"On The Offensive (For A Change)"
Rob Bos, rbos@sandwich.net

  It was, as the line goes, a dark and stormy night, or at least a dark and 
stormy late afternoon, in the city of Vancouver.  Not that this was abnormal -- 
it had been raining hard for twelve days straight, unusual even for this wet 
city and its somewhat drench-accustomed inhabitants.  Some joker in Kitsalano 
was reputedly building an ark.
  Vancouver Airport, Joan thought as she stepped off the plane, smelled vaguely 
of mushrooms, and dank undergrowth.  Currently resigned to being assaulted with 
a light drizzle, the airport lay between rivers on the delta of Richmond; the 
city proper lay to the north, and the sodden plains and islands of Puget Sound 
far to the south.  Presumably, she thought as she glared absently at the sky, 
she would get used to the rain, but until then, the adjustment from her native 
central California weather would be a slightly uncomfortable one.  Presumably, 
she thought to herself, going back would feel dry, hot, and prickly, but she 
shrugged that thought off as ridiculous and shot the cloudy sky one last glare.
  Joan tended to spend a lot of time annoyed.  Most people take it in short, 
sharp doses of rage, or concentrated it in animosity toward one person, but 
Joan simply stayed at a low level of annoyance at the entire world, at all 
times.  It was, she surmised, a lot better than occasionally beating the crap 
out of small woodland animals or children, and healthier to maintain an only 
slightly higher than normal blood pressure rather than periodic peak levels.
  As she navigated her way through Canada Customs, presenting identification 
and giving the routine explanations, she considered whether or not her purpose 
for being here was worth the mild aggravation of having to deal with an 
international trip.  Being recruited spontaneously for a mid-level meeting with 
a local Jihad chapter, something that could easily have been done over a secure 
network connection, and having to set aside a full week out of her schedule 
simply to act as a trumped-up liason was something that Joan was simply not 
happy with.  Vacation time should be sacrosanct; nothing should interrupt that, 
ever.
  Another mildly annoying source of tension was whether or not Chris would in 
fact end up arriving on time, and where she would end up sleeping if that were 
indeed the case - local hotels were expensive, and generally lousy.  
Fortunately, the point was moot; outside the gates, where the shuttle buses 
ostensibly ran every fifteen minutes, there he was leaning against a pillar.
  Smiling her best fake smile, Joan tapped him on the shoulder.
  "Hey!" she said, and gained a bit of deep satisfaction from the way in which 
he jumped.
  "Jesus!"  Chris, an average-looking blonde man with twinkling blue eyes, 
turned around quickly.  A wide grin spread across his face, muscles at the 
corners of his eyes crinkling with the effort.  "God dammit, Joan, don't do 
that."  He enthusiastically swept her up in a hug, which she graciously - not 
to say involuntarily - acceded to.  "It's good to see you again.  I've been 
waiting here for two hours - no one will tell me what delayed your plane."  
Letting her go almost as an afterthought, he took her bag.  "Oma will be happy 
to see you again.. she's waiting at home."
  Some people seem to produce an excess of alcohol; though alcohol is probably 
a bad term.  Rum might be a better one.  Chris was one of these people.
  Joan stood still for a moment, and belatedly returned the embrace, throwing 
in a peck on the cheek.  "It's good to see you, too."  She gestured mildly in 
the direction of a convenient restaurant. "I'm hungry.  Let's eat."
  "Of course, m'lady.  Lead me."  In an elaborate bow, Chris swept his arms 
aside, peering over his glasses with an affectionately sarcastic grin and bow.
  Joan, not a woman of many words, obliged, carefully looking both ways down 
the road, waiting while a bus careened by, and walking swiftly across in the 
manner of people who can't stand motorised vehicles.  Chris easily followed.

...

  "So, you're saying, then, that he actually came ON to you?  That bastard!"  
Having found a good bar near the airport, the two were happily settling down to 
the more serious business of getting plastered, and forget about seeing Grandma 
tonight.
  "Yeah.  Asshole, too.  You know the type that tend to frequent computer 
expos.  Timid, sexist, and fat, this one - all of the bad qualities with none 
of the good ones thrown in.  The bloody twit wouldn't know a mail server from a 
hole in the ground.  You shoulda seen his eyes glaze over when I explained to 
him what our company did."  Joan's face straightened.  "Twit."
  "Heh," was the reply.  Chris speared a leaf of lettuce vindictively and 
sipped from his Long Island iced tea.  "Sounds like one of my coworkers."  
Munching carefully and swallowing, he peered over his glasses yet again.  "You 
still haven't told me why you had to come up here so quickly."
  Joan automatically sipped her drink and mentally sighed, scratching her face. 
 "Vacation, mostly.  I needed to get away from it for a while, and I can take 
care of a few other pressing things.  My boss wants me to attend a meeting with 
a local as well."  It was mostly true, she told herself.  Her boss was, of 
course, a somewhat unstable cyborg with aspirations to the human species, and 
the local would probably have a nervous twitch and a fascination with planting 
high-caliber artillery into purple things, but it was mostly true.
  "I see.. how long are you planning to stay?"
  "I don't know yet."  There was a random lull in conversation, both of them 
unsure what to say; Joan prodded an interesting bit of salad with her fork.
  "Well," Chris grinned, breaking the uncomfortable silence with an effort of 
will, "so long as you have plenty of free time over the next week.  You are 
going to have to meet my new sensei; he won the Canadian nationals last year.  
Outrageous Newfoundland accent, the man has, sometimes it's all I can do to not 
burst out laughing at his pronounciation.  He speaks Japanese.  Kinda."  He 
grinned evilly in memory.  "I'd demonstrate, but I simply can't do it justice." 
 Joan smiled faintly.  Once Chris went off on tangents like this, it was hard 
to stop him; best to simply weather it and smile-and-laugh when it seemed 
appropriate.  She laughed.
  He noticed her discomfort and smoothly switched subjects.  "In any case, it's 
getting late and we should head home before we're entirely sloshed.  I've set 
up the guest room."  He waited a few moments, and reached for his coat, putting 
cash to cover the bill on the table.
  Joan stood, stretched, and smiled the kind of contented smile that can come 
only through sheer exhaustion and a mild alcoholic buzz.  "Yeah, it is getting 
late."
  The two wandered out of the restaurant and got on the bus heading north; 
after a few minutes wrestling with luggage, then random banter, Joan simply and 
quietly fell asleep.  After considering the problem for a moment, Chris pulled 
her close and draped his jacket over her, and settled in for the ride home, 
listening to the patter of the rain on the window.  He looked unavoidably 
thoughtful.

