Through delirium of complete shock, Wheeler's brain flashes into his subconscious- images of those who were close to him, revisited; moments of his father beating his mother up, of his father beating him, plaguing his mind like a visit to hell:

"IF YOU DON'T GET OUT THERE AND TAKE HIM… I'LL FUCKING PUT YOU DOWN FOR ONE!"

"He punched me dad?"

"What did he say?" A paramedic looks puzzled to others who attempt to keep alive a United Forces soldier, Wheeler moves his right arm in a searching motion, patting the space where the other should be.

"He broke my nose...he-"

"There he goes again," the inexperienced medic remarks to his colleagues.

The U.F. soldier stops fighting and struggling. His body makes a final jerk. The PV crew sigh having seen it on a daily occurrence.

"Something about his nose....I think," the young medic is talking for the sake of it, not the desire for anyone to listen.

The U.F. soldier passes a final deep moaning breath as his lungs empty. The senior medic tech' sighs, thinking it was hardly worth picking the man up. "It's okay. There's nothing wrong with your nose," he consoles Wheeler, or at least pretends to.

Images shift in a blurred myriad of pictures as the Sub-man battles with keeping conscious, fighting the drug inside him which has already begun to take control nullifying extreme pain in his severed nerves. LA streets fire through his mind, skirmishes with police, then national guard. Crime running riot where he plays with makeshift weapons. Distant sounds of gunfire as gangs bring up death toll in drug wars. Then the speed of memories quickens, he feels out of control. A mass second civil war in The States. Poor and down trodden taking no more shit but having no idea where to go. His sister crying, broken shop fronts, eerie silence, Mary unable to hardly speak- blood rich stained in her crotch. Eventually, sobbing, "papa, papa, papa…."

"You..." Wheeler tries to get up but the senior medic restrains him.

"What is it with this one? I put enough in him to knock out a horse!"

"Give him ten more, " a third paramedic has been filling out the usual forms on the recently departed, dog-tags casually dangling from one hand, his words resound indifference like a matter concerning a shopping list, "he's only a Sub-man after all, who gives a shit if we go over?"

Wheeler can feel an odd sensation in his left arm, like a hundred people tugging on it, wishing to pull it clean from the socket. Images return in his mind, blocking out the uncomfortable feeling.

His father is guilty at the edges. Rough speaking. Pissed..again, hinting at the incident as though it were Wheeler's fault. "What you going to do big man? I can fuck your arse..boy!!!"

The teenage Wheeler raises a gun.

Again and again his drug-induced brain plays that exact moment like a time loop: his father's surprised face, then a stupid grin, bang, bang, bang, bang, bang, bang, click, click, click, click, click, click, finally empty chamber smelling of spent bullets and blood splattered walls; the gun ancient yet effective.

The Sub-man returns to the real world for a moment. He feels at peace all of a sudden. 'I hope I shall die here, this is good enough, ' he thinks gladly looking at the cleanliness of the United Forces PV outside the surface of Holodern IV reaching far away.
*
Captain Brice surveys the secured area. It's the kind of break for promotion he's been looking for, an opportunity to get off the God awful planet. Most importantly he must make sure that casualties are kept to a minimum- it looks better form for the senior staff, illustrating his professional and adept use of resources.

7 and 4 troop are in position. 137th Rifles and 14th Marines are on their way. A penultimate blow can be struck for the thorn in the United Forces side, i.e. the Sub-men factor. A war that has been fought too long against the native Holodern IV people and the mercenaries, no high command likes to fight a war on two fronts.

Captain Brice calculates the strategic option of eradicating the Sub-man interference once and for all, of then pushing forward to crippling the Outlanders main resources; using the Holodern IV colonists, as slaves therein to extract riches from those deep, ancient chasms. He, like the rest of the junior officers, are unshakable in their confidence- the prospect of actually sweeping up after the mercenary issue, at last a chance for it to be dealt with once and for all. He can't help but smirk to himself.

