Alan Mardecin stalked the base like a volcano two days prior. The dark halls, ten feet on a side and city blocks long, brought to his ears the low rumble of a military command center in full blast on the other side of thick walls. He should have been glad - he had finally gotten command of one of the underground fortresses that made up the regional commands in Luv-held territory larger than a few cities - but never had he realized that the command structure and internal politicking that had gotten him this far now acted to bind his hands. What he wanted was to enjoy the fruits of his labor, power over the fools and petty opponents that he had risen above. What he had was more time spent putting down promotion attempts like his own - but feebler, of course - than commanding his forces. What he wanted was a voice in the governing of the New Era Earth to come. What he had was a stark realization that B'harnii would be very polite; listen quietly to an idea; give it his unconditional, jumping-for-joy approval; and go off and stick with the same path he had been following in the entire war. Well, what did you expect, he thought. He *is*, after all, some kind of unearthly, cosmic whatsit. Maybe he knows a few things you don't? He's losing, isn't he? Well... dynamic stalemate, maybe... Uh-huh. The multiple-universe thing? The TRES HQ attack? Whatever it was they're doing on that island? Stalemate, you say? He shook his head. He'd already convinced himself that there was need for a drastic change in tactics. He even knew what change was required. He'd known, unlike some others, exactly what he was getting into when he sought this Army's ranks, and was plenty happy with the deal. Help the rule of a demonic dictator, and in return, rule a nice chunk of the Earth and live in the style you knew you deserved. But therein lay the problem. Would he need to help such a rule? As he got further into the duties of his position, it was borne in on him further that much of it was routine, algorithmic. In short, the work that a small collection of sponges could perform. The occasional times when he exercised intellect and creativity could, conceivably, be argued to not occur under ideal(anti-ideal?) B'harnistic rulership. Therefore, his aid would no longer be needed once his military job was finished. Mardecin was no fanatic. He had no intention of voluntarily mindlocking, and no intention of giving up the rewards he deserved. What was required, therefore, was a way to prove to his superiors that human aid _would_ be required, even under New Era conditions. This was the twofold objective he had in mind: to win, and in that act convince his superiors of his continued necessity. The problem was, he wasn't sure it was true. Whether it was a lie or not, though, he meant to convince them. And to do that, he needed help. He turned and entered his quarters. Although they were spacious, high-ceilinged, and luxuriously furnished for a military base, he passed by all of this for the dimly lit workstation in back. Sitting down in front of a set of consoles and monitors of various purposes - one displaying calls since he left, one flipping through security camera displays - he entered a very select few com numbers. Although he would face the field of battle without much more than a minor adrenaline rush, he found himself sweating under the collar of his uniform. What he was going to suggest would lay him bare to the machinations of many of his fellow Enlightened, and powerful ones, at that. He could easily die, unless he managed to convince them that their leader might be planning to betray them, and a way could be found to prevent it. If even one decided it was in his better interests to play the lapdog... he momentarily considered a vial of poison in his quarters. Meant for a possible eventual advancement in rank, it could be put to a different use if he really wanted to avoid being spongified, or worse. The Lyrans were sometimes rumored to toy with those whose initiative displeased... Such thoughts vanished as his current equals began to appear on his screen. The one who called himself Gherin... She who was known as Linna... Winston... Faide... more. In all, eight people stared at him from two monitors. All nine of those of this rank that he knew of were together. Just arranging the private call had taken days itself. It was Gherin that spoke first. "This had better be good, Rhyn." Of course, that was the name they knew. "I'm in the middle of the bloody night here." "I fear the news is bad, Gherin, bad enough to call us all together. We might yet be able to do something about it, though." Faide had never liked flowery talk. "Then why don't you tell us the problem, Rhyn?" Her voice, all sugary-sweet enough for a sponge, dropped to a growl on his name. "Fair enough." He leaned back, steepled his fingers. "I want you all to think over your various responsibilities. Most especially the paperwork involved." They paused for a moment. Then Kajj said, "If this is some exhortation speech the Brass put you up to..." "Nothing of the kind. Each of you are familiar enough with sponge programming to imagine a team of them doing exactly what you just..." He talked on for some time. His biggest scare was when Faide said he was a paranoid fool and cut the line, but fortunately, he'd managed to convince Winston and Serevan by that time, and they called her and brought her round, if reluctantly. Slowly, they all began to see his point about after the war. It was blunt Linna who dropped his straight line down, of course. "So what do you propose we do, Rhyn? I assume you have something planned if you're telling us this." "As a matter of fact, I do. What we need... is to win this war without the Brass's help." "Oh, that's easy. Just bouncin' great, Rhyn," said Gherin. "How do you plan to handle squads of Maenads without Lyrans? Or deal with the Jihad sorcerors lacking our Leader to draw power from?" "The trick, Gherin, is twofold. First, I have a plan that, if successful, would avoid conflict altogether. It requires utmost secrecy, though, and careful coordination between all of us in order to prevent the Jihad from suspecting anything is up. It wiĦll need to be very slow, very quiet - and at the end, very fast. They'll never have a chance. Second, it must be done in such a way that only human intelligence could have achieved it, and lacking human intelligence it will falter eventually. I speak of using, not the dark sorcery we have come to rely on, but a heavily technological approach. Machines instead of magic." "The Lyrans'll love that." Arill, a quietly devious little snot who managed to come up with nasty ideas for R&D and Training. Conflict of any kind he loved to exacerbate. "For that matter," said Faide, "what's to keep the Lyrans, or any of the Brass, from interfering and finding out everything they need to know to keep us from getting the credit?" "We will have to keep it from them as well." The expected uproar ensued. Eventually, he calmed it down, because everybody realized that they needed, badly, to do the job right - to present their superiors with a fait accompli that would come crashing down if they and their chosen successors weren't still able to maintain it. Rhyn looked over at the one member of their conference that hadn't said anything yet. "What do you have to say?" A deep voice replied only, "What method of winning the war will require maintenance afterward?" No indication of which side he was on. "The victory condition of complete human race spongification. Minus our noble selves, of course. If it is to be continued for all time, newly born humans, spontaneous breakages, and the occasional immune must be identified and accounted for. This will require loyal, non-sponged humans with an understanding of what is expected of a human personality." "And the method by which this will be achieved?" Faide had asked the question. He smiled. They were all ready to do this now. "First, Serevan, you're going to need to divert some materials..." He spoke long into the night.