...

  It has been noted that many people talk continuously in order to prevent 
their brains from working; it has also been noted that many people fiddle with 
their hands to accomplish the same effect, who read escapist literature, who 
listen to music, who do anything, in fact, to avoid quiet moments of reflection 
now and then by keeping themselves as distracted as possible from.. well, 
themselves.  Most people are like this; if the great majority of people were to 
suddenly stop and think about exactly what they were doing with their time, 
there would be chaos.  Governments realise this and encourage it, with no small 
help from people themselves, who get vaguely uncomfortable feelings when 
certain areas are broached.  Better to avoid things like that and get on with 
the important business of complaining 'bout the tea here, they don't make it 
like they do at home, do they?, rather than the suspicious-looking black smoke 
coming out the tail end of the car, or the dog doing something unpleasant in 
the neighbour's yard.
  This effect has been exploited to great effect by the Jihad, who more often 
than not have operated casually, openly, relying on the ingrained habit of the 
common man to blithely ignore that which he might feel guilty about, or more 
seriously, get a good hard look taken at them by Revenue Canada.  By and large, 
anything that looks official, accomplished by men and women in vaguely familiar 
uniforms, will go completely without note.  Even the most formidably obnoxious 
people will roll over, like a shark for a cleanerfish, to allow road crews to 
do their duty, completely uncommented upon.  The best disguise, then, is 
sometimes to be blindingly obvious - your average man on the street will have a 
nice wide blind spot within which you stand.
  Noting this, however, Jihad instructors have as a matter of principle not 
told students to assume such disguises - but rather, noting that B'harnates use 
them, to 'fucking well pay attention to the bloody obvious, soldier.'  
B'harnate forces seem, by and large, to have not grasped this simple counter to 
their primary means of staying hidden.  They were stupid - or intelligent, but 
the weight of consensus was on the former idea - enough to wander about in 
uniforms, with poorly concealed weapons, and thus your average man on the 
street habitually ignored them.  To borrow an expression, to become a Jihaddi, 
you must see the fnords.
  Joan immediately spotted the construction worker across the street from the 
local DE headquarters; as traffic flowed uncomplainingly around a man hip deep 
in a hole in the center of a major street, his occasional glances and the 
'survey scope' that happened to be pointed just _so_ made him stand out like a 
sore thumb.  He was _supposed_ to stand out like a sore thumb, of course - that 
was the whole idea, and what made him so effectively invisible to the populace.
  Sighing, she shrugged and wandered in, not giving half a whit what B'harnate 
forces knew or did not know, and glared at the "construction worker" in his 
purple sash in a decidedly un-covert manner as the elevator closed, rehearsing 
already what she was going to say to the base captain.  She had never been much 
for cloak and dagger crap.

...