The Captain, a man of thirty-four years. Fast tracked at a top officer school, his entire life has been a well scripted climb to his present position. Although many captains have no idea of field combat (more likely to know the mechanics of warfare) Brice breaks the common mould and is in fact seen in an admired light by lower ranks. A proficient officer, he prides himself on his well read hobby of psychology. Receiving new journals from his wife, he avidly takes his mind away by advances in understanding human beings. Also in the relatively new area of alien psyches. Using case histories, he sometimes finds that a particular prisoner, whom has been proving difficult, may be 'opened' by playing certain tricks- instead of using techniques which would make a person well, Brice uses the opposite; a mental application of force proves to be much more successful than physical torture.

The day beats down on him, making its mark. A multitude of activity bustles around him as he enters the tent. The secure shield protects him from Holodern IV elements, allowing respite from what lies ahead. His receiver sits on a desk, it blares loudly, crackling with interchanging communications; key data passed back and forth. Years of fighting Holodern colonists (getting nowhere) suddenly blown apart by this new development.

He takes off his hat and places it next to the communications device. Switching down the volume, just so the voices can be heard at a more acceptable volume, the officer removes a whisky flask from his breast pocket, thoughts turning to his wife, instinctively as such feelings arise, he takes a bigger gulp than he should.

On his desk papers sit:- relayed messages from other commanders. Colonels wishing to know Brice's strategic plans, covert data, listed files, bogus information 'leaked' to the enemy, etc.

"Cp. Brice secure turbo channel, over."

The Captain wakes into action, switching to the secured channel.

"Captain. Brice receiving, over."

"Prepare reports and current data for Operation Dante, over."

"Already sent. Is there a com' problem? I have confirmed that data arrived, over."

"Prepare reports, current data for Col. Higgs a.s.a.p. E.t.a.: twenty-three min', over."

"Confirmed, over."

The Captain maintains external composure but inside he knows that there is something major about to transcend on him, something beyond his small command. Col. Higgs never visits the field. A new set of orders to deal with the situation? Data that has been kept from him until a point in the conflict such as this? Brice mulls over the possibilities in his mind as he puts away the personal effects on his desk. He replaces his hat. Swigs some mouthwash. Proceeds to straighten out his uniform the best he can.
*
Two Special Forces soldiers enter Brice's shelter-tent. They stand either side of the doorway, giving a formal show of power with stasers at the ready like regimental drill, Col. Higgs follows after them. The Captain salutes, his heart pounding.

"So. ....Cpt. Brice isn't it? Situation?" Higgs leafs through the documents prepared for him on the desk.

"The tunnel opening and first four K have been secured sir. We are awaiting 137th Rifles and the 14th Marine, sir. From there we can consolidate, moving to the prime objective..sir," the junior officer stands alert but has noticed that Higgs hasn't been listening at all.

"Mmmn..at ease Captain."

There is a long and awkward silence as sounds of men and women preparing the tunnel opening for action, of Holodern lV's ocean washing against the shore, drift into the tense space. The elder man sits himself on a chair with an air of languor.

"Captain there will be no need for you to await for reinforcements. They have already been reassigned to other locations."

"Sir?"

"You shall clear all your men from this area to bearing 658/45 North," he points lazily at the map spread on the shelter-tent's back wall.

"Sir, permission to spe-"

"Permission denied Captain. Clear your men. This area will be cleared with air support and..imminently a hot-zone. That will be all," Colonel Higgs rises from the chair stiffly, silently leaving the shelter-tent, his guards smiling at Brice as they follow him.
*
Far above Holodern IV United Forces gun-ships group. Four vessels await in bombing formation. A mother ship hangs back from the four clustered craft. Looming, it dwarfs them all. Used by the United Forces powers-that-be as an intimidator craft, Field Marshall Dolcezza commands the entire fleet from its secure position. He will verify the order to the four captains and from there K missiles will be targeted in. The whole process, from first ignition, will take fifty-eight seconds. Krysenic energy, especially within such a small space as the Sub-man tunnels, will rip through, underneath Holodern IV, destroying everything.

He looks from the mother ship onto the grouped vessels. In a star formation, they maintain a precise orbit, letting third propulsion engines fix over exact coordinates of the opened tunnel. From his gigantic observation window, three hundred meters in length by one hundred meters, the Field Marshall admires from a distance the beauty of Holodern IV. A colossal gulf of sea between two continents shown clearly from space. Down there on the planet, men and women and children, live or die in the palm of Field Marshall Dolecezza's hand.

