Chapter 19 - One Way Ticket

 “We need clearance,” the Commander yelled at the three-dimensional rendering of the military official in front of her, “we need the rail launcher and we need clearance to get up there.”

“You have no evidence to support your claim, Carol,” the military official replied calmly. “This little rumor about Standish co-opting Gotoma to get that prick into space is just that: a rumor. “There are no video feeds to confirm, just some hearsay reports from amateur media outlets. The Great Union has a peacekeeping detachment up there already, so even if you're right, we can handle it.”

“You've seen what Vishnu can do. You've seen the feeds, how can you be so arrogant?” she pleaded with the dignitary.

“Commander,” Jim knocked on the door casing of her office, “you sent for me?”

“Yes, Jim, come in,” the Commander waived him over. “This is General Montreal. He's Head of Operations for the the International Alliance's military involvement with the Great Union. He was just saying that the IA won't let us use the rail launcher to get you guys on Luna to defend the nuclear installment.”

Jim snapped to attention, the rubber of his heels squinching on the poured concrete floors. He'd missed the scratchy comfort of his uniform. “Sir,” he replied as the image wordlessly motioned him to stand at ease. “It is absolutely necessary that we get at least one of our units on the Lunar surface. We have it on good authority that Standish is attempting to utilize the newly-restored Gotoma impulsor cannon to secure passage and overtake the-”

“I'll stop you there,” the General him cut off. “First, you're not supposed to know about the Gotoma impulsor cannon. Second, I don't care how strong you think Vishnu is, I'll nuke that fucker myself if he takes one step off Terran soil. Third, you are both toiling under the delusion that I have any control over the rail launcher. Even if I wanted to authorize your launch, which I don't, the rail launcher is owned and operated by NRI, and last I checked that bridge was a charred wreck.”

“Sir, you know I wasn't talking about that rail launcher,” Jim responded. “I'm an Aug. I have A0 State Secret and Classified:Black clearances. Last I checked, there are only a dozen or so other people on Terra with both classifications, and I believe you are not on that list,” Jim replied with a notable swagger.

“How on Terra do you...who gave you...where do you get the nerve to talk to me like that?” the General fumed.

“We need access to the IASS Windforce,” Jim stood square, his fists planted into his hips.

“You know for a fact that is impossible,” the General replied slack-jawed. “We have gone to extreme lengths to hide its restoration from the Great Union and we are not about to go tipping our hand any further than we already have on some cockamamie conspiracy theory that that lunatic Standish is going to try and ransom the planet.”

“Then what do you think his MO is?” the Commander interjected.

“Money, same as you,” he shrugged. “I think he wants to sell Vishnu to one of the nomad colonies and disappear. The People's Island Republic has extremely low cost of living compared to the IA, terrible extradition habits, and loves to fence shady goods. Assuming you're right and he was seen near Gotoma, that's just a hypertube away.”

“It fits,” Jim began, “but you don't know Standish. That's not his style.”

“Then what is his style? Cartoonish super-villian antics?” The General condescended.

“Yes,” the Commander interceded. “That is exactly his style. Standish doesn't 'do' disappearing. Standish does statements. Theatrics. Flamboyance. He's not trying to disappear, he's trying to put on a show.”

“Look,” the General sighed exasperatedly, “I am not going to let you use the Windforce. Period. I am not going to put my name on any document that authorizes you to use IA airspace. I will not ask the Great Union to let you garrison on Luna. That's final. Thank you for your concern, Carol. If you turn out to be right, we'll be in touch, otherwise, don't hold your breath.” With that, his telepresence vanished.

“That arrogant fuck,” Carol stamped her foot and stormed over to her desk, flopping down into the chair in front of her digipad, cradling her forehead in a hand, elbow propped on the desk.

“Maybe he's right,” Jim put a hand on her shoulder. “Maybe we're over-reading this. Maybe he is just trying to get out of the game”
“Maybe,” Carol said without looking up. “But we can't take that risk. This is my responsibility. He is my responsibility.” She remained unflinching, her stone face completely unreadable. “You're dismissed, Jim,” she covered his hand and looked up at him. “Thank you.”