  "Do come in, come in, sit down.  I am the base commander here."  He stood and 
offered a hand to the woman coming in the door; his distinctive Queen's English 
and British accent stood out.  Joan noted his appearance; black hair and a 
small moustache, combined with a classically Roman nose and paradoxically small 
glasses gave him an aristocratic look uncommon in California.  She somehow 
imagined that he would pull an ornate snuffbox from his uniform and take a 
pinch at any time.  Taking the offered hand, she sat in the bare leather chair.
  "Captain Muir."
  "I'm afraid I must apologize for the weather here, madame.  Rather droll, 
unfortunately."
  "Yes, yes it is."  She cleared her throat uncomfortably.
  "Ah, well, yes, I presume you want to get this over with as quickly as 
possible."  He grinned disarmingly, she thought.  "What can I do for you?"
  Joan reached in to her bag and produced a thick yellow envelope.  "Primarily, 
I was to courier this to you, Captain, and to verbally deliver other sensitive 
information - furthermore, I am to overview your operations here and present a 
report to my superiors."
  "What sort of sensitive information?"
  "Sir, I am not permitted to divulge it in an unsecure location."  She glanced 
at the window.
  "Of course."  He got up and gestured toward the door.  "We have a more 
appropriate room in the Operations center.  The elevator is to your right."  
They walked down a short hallway to an elevator, to which Muir produced a key 
and inserted it in the panel beside.  Once inside, he pressed a code on the 
numeric keypad; the elevator descended for a period of time exceeding the 
expected amount for a building three flights high.  "A lot of people say that 
I'm a fool for having my office in the building upstairs, but I do prefer to be 
close to things, and I am, after all, only a minor personality in the Jihad."  
He grinned ironically.
  The elevator rode to a halt and opened into a busy, open room reminiscent of 
a warehouse; a walkway with a glass railing went around the perimeter, and 
desks lined the floor underneath; twenty or thirty people manned those desks, 
speaking on telephones and shuffling papers for the most part.  A number of 
uniformed officers wandered about.
  "I suppose I should give you the grand tour.  What you see before you is the 
nerve center of a TRES propaganda office.  You know the fancy name, but that's 
what we do, wot?"
  She nodded absently, taking in the surroundings with a critical eye.  "I'd 
like the personnel rosters tomorrow morning."
  He gestured.  "We handle most of the Pacific region north of Oregon here; by 
and large we're organized like any other advertising agency, except the things 
we advertise, by and large, don't exist.  Graffiti is big right now, we've 
gotten quite good results from that."  Joan gave him a sharp look.  "Hey, it 
works.  Our job is quite simply to provide a counterpressure to B'harnate 
propaganda, and that's done most effectively by forcing people to think, and to 
notice the obvious.  The more people think about the world around them, the 
better off we are."
  "I'm not very familiar with the methods used, but I know your division has 
been effective.  I am here in part to evaluate those methods and see if they 
can be adopted elsewhere."
  "Yes, well, they're not that hard.  A little sneaky, perhaps, yet they work." 
 He scratched his face.  "We have one person in charge of newspaper 
advertisements; he has been placing small, 'mysterious' ads in local newspapers 
as an experiment to see if people notice those things - it's a pilot program at 
the moment, but he feels it could be ramped up considerably."  Muir picked up a 
piece of paper on a desk as they passed, reading aloud.  "'Depressed confused 
male seeks neurotic unpredictable female for depraved and meaningless 
relationship. Fetishes involving handcuffs, whipped cream, role playing, silk 
scarves, inflateable sheep, cute purple dinosaurs, kaz, plastic forks, jelly 
beans, skoh, or ripe avocadoes a plus. Send email if interested.  No weirdos, 
please.'"  He peered back over his shoulder at a man grinning at him with a 
mildly frightening air.  "Stuff like that in the personal ads, for instance.  
Gets people a little riled up."  He put the paper back.  "Michael tends to be a 
touch over the top, but you can't be Jihaddi without being a little unstable.
  "Anyhow, madame, what we do largely is to stir up as much conflict, tweak as 
many oversensitive noses, and mock as many overstuffed political figures as 
possible.  What this accomplishes, in theory, is a large-scale inoculation to 
spongification; it's as close to a cure as we can come up with.  It seems to 
work, as spongification resistance in the Pacific Northwest is higher than 
anywhere else in the world."  He spread his hands.  "And it gives one a certain 
satisfaction to actually say things that no one else is willing to say."
  They walked down a flight of stairs into a private room; Muir closed the door 
behind them.  "The message I was to receive?"
  Joan closed her eyes and opened the tiny mental "box" that hypnotists at TRES 
had incorporated in to her; it could only be "opened" in the presence of 
Captain Muir, adequately proven, and in a private place.  The contents of the 
message were unknown to her, and she would not recall them after the procedure; 
her only recollection was her throat producing a deep, strangly accented male 
voice for a period of fifteen minutes.

...

Hans Guelph, one of three agents assigned to TRES' Vancouver propaganda 
organization, wandered about Metrotown Mall, randomly observing.  He was good 
at it; wandering and observing was what he did for a living these days.  Were 
he not working for the Jihad, it would be for an investigation agency, almost 
certainly - he was that sort of person.  Able to get along with anyone, blend 
in almost anywhere, he could speak several languages fluently (including 
several major variations on English, up to and including Newfoundlander, East 
Philadelphia, and New Yorker.  The first was, he considered, the most 
difficult.)  His vaguely ambiguous facial features made it nearly impossible to 
tell what race he was; he was the sort of person that simply got ignored 
wherever he went.  This was fine by him.
  His primary task was to gather intelligence regarding Barney merchandise in 
stores, and to gather any and all data concerning the rise and popularity of 
the television show.  At first he had considered it silly - until he had 
noticed the extent to which the stuff permeated his hometown; after that, he 
tackled the job with a grim determination.
  This day, he was annoyed more than usual.  Posing as a Japanese businessman 
searching for gifts, he had noticed a marked increase in the number and variety 
of Barney merchandise available in toy stores.  Here in Metrotown, he had found 
two front-window displays; this was not abnormal in itself when a number of new 
videos came out, but it wasn't the right season, and no new videos were in 
evidence.
  Hans set his jaw and walked from the mall onto the train station, where a 
spongin was singing songs.  The occasional person threw a quarter into the 
jacket laid in front of him, although that likely wasn't the point.  Hans 
absently felt through his pocket for a shrinkwrapped coin, and without thinking 
unwrapped it and tossed it in the bucket.  The tracer would be useless after a 
day, but it would likely be brought back to the spongin's home.  This occured 
without even a skip in his thought processes, however - on autopilot, something 
so routine so as to be ignored even by a Jihad agent.  More important was the 
fact that so many places were pushing Barney merchandise far more heavily, as 
if syncronised, than they had in the last month, and were comparable to last 
year's level.  Once he got back to the office, the figures he had carefully 
noted in his mind, and the television ratings would no doubt confirm his 
intuition.
  He decided to continue accumulating data for a few days to be sure before 
making a report.

