TIMELINE: "Guardians" takes place during 2053 during the AI rebellion, 10 years before the Chig war begins, when T.C. McQueen is a young lieutenant. AUTHOR'S NOTES: This is a McQueen story with a brief appearance from Lt. Cmdr. Glen Ross. Thanks to Sheryl Clay, Matt Yellen, "Fitz" and "Speedbump." The concept of the multi-national corporation Aerotech, the premise of the Artificial Intelligence rebellion -- also known as the AI Wars -- and the characters of T.C. McQueen and Glen Van Ross belong to Glen Morgan and James Wong and Hard Eight Pictures. The concept of Space Station Goddard as a facility with both university and military personnel is part of the novelization of the S:AAB pilot by Peter Telep, which was adapted from the script, also written by Morgan and Wong. Ross paraphrases a statement about the uses of science originally made by Alan Valentine. Another remark from Lewis Branscomb intrigues the AIs. Absolutely no copyright infringement is intended toward any of the above-mentioned sources. Except for McQueen and Ross, the remainder of the characters invented for this story are mine. R-rated Guardians Part One of Five "Both the man of science and the man of action live always at the edge of mystery, surrounded by it." J. Robert Oppenheimer

Part Three Megan Connelly and her mentor Leland Campaneris "worked the room" or, rather, garden party. In tandem and separately, they chit-chatted with all the conference attendees, which included some military personnel and bigshots from Aerotech, as well as the other scientists who had made presentation and attended talks during the day. She carried a sweet red rum drink served in tall fluted glass called a Hurricane. Her first sip reminded her how "sneaky" Hurricanes could be. A spoonful of fruit juice made the rum drink go down. Leland had raised an eyebrow when he saw her holding the distinctive serving glass. "I'm only having one," she had told him, maybe a Hurricane or so ago. Earlier in the evening, she had found a brochure stating the white- columned Greek Revival house at the center of the facility had been a plantation house more than 200 years ago. A server had told her special arrangements had been made so the site could be added to and adapted for conversion to a banquet facility. Area historical societies had looked the other way as modern amenities such as plumbing and air conditioning were installed, so the old house would remain, at least in some form, at the facility's core. Single slaps on the heads of bongo drums attracted her attention. The commanding, loud raps picked up frequency, speed and syncopation. The insistent, demanding rhythms seeped into Megan's nerve endings and muscle fibers. Megan's body nagged her to move with the rhythms. Dancers, a barefoot man and woman, leaped in front of the drums. In a dervish of streaming red and yellow fabric, shimmying shoulders, arcing hands and pumping hips, the couple's movements spoke of joy and heat. Megan watched with fascination and longing. She glanced over at Ty. She hadn't had a chance to talk to him since her presentation that morning. Crisp in his dark blue uniform, despite the muggy night, he stood at his post just inside the entrance. His blue eyes probed out from under the bill of his cap -- or rather "cover," as she had heard one of the other Marines call it. A couple of rows of multicolored ribbons marched across the left side of his chest. She had noticed he had more ribbons than anyone else in his squadron, including his captain. Even before the drinks and the drums, seeing Ty in his dress blues had made her knees weak. The formal uniform made him look both irresistible and untouchable. When he saw her staring, his mouth slightly shifted into a quarter smile. She felt the heat rising in her cheeks. His eyes glanced downward before he colored up as well. Megan squeezed her eyes shut in frustration. Why couldn't he be her guest, her date, instead of a sentry? She saw a dark-skinned Navy officer wearing luminescent dress whites, stop beside Ty and speak with him. Ty's posture went even more rigid and his face paled out, apparently because of something the Navy officer had said to him. It couldn't have been a reprimand, Megan thought, because the officer smiled widely with a mischievous twinkle in his eye. He and Ty made a striking visual contrast: the pale, serious man in the dark uniform and the dark, smiling man in white. Capezzi's voice called to her. "Hey, Doc Sure Shot." He stood beside a gap in the hedge. He may have been wearing the same uniform as Ty, but the uniform did not suit him as well. "Don't