Jim put his other hand over hers and patted a few times, then pulled them both away, saluted, and left her to her thoughts. He descended the stairs and wended his way through the now-set-up Mission Control and into the debriefing room in the back. “No go,” he said to the others who had collected there.

They all slumped deflatedly. “Did you give them the clearance line?” Marion inquired.

“I tried to give him the whole thing but he cut me off,” Jim collapsed into a chair across from them all. “He said they'd just shoot him down if Standish tried anything, and that he wouldn't have anything to do with our mission.”

“Shit,” Adrian replied.

“He said he thinks Standish is just trying to get out of the game,” Jim continued. “That he's just gonna sell off Vishnu to the PIR and kick it on some glittering beech.”

“That doesn't sound much like Standish,” Blaize spoke up. “At least not the Standish I know.”

“Me either,” Jim confirmed.

“So what do we do?” Tony questioned to everyone. She had become much more involved and talkative since passing her competencies.

“Well, we'll get you some more experience in the plugs,” Tomah added in. “And I say we set up a deployment strategy to cover our bases.”

“I say we hijack the Windforce,” Blaize raised his hand.

“Seriously?” Marion pulled her chin into her neck and furrowed her brow, “where do you come up with this stuff?”

“Yeah,” Jim confirmed, “That's a no-go. Even if we were successful, which is questionable at best, you don't just get away with something like that. We'd be court-marshaled and discharged, or worse, excommunicated and left to the Outsiders.”

“Yes,” Tomah picked up, “jumping the Windforce is out. I think Gotoma and the other unaffiliated Frontier colonies need to be watched. I think we need a presence in the PIR and near the DPRC, and I think we need to keep some of us back in case Commander Cecilia can secure us passage to Luna.”

“Agreed,” Blaize conceded. “I say we put the offensive line in the field and keep the heavies and special teams in reserve.”

“I'll take Gotoma,” Marion volunteered. “In Musashi. I think I'm the only one with plug experience on him.”

“Right, I'll take the PIR,” Adrian raised his hand. “I've piloted Simo before, so I have the best chance of handling him in hybrid.”

“I'll take Enlil over to the DPRC,” Blaize kicked back and put his feet on the seat back in front of him. “If he shows up there, engagement is pretty much off the table, so stealth is better than force.”

“The rest of us will hang back and work with Tony,” Tomah acknowledged.

“Alright, guys,” the Commander said as she stormed through the door past everyone to the front of the room. “New plan. We're gonna jump the-”
“We're not jumping the Windforce,” Blaize cut her off.

“No, you're right,” she pulled her head back in mild shock. “We're gonna stake-”

“Enlil at the DPRC,” Blaize replied.

“Musashi at Gotoma,” Marion updated.

“Simo at the PIR,” Adrian raised his hand.

“Great,” the Commander nodded as if she had come up with the plan. “And the rest of you-”
“Helping Tony,” Tomah interjected.

“Yes, right,” the commander nodded, shook her head, and nodded again. “Right. Alright, good.” She walked out without saying another word.

“That was weird,” Jim raised his eyebrows and shook his head in place. “But, we know what we're doing, let's get this show on the road.”

***********************************************************************************

“We're in,” the Commander came into Jim's head. He wheeled Cúchulainn around and into a bush to his right, a mass driver round whizzing past his left hip as he dove into the underbrush. “Jim, we're in.”

“What!?” He yelled frantically in his own mind to her. Tony was right on top of him, Heimdall's massive fist pounding into the ground, cratering the earth where Cúchulainn's face once was. All of a sudden his world went black and the clamshell of the simulator swung open. He twitched and spasmed for a bit, his body and mind unprepared for the sudden shutdown.

“Gotoma," the Commander said standing over the writhing pillow of the nanobed while Jim recovered. “They've agreed to launch us.”

“We haven't heard a thing about Standish in months,” Jim stood up, body still tingling as his perception slowly returned to him. “Why are we launching up there? Plus, we have a shakedown in Outsider territory in a few days, and Tony still needs a ton of work in the sims.”