...

Scene: reports come together, along with an increase in the last month in the 
number of known spongification cases in Surrey.

...

Scene: agent investigates a known spongin cult in the area.  Finds that it 
could not have possibly been responsible for increased activity.

...

  At a pretty Japanese restaurant nestled in a neighbourhood with a unique mix 
of Chinese and old English architecture, two people conversed over sashimi and 
poutine; one of the strangest aspects of Vancouver had always been its mix of 
cultures, each separate and distinct - the salad, not the melting pot of 
culture.  Nowhere was it more distinct than in this restaurant, where the sushi 
chefs experimented with giving a Japanese flair to various ethnic foods from 
different cultures on occasion - even with foods as alien to Japan as cheese 
curd, which elicits approximately the same reaction in the Nihonjin as raw 
octupus tentacle does to the typical Amerikajin.
  Over this highly experimental meal, french fries arranged neatly in a wooden 
basket, Joan was giving exposition on nothing in particular; the kind of small 
talk that comes in this kind of situation flowed freely, but only in one way; 
her companion was brooding, and was making no effort to hide it.
  "What's eating you?"  She poked him in the nose with a chopstick.
  "Marry me," he blurted, and immediately affected a look of horror; his 
features appeared to want to disassociate themselves with his mouth.
  Joan blinked.
  "I mean, uhrgh."  He went green and left for the washroom, very nearly 
tipping over a child's highchair on the way there.
  After a few moments of stunned silence, a deep beeping sound emanated from 
Joan's purse acquired her attention: the specialized tone of her Jihadlinker 
clamouring for her attention persistently.  Taking it out of her purse and 
glancing at the screen, she very nearly lost her composure; the message 
displayed was a rarely-seen emergency code summoning all Jihaddi within range 
to a certain location listed.  _Not now_, she thought.
  Chris emerged some minutes later, face freshly scrubbed and composure 
regained.  He mumbled some excuse, but was put off by the expression on her 
face, and immediately became concerned.  "What is it?"
  She threw a Canadian fifty dollar note on the table, unsure about values and 
not caring.  Some waitress would be surprised.  "Let's get out of here."  She 
got up and pulled him out by the wrist.  Once outside, she displayed her 
'linker.  "I haven't time to explain, but I have to get to *this* address," she 
pointed, "now.  How do we get there?"
  He stared blankly at the molded-plastic object in her hand; it looked like a 
typical cellphone, but no cellphone could project a hologram in the air the way 
this one did.  If his eyes moved out of a circle several centimeters in 
diameter, he could see nothing.  Murmuring, he said automatically, fascinated, 
"That's in Gastown.  We can be there in a half hour if we take the train."
  "Show me on the map."
  "... huh?"
  "SHOW ME ON THE MAP."  She snapped in a Voice.  "I have to be there ten 
minutes ago."
  "I'll take you there."
  "You are not coming with me."
  "Yes, I am.  Whatever this is, I'm coming with you.  Gastown is no place to 
be at this time of night."
  "It's your funeral, hon.  Let's GO.  Now."  Her voice brooked no argument; 
the firm, peremptory voice of command she'd so long been attempting to train 
out of herself took dominance.  Chris pointed, and she took off at a jog to the 
west, pulling him along.
  Once safely aboard the train (Joan without a ticket), he attempted to get 
more explanation.  "What..?"  She waved him away.  "Not now.  Time enough for 
that later," she said mysteriously.  They rod in silence for the rest of the 
trip.

...

  The scene in Gastown, a quaint waterfront district famous for dilapidated 
warehouses converted to restaurants, but still more for dilapidated warehouses 
that were still dislapidated warehouses, was chaotic; flashing sirens of police 
and fire vehicles were on the scene, and several ambulances lined the streets 
tending to people with minor wounds.  The wail of a siren fading in to the 
distance testified to the existence of at least one critical case.  This scene 
surrounded a freshly burned, still-smoking husk of a building, gutted from the 
inside out.
  Chris, Joan, and a number of miscellaneous people congregated in a group 
nearby, appearing for all purposes a group of random tourists gawking at the 
fire and conversing.  The only unusual thing about them were the molded plastic 
cellphone-like objects they carried, and the variety of their clothing.
  Captain Muir addressed the group of twelve people, having gotten the original 
report.  "This was our secondary operations center," he explained for the 
benefit of the new people.  "This could not have been an accident.  We are not 
able to contact Four of our people.  Jonathan and Mark, Nathan and Joshua, Lana 
and Sarah, Nick and Laura, you will attempt to track down these people," he 
said, pressing buttons on his 'linker.  "They have not responded to any 
attempts at finding them.  Pray that they are safe; I know two of them were in 
this building, but I don't know which two."  He kept his voice clipped, 
businesslike, and his words short.  "Hans,   Janice, you will play 'lost-wife' 
and attempt to do the same.  Find each other and have a tearful reunion ten 
minutes later.   Joan, you and your friend are coming with me to the office."  
He glanced around at the people around him, snorted, and stalked off to his 
car.  "Report every hour.  Go!"  That final word had a galvanizing effect, 
everyone wordlessly heading off in various directions.

...