act like I called you over," he said conspiratorially, "or I'll get in trouble." With her back to the hedge, she faced the same direction as Capezzi, as if she had just happened to stop there. She held her drink, which she had been nursing. "When did the threat of trouble ever stop you?" "My CO and honcho are lurking around spoiling my fun. The nerve, huh? But, believe it or not, I get to take a break. I just love this gig. Bunking in a fancy hotel. Rest breaks. How 'bout we take in the dance floor during my break?" "Only if I'm dead and my ghost doesn't see you coming." She walked away, considering the knowledge the Marines got breaks to eat useful information. *** The drums had distracted McQueen, making him antsy. Megan looked buzzed and restless. The look she had given him had made wish they were elsewhere. Upstairs. In a car. In a gazebo out back. Anywhere. Alone together. An unfamiliar male voice startled him: "Hell of a night to have to stand a post, Lieutenant." Not many people, except for Megan and Dr. Campaneris, had spoken to him as they passed his post at the entrance. McQueen turned to see a dark officer, a Navy lieutenant commander, in dress whites standing next to him. The nameplate IDed him as Ross. "Beats a foxhole." McQueen added, "sir," a bit hastily. Lt. Cmdr. Ross snorted, either in appreciation or amazement at the smartass reply. "I wouldn't know about that. I'm usually aboard some tub. Carry on, Lieutenant." Relieved, McQueen said, "Yes, sir." The officer ambled toward the bar. He could have been Col. Rowley or an attacker. Either way, McQueen figured he'd better get his mind back on track. McQueen thought he had died and gone to the hell natural borns yammered about when he saw Megan without the jacket that had covered her sleeveless dress all day. Her bare arms shimmered slightly in the low soft light. He thought he'd gone to hell because, as much as he had wanted to stroke her nylon sheathed legs earlier, he wanted to slip that slim dress off her body. He blinked hard and was glad he was on duty and not drinking. This conference had been way too distracting. He forced himself to scan the night beyond the crowd. When he turned back toward the party, she was looking at him, but didn't speak or say hello. He noticed she stood near Capezzi's post. What happened next surprised McQueen. Had Capezzi spoken to her first, called her over to him? While he was on duty? She ambled toward him with forced casualness and her drink in hand. They chatted very briefly, and she walked away abruptly. Capezzi had said something piggish to her. McQueen steamed. *** Megan turned to face the man talking to her. "Dr. Connelly? Pardon me. I heard your talk earlier today. I hope you'll do me the honor of joining me on the dance floor." It was the Naval officer who had rattled Ty a little while ago. Megan looked up to see velvety brown, smiling eyes. "Thank you. I'll try not to tromp on your toes." Oh, boy, she thought, gotta back off on the Hurricanes. Thankfully, she noticed the song playing was slow. "I'm Glen Ross. Call me Glen" She asked him to address her as Megan instead of Dr. Connelly. She took his offered hand. He led her out to the dance floor and rested his hand on her back, about the place where Ty had prodded her to move along down the line of cops and protesters earlier that morning. Glen said, quite pleasantly, "Do you realize how applicable your theories would be to fuel efficiency? For military use?" "Yes, but military research is not what my --" she hesitated a moment. Legally, Leland had been her guardian, but she was 27 now. "Dr. Campaneris has dreams me receiving a Nobel Prize. Military research would take me straight of the running. Researchers in the military can do what they will with my findings." Ross stepped back and looked at her with a playful, but somewhat sideways glance: "You do know the saying, while the angels debate the social ramifications of a scientific advancement, the devil grabs it and runs away with it." "President Kennedy, the first one, asked us to 'invoke the wonders of science instead of its terrors,' " she replied. "For a few years, that worked," He shook his head once with a tinge of regret. "Too bad he did not live to see it." Then he smiled and leveled his dark brown eyes at her. "We could continue this discussion in a quieter place." Megan knew, thanks to the twinkle in his eye, the smile on his face and the warmth of his hand on her back, that conversation would be a preliminary. She could tell he would be good to her, that under ordinary circumstances, that she would like his