On a far right of window two suns shine. Beaming an eerie light through the nothingness of space. Distant stars twinkle, calculated to have died eons ago, their light a paradox to existence.

A small desk with real leather upholstered seat before it, makes the Field Marshall's position all the more aloof and intangible. An antique phone sits on his desk. It looks more out of place than having the desk sit awkwardly in the corner against the whale-like proportions of the window. Within the ancient receiver, a modern day transmitter nestles. Connecting him with the entire U.F. fleet as well as the President herself.

The Field Marshall picks up the phone. Not connected to anything, looking technically silly, but still an enjoyable, surreal touch as he smoothes the antique plastic in his hand.
"Field Marshall Dolcezza to Untied Forces gunships. On my mark follow orders 372/9 point 7....mark."

"Computer."

A vid-screen rises in the middle of his desk. It flickers into life.

"GOOD EVENING Mr. DOLCEZZA." It speaks to him in an automated pre-programmed, old Hollywood actress voice. It is the only time the Field Marshall is addressed as a person rather than a rank. He could change it, but it's nice.

"Good evening computer. Siblieus. Fifth symphony. Third movement."

Instantly the first string section breaks up into the cavernous command space. The hall resounds with notes playing at low amplitude, the structure of the piece about to gather.
*
The four gun-ships fire, white light bursts from underneath vessels. K missiles rip down to the surface. Like some macabre firework show, four pins of light toward the Holodern IV blue. Breaking open the atmosphere, the missiles separate into eight, smaller, straight-lined courses.

From the ground, only a cluster of stars, distant, appear above. Then, in frightening progression, the missiles grow larger. Not able to break through solid matter, but designed to destroy any living form, the warheads are a unique and deadly weapon for such an opportunity as this.

Before any human eye can realize, massive bolts of energy fire into the opened tunnel. Grass burns furious around the entrance. From within the bowels of the ground destruction sparks, in an instant like a sharp, staccato string section beat as the missiles do their job.
*
Dank. So deep down that air itself is scarce. Hundreds of feet from bickering human beings. From the East of the ancient settlement, two hundred feet up, human archeologists had begun to get through a protective layer. Hushed by United Forces intelligence, ordered to be re-sealed, the archeologists camp disbanded; declared never to have existed by the Earth government. Mysteriously all the archeologists on the project died in a space craft accident.

All the tunnels now fire with Krysenic energy that crumbles the odd stray party of Sub-men. It pushes on, starting to slow in speed as the energy gets deeper and nearer to what the archeologists before were about to discover. Dispersing amongst varying channels, nooks and crannies. Mega tons of force being lost in bottomless dark. Energy from K missiles scuttling down like hungry animals, suddenly coming to a stop as it hits a wall of billions of pupa. Encased within black mineral which the United Forces and the colonists of Holodern IV were originally fighting about, alien life absorbs what should be destroying them.

The pupas absorb more and more until the last wisps of Krysenic energy disappears. The forms feed. Dormant state giving over to activity. Each one grows hot. Hotter still with each passing second. Heat emanates to neighboring pupa, spreading. A chain reaction growing faster in pace, the original inhabitants of Holodern IV awake. Awake as a marvelous spectacle and the sounds of millions of clicking aliens sing out from each breaking shell. The tunnels 'sweat' with the biological reaction generated by the awakening. The once black mineral now shines intense, cracking like coal too hot.

From the first pupas hit by the K missiles energy, their outer husks that radiated an intense glow now fades to nothing, lost in evaporating mineral. Standing, indefinable forms shake themselves. Not tissue, bone, blood or a solid form which may signify life, a race of pure energy. They are defined only by the parameters that surround them.

Each one adjusts for the other, not infringing on its neighbors space, working together in movement. Clicking sound ringing shrill, echoing up to the surface as millions of them rise from a millennium of slumber. Now the Holodern natives rise in a great wasp like swarm, a mass exodus to the surface of their planet.