  Muir sipped coffee, blearily glancing at the rising sun outside his window.  
The last twelve hours had not been pleasant, losing the branch office had been 
a serious blow; identifying the bodies of two dear friends and coworkers a 
severe trauma.  He had spent the last two hours drafting the letters to their 
family, the most difficult duty of any ranking Jihaddi.  These letters would 
not come to the families until the end of the war, they remained in storage at 
TRES HQ indefinitely.

...

  Joan faced Chris, both of them sitting in plain chairs in a locked room in 
the local TRES propaganda office.
  "This is the organization I belong to.  The Jihad to destroy Barney.  A 
loosely-knit set of guerrilla organizations, each doing what they can to defend 
something that they consider important from what must be one of the most 
serious threats facing humanity today."
  Chris laughed bitterly.  "Like on the Internet?"  He, like so many people, 
had heard of one of the most infamous, longest-running jokes on the Internet, 
alt.barney.dinosaur.die.die.die.
  "Yes, like on the Internet.  It's real, or as real as anything can be in this 
world."
  "It is a *television* *show*."
  "Among other things; Barney is the physical manifestation of a disease 
infecting our culture - he is a demon, in the old-fashioned sense, attempting 
to gain enough followers in order to maintain real power in this world.  He 
attacks us through our children, and shields himself behind inanity and careful 
corporate fronts.  Barney and Friends is only one of his fronts."
  "You might understand that I need more evidence."
  "I don't give a fuck," she glared at him harshly, "about evidence.  Two 
people died today.  Thousands more have already died in this covert war.  I 
have lost friends.  I have lost a child to this demon and I will never rest 
until he and his are banished forever from the Earth."
  "You're serious about this."
  "Yes.  And as such, you are now in extreme danger.  You now know something 
real about the Jihad.  I trust you, and now you have to choose between 
internment and joining us."
  He had never seen her so serious.  "You're .. serious.  You'd imprison me?"
  "Yes."  Her eyes pleaded with him to make the only possible decision.  "We 
are fighting a war.  Goddamn, I am so sorry I got you involved; this should 
never have happened.  You had to insist on coming along."
  "I couldn't let you go alone."
  "You couldn't, no."  Joan chewed her lip thoughtfully, and changed the 
subject.  "I do love you, you know."  That frank admission brought him to a 
slightly bitter laugh.
  "A day ago, that would have had me walking on air for a year."
  "I'm sorry."  There seemed nothing further to say.
  "Just get out and let me think."

...

Sharon Hill, professional "student" and part-time Jihaddi, wandered about the 
Simon Fraser University campus, notebook and bag in tow, peering at bulletin 
boards between classes.  This young-looking, perky blonde was charged with 
evaluating, on a continual basis, the penetration that Barney and his minions 
had made into campuses throughout the Northwestern Pacific region, and this 
week, she was attending a major British Columbian university under false 
pretenses.  Like all born agents, she was racially ambiguous (though looked 
very Chinese), and able to blend in to almost any situation and circumstance.
  Sharon reflected to herself that her job was a good one; continually 
attending lectures at educational institutions over two states and a province 
was not a particularly bad way to spend one's life, and all she had to do was 
keep an eye out for B'harnate activity, of which there was a surprising though 
declining amount.  "Friendship" clubs tended to advertise themselves quite 
obviously, looking for the most lonely, most vulnerable students to recruit for 
their cause - and frankly, given the attrition on healthy minds that Wyrm 
forces tended to have, they were snapped up at surprising rates, worked to the 
bone for the few months that they were still usable in exchange for acceptance 
in a group (and occasionally, sheer stinking wads of money), and then 
discarded, hollow husks, to the infantry.  The only upside to this was the 
number of former Jihaddi that started like this; they made fanatically loyal 
people once they had been through retox.
  Sharon, however, laboured most of her days to prevent this from happening, 
mostly by gathering information and intelligence, but occasionally by helping 
Command distribute counterpropaganda.  One of the services that they provided, 
surprisingly, was the covert support of Good Activities in universities and 
colleges, healthy ways for the more vulnerable people to express themselves and 
learn to become strong, and more importantly, spongification-resistant people.
  Today she simply did not report back to base.  Later inquiries, had they been 
successful, would have turned up only that she walked alone into an isolated 
hallway in the Computing Science department (always an excellent source for 
maladjusted, isolated, intensely focused, easily manipulated people) and did 
not come out.  Her absence was not noted for some three days; Captain Muir had 
to write another letter.

...

  Captain Muir shuffled papers absently.  "An actual spongin base.  A real, 
honest-to-God military-and-guns killing-people-and-breaking-things spongin 
base."  He glared at several highlighted sentences, then turning his gaze to 
Joan, who watched neutrally and levelly across his desk.
  "It would appear so, sir."
  "I suppose we were being too successful."
  "That's the most likely explanation; there's a good chance this base is here 
for the explicit purpose of furthering their cause.  Historically, you know as 
well as I do that their propaganda is supplemented by military action against 
pockets of resistance."  She let go unsaid the fact that the building they were 
in was such a pocket of resistance.
  "Recommendations?"
  "The standard procedure in this case is a pre-emptive strike, Captain."
  Again papers shuffled nervously.  "I don't like that."
  "I think that you'd like having them around less."  Joan stared pointedly.
  "Truth."  He made a note.  "I'd better send off this report, then.  Thank 
you, Liason Officer."

...