“She looked like she was about to beat the ever-loving snot out you before I pulled the plug,” she crossed her arms, feet in a T stance, her uniform, as her face, crisp and unmoving.

“I had caltrops placed,” Jim started.

“Ooo, that is dirty,” Tony sniped from behind him. “I will remember this for next time.”
“See what you made me do?” Jim held his arm across his body at a ninety degree angle, palm flat and facing the ceiling. “You made me give away my secret weapon.”

“Tomah still falls for it every time, and he knows about it,” the Commander rebuffed. “But that's not why I'm here. We're in, Jim. Gotoma has agreed to let us use their impulsor. We can get you to Luna.”

“You said that,” Jim pulled off his helmet and cradled it underneath his armpit. “But you didn't answer my question about 'Why.' Standish has been silent for months. Montreal was right, he's probably in some skeezey club in the PIR asking hookers if he can call them 'Commander.'”

“He's not right,” she said, face still unmoving. “He's out there, waiting for us to let our guard down. Like a crocodile.” The commander broke pose and put her hands on her hips. “Hookers? Really?”

“Good point,” Jim said as he waved his index finger in the air, “he doesn't need hookers, he's got all that fancy Auging. He probably has some mental recording of you two bumping uglies he can pull up whenever he needs it.” He used his free hand to push past the Commander and over to the staircase leading up to the analyst box.

“Jim,” the Commander fell in step behind him. “You are getting sent up to Luna next week. I need you to get Tim prepping Cúchulainn for space. I need you in the sims working strategy. I need you coordinating with the others to get things planned. I need...”

“I'm not going to Luna to chase ghosts, Commander,” Jim interrupted her. “That's above my pay grade. Get Tomah, he's Gold-one. Or Marion, she's the mission coordinator. You gave me Tony to train, so I've got that to do. I have shakedowns in the Wilds I need to coordinate. I have Molly. Standish is gone, Commander. He bowed out.” He put his helmet on a desk next to a bank of terminals and sat down next to an analyst. “Now if you'll excuse me, this kind woman and I need to go over Tony's sync numbers.”

“Lieutenant Ross,” the Commander stood behind the analyst, who was stone-still in fear, her arms crossed, feet in T-stance, scowl penetrating deep into his eyes. “This isn't me asking. This is me telling. As your commander, you are going to Luna. I'm pulling back Marion and Adrian to handle the shakedowns and Tony. Blaize is pulling back to defend the Windforce on Montreal's request.

Jim stood up, brow furrowed deep, his own scowl unflinching. “What happened,” he stated without inquisition.

“Standish made a move,” she said.

“What do you mean 'made a move?'” Jim stood resolute, feet shoulder-width apart, hands on his hips.

“He's sent demands. He's on Luna already. Right now,” the Commander did not giving an inch in the War of the Scowls.

“How in all that is holy did he do that!?” Jim conceded defeat as his jaw dropped and his face went slack.

“The info dump,” the Commander began. “From the latest SU dig. Apparently he hacked in and has been leafing through the documents. There was a bunker in the Arctic Wastes.”
“Oh, how convenient,” Jim made pulled an aggressive smirk and mocking eyes, “the plot of your little story needs Standish on Luna and a mysterious 'bunker' appears in some ice-blasted hellscape mentioned in an obscure 'info dump' that he vaguely 'hacked' into. That's some coincidence.”

“Coincidence,” the Commander's face remained completely unmoved, “has nothing to do with this. You're the conspiracy guy. You know for a fact that Standish has the will and influence to orchestrate all of this. Why do you think we even dig these info dumps up? Military secrets. New Core locations, military base ruins, history. Those info dumps are exactly where he would find something like that. The 'ice-blasted hellscape,' as you call it, is one of the last unexplored realms. We have next to no information on it from antiquity and we have no will or need to prospect up there. And 'hack' here is a loose term. IT hadn't suspended his user credentials yet, so he used a remote login to access the info dump. Why are you always so skeptical of everything we say?” The commander's face was pleading.