touch. But he wasn't who she wanted. And she knew better than to try to substitute. "I'm seeing someone," she and the rum inside her blurted out. "He's not able to enjoy the party. I hope you understand." He nodded with gracious yet worldly understanding. "Do you mean the Marine at the door?" The matter-of-fact casualness with which he spoke almost floored her. She and Ty had been so careful. Ross had never even seen them together and he had guessed? *** Delphine Plantation outside New Orleans, LA 2053 McQueen knew something was up. Lt. Cmdr. Ross and Col. Rowley, with Capezzi in tow, approached McQueen with stern and serious faces. "Capezzi, take McQueen's post," Col. Rowley said. "McQueen, come with us." He followed them into a dark-paneled room where Megan sat at a table with her arms folded on the highly polished tabletop and her head resting on her folded arms. McQueen had thought she'd been hitting the drinks a bit hard, especially for a civilian her size. She looked pitiful with her head down, her body still and silent. She appeared to be breathing shallowly. McQueen could still hear the drums outside, still insistent but less audible. Good. They had made him too restless, distracted. Col. Rowley said, "Take Dr. Connelly back to the hotel." McQueen took a deep breath. He would make sure she was safe. "Sirs, respectfully and with security considerations in mind," McQueen said, "perhaps I should transport Dr. Connelly in a vehicle supplied by this facility rather than one of the vans used to transport attendees. Thanks to news reports, the vans have become recognizable. Without other Marines as backup, driving her alone in a known van would be an unnecessary risk to her safety." "Good plan," Lt. Cmdr. Ross volunteered with a nod. "We should select a vehicle and clear it." A white-shirted server took them out to the vehicles. Ross pointed at a large, solid sedan. McQueen checked under the hood for an engine that could get them out of harm's way, if necessary. Ross checked the interior, the dashboard readings and grunted with satisfaction. He surprised McQueen by shoving an armrest into the seat back and pulling out the seat belts as if a third person would be sitting in the middle. Together, he and Ross scanned the car for bombs or other "non-factory issue" items. McQueen wondered how Ross could get down, look under a car and not get a mark on that ice cream suit. Ross told McQueen, "Stay here with the car. I'll get Dr. Connelly." As he turned to go, he turned back again to McQueen. Ross glanced around as if to see if they were alone. "Lieutenant," Ross's eyes narrowed as he spoke, "driving Dr. Connelly is a special assignment. You will drive gently and slowly. You will not fly around curves. You will not bounce down the road, hell-bent for leather. You will take your time. You will make this a safe and pleasant journey for her. Do I make myself clear?" Somewhat indignantly, McQueen looked up at the superior officer. "Yes, Sir." I know how to drive. I'm a tank, not an idiot. Instead, he said, "Yes, Sir." Ross narrowed his eyes and shook his head, as if he had changed his mind about something. Then he walked briskly back into the house. McQueen stood post beside the car. Now that he knew the car was secure, he wasn't going to let anyone else touch it. He gulped when he saw Ross walking Megan down the steps. The Navy officer had one arm encircled around her shoulder while the other carried her suit jacket and bag. Megan's head drooped. Her hair draped a curtain of privacy around her face. McQueen had seen Megan dancing with Ross, but she had danced and talked with several men that evening. But Ross was the only one with his arm around her, leaving the party with her. With a sinking heart, McQueen realized he would have to drive them somewhere. He heaved a sigh, walked around the car to the door behind the driver's seat and opened it. But Ross walked her to the right front passenger seat. He said softly to her, "Stay still while I open the door. Lean up against this. " Megan nodded wanly. Her "okay" was barely audible, even to McQueen's super sensitive ears. He may be a superior officer, McQueen thought, but he doesn't know a damn thing about security. "Pardon me, sir," McQueen said, more as a challenge than a request, diagonally across the roof of the car. "Security procedures dictate the passenger rides where the driver can see her via the rear-view mirror." Ross ignored him. With his hand resting lightly on her shoulder, he eased her into the front seat. "It was nice to meet you, Dr. Connelly." Then, loud enough for McQueen to