  "Mr. Muir, hello.  Good to see you again."  Rob clasped his hand almost 
distractedly, looking at Joan.  "I don't believe I've had the pleasure..?" 
  "Liason Officer Joan Suzuki," she said, smiling faintly.  "Lieutenant Bos, I 
assume?"
  "The very same.  Glad to meet you; you look as good as your voice sounds."  
This compliment, quite unconsciously made, resulted in a slight flush in her 
face, which was quite summarily ignored.  "This room is secure?"
  "As secure as the Jihad can make it, sir."  Muir glowed with as much pride as 
his Jihaddi training would allow.
  Rob mumbled something under his breath.  "All right, I suppose it'll have to 
do.  As you know, I have been ordered to take temporary command of Jihad forces 
in this region; you will, I hope, barely notice my presence - I am charging you 
to go about your duties as normal, and provide me with such resources as 
requested until the state of emergency," he gave him a pointed glance at the 
word 'emergency', "is over.
  He paused momentarily.  "The situation is as follows: Two hundred Jihaddi are 
scheduled to make rendevous to-morrow afternoon to participate in the attack.  
They are making their way here as we speak and will find individual billeting 
around the city, as per standard procedure; their sergeants are in contact with 
me through Jihadnet.  Weapons are being smuggled across the border through the 
usual channels and we have managed to bring in three small mechs, currently 
stored somewhere in this city - they arrived three hours ago."
  Jihad troop deployments tended to work in this extremely loose fashion; an 
attacking force would be assembled out of roving, individual Jihad task forces, 
consisting of no more than ten people.  Due to the necessity of secrecy, no 
commanding officer ever had any more information about a subordinate than their 
JihadNET ID, and absolutely nothing about their subordinates.  This 
relationship often went both ways; the only people a typical front-line Jihaddi 
might know personally would be their own unit, where relationships had, of 
necessity, to be tight and well-meshed.  These methods gave the Jihad a 
flexibility and ability to melt into the population unmatched by any military 
force in the world.
  "From your description of the situation, I judge that this will be sufficient 
to take the Burnaby Mountain base with a minimum of casualties.  Have there 
been any new developments in the last six hours?"
  Lieutenant Muir rose; "I have sent you a report on the current situation.  No 
significant further developments have taken place.  We have better information 
than we did six hours ago, however, including satellite reconnaisance 
stretching back twenty-six hours.  HQ believes they have the base mapped out 
adequately."
  "TRES HQ can take their maps.  Bloody newfangled machines aren't worth 
trusting."  Too many times these satellite maps had cost Jihaddi their lives.  
"In any case, I think we can have this B'harnate base taken out of commission 
by the day after tomorrow - they've got no real taste for a good fight and a 
good bloody nose is typically enough to keep them out of non-strategic areas 
for a good long time.  Barney's forces usually try to surround and drown their 
opponents through sheer numbers; they'll avoid this area in the future."  He 
sounded confident, even arrogant.
  "Lieutenant Bos," Joan said thoughtfully, "I appreciate your efforts here, 
but isn't this a little excessive?  200 men and three mechs to take on a base 
with an estimated 50 spongin on staff?"
  Rob looked at her exhaustedly.  "Madame, the Jihad is very short on people.  
I would like to remind you that we have fewer than ten thousand people 
worldwide available for combat, where Barney has over three hundred thousand - 
our only advantage is that we can concentrate forces and take out individual 
centers of resistance, where he must hold down and assimilate large swaths of 
territory.  We can't afford to expend them on stupid situations.  Let me spell 
it out; the enemy is entrenched and holed in.  No doubt you're enamoured with 
romantic notions of a single Jihaddi being worth ten spongin, and some of my 
men and women are very likely very much worth that in combat.  I must point out 
that we must have overwhelming superiority in numbers and weaponry in every 
situation.  If we send fifty people to do this job, we will lose twenty; if we 
send two hundred, we may lose ten and we will have a much greater margin of 
error for surprises.  Regardless of the cost, we must not fail - ever.  Barney 
must be taught that the Jihad is in implacable rock, and that he can not, can 
never win, in the end.  Doing the job half-assedly will only ensure our 
long-term defeat."  This was an old argument for him; he had given it to half 
of the resource-hoarding beauracrats in TRES at some time another, he reflected 
to himself.
  "I see."  Joan pursed her lips disapprovingly.
  "Madame, given the choice I'd drop a rock on them from orbit."  He saluted.  
"If I had one, I would."  He saluted, letting them draw the natural conclusion 
that he meant spongin.  "Good evening."

...