“Because it's just too convenient,” Jim furrowed his brow and shrugged. “Whenever you guys have some mission, it's always the result of this convoluted chain of coincidences. I only question you guys when what you're saying seems unbelievable.”

“Well, we're a paramilitary special forces group, Jim,” The commander's face returned to its stone set. “It's our job to deal in unbelievables.”

“I guess,” Jim shrugged again, face softening. “So Standish really is on Luna?”

“For the millionth time, yes.” The commander started walking away and signaled him to follow with a head shift. “Tony, we'll have you assist Jim with coordination once I finish briefing him.”

“Alright,” Tony said with a salute.

“Now this is critically important,” the commander said suddenly as they entered the stairwell, pulling him by his arm to the side of the landing, “Standish hasn't tried to contact you in any way, has he?”

“What?” Jim pulled his arm away. “No, I would have said something if he had. Why?”

“Nothing, Jim,” the commander sighed deeply. “It's nothing. Anyway,” she said as she led Jim back into the analyst's nest and then over to the briefing room. “Now,” she resumed, “I need to warn you about Standish. He's gone a little more than rogue. Do you know anything about Computology?”

“Are you telling me Standish is in a cult?” Jim pulled his chin back into his neck.

“I am,” the Commander deadpanned.

“Computology? Like, Tachyon meters and alien spirits in gravity capsules and Xenochron?” Jim turned the corners of his lips down and furrowed his brow so hard it physically hurt his cheeks and forehead.

“He got involved with it shortly after we broke up,” she began, her eyes fixing on a point in the middle distance, almost theatrically. “He started spiraling. Dyman got him in for a 'reading' and it helped. We all sort of ignored it because it worked. He stopped moping. He started to actually try on his missions, and he wasn't too deep in, back then. It was like therapy. It worked.”

“I mean, I get religion. But Computology?” Jim shook his head. “We learn from day-one that Computology is a cult and a scam. How did he get roped in?”

“They're subtle,” the Commander shrugged. “Standish new the danger, with his Augs, more than anyone else, arguably. He thought he could beat them. But the more they helped, the more willing he was to believe.”

“So what does this have to do with him on Luna?” Jim tried to bring it back.

“He requested you,” the Commander pointed at him. “Directly. I know what he's planning to do and I wanted to warn you not to trust anything he says. He's delusional.”

“What is he planning, then?” Jim furrowed his brow and shook his thoughts into place.

“He's going to try and turn you to his side,” the Commander began to pace, “get you to join his cause. He's holding the whole planet ransom. He and his 'squad,'” air-quotes, “have not only refurbished but actually enhanced all of the atomic weapons up there. There are only a couple dozen, but they're all extreme-yield and salted to hell. If even a few of them were to impact, most of the planet would be inhospitable for a century or more before the nuclear winter would disperse and the Adam bug population could rebuild enough to make the planet livable again. We'd be wiped out all over again, save for those who could make it back into the caves and bunkers in time.” The Commander stopped, hands clasped behind her back, head hung. “It'd be my fault if he...” she trailed off. “We have to get you up there, Jim.”

“Alright,” Jim shook his head again and sat up straight. “What do I need to do?”

The Commander turned to face Jim, a calm smirk across her face. “You are too good for us all, Jim,” she started, her face breaking into a warm smile. She turned to face him and set her features. “We're rigging up Cúchulainn for transport to the Valiant, who will be carrying us over to Gotoma for launch. We're going to land right next to the base. We don't really know what Standish plans from there. He just said to get you to a set of coordinates in the next ninety-six hours and he'll take it from there.”

“Then,” Jim stood up, “there's no time to lose. I'll get back home and get ready ASAP.”

“Thank you, Jim,” the Commander stared him dead in the eye, “you're our last hope.”

***********************************************************************************

“You know how these work, right?” the voice came into Jim's head, echoing like he were in a large tiled bathroom. “Turn your kinetic sinks to full. You'll need to enable your disruptor fields, too.”

“Roger that,” Jim spoke imagined himself speaking into a microphone. “You heard the guy,” he said, this time to Cúchulainn.

