07.31.04 - 4:01 p.m.

[Even more snippets. Seriously no idea what this was supposedly going to be.]

"Mags, we're good to go whenever you are."

The boy's voice crackled through her earpiece, an adolescent's warbling treble that reminded her of the shizoru's call. Instinctively, she glanced at him, catching only a fraction of her own image, refracted in the faintly mirrored surface of his visor, before looking away, squinting off toward the horizon.

The sky was a violent

No matter how many times she did this (out here, beneath the ochre sky, Margaret (Maggie, Magsie, Mags) Iboru always found the mirrored helmets

[Damn. It's so opaque! What was that going to be about - it's like the rosetta stone of liz's inbox. - oh AND. Suddenly I think I understand - and I found a bit more of it, though not much more, or rather, I found the final expression, which never went beyond this moment.]

Dead ochre-colored clouds swirl, obliterating any semblance of horizon, but it is to the horizon that the woman stares, eyes flattened as if against the glare of the yellow giant sun, thoroughly hidden behind the depthless swirl of poisoned clouds.

"Ready, Mags?"

The boy's voice sounds flatly from behind his battered helmet, made harsh by rasp of his salvaged respirator. He, too, looks toward what must be the horizon and scans the irregular patterns outlined by the cloudbank in the distance. Background chatter fills in the silence - What do you think they're doing up there? - speculation, and nothing more.

"Not yet."

She takes in a breath. Another. The air is cold - too cold - and burns against the back of her throat. Her own respirator wheezes noisily in the dull silence of the quiet afternoon. Her pupils contract and dilate in rapid cycle as she shifts focus from the endless coordinates scrolling - white against black - in front of her left eye to the dun-colored horizon.

Four small figures silhouetted against the dark sky on the fifth planet from the yellow sun; nothing compared to the thousands upon thousands scurrying through their sun's more artificial satellites. Those satellites are elsewhere, now, amassing around an icy planet these four would call Wulbari, which is known to distant, unseen others by the far more prosaic moniker YC-56 7.

"Wait; wait - now."

Four figures, then, suddenly moving in a haphazard run down the scree slope toward the supply dump cleverly concealed amidst the ruin of a once-living planet. The holoskins go a long way to hide the structure, suggesting nothing more than a continuation of the blasted landscape, the skeletal trees stark against the ruined sky. There are discontinuities, though. There are always discontinuities - an odd flatness here, a faint hum there, some minute vibration beneath the level of conscious human awareness that nevertheless draws the attention of those in tune with their senses on a level more visceral than cerebral.

The two young techs approach and take up positions on either side of the presumed entrance, frowning at their handheld devices jerry-rigged from salvaged remnants of ships and supplies abandoned on the surface of the small planet during the course of the endless war. Several tense moments pass as the young men work their particular brand of magic on the security. The third figure remains stiff and watchful, tension keeping him rigid and sharp-eyed for any unexpected approach. As for the woman, her eyes have found the western horizon again, somehow, and she, too, watches until at last the hatch sighs open, pressure equalizing between the interior and exterior.

Now the four move almost as one into the darkened structure - a single, blank-eyed organism. There is no more chatter, only sure footsteps echoing in the darkness.

Another "salvage" operation, underway.

[Oh, look: there's more! More snippets, anyway -- ]

Margaret (Maggie, Magsie, Mags) Jabari stood, watching the horizon, watching the sky. She was not so much watching the sky, her companions knew, as watching the endless black world beyond with her mind's eye, glancing from the scrolling list of numbers and angles - all results of subtle surveillance of the

[I think Margaret had the ability to see beyond the planet, like she could sense the movements of a planet's satellites, or something. And her named obviously changed a few times.

Oh! Even more things, I think the first half of this snippet is a memory Maggie had of her father (it all comes back to me now), because her father and the people on her planet were all religious nuts, believes in a strange unnamed prophecy. She didn't believe the prophecy, but she was stuck on her crazy dead planet anyway because she was born and raised there. I'm pretty sure I was going to use Olamina to give background history to the political circumstances surrounding the creation of the religious sect she was involved in, but never got that far. I also had this vision of him as one of those eloquent, arrogant pricks who teach because it's so gratifying to the ego. They were going to be at Harvard, homeworld, the preserved earth, the living homeland museum. Maybe I should do THIS for NANOWRIMO! So -

"The prophecy is a vision of the future, of a dark future seen through the most cracked lens imaginable. The believers make it out that Joe was a man of rare vision, and viciously suppress anything that does not conform to their idolatry of man as god, or instrument of god." This, her father said. Or rather, had said, one way or another, many many times, many many years ago. She was a teenager then, and full of her own sweet surety, her own virulent contempt. Her eyes had narrowed to fine, dangerous little slits. She could feel her own stance hardening.

"And yet, you believe it."

----
"So, like, professor. This is what I don�t understand: how could Oliphant, et al, ever have believed that their particular secret wouldn�t get out? I mean, the history of political scandals was not on their side. Look at Fugavi and the World Counsel in 2197, or the Russian mining scandals of the late 21st century, or the grand-dame of modern political scandals, Watergate? The truth will out, right? It�s almost impossible to plug the little leaks that spring up. I mean, what was Watergate � a burglary? � compared to � "

"If you are to be a student of history � � Professor Thomasso Olamina held his hand up, and the wave of restless murmurs cresting through the hall fell silent. It was a sweet moment, and so he savored it as he took a deep breath of the sweet spring air. " � rather than merely a history student, you must do more than collect strings of facts, my dear girl, or even the more esoteric causes and effects."

Thomasso enjoyed the drama of a lecture, the echo of his voice � his voice alone � throughout the auditorium in the historic Lowell Lecture Hall, over the heads of his students and then back to him, rebounding. He paused, and a

Oh, Thomasso. Such a great name!