  A secretary, clutching a paper pad and taking frantic notes in shorthand, 
followed him as he gesticulated and paced across a mapped terrain display of 
Burnaby Mountain, the spongin base and its defenses marked out in red.  Joan 
and Captain Muir looked on warily as he fired out ideas in rapid-fire 
succession, brainstorming and scribbling on the situation map.  "We'll need to 
know when to time the attack.  Middle of the semester.  Weekends are bad, 
nights are bad.  It's probably midterm time, too, so people will be up there at 
night, too..  That's a pretty heavily-travelled road, there, Gaglardi.. 
Gaglardi, that sounds vaguely.. right, it's the quickest way from the highway 
to Hastings, someone pointed that out to me at one point."  He tapped the map 
at several points.  "We'll have to arrange accidents here, and here.  Two roads 
into the mountain.  It'll look suspicious if anyone's looking for it, but the 
only people who'll care are the Wyrm troops."  He chewed his lip absently.  
"Check with munitions and see if we have any tracer-artillery."  These weapons, 
designed for stealth situations, would shatter above a target and spray the 
area below it with salt as "shrapnel" of sorts - extremely high-velocity, and 
quite capable of killing anything not in armour in a five meter sphere.  A good 
rain would wash away any traces.
  Joan interjected.  "We want to capture as many people as possible."
  "Yes, yes.. nerve gas, maybe.  That base has to have air intakes.  We could 
do a flyover with tagged air and see where it comes out concentrated, but that 
doesn't give us much.. spongin bases are typically on an internal air supply 
anyhow.  We've used that trick too often in the past.
  "I want to know how big that base is, how many spongin are in it, where they 
are stationed, what the layout is, where the commander's office is and what he 
has for breakfast, what perimeter they've set up, if they have any scheduled 
supply runs.. I want a radio sniffer set up immediately in that area, 
monitoring the usual frequencies.  Dreaming, dreaming, dreaming.. but anything 
we can get would be useful.  Discreet inquiries into local weaponry "outlets" 
would be a good idea, too.. have them check into that.  No, scratch that, 
they'd smuggle in their weapons from American spongin facilities."  He ran down 
into silence, and marked the map up quickly, placing "soldiers" in various 
locations, occasionally cursing and erasing, then redrawing.  "Yes, and we'll 
need the mop-up crews handy.  They'll make decent reserve troops in a pinch, if 
this turns out to be too much."  Jihaddi, no matter the affiliation, were 
always combat trained: there were no support personnel in the Jihad, only 
active combat units.  Everyone faced combat sooner or later, even Joan Suzuki 
herself had slit a few throats - but this is a story for another time.
  Joan nodded approvingly, and Cpt. Muir watched the map with some awe as Lt. 
Bos stepped back, paused, erased it, and started over again, this time with a 
more careful eye to placement of troops in utter silence.  Some ten minutes 
later, he glared at his handiwork disapprovingly, and grunted.
  "That should do for initial conditions, until I know more about the 
situation.  After that we improvise."
  "Improvise?"  Muir blinked disapprovingly.
  "Yeah, improvise.  'Never go into battle with a plan, only guidelines and 
objectives.'  Plans never survive contact with the enemy anyhow, best to not 
get too attached to them.  I've brought enough toys to do damn near anything, 
then make things up as I go along."  He tapped his temple absently.  He spoke 
directly to his Jihadlinker, which no one had noticed was on: "I want each you 
to pick out three of of your best men.  Don't take them from their existing 
platoons, but do put their names on my desk by tomorrow morning.  Sarah.." he 
addressed the secretary with a smile, by her name for the first time, but not 
condescendingly - she was a soldier as well and could be participating in the 
invasion tomorrow for all he knew.  "Thank you for putting up with that.  Can I 
see your notes?"  The attractive brunette secretary smiled back and proferred 
the pad shyly.
  Rob skimmed through the fragmentary ideas and notes that she had taken.  
"Yes, all right, thank you."  He circled several items and scribbled a few more 
lines.  "Have this information to me as quickly as possible, and when you get 
it - don't feel you have to present a finished report."  Rob turned to Joan.  
"I'd like you to go up to the university and get a feel for the schedule up 
there.  See what time would be most appropriate for the attack.  Do be as 
pessimistic as you can possibly be."  She grinned at that, and nodded.
  "As for me.. well, it's suppertime and I've promised, through my platoon 
leaders, to get royally drunk with several of the people I'm going to have 
killed tomorrow evening.  Goodbye."

...

  Lt. Bos stood at the oval table containing the leaders of the Jihad platoons 
involved in the invasion; Joan and Captain Muir stood in the background.  "Good 
morning, gentlemen, ladies; I have called this meeting in order to discuss the 
tactical considerations of the attack on Burnaby Mountain tonight.  I trust you 
have all familiarised yourself with the situation," he peered around the table 
intently at the circle of hard-worn, grim faces, one with a spectacular scar.  
"Good.  Allow me to summarize, then.  The base is here.  We will attack at 
7:36pm this evening, local time, on the second.  You know your positions and 
your men, you will be fighting among them.
  "You all have given up family, friends, and lives to the eradication of the 
enemy.  Some of you will retire and go back to your homes, but certainly not 
all.  Some of us may die today.  Never forget what we fight to protect."
  A chorus came about the table.  Waiting for the murmurs to stop, Rob 
continued.  "We all have a job to do, and I won't weigh you down with 
idealistic, motivational claptrap.  Good luck, all of you.  Dismissed.  I will 
see you again on the battlefield."

...