hear, Ross said to her, "Now, if you start to feel tired, just lean up against the lieutenant. Not up against the car door. It could open and you could fall out." He leaned in to help her with her seat belt. McQueen heard her say, quietly but clearly, "Thank you." Equally softly, but still audible to McQueen's ears, Ross told her, "Be happy." McQueen closed the car door he had held open. Obviously, Ross would not be accompanying them. McQueen walked around to the driver's side. Ross walked around to the driver's side of the car. "Son, if you can fly a Hammerhead through a dogfight like those ribbons on your chest say you do, then you'll have no problem driving a car with one hand while your other's around a pretty girl. Do I make myself clear?" McQueen couldn't help but smile. "Yes, Sir. CFB." *** Megan waited, curled up sideways on the seat so she could rest her head against the headrest. According to Glen's plan, she had to look drunk. In reality, she was pretty buzzed but not as drunk as she pretended to be. She had been certain the colonel would assign the female captain to escort her to the hotel, rather than Ty. His insistence on proper security procedures had tickled her, although she refused to show it. He was all business with his broad square shoulders and rigid military posture. Still, her heart pounded. Please, Ty, hurry up before anyone realizes we're leaving. Like Leland. Ty opened the car door and placed his cover on the seat between them. "Let's get out of here." In swift movements like a getaway car driver, he stepped inside, buckled his seat belt and clicked on the ignition. They drove away from the party, the rum and the drums. "Are feeling okay?" He glanced at her with his face tight with real concern. Megan did not answer him verbally at first. She unclasped her seat belt. While Ty scolded her for unbuckling, she picked up his pristine white cover by its glossy black bill. She turned around on the leather upholstered seat, reached over the seat back and gently placed his hat on the back seat. Then she turned back around to face the windshield and vaguely heard Ty tell her to buckle up. She scooted across the long car seat, the leather upholstery making muffled squeaks. She sidled up to him. He felt warm and solid, his suit jacket slightly rough on her bare arms. He stiffened both arms, his white-knuckled fingers gripping the steering wheel in the classic 10/2 driving grip. She rested her left palm on the blue wool covering his knee. With her head leaning on his shoulder, she said, "I'm fine now." "How many drinks did you have?" The tightness in his voice surprised her, almost as much as his question had. "Enough to be caught drooling at you," she said, "but not enough to throw you down on the patio in front of the band." With a mixture of mock and real irritation, she added, "Never you mind how many drinks I had." He slipped his arm from between their bodies. He wrapped it around her shoulder. "So you lost count," he stated. She raised her head to see a grin on his face. Maybe she really was sauced. "Just drive the car," she ordered. "Yes, Ma'am." His eyes sparkled. She moved her arm from his knee to across his chest, rested it between the brass buttons and high above his ribbons. He adjusted his arm around her. His callused hand felt rough but honest resting on her bare shoulder. With his voice tight, he asked, "Back to the hotel?" She snuggled tighter and curled her legs underneath her. "Straight to my room," she stated. "I'm pretty drunk, and you want to stay with me to be sure I'm okay." She nodded once in satisfaction at the plan. "Who's going to believe that?" "Anyone we tell. Don't worry. I won't be hanging off you like this. I'll be hanging on you a different way. I'll look a lot more blitzed. I seem to have a gift for that." "People will come back from the party to check on you." "Were you paying attention to that crowd? They'll be there for hours." Her mood shifted. Now that she would finally be leaving Goddard, she had a reason to stay. But, then again, he was a Marine during wartime. He would be shipping out soon. Protecting her and the other scientists more than likely was a waste of his skills. That he had more ribbons on his chest than the other members of his squadron was not lost upon her. The thought that he might be killed in the line of duty someday, maybe even soon, brought a lump to her throat. A few hours. That's all they would have. That was all she could be certain about. She sagged but curled up tighter, as if she could burrow into his chest. "What's wrong?" Ty's voice had gone tight, all