“Aye,” the AI responded, “And so it shall be,” his booming ancient brogue sounding almost alien to Jim after Vishnu's clean non-regional tenor. “My legs are strong and the heavens part for me.”

“Alright, stand still and prepare for the impulse,” the voice returned. “Once the compensators detach, you'll want to start gradually disengaging your disruptor field so you can steer on your way out. We're putting you on a fairly aggressive path off the surface for time's sake, so you'll need to do a little bit of driving to get there.”

“Affirmative,” Jim acknowledged again. “I'm ready for impulse.”

“Roger that,” the voice replied. “Even with the compensators and your kinetic sinks maxed out, the g-force is still strong enough to give you a really solid kick in the pants.”

“Acknowledged. We took one of these off of Luna for a previous mission,” Jim winced internally.

“Alright, get ready,” the voice was mellow and lilting, his Gotoman accent making his vowels sound very round. “Three...two...one...”

On the last syllable, a surge went into Cúchulainn's legs, the compensators and kinetic sinks redlining as they absorbed the massive burst of acceleration that brought Jim from stationary to several dozen kilometers per second. Jim felt the massive burst of g pull the blood from his head. He panted through clenched teeth and flexed his throat tight as he tried to keep the blood pumping into his brain. Black stars started forming in front of his eyes. After what felt like a few aeons, the compensators disengaged. On cue, Cúchulainn began tapering the disruptor field, reducing the acceleration and steering them on course. Mercifully, the g force started to alleviate before Jim passed out.

“We're on course,” Cúchulainn informed Jim. “It'll be a few hours before we're in range of Luna. I'd advise you get some rest.”

“Can't, too wired, my man,” Jim responded. “I've got some files stored on my transmitter that I'm going to go over. I'll be in one of my Aug offices. Let me know when we're close.”

“That I can do,” the AI responded.

***********************************************************************************

“I'm at the dead drop,” Jim reported back to the commander. “What do I do now?”

“Wait, I guess,” the Commander replied with an audible shrug. “Standish is being really calculated about all of this. I have no idea what he's planning or is capable of. The only reason we even sent you up there is that he threatened to nuke the whole planet if we didn't. I have no idea what he has in store for you, Jim, I'm sorry.”

“Alright,” Jim replied with a pensive sigh, “I'll be in touch as much as I can.”

“Roger...we'll...he's...saf-...-im?” the Commander's reply was garbled and inaudible.

“Commander, repeat? I missed all of that,” Jim replied inside his head, a but shaken.

“You missed all of that because I prevented her from coming through,” the voice appeared in Jim's head, words transcribed next to Standish's portrait, front and center in his HUD. “All will be explained. Follow me.”

“Where are you?” Jim squinted at his mini map and surveyed the landscape of Luna's surface.

“Follow the little white rabbit,” he chuckled in reply as a small “bunny” icon appeared on Jim's minimap.

“Cliché,” Jim replied back. “You're too deep, man. That's what every villain says when they're trying to be ominous. This isn't a movie.”

“That's the point, asshole,” Standish replied flippantly, his voice dripping with disdain. “You always were a bit pretentious, weren't you? It's called a trope. Predictable character, statement, or scenario used for narrative consistency? I'm sure you knew that, though.”

“I know what a trope is,” Jim snuffed back scornfully as he set a course for the rabbit, utilizing the bound-dive technique Standish taught him the last time he was on Luna. “I'm just saying, don't you think that one is a little cliché?”

“Maybe on the surface,” Standish replied, his shrug, too, obvious in his voice. “But if you consider what I'm about to tell you, and all of the various contexts it's been used in to make it 'cliché,' you'd understand why it's actually particularly inspired allegorical foreshadowing, if I do say so myself.”

“And what are you going to be telling me?” Jim replied as he converged on the bunny, which marked a nondescript, opened hatch in the lunar surface.

“In due course, good sir,” He replied, his jovial smile and snarky facial expression contorting his animated portrait's rendition.

“Wait, let me guess, you want to inform me about Xenochron and his fleet of gravity capsules full of Tachyon particles from the souls of genocided alien races?” Jim smirked smugly in his head.