  In a TRES mobile command vehicle, Rob sat down, put on a pair of headphones, 
took a sip of tea, and hit "play" on the CD player.  The strains of "Ordinary 
Day" filled the cabin.  Joan looked on as he went through all the preparatory 
motions of turning on and checking his equipment, mostly routine.
  A light beep was heard.  "Five minutes," he noted aloud, and sung along.  
"It's up to you, now, if you sink or swim / just keep the faith that your ship 
will come in / it's not so bad.. / and I say way, hey, it's just an ordinary 
day.. / and it's all your state of mind / at the end of the day, you've just 
got to say.."  He dissolved into murmers as he paid attention to a red 
indicator, tapped it hard with a knuckle, and grunted satistfied as it turned 
green.
  "Thirty seconds."
  The music came to a halt just as the clock reached the appointed time.
  "All units, you have your orders.  Begin."
  "Incoming," Rob breathed, mouth off the microphone.  A red marker appeared on 
the situation map, which was quickly neutralized - hopefully before it could 
squawk off a report to its superiors.  Unlikely, he considered.
  Two more appeared, then were neutralized as Rob uttered two terse commands 
and drew a line on the map.
  "Perimeter established," he reported to Cpt. Muir, who was hanging over his 
shoulder.  "I expect they'll notice us now.  Or at least, they will in about 
forty seconds."
  Rob ordered two full platoons to each of the three known entrances; some 
thirty seconds later, three blue flashes marked detonations.  These shaped 
charges should go through almost anything the enemy was likely to be using.  As 
soldiers swarmed into the base at two locations, Rob grimaced; the entrance 
that didn't get broken through was near what echolocation showed might be an 
ammo dump.  He ordered the defunct group to stand back; sure enough, spongin 
poured out, armed and ready instead of unarmed and defenceless.  Rob brought a 
platoon of reserves forward to assist, and left the group to their own devices; 
concentrating instead on the thrusting attacks into the base.  Beachead 
established, the bulk of reserves were poured into the soft underbelly of the 
base.
  Rob murmured off the microphone.  "And now the fun part."  They had 
effectively cracked open the spongin base with one quick thrust; however, the 
most costly part of these battles was the mop-up operation inside a hostile 
spongin base; more than once, said bases had been known to simply detonate - 
however, in all three of those cases, they had had several days warning.  Jihad 
intelligence stated that such desperate measures were unlikely.
  Troops were meeting very little resistance; perhaps twenty spongin had been 
neutralized; just as Rob was starting to wonder where everyone was, an urgent 
message from the sergeant commanding the third entrance, the one that hadn't 
been blown open caught his immediate attention; three red markers appeared on 
triangular points around that area of the situation map, and another twenty 
troop-markers came from the same entrance during the confusion.
  Rob's mouth drew into a thin, straight line.  Wyrm Bots.  "You want to play 
that way, do you?"

...

  "So here we are."
  Chris swallowed, and scratched the back of his neck uncomfortably, avoiding 
her gaze.  "Yeah."  The carpet suddenly became endlessly fascinating.
  "I don't know what to say."
  "'No' would probably be the easiest,"  he smiled grimly.
  "No.." and noticing the crestfallen look on his face, she qualified this:  "I 
mean, that wouldn't be the easiest.  I'm not saying no, but I'm .. not saying 
yes, either.  This is a bit of a surprise.  What do you expect a girl to think?"
  "Say yes, then."
  "I can't do that, either.  ... God, I barely know you!"
  He looked at her blankly.  "We've known each other for two decades.  If I 
thought about it, I could probably remember pulling your pigtails on the 
playground.  We went to the prom together."
  "That doesn't mean we *know* each other!  I mean.."  she floundered, grasping 
for words.  "I mean this is so sudden."
  He took her hand and clasped it from where he was sitting facing her, and 
took on a well-rehearsed, utterly serious air.  "Not for me.. I've wanted this 
for a long time.  You mean everything to me.  Don't think of this as a sudden 
crush, don't think I have this sopping bloody thing for you.. I don't love you, 
not really.  It's more as if you're a part of me.. does a person love their 
arm?  Does someone have a passing obsession with their leg?  How would they do 
if it were chopped off?  I need you around the way I need water."  Now finished 
this speech, he kissed her hand, breaking eye contact.  "It might be sudden to 
you, but it's been years for me."
  "..."
  "Say yes."  He pressed her hand.
  "..."
  "Who wants tea?" Oma, who had been witnessing this exchange with an air of 
bemusement at the silly young people, took this moment to speak up.  The spell 
thus broken, Joan jumped to her feet.
  "Yes!  I mean.. yes.  I'll help you in the kitchen."
  "No, you don't.  I'm perfectly capable of putting a kettle on and soaking a 
teabag in a pot.  You stay right where you are."  Oma chuckled, and walked off; 
the curtain separating the kitchen and the parlour swished, and the sound of 
dishes clinking was heard.
  An akward silence ensued.
  This gave them both the opportunity to calm down a bit; Joan took a deep 
breath and sat down decisively.
  "I need time to think about this," she said calmly, her demeanour belying the 
speed of her heart.  Marry?  Me?  Him?  "You can let go of my hand now," he let 
go immediately, "and I won't promise anything."
  "Fair enough."  He smiled peacefully, having no burning questions on his 
mind; be what may, his fate was out of his hands.  "How about those Leafs?"
  "Which?"
  "Football, I think."
  "Ah.  They must be doing well.  New York has some very good teams, football 
is probably among them.  Popular sport in America, soccer."
  "Yes, though why they don't invite any other countries to their international 
tournaments mystifies me."
  "There are other countries?"
  This exchange, a familiar, well-rehearsed touchstone for them in akward 
situations, continued for some time, until the two of them were both helpless 
in giggling laughter; Oma arrived with three hot steaming mugs of tea, cookies, 
and sugar on a tray.  Each of them took a cup and a cookie and sipped quietly 
for several moments.
  Joan smiled.  "Ensign?"
  "Yes, Liason Officer?"
  "Where should we go for the honeymoon?"
  She felt the two edges of a gash long-felt in her heart, a deep wound that 
had been bleeding long enough that she hadn't noticed it, close together and 
start to knit, with those words.