<div align="center"><strong>Captain Steve McPherson, "B" Company, 35th Infantry <br/>Outside an Alliance military communication facility on New Melbourne<br/>(10 years earlier)</strong></div><br/>"But Cap'n, we can't just sit here an...."<br/><br/>"Dún do bhéal .. One more word out of you Corporal and you'll be busted back to private AND transferred out of the regiment .. dong ma?"<br/><br/>The 19 year old soldier nodded and whispered "sorry, Cap'n"<br/><br/>The young captain's voice softened.  "Look, I don't like it any more 'n you do .. but the mission is the communications array, not whatever stray POW's we run across.  Save him, we blow the mission, and them bastards'll get their hands on a thousand or ten thousand more just like him.  Maybe us. You go back down the hill and check on your squad.  Almost time to bring 'em up anyhow.  I'll keep an eye on things here."<br/><br/>McP, as the solders in his company referred to their commander, peered through his viewer again, to see the sadistic guards were still having their "fun" with the old man in the tattered browncoat uniform.  The man may have been 40 or 50, it was impossible to tell, but he looked at least 70.  Gaunt, almost emaciated, stooped over with fresh blood running out of his mouth and down his chest, covering the older dried blood from some earlier fun.  His job was to dig a ditch to divert rainwater drainage away from a power generating building.  The two guards could have had it done in 30 minutes.  The old man would take all day, especially with the physical and verbal abuse to which he was being subjected.<br/><br/>Steve couldn't watch any more, lest he give in to the temptation to do what the young corporal wanted to do.  They were both well within range for a couple of quick headshots, but what would it accomplish except a moment of relief for the prisoner, and alerting the entire compound to their presence?<br/><br/>McP looked at his watch.  Another 20 minutes and the demolition team from the 303'rd would be inside the fence and setting the charges.  His company's job was to watch and not be seen, and to only engage if the demo team required covering fire to make their escape.  Suddenly, he was vaguely aware of three explosions in quick succession and the realization he and his company had been discovered ... or set up.<br/><br/><div align="center">*******</div><br/><div align="center"> <strong>McPherson, Eavesdown docks<br/>(present day)<br/>waiting for The Gamble to arrive</strong> </div><br/>Steve woke with a start.  He hadn't actually been asleep, but his mind had travelled elsewhere ... not in space, but in time.  On opening his eyes, he was reminded of what prompted that memory.  Two purplebellies harassing an old man in the remnants of a browncoat uniform, midst the hustle and bustle of the Eavesdown docks.  The old soldier looked to be 70.  Neither of the young punks harassing him had hit puberty by the end of the war, and now they were poking him with their batons and calling him names.<br/><br/>Steve had encountered plenty of Alliance soldiers during the war, both conscript and professional, and by and large they were just folk, just like the boys in his own unit.  Kids who were there fighting for what they thought was right when they really wanted to be someplace else.  The only real sadists he ran across had been his guards at Camp 314.  Young<em>Fanny Baws </em>who couldn't hack it in a combat unit and lacked the skills to make a meaningful contribution in the support services.  The Alliance brass, like the Independents, generally followed some loose confederation of understandings, written or unwritten, thought of as the "rules of war" ... but they turned a blind eye to what went on in the prison camps.  Plausible deniability, they called it.<br/><br/>"After the war, lot of Browncoats swung at the end of a rope while them bastard digwilydd Purplebellies who done the same sorta things walked.  Difference was, Alliance had the food and medicine to take care of<em>their</em>prisoners ... just chose not to do it.  That seem right to you?"<br/><br/>No, he would never completely be over it.<br/><br/>But, at least with these lads, he gave them the benefit of the doubt.  Maybe they had grown up with stories of how the Independents were little more than animals committing atrocities throughout the war -- the Alliance propaganda machine had always been more effective than the Independents'.  Maybe they just felt a need to prove their manhood since they had missed out on the war, and here was a suitable target.  Nonetheless, he wasn't going to let it go.<br/><br/>Steve ducked around a corner, removed his buttondown shirt and suit coat from his rolling backpack, and put them on.  He also drew out a fresh cigar, and wiped the dust from his boots, hoping they wouldn't be too observant.  Lastly, he slipped his smaller handgun into his belt at the small of his back and whispered a prayer ... not for his safety, but that nobody would find his backpack in the short time he would be away.<br/><br/>*******<br/><br/><strong>"Constable, where's the harbormaster's office?"</strong>Steve had spent a few years trying to "polish" his accent so that he might enhance his opportunities, and with his best soldierly bearing, must have looked every bit the government man he hoped the young soldiers would take him for.<br/><br/>"Th.. that way.. Sir" one responded, not appreciating the interruption, his own accent much less refined than Steve's.  Still, the soldier recognized this as someone who obviously outranked him.  "About two hundred meters, on the right."<br/><br/><strong>"Very well, and is it your job to harass harmless old men like this, or should you be walking your beat along the docks looking for signs of <em>real</em> rebel threats and contraband cargo?"</strong>Then he pulled the notebook from his pocket.<strong>"What are your names?"</strong><br/><br/>If the two had been at something resembling the position of half-assed<em>attention</em>before, when the notebook came out they<em>snapped to </em>like cadets on parade. "Pendleton, Sir, lance corporal, and this is Private Butler.  May I ask who you are, sir?"<br/><br/><strong>"You'll find out my name shortly after you're called in to the duty office, Lance corporal.  Now, off with you."</strong><br/><br/>As soon as they were out of sight, Steve waved a couple of bills in front of the old man's face.. money he couldn't really afford to part with.<strong>"Here ya go, Sarge.. promise me you'll spend half of it on food."</strong>He knew the man would lie if Steve told him not to spend it on booze .. but this way, the old soldier might consider it a matter of honor to eat a little something when given the okay to spend the rest however he deemed fit.<br/><br/>*******<br/><br/>Steve was relieved to see the hiding place for his backpack had not been discovered.  Now it was just a matter of waiting for a ship named<em>The Gamble </em>.... owned by a guy named Griff, who knew a guy named Fullerton, who knew a guy named Murphy, with whom Steve had escaped from Camp 314.