business, again. "I can't stand it anymore." Her voice cracked. "Pull over." *** All McQueen could think about was the feel of her body pressed next to his and her perfume, which had taken on a musky fragrance. When she snuggled under his arm and draped her arm across his chest, his self control lurched. If he could drive them back to the hotel without crashing the car and killing them both, it would be a miracle. When she told him to pull over, he knew she didn't ask because she had to get out of the car to throw up. Her voice and breath had gone shallow. She stroked his face with her fingertips, leaving trails of fire. Sinking through his chest, the heat within him gathered force and strength. He watched the road ahead for a place to pull over. With his heart pounding, McQueen sharply twisted the steering wheel down a narrow road leading away from the river. Up ahead, he spotted a small clearing under a big tree draped in Spanish moss. He punched the accelerator which surged the car ahead, straight down the middle of the road. He skidded the car to a stop under the long, heavy tree limbs. Once he stopped the car and before he could shift gears to park it, she escalated her attack. Her swift, brief kisses dotting the side of his face heated up into light flicks of her tongue along his jawline and down his neck almost to the white edging of his collar. If he didn't touch her soon, he'd blow up. He hoped she wouldn't freak out because he was a tank. He stifled the little voice inside his head, his own voice remiding him, this is not a good idea. He tried to shake off the other familiar smug voice: she was very grateful. With the car parked, stopped and the brake on, he reached for her. More like grabbed her. A gasp escaped her as his open mouth smothered hers. Undeterred by his tank roughness, she wrapped her arms around him and clutched his face into hers. Matching his aggression, she returned his kiss, drawing up on her knees and shoving her way past the steering wheel. He pulled her close and tight. The steering wheel left them little room. He didn't care. The ribs on the left side of his rib cage protested as he shoved himself past the steering wheel it as he pushed her back down onto the seat. *** Sweet fire coursed through Megan as she pulled him down on top of her while she sank back onto the seat. She rumpled the hair on the back of his head and trailed her fingertips over the back of his neck, tracing over his neck navel. He inhaled sharply and shifted himself away by straightening his elbows. He gasped, "Too soon." She purred, "Then we start again." He held himself up with straightened arms. He asked as much as stated, "You don't know anything about tanks." "Teach me. I'm motivated." He looked down at her, his eyes tracing the length of her body and smiling in tender, almost regretful, appreciation. He turned away from her and said, "The seat's too small and my ribbons will scratch you." "Then lose the jacket." She reached up and ran her hand down his chest between the ribbons and the line of buttons. "Why are we talking again?" She bumped her hand over his belt and kept going toward the hem of his jacket. She felt the wool of his trousers and the hard bulge growing beneath her touch. "I'll unzip you first." "Is this how you did it with Capezzi? Beside the road?" The coldness in his voice quenched her heat fast. Her voice cracked as she said, "What? What are you talking about?" He sat up and shrugged his shoulders matter-of-factly. "Trade-off for target practice last night." He did not look at her. "Where did you get the idea I was with Capezzi? Did he tell you that?" Ty's mouth went tight, almost white around the lips. He started the car. "Did he say we -- ? Capezzi lied to you. Lied like the mangy. scurvy, rotten dog he is." Silently, Ty turned the big car back out onto the road. Fighting back tears, she sat back in her seat all the way down beside her door. With resignation and disbelief, she said, "And you believe him." She took a deep breath. She had not wanted to tell him what had happened. But she had caused this situation through her cussed determination to learn to shoot. "He did hit on me," she said as she stared into the Louisiana night. "He took advantage of any excuse to touch me. He stood behind me and put his hands over mine while I held the pistol to show me how to look down the barrel. Like I just fell off the watermelon truck. I told him 'no.' All I wanted to do was learn to shoot from him. Period. Had it been you teaching me to shoot, it would have been different. And maybe, in some way, I did ask Capezzi