Carnifex

5/32/435 AC, Headquarters, Project Themistocles, Federated States of Columbia, Terra Nova

Deep, deep in a huge bunker buried far under the granite of the Dragonback Mountains, uniformed men and woman bent over radar screens, control panels, and communications nodes.

A woman announced, "We have liftoff . . . . identified as a Class Two robotic courier vessel . . . leaving Atlantis now."

"Mark as target one," ordered a two star general of the Federated States Air Force. "Alert Launch Pad Seven to be prepared to fire."

"Target marked," said the woman. From a different section of the bunker a man relayed, "Launch Pad Seven has the target and is prepared to unmask and fire."

The two star nodded at that. So far; so good. "Pass on to all Themistocles assets to prepare to unmask and paint the enemy fleet."

"Target One is approaching optimum engagement range," the woman said. "Optimum engagement range in . . . four minutes."

"Commence countdown."

"General, stations one through two-hundred and forty-nine, except station twenty-nine and one-five-two, report ready to unmask and paint."

"What's wrong with twenty-nine and one-five-two?"

"Cooling leak in the missile on twenty nine . . . telemetry error on one-five-two."

"Fuck." Well, it doesn't matter. We have plenty still.

It would not do to demonstrate the ability to take out just one Earthpig asset. The Federated States needed to at least imply the ability to take out many and to scour Atlantis base free of life. The nukes they had, of course.

A screen on one wall came to life. It showed the President of the Federated States at his desk. The President looked as frightened as any man might, on the verge of possibly plunging his world into nuclear holocaust. Behind him, ranged in an arc, were all of his chief advisors. They looked, if anything, more frightened still.

"Mr. President," the general said.

"General Rogers," the President returned with a slight bow of his head. "I have a message for you, General."

"I am prepared to receive, sir."

From his desk the President lifted a piece of paper. From it he read:

"By oppression's woes and pains,

By our sons in servile chains,

We shall drain our dearest veins."

The general nodded and answered, "I understand, sir. 'But they shall be free,' Mr. President."

"People! You heard the man. ICBMs, unmask. Submarines, up to launch depth. Project Themistocles, unmask and paint that alien fleet," Rogers snarled.

Then, finally, "And clear that courier ship out of our space."