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Author's Chapter Notes:
Transitioning World Yada Yada
November 9, 2003

"And so, knowing that G.T.S. is morally neutral, the question must be: how do we adapt to a world in which it exists? Can the Society continue to serve in the role we have thus far—a mercenary force that serves no nation directly, and is a law unto itself? I doubt it. As does the Society as a whole. On the other hand, does it make sense for the Society to disband, and ignore our duty to the world? I emphatically reject that—I could not in good conscience leave this battle to be fought by those without experience in fighting it."

--Sarah Kensington-Chelgren, testimony before the
Senate Subcomittee on Transformation Affairs,
May 19, 2004



◘ ◘ ◘

1

◘ ◘ ◘


Jessica Johnson was not a happy young woman; that much was clear in retrospect.

Had someone been more kind to her, more compassionate. Had they not been so prideful and vengeful….

But of course, we're getting ahead of the story.

The events of that cool November Sunday are remembered by everyone now, of course. But it's important to remember that it began as just another fall afternoon. The Bears were playing in Detroit in what would be a singularly unattractive game; people were starting to get ready for the holiday season as it edged ever-closer to Halloween. And in Glenview, Illinois, a young woman waited tables at a small family-style restaurant, and cursed the hand of fate that had brought her back here.

Jessica Johnson had never been made for suburban life. She was too bohemian, too urbane for it. Even living in a suburb of Chicago—which at least allowed one the opportunity to experience a real city now and again—chafed her greatly. She hadn't intended on moving back in with her parents at age twenty. Instead, she'd planned on being in college, working toward her degree, the usual stuff.

But last year—well, she hated even thinking about it. She'd gotten hooked up with Laura, and Laura was bad news. Beautiful, yes. Exciting, definitely. Great in bed, certainly.

Heavily into drugs? Absolutely.

Jessica had a bit of naiveté about her, despite the too-hip lesbian façade that she liked to evince. She hadn't hesitated to try the pot her girlfriend gave her, or the LSD, or the heroin. It was only after Laura OD'ed—a horrible thing, to find your girlfriend dead….

Jessica shuddered. Naturally, all the normal questions had been raised about both of them. Jessica got a ticket home from Evanston, an offer to come back after a year of drug counseling and time at the community college—but a strong hint that she'd be better off looking into programs at, say, Northern Illinois or Wisconsin-Milwaukee. Strictly thinking of her best interests, of course. Wouldn't want her coming back, stirring up bad memories.

So she'd returned home in disgrace, deep wounds that might never fully heal. Her mom was as supportive as she could safely be; her dad was the same asshole he'd always been, only worse. She'd taken the job and dropped out of school altogether. She would have enough saved up soon to rent a room in the city. She hoped desperately that the whispers in the back of her mind urging her to start up again would abate. She'd held them at bay for five months. She had to hold them at bay a bit longer. Just a bit.

"Garçon! Chop-chop!" came the call from a table in the corner. Jessica ran a hand absentmindedly through her short, unnaturally red hair, and wondered briefly whether to tell the people that they were referring to her completely wrong; a garçon is a boy, after all. But turning around to view her new table, Jessica's heart sank.

Them.

◘ ◘ ◘

There are those who claim that high school is the best time of your life.

They are in the extreme minority.

For most people, high school is at best something that must be endured, and at worst a Kafkaesque hell from which there can be no escape. And that's for people who are in the vast rabble of "normal" kids. For the truly unique, high school is an unending, unrelenting pool of darkness that only graduation can save them from.

Jessica had been unique. She was even then showing signs of being anything but a normal girl. And there's nothing worse than that. She didn't want the attention of Them—the popular crowd, the cool kids, the ones who would someday look back on high school as a high point—but she attracted it nevertheless. She was smart. She was unusual. She wasn't afraid of Them. So they did what they could to make her afraid.

The girls spread rumors, the boys told lies. It was what one did to members of the untouchable caste. And so for Jessica her last retreat—learning—became nothing of the sort. She was utterly alone.

