On Fri, 02 Feb 2001 14:51:44 -0800 Mistral mistral@centurytel.net writes:

Sally Manton wrote:

...

How about the fun we'd have if we substituted Piri for someone

(Cally?)

Actually, the character I want to substitute for Cally isn't from B7 at all - she's Drusilla,

No fair! I was trying to work her into a story!

Actually, I was thinking of having Albion overridden by Federation forces and Grant finding himself . . . 'rescued' . . . by two rather unlikely heroes. It was just part of a story I'm still toying with, but here's the opening scene.

Waking slowly, Grant was aware of a woman's fingers stroking through his hair, his head cradled in her lap, as she sang in a crooning, discordant voice,

"Sleep, sleep, beauty bright, Dreaming of the joys of night."

Slowly, he opened his eyes. Even more slowly, as if it were an image rising from deep in the sea, her face came swimming into focus. He saw olive skin framed in night dark hair. Equally dark, dreaming eyes looked down at him without seeming to notice he was there.

He tried to get up, but she gently restrained him, one hand across his chest, the other now softly brushing his face as she sang,

"Sweet babe, in thy face, Soft desires I can trace."

Somewhere, in the distance, he heard the rumble of thunder.

No, not thunder. Memory came flooding back. Albion was under attack. There'd been fighting, bombs. He remembered making his last stand against the Federation troops. Years ago, he'd helped free this world from them. Then, he'd stayed here, adopting it as his home, helping them rebuild, defending it during the chaos of the Galactic War, helping Albion carve out its niche in the new galaxy that had arisen in the war's aftermath. Finally, choosing to stay and fight to the last as the Federation rose from its ashes and began to reclaim its lost worlds. He remembered the troops breaking through, he had thrown a grenade, knowing it would bring the roof down on all of them. Then nothing.

"Sleep, sleep, in thy sleep, Little sorrows sit and weep. Secret joys and secret smiles, Little pretty infant wiles,"

Del caught her stroking hand, stopping her. "What . . ." he croaked. He tried again, "What's . . . happened? Where . . . ?"

"Dru, how's it going?" a man called. Grant looked and saw a Federation soldier. He jerked, trying to get up. The woman held him down, her grip like steel.

"Sh, poppet," she said, "you'll hurt yourself. Rest."

"Dru?" the man asked.

Stroking Grant's hair, the woman said, "You're frightening the little lamb, Spike." She began to sing again.

"Round and round the blackberry bush, the lamb is caught-"

"I'm sure it is, Dru," the trooper said, "but how's he?"

"Poor little lamb is tired, Spike. You woke him, and he was having such a good sleep, like a little angel."

"I'm sure he was." The trooper crouched beside them. "How about it, Grant, feel up to moving?"

Grant struggled uselessly against her grip. "You can shoot me, but don't expect me to help you."

The trooper groaned. "Oh, get off the testosterone, mate. In case you didn't notice, Dru and I are on your side."

"Are we, Spike?" the woman asked, childishly curious. "Poor little bird, I think his side's lost. So many dead people back there. Like when my angel found me. So many dead." She licked her lips. "Such a sad, sad waste."

"We're on not on their side," the man said patiently, "just his."

"So sad," the woman crooned, "so many gone. So lost, so pretty, so sad. And my tummy's all rumbly. Why are we on his side, Spike? Why not the one that's winning?"

"Because they aren't paying us." He pulled off his helmet, revealing a nonregulation haircut bleached white. Too short to be a Space Rat's, Grant thought, but not a trooper, either. "Look, mate, we're here to get you out of this. Now, do you want to come or not? If you say yes, we'll help you out of here. If you say no, we'll hit you over the head and carry you out. So, make up your mind."

"Yes,"

The man nodded curtly and pulled his helmet back on. "OK, Dru, let him up. Let's get moving. I'd like to get him out before sunrise."

The woman laughed as if this was funny. She rose in a single, fluid motion, taking Grant up with her. He staggered uncertainly. The man caught him, slinging his arm across his shoulder and helping him along. The woman produced a large cape from somewhere, the kind a Federation official might wear, covering his Albion uniform. There was blood on it. "Who . . . ?" Grant tried to ask.

"I'm Spike," his rescuer said, "and that's Drusilla. Just a friendly warning, mate, you can look but don't touch. Dru's feeling a might peckish. She might take your hand off."

Grant ignored the joke, sticking to his question. "No, who sent you?"

Spike laughed, "I know you won't believe this, mate, but you could say it was a friend of the family."

"Family," Grant repeated, not knowing what he meant.

"Mine, yours, somebody's. Look, throw in enough money and I'll call President Servalan ‘Daddy.' I - Hey, Dru! Put down the mutoid serum! You know what it does to you!"

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