“Oh god,” Standish's laugh was deafening. “Is that what she told you to try and discredit me? Computology? Oh man, remind me to never let Carol forget that one,” he scoffed over the intercom again. “Computology. Really? How uncreative.”

“No. You're blowing my awesome literary reference, man,” Standish sounded almost pleading. “White rabbit, going down a rabbit hole. When is that trope used?”

There was a ladder leading down the shaft the hatch was connected to. Jim shrugged Cúchulainn's shoulders and started his way down. The hatch swung closed with a huge thud, leaving Jim in a completely dark tunnel. “Cúchulainn, adjust light sensors or enable night vision if possible,” he said inside his head to himself.

“I shall be your light in the dark,” his thick accent replied.

“It's usually used,” Jim addressed to Standish, “to signify the character is in a dreamlike state and is about to enter into a fantastical world.” The tube angled ninety degrees into a giant underground tunnel. With only one direction to go, Jim involuntarily shrugged his core's shoulders again, and began walking.

“Oh, you are smart,” Standish replied. “And why, good sir, do you think I'm using it now?”

“Because you saw it in a movie and are about to tell me something that is going to, 'blow my mind.' And yes, I used air quotes,” Jim replied, without actually making air quotes.

“Tsk, since when did you get so sassy?” Standish lisped playfully. “But, you're right. I'm going to show you the truth of this world.”

“You're not helping your 'not Computology' case here,” Jim bantered back.

“Just up ahead,” Standish said, ignoring him.

“There are almost no photons down here for the light sensors to salvage,” Jim replied as he followed the faintest outline of a path.

“Oh,” Standish replied. “Right. Close your eyes.”

“Ahhh!” Jim shrieked. He had turned on the lights in the tunnel, illuminating the path, before mentioning to close his eyes, his light sensors, now set to ultra sensitive, filling his vision with a hot white flash before leveling off.

“Sorry. The door is just ahead.”

“I don't see a door. Wait,” Jim squinted into the shadows, the recessed overhead lights forming circles of light and triangles of darkness. “Is that...is that a mirror?”

“Walk through it,” the eyes of Standish's portrait were as wide as they could humanly get, his grin creepy and wide. “Walk through it, Jim. Walk through the looking glass.”

“What? Seriously?” Jim furrowed his brow, no small feat in the plug. “Alright,” Jim strode forward. The minute his toe hit the reflective surface in front of him, the reflective sheet shattered into a million crystalline pieces as they cascaded to the floor of the tunnel.

“Did it shatter, Jim? The looking glass? Did the looking glass shatter?” Standish's tone was manic.

“Uh. Yes? I mean. It was a mirror, Eli. What did you expect?” Jim couldn't suppress the flippant tone, even though he was desperately trying to.

“Looking glass, Jim!,” Standish proclaimed emphatically. “It's not a mirror, it's a looking glass. You must acknowledge it's a looking glass. It is crucially important that you say 'looking glass' and not 'mirror,' Jim.” His voice was intense to the point of off-putting.

“Ok, fine, Eli, it's a 'looking glass.' It was bound to break when I walked through it,” Jim replied cautiously.

“You're the first person, other than Carol, to call me Eli in a very long time,” he paused, “James. Since we're using first names now. It's been a very long time, James, since someone called me Eli.”

“Well, it's your name,” Jim became very serious. “You're not a character named 'Standish' in some story. You're a real person. Your name is Eli, so I'll call you by your name.”

“Ah,” Standish replied. “A bit farther forward and you may be questioning that.”

Just behind the now-shattered mirror, a large red door, big enough for his giant core to pass through, awaited him. “I still think these red doors need to be painted black,” he addressed to Standish as he talked to himself in his head.

“You see a red door and you want it painted black? No colors anymore, you want them to turn black?” Standish responded.

“Yeah,” Jim furrowed his brow forcefully, again. “That seems familiar. I...I don't know why. Why do I want red doors painted black”

“Because Terry really likes old music, Jim. That's why,” Standish deadpanned.