to teach me to rattle your cage. That was a stupid thing to do and I'm sorry. But I did learn to shoot. By the way, Bernard Thibodaux was kind enough to bring me back to town. Capezzi followed us. Alone. That's the truth." She looked at his face, staring out at the road. "You can believe Capezzi," she said in closing. "Or you can believe me." He finally spoke. "Why me? Why do you want to be with me?" He almost sounded sad, like a lonely child, instead of a ribbon-bedecked Marine. "Perfect example. How many men alone in a car driving through the countryside at night with a woman who's kissed him into a lather would ask that question? How many times do I have to tell you, Ty." A smile finally brightened his face. He lifted his right arm from the steering wheel and held it out so she could sit close to him. "I like it when you sit close to me. Let's go on to the hotel." *** Hotel off Canal Street New Orleans, LA 2053 McQueen tossed the car keys to the valet parking attendant before he and Megan replayed her drunk scene through the hotel lobby. This time, instead of Lt. Cmdr. Ross escorting her, McQueen carried her jacket and bag with one arm and encircled her shoulder with the other. They walked through the lobby to the elevator bank. In a husky purr only McQueen could hear, Megan suggested after the elevator doors closed, "We could make out in the elevator." "Wait til we get upstairs," he said into her hair. They stepped onto the elevator. "Where did you learn self-discipline?" she said. "The Marines?" "Yeah." He smiled. "A tank with self-discipline. Hard to believe." And that was another thing. Why had he stopped back in the car? Whether or not he would have been the next man after Capezzi shouldn't have mattered. It was just sex. No big deal. Then again, he also wanted to cause Megan to feel the kind of pleasure he had heard other Marines, including Capezzi, brag about giving women. Whenever Maroney wasn't around, the guys would sit in the wardroom while he was reading and shoot the breeze. They bragged about yelling, biting and breaking furniture. He never joined their conversations, nor did they invite him. Often, as he listened to them with his book open, he sometimes didn't turn a page for twenty minutes. Maroney had walked in unexpectedly once. She had smirked and shaken her head in amazement before saying, "You guys don't know jack shit about women." He had considered asking her what she meant, but was glad he didn't because none of the other guys did. He did know "the mechanics," as Capezzi had stated, but he relied upon occasional questions to untalkative hookers or research in the library for his supplemental information. He wanted Megan to be glad she had chosen him. He didn't know why that was important, but it was. Funny. He'd never felt that way before. And he wasn't sure he liked it. If he thought about it too much, he might change his mind. But his body had another agenda and had taken control. Up on Megan's floor, a police officer stood post between the elevator and the stairs. With the scientists at the party, a skeleton security crew manned the hotel. McQueen could see the exploitability of that situation for a terrorist, but he supposed all security plans had their gaps. The cop spoke. "Somebody let the good times roll all over her, eh?" McQueen turned sharply to flash the cop a glare. Pleased but outwardly impassive, he watched the color drain from cop's face. "Sorry, Marine," the cop said. "Didn't mean anything by that. But then, nobody comes to New Orleans to meditate. Know what I mean?" McQueen said, with his lips close to Megan's hair, loudly enough for the cop to hear, "Sorry, Dr. Connelly." He gently propped her against the wall, her bare shoulder pressed into the wallpaper, and strode back to the open-mouthed cop in three steps. In no uncertain terms, McQueen said, "Dr. Connelly has had a tough day. Protesters assaulted her before her presentation. So, if she wants to get loaded, it's her perogative. And it's my job to take care of her." The cop shrugged. "Sure. Semper fi, man." His lack of respect for the Marine motto angered McQueen. He searched the cop's eyes. They held no honor, no respect. Despite the police department uniform, McQueen did not trust the man. He wanted to slap some respect into him. Megan's hoarse whisper distracted him. "I need to get to a bathroom." The urgency in her voice made McQueen spin on his heels and rush toward her. He gently scooped his arm around her waist and led her down the hall. Next : Part Four Previous : Part One Rhonda Lane Last modified on: March 07, 2001 © 1996