Her session was interrupted short by the lilting of the `phone. Alice growled, wrenching her trouser leg down into place and turning her attention to the video stream. Chairthing Wheelers pretty face illuminated the commboard.
"Alice Mosse," she transmitted. "Not getting too bored up there I trust?" Alice`s cheeks glowed as she swept the metal pipes and leaflets into a desk drawer.
"Just conducting my admin dutues, ma`am." she scowled. Over the juddering video stream, a cold smirk grew on Wheelers lips. The data stream chittered into life.
"Okay Mosse, agent procurement. Transmit this subliminal to two potentials groundside. I`m not fussy; any two on Heartland will do." Alice immediately shifted to the commboard, placing one palm on the control pad. Links to orbital satellites were established. Data was piped. Biograph images were scanned as Alice`s fingers beat out a rhythm. Wheeler watched until she was satisfied that the sublim was transfered securely, and then signed off without a word.
At last alone again. With one hand free, Alice hoisted her crippled leg back up. Her fingers fumbled lovingly to the scar, contenting herself with memories.

On the border island Chehl, Lieutenant Wauchope of the 9th Chehl ground invasion detachment watched another light blink out on the display - another squad out of contact. Another ten men dead. The cabin shuddered as the mobile command post ground through another stream.
"There is no hope." he said softly.
"Repeat?" came Sergeant Nema's voice over the headset. Wauchope's eyes focused back onto the display. The indiginous forces were ten to twelve times stronger than intelligence had reported. Intelligence had been wrong. Wauchope's detachment was all but wiped out. Several new red lights had appeared in the water near the beach-head - vessels with no IFF confirmation.
"Retreat to the dock" he confirmed. A good place to hide.
"The dock is gone!" screamed Nema through static.
"Hold...". Wauchope lifted the mike. "How many master-slaves do we have left at the beach-head?"
There was no reply. He glanced to his left and saw Potosi slumped over the map, his documents spilling out of the torn-open rear hatch. "Oh yes; the shuriken. Ha ha." People often spoke of the Ring Island's ninja contingancy; Wauchope had always thought that was metaphorical.
"Lieutenant! We are under heavy fire!" Nema continued. Wauchope thought he sounded just like the whining sergeant in the training simulation. A new radio channel opened with a request from Blake's squad. He opened it.
"This is Blake, we have secured the Duke's mansion but have incoming aerodynes, request air intercept."
"This is Wauchope. Request denied, we have no air resources," apart from the satellite, he thought, and almost laughed as seriously considered using it, "please hold and I will..."
A new radio channel opened with a request from Blankenship's squad. He opened it and immediately told him to hold.
A new radio channel opened with a request from Teresa's squad. Heh, the commandnet has collapsed, I'm getting everyone here.
He found himself staring at the computer screen. The light signalling Nema's position blinked out.
All the emotion had left Wauchopes body. He rose, steadied himself, and made his way to the front of the MCP. Through wide, mud-spattered windscreen, were smoking farm-houses, craters and jungle. Two fluffy pink dice swung from the upper console.
"We're fifteen minutes from the beach-head!" the driver informed him. "Are we all going to make it off this island?"
"We are all dead." Wauchope said, voice drowned out by the engine. He found his eyes were watering. Focus. Back at the console he looked at Blake's position - half a dozen human souls at the heart of the enemy, reduced to an iconic blinking circle in a grey box. Two inches to the right was the label 'ECP', placed as the probable location of the enemy command post by Intelligence. That's going to be wrong. Probably.
The computer made a chiming noise as the unknown vessels were identified as Ring Island destroyers.
Then there's no more beach-head.
Wauchope opened a channel to Commander Helsingor's office. After thirty seconds it crackled open.
"Wauchope, your commandnet is dead, where are your officers?" She enquired furiously.
"I need aerodyne support..." he muttered limply. He was surprised by his own weakness. Were his hands shaking? "...we have incoming destroyers and aerodynes."
"Indeed your situation is critical; I can divert the detachment headed for Sehl but this will still leave you outnumbered six to one. " Stress and irritation were evident in her tone. There was a pause. No doubt checking 'assets' and 'stat-sheets' . "No, both detachments will then be at massive risk. Just do what you can."
"Uh, well, we can go geurilla or abandon the secured areas and bee-line for the ECP or..."
"What is this, multiple choice? Just make a decision, Lieutenant, or roll a fucking die. Helsingor out." And then static.
"..." Wauchope shouted into the headset. There was a lump in his throat.
Think. Options.
He wrote down a list.
1. Go geurilla.
2. Abandon secured areas, bee-line for ECP. That's the kamikaze option. Uh..
He was now acutely aware he was sweating heavily.
3. Go insane and kill everyone with a wrench.
4. Press commander for support.
5. All retreat to beach-head. Maybe we can deal with the destroyers? Anything else? One more option?
He instictively shyed away from a lone console surrounded by hazard tape in the corner of the cabin.
Option six: Log on to and activate the satellite.
He made his way to the front of the vehicle again. The driver looked up. "Eight minutes, lieutenant."
"Lovely. What's your name, sergenant?"
"Malvan, lieutenant."
Wauchope pointed to the fluffy dice. "Malvan, pass me those."