“Terry? Terry O'Callaghan? Like Molly's father, Terry?” Jim's forehead hurt from how hard he furrowed his brow.
“One and the same, my good man,” Standish was impassive. “Through the doors.” The heavy red blast door pulled open as the broken glass crunched under Jim's feet. There was a much smaller red door within, human-sized, not core-sized. “There is a dock on the left. I sealed the door, you have atmosphere and all that good stuff.”

“What? How?” Jim saw a row of slips along the left wall. Vishnu was docked in the farthest one. Jim sighed in relief.

“Just get out. Step into a slip, I'll tech you,” Standish brushed him off.

Jim maneuvered Cúchulainn into a slip. The arm swung into place and began unscrewing the headpiece, removing him from the core. After pulling the plug out of the slip, the clamshell swung open and Jim stepped out onto the catwalk. His muscles still recovering from the disconnect, he slowly made his way down several flights of stairs to the smaller red door.

“You can still hear me, right?” Standish came into Jim's head.

Jim closed his eyes and spoke aloud to himself. “I can. I don't like it, but I can.”

“Well, hurry up,” Standish prodded. “You're late.”

“Late for what?”

“The tea party, of course,” Standish replied flippantly. “There's a sleepy man with a striking monocle and a rather dapper march hare just dying to meet you.”

“Okay,” Jim dragged out the first syllable patronizingly, “and did the queen order you off with your head, too?”

“No, silly,” Standish scoffed. “She ordered your head off,” he made a point of emphasizing the “your” very dramatically. “Now hurry up, the tea pot is growing cold.”

Jim very gingerly swung the door open. The hall it opened to was long, the concrete walls water-stained from the condensation dripping off the cooling pipes through ripped insulation. A door stood ajar at the end, casting a thin white knife of light cutting through the bitter shadows formed by the sole dim, yellow, recessed, overhead light. Jim pushed this door open. An audible creaking on the hinges announcing his entrance.

The door, much to Jim's surprise, opened to a massive grow room, the beam of light emitted by the gigantic solar-simulation arrays streaming through the broad-leafed foliage of the canopy above. “Beautiful isn't it?” The ghostly image of Standish's disembodied head attached to a giant caterpillar appeared in Jim's periphery. “This base has been humming along quietly ever since it was abandoned, and this grow operation has been 'left to its own devices' as they say,” he took a puff on what Jim surmised to be an ancient smoking apparatus he didn't recognize after he exhaled a massive white cloud.

“How are you...?” Jim trailed off. “What are you, A Standish...pillar? Wait, are you hacking my Augs? How can you hack my Augs? I'm not attached to the rig and my box is encrypted. You're the one who showed me how to...”

The Standish-pillar patted the tubular mouthpiece of the smoking device to his nose. “Always leave a back door. Or, in this case, have literally written the book on how to avoid such attacks. And yes, a Standishpillar. I like that. Anyway,” he took another long draw and enveloped Jim in a semi-transparent fog, “we're at the end of the path. There's another little door farther ahead. I would direct you to the Duchess house on the hill, and between the cook and the baby, the whole tableaux is quite a gas, but frankly I'm in a bit of a hurry.”

“You're really committed to this reference, aren't you?” Jim half-smirked at the Standishpillar. “Alright, what path?”
“Follow the yellow-brick road...” The Standishpillar's voice faded out as the psuedo-holographic projection disappeared.

“Now you're getting your references mixed up,” Jim scoffed.

When Standish's voice echoed its last, a yellow mission line appeared at Jim's feet, weaving through the trunks of the massive trees. The terrain itself wasn't exceptionally perilous, but over the years, the grass had grown thatched, the ferns broad and dense, and the vines twisted and tangled. The mission line took Jim around the thickest thickets, but, still needing to traverse the unyielding landscape, progress remained quite slow.

“It's just ahead,” Standish's voice rang out. “Just behind those bushes.” As Jim got closer, he could see Standish's disembodied head again. This time, it was attached to a fat, purple and white-striped cat's body. His face was grinning unnaturally large, revealing his pearly white teeth and making his comically-oversized eyes squint tight.