And here they were, the central core of the group: Amber Godwin, the prettiest of the cheerleaders, and one of the most despicable people Jessica had ever met; Dan Peirson, who'd been a starting quarterback and shortstop and a pompous ass; Heather Lee, Beelzebub to Amber's Satan; and Ryan Steele, who had never done much in school other than drive his mom's Porsche, invite girls over to his dad's pool, and occasionally, just occasionally, rape unusual high school juniors.

Jessica swallowed hard. She thought she'd rather flay herself alive than serve this table.

But she needed the money. If she was ever going to get her life back on track, she had to keep this job.

And so she closed her eyes, walked to the table, and said, crisply, "Hello, may I take your order?"

"Well, if it isn't B.J.! What's up girl?" Heather flashed a terrible smile, and Jessica felt herself catapulted back in time for just a minute.

"Nothing, Heather. What do you want to drink?"

"Oh, we're still deciding. But you can run get us water. While we're waiting." Amber was still chopping her sentences into little bits; it had always annoyed Jessica. But she wouldn't show it; instead, she forced a smile, and mumbled that she'd be right back.

She gathered the waters, returned to the table, and passed them around. "Oh, look," said Amber, raising her glass. "There's something in my glass," she said, and tossed the water out, right at Jessica's shirt.

Jessica stood, stunned. "Are…are you insane?" she asked, her voice shaking with rage. "We're not fifteen anymore."

"Well, we didn't kill our dyke girlfriends, so that puts us ahead of you," said Dan, attracted like a shark to the smell of blood in the water.

"What's going on here? You four—get out of here. I saw you throwing water on her—what are you, six? Get!"

Anita Jones shooed the posse out of the restaurant. It was, in fact, her restaurant—had been ever since Leroy had passed on five years back. And she was damned if she was gonna let her staff get treated poorly.

"Ah, it doesn't matter," said Heather. "We'll go someplace that doesn't employ freaks."

"Well, wherever you go, they'll be servin' freaks, missy. Don't darken my door again—we don't serve your kind."

"What kind is that?"

"Spoiled bratty white girls. Now get the hell out of here, before I call the cops!"

The four walked out into the cool day, and Jessica mumbled an apology. Anita was just about the only friend she had.

"Don't worry 'bout it, sweetie. It's not your fault. Some people never grow up past fourteen. It's their problem. You—you've had to grow up farther and harder than most. Be proud of that. You'll be famous when they're still sittin' around, remembering that one day twenty years ago. Now, go clean up, finish serving table 18, and then you can go for the rest of the day."

Jessica went into the bathroom, and cried for a little while, and dabbed at her blouse until it was merely damp, washed her face and hands, and returned to the restaurant.

"I'm sorry for the delay," she said to the woman at the table. "Is there anything else I can get for you?"

The middle-aged woman ran a hand through her cinnamon-and-sugar hair and smiled. "Not at all, my dear. You've been very helpful. Here," she said, setting a payment down in cash, with a generous tip included. "And this," she said, "is for you."

She handed Jessica a coin unlike any she'd ever seen. It was small and silver, a portrait of a Greek goddess in the center. "Η ΕΝΩΣΗ ΑΘΗΝΑΣ" wrapped around the portrait, and on the obverse, a pentagram inscribed in a circle, with the equally cryptic notation "ΓΙΑ ΤΗΝ ΥΠΕΡΑΣΠΙΣΗ ΟΛΩΝ ΤΩΝ ΓΥΝΑΙΚΩΝ, 1967."

"What is this?" she asked the woman.

"Good luck," the woman replied. "I think you need it."

The woman left the restaurant, and after Jessica cashed out and bade Anita farewell, she did the same.


◘ ◘ ◘

The battered old Corolla wound its way through the streets to a nicely-maintained blue split-level with a two-car garage and a driveway that was just showing signs of needing repair. Jessica piloted the car to its destination with a weary resignation; she had no interest in seeing her family right now. She just wanted to run away. But she knew that wasn't a possibility for her.

She pushed the garage door opener and headed inside, hoping she could make it to her room without attracting attention. Really, she often thought that she'd be happiest just to vanish into thin air. But it had been a long time since Jessica had a wish granted.

"Home early, ain't ya?" The gruff voice of her father startled Jessica momentarily.

"Yeah, Anita gave me the rest of the day off. It was pretty slow."

"Hmmpf. You're never going to get anywhere leaving early, Jessica. If you're going to get anywhere, you're going to have to earn it."

Jessica looked at the man, the hatred burning inside her. But she had no choice but to stifle it, as she had for most of her life. "I know," she said, casting her eyes downward.

He continued speaking, but her mind wandered back to a place it had hidden long ago. She had been two, maybe three years old. She'd walked in on her parents.

It happens. Most people have the decency to quickly pull the covers up, to make up a quick excuse, to distract the child while things are put back to normal. If done well, the child never realizes that anything odd has happened.

Jessica's mom had started to do just that. But her father had stopped her.

"No," he'd said. "This might be funny."

She remembered feeling frightened in a way she'd never been before. A deep feeling that what was happening was intrinsically wrong. Odd, that she'd known it to be wrong even then.

The bile rose in her as she remembered what had come next, that night and secretly over the next decade. As her father continued his monologue about responsibility, Jessica knew that he could not possibly believe it; after all, he bore a direct responsibility for who she'd become. And for all his pontificating about honesty, she knew if she confronted him now about all the times he'd raped and molested her he'd simply deny they'd happened, pass them off as a figment of her drug-addled mind. He'd never admit his guilt, not even as she could see it in the shifting of his feet, the slight hang of his head.

She got through the conversation the way she always did, with enough "uh-huhs" and "I sees" to make it appear she was listening. Then, finally released by the end of halftime, she walked up the stairs to her room and shut the door.

She looked at herself in the mirror, and frowned. She hated what he'd made her into, hated that the only emotions she ever seemed to feel anymore were hatred and despair. She ran a comb through her hair idly, and pulled the coin out of her pocket.

She looked at the picture in the center, and found herself beguiled by the image. It was feminine to be sure, but the woman wore a helmet, as if ready for battle.

"An ancient lesbian," she mused gently, turning the coin over and over. "Well, unless this is made out of solid gold, this isn't going to bring me the kind of luck I need."

She sighed. "If only I could just once—just once—have some power, have ground to stand on, have the upper hand."

She felt the coin in her hand suddenly begin to warm, ever-so-slightly. And a voice in her head said, Go.

She felt her legs move unbidden, felt herself open the door. She walked down the stairs as if in a dream, and found herself in her car driving down the road toward Osco for reasons she could not quite identify.

She pulled into the parking lot, and got out of the car. Here, said the voice.

Jessica looked around the half-empty parking lot and spied Them immediately, hanging on each others' words like they cared. They looked up at her, and all four sneered at the opportunity. "Why here?" she muttered at the voice, which had gone silent.

She looked down at her hand, at the slowly warming coin. "I'm losing it," she muttered, and started to drop the coin.

Now, said the voice, and suddenly the coin was blazing hot, hot as hell, hot as the sun.

Jessica cried out at the pain, as it suddenly began to creep up her arm. It felt like she'd been set ablaze.

She looked at the four again, sure that they'd be laughing at her anguish.

They were not. Instead, their faces betrayed a look they never had before: fear.

The fire now had engulfed her arm and was spreading across her torso. She felt the wind rush by her, felt the fire flow into her lungs, through her body. She closed her eyes against the fire, against the feeling as it reached the tips of her toes and the end of the hairs on her head. She felt the fire consume her, and suddenly, felt her soul singing with glee.

And then, as quickly as the pain had hit her it dissipated. The coin fell from her hand.

It landed with a crash far below her.

She opened her eyes, and looked at the world anew. It was a tiny place, this new world, smaller indeed than she'd deemed possible.

She was like that girl in Madison, the giant.

The thought rolled around her head, careening off of every center of her mind. And she began to laugh, joyously.

She looked down at the tiny, four-inch-tall-foursome, who were trying to get away. Dropping to her knees, she surrounded them with her arms. She laughed as the girls began to scream.

"Where are you going?" Jessica asked, a vicious smile spread across her face. "We've got a lot of catching up to do."

◘ ◘ ◘

2

◘ ◘ ◘

Six minutes later, at an Air National Guard base in central Wisconsin, a nervous reserve lieutenant burst into a briefing room. "Sir! There's a giantess outside of Chicago!"

Lieutenant General Mitchell J. "Mitch" Michaelson looked up at the man intruding into what was a private meeting with Col. Chad Stevens and Brigadier General Julie Sweeney. But Michaelson had always been a pragmatic sort; he simply fixed the lieutenant—Whitehead, if his memory served—and said, "Well, what's the situation?"

"She just appeared, sir," the young officer (his name was, in fact, Chris Whitehead) replied. "Within the last five minutes. She's in a shopping center parking lot. She has…uh…four hostages."

Michaelson leaned back in his chair, and furrowed his brow. "Police on the scene?"

"No, sir, at least not yet—it's pandemonium there, sir. I thought, based on your, uh—"

"Yes, yes, lieutenant, this is something that the AGJTF would definitely be involved in. Alert A Squad, lieutenant; we're going live."

The lieutenant left, and Sweeney looked angrily at Michaelson. "Mitch, we're not ready yet! A Squad has barely three weeks of training here. We need to leave this to the local authorities—at least unless things get worse."

"No, General, I think you're wrong. And so does the SecDef. We need to corral this one before she destroys anything—not least because we need to prove that the United States Government is capable of handling matters—rather than farming it out to a bunch of two-bit vigilantes. Col. Stevens—we'll need to bring the miniaturizer."

"Damn it, now you've lost it! That thing's never worked!"

"Correction—it worked once, General."

"Yes, yes, your vaunted 'accident.' If you'd ever replicated the experiment—or heck, if the poor unfortunate had stuck around to verify—then I'd be impressed. But that thing doesn't work. We're relying on conventional weaponry."

"So be it," said Michaelson. "General, my orders come from the SecDef himself. I can show them to you if you want. You have a choice. Come with us, under my command, or remain here. But I'm not going to bring you with if you're going to continue your insubordination."

"I'm not a Marine gunny, General. But don't worry. I'll be appropriately deferential."

"Good," said Mitch. "Col. Stevens, assemble the men. I want those planes en route in ten minutes. We need to get to Illinois before they do."

"Who's that, sir?"

"The damned Society, that's who. Move out."

◘ ◘ ◘

Jessica scanned the parking lot, her eyes darting left and right. She didn't know what her next move was, but she knew damn well that at the very least, she was finally getting a bit of respect.

She looked at the four whimpering in her hands, and she smiled a bit. "So, boys and girls, comfy? Anything I can get you? Water, perhaps?"

Her smile widened as Amber burst into tears; widened wider as Ryan joined her.

"Sucks, doesn't it? The terror. The sheer, primal fear. The twist in your gut that never goes away. You four made me feel this way every day. I want you to feel what I felt kids.

"So Ryan? Which car is yours?"

"B—black L-L-Lexus."

She scanned the toy cars until she saw a likely candidate parked across two places. "This one?" she asked, showing the tiny man his vehicle.

"Y-y-y-y…."

"Don't strain yourself. Never mind, yours or not, it's junk now."

She brought down her immense, booted foot onto the car, enjoying the feeling as it exploded beneath her step. The car alarm activating, causing her to laugh out loud. "That's not going to help!" she roared, delirious with power.

"Please, Jessica, stop! We're sorry. We never should've—"

"What, Amber? You're not sorry. You were pouring water on me this morning. You're scared shitless, that's what you are.

"Prepare to be more frightened than you ever have before." With that, Jessica pulled Amber out of the crowd of people, opened up her mouth, and dropped her in.

◘ ◘ ◘

"We need to get this situation under control quickly. What do you think the best way to approach is?"

The young woman focused intently on the words of her teacher. "Master, I believe the best way is a straight frontal approach."

"Interesting. Explain."

"Well, the woman has been toying with her subjects, but she hasn't attacked anyone else yet. She may still listen to reason. If not, we'll be able to make a quick read and hopefully reduce her before she can do any more damage."

"But what if she becomes violent? What then?"

"Then we shrink her—and quickly."

"And what of the hostages?"

The woman furrowed her brow. "I believe that we need to transport them at the earliest possibility. We may need a distraction. A frontal approach would provide the opportunity for both."

The man in the driver's seat nodded as he weaved through traffic. "I concur, Deputy Garcia. You are showing excellent progress in tactical awareness."

"Thank you, Master Adept Chelgren."

Scott weaved the rental car through the police blockade without concern; it was luck that had them in Illinois on that particular day. He had been training a group of Deputies in transformation spells. The meeting had broken up, and he was working with Ana Garcia, one of the students he had been mentoring directly, when the word came down.

"When we approach, I want you to be in the lead, but wait for my signal; I suspect a woman may have a better chance of gaining this particular titaness' attention. I want you to approach her."

"Standard offer?"

Scott smiled. The "standard offer" when nobody had been seriously hurt was to repay any damages and to offer to "rehabilitate" the offender. Of course, most of the time "rehabilitation" meant training in GTS—which meant more Deputies like Ana. Which they needed, desperately.

Things had been busy for the Society. Scott thought back to a conversation in a bar with a dear friend, and almost chuckled; if anything, he'd been optimistic.

"All right," said Scott, as they reached the parking lot and a sea of police cars, "let's get this show on the road."

They got out, and Scott looked for the officer in charge on the scene. He'd done this a few times; they were usually relieved to see him. This time was no different. A gruff, no-nonsense officer approached Scott, eyeing the silver triangle in his lapel. "You're one of those Society guys, right? Can you help with this?"

"Of course, officer…."

"Wojokowski. Hell of a day, huh chief?"

"Eh, it got me out of watching the Vikes get destroyed by the Chargers. Tell me, what's the situation?"

"Well, we've got the…what the hell is that?"

The air suddenly grew loud with the roar of engines. Above, a veritable sea of airplanes and paratroopers began to rain down.

"Master?"

"Patience, Ana. Patience."

Scott looked up and shook his head. This was not a good development.

◘ ◘ ◘

Amber writhed against the tongue, trying to fight it off with every fiber of her being. She was crying, sobbing, afraid that at any second, Jessica would bite down, or swallow her and pull her into the depths of her gullet. Suddenly she felt the suction. She screamed as she felt herself moving back toward the back of the throat. "No, Jessica! Please, no! I'm sorry! I'll do anything! Anything!"

Abruptly, she felt herself sliding backwards, and then felt herself falling and impacting a hard surface. "Oh, Amber, I wouldn't kill you. Not yet. Not without putting you through hell first."

Amber fell back limply, covered in the spit of a giantess. She was profoundly grateful for the respite, no matter what Jessica's words.

Suddenly, the roar reached her; it was obvious that the army had arrived.

"Well well," said Jessica, "it looks like there's going to be a bit of an audience."

"That's the Army, you bitch!" shouted Ryan, still steaming about the loss of his car. Almost calmly, Jessica turned to him, placed his left leg between her thumb and forefinger, and snapped it.

Ryan screamed out in pain, as Jessica looked down on him, rage in her eyes. "That pain, Ryan. No fun, is it? Of course, that's hardly payback, Ryan.

"I seem to remember you forcing me to give you a blowjob, wasn't that right, Ryan? Putting that knife to my neck, promising you wouldn't kill me if I'd pleasure you. Right?"

The man writhed in pain, crying and nodding as the giantess looked down at her one-time tormