't quite follow you, sir."

"They're smarter than us, captain. Faster, quicker. Of course they make good soldiers. The question was always why they fought. Breeding? Masochism? Why didn't think take that buyout, Tindall? What are they here for?"

"Each other, sir."

"Each other," Waverly echoed. "I'm sure they think it's better here than it would be in the Kingdom -- maybe they even think the Alliance is worth fighting for. The guys that kicked this project off were hoping they could be easily manipulated robots with lower maintenance. Never worked out that way. As soon as they saw it was getting beyond their control, they tried to shut it down -- or throw you guys into the fire and hope you burnt up. Too many corporate assholes getting spooked. But not all of us are like that..."

"You, general?"

Waverly smiled softly. "Let's say I had a hunch. How long have your men been serving?"

"Nine months with me, sir. A couple years, most of them -- some longer; five I'd say. A few are fresh, joined up in extenuating circumstances from contractors on Kaltrig or the like."

"The guys who first thought this thing up? As far as they're concerned, a 2130 is just an organic machine. Hell with that -- son, watching that fucking corporate attorney squirm was the best fun I've had with my pants on. You think they're machines?"

He was no longer even capable of the logic that would be required to think so. "No."

"I made the Board of Directors a bet. They signed it in blood, and it'll go to the Ecclesia, and they'll have to pull the strings to get the Ecclesia to vote for it. Because, see, I told them I thought if they offered a buyout it would be rejected. 'Specially with a good leader. I bet them it would be unanimous. And it was. I said if it was unanimous, they had to vote to fund the project full-time. And I made them give me something else..."

"Sir?"

Waverly reached down to his desk, and picked up a thin computer. It had the stamp of the Colonial Defense Authority on the screen; the back of the device was marked with the great seal of the Alliance. "Captain Tindall, I want you take this to your men and brief them on its contents immediately."

He accepted the computer, warm beneath his fingers. It had always been that way -- never a chance to settle down; always someplace new, another fire drill. But he didn't even have a brigade anymore. "Due respect, sir. Optimistically we're at half strength. My company is combat-ineffective."

"What's your point, son?"

"This is a new set of orders, sir?" He gestured with the computer.

Waverly took the edge of it between his fingers. "No." And now the old man tapped the screen, bringing it to life, so that Arnie could read a headline done in the Alliance's official, neatly bureaucratic typeface. Department of State and Public Services, it said. Form G-65 (valid to 01/01/86). And beneath that, in large, clear print:

APPLICATION FOR CITIZENSHIP.