“Cheshire Standish?” Jim pulled a face and furrowed his brow again. Just ahead were two giant fronds in a crosswise pattern that the yellow mission line terminated into. He pulled them apart to reveal a short black door with a skull and crossbones on it. The door was nearly a quarter the size of a normal door, with a cute little silver knob to match. “And how, pray tell, am I supposed to go through that?”

“Crawl, I imagine,” the unsettling Standish Cat grinned again. “Unless you have some mushrooms and cordial hiding somewhere in your flight suit.”

“Thanks,” Jim sneered. He opened the door to reveal an angled sheet metal chute. “What is this, a joke?”

“Legs first, is my recommendation,” the Cheshire Standish's face appeared as a ghostly apparition hovering over the tunnel.

With a shrug, Jim squatted down, kicked his feet forward, and pushed himself down the slide. He shot down at a steady speed, but eventually the chute terminated into a vertical shaft. He slammed against a pad that had been taped to the wall in anticipation, and then dropped several dozen feet, landing in a pile of dusty mattresses and pillows. The impact was abrupt and slightly painful. It took Jim a second of rolling around and pressing his hand against the pain in his back before he was able to open he eyes.

“So good of you to join us!” Standish's voice carried from afar. His real voice, it sounded like, not the absurd Aug projections he'd been sending him.

With a grunt, Jim lunged his body forward and rubbed the back of his head and neck, cracking one eye open to survey his surroundings. The pile of discarded bedding was in the corner of a dankly-lit, dingy room. The plume of dust sent up by Jim's rough landing seeming to have integrated into the particulate cloud hanging motionless in the room. With a little squinting, Jim could see a long white table about half a dozen feet away from him, covered in pewter cups and pots. There were little packets of sugar and tea strewn across it rather unceremoniously. There were occasionally large white plates covered in rather sad looking crumpets and scones, piled high into disorganized, mountainous heaps. At the nearest end, Standish was seated with his back to Jim. He could only see an odd-shaped tophat with a little card labeled “10/6,” but that was all Jim needed see to know who's head rested beneath it. To his direct left sat a hulking dark-skinned gentleman with long furry ears sticking out of the back of a jewel-studded crown. Sitting what seemed like several dozen empty seats away, Jim could see a man, his chin pulled into his neck, little triangular rodent ears perking out of his wispy hair, the faint glimmer of a jewel shining gleaming in the shadows from his slightly-parted lips.

“Look who's here, I'm glad to see,” the gargantuan man bellowed in a deep jovial boom, “Come share some tea with him and me.”

“Huh?” The man at the end of the table arose temporarily. “Is he here?”

“Yes, he's here,” Standish replied to him.

“Who's here?” The man replied, licking his lips and sleepily running his tongue along his jewel-encrusted teeth.

“Why Jim of course!” Standish exclaimed. “You should know, you asked.”
“Oh yes,” the man nodded, his rodent-ears twitching side to side lazily before drooping back down again as he slumped forward and returned to his nap.

“Yes, now were where we?” Standish turned in his chair to Jim, “come, sit. Have some tea! Crumpets and Jam? The dormouse over there made them himself, and my friend the March Hair insists you try his tea. Special blend! It's slightly different every time, and,” he paused to wheel a cup and plate from the table. He supported the plate with one hand and lifted the cup off, pinkie up, and gingerly took a sip, making special point to sip as loudly as possible, “this time, let me tell you. It's a cracker!”

Jim slowly approached the table and took a chair next to Standish, across from the “March Hare.” “Hey,” Jim started, “I recognize you...” he trailed of as the revelation hit him. “And is that Mr. O'Callaghan? What the hell is going on? What are you all doing up here?”
“In due time, Jim,” Dyman smiled. “In due time. First, try the tea, I insist! It's one of my best and will bring flavors of great bliss.”

Jim, very confused, carefully picked up the cup of tea in front of him. Standish and Dyman were both widely grinning as they silently urged him to take a sip. Very cautiously, he took a small, quiet drink of the tea. “It's quite goo...” but he couldn't finish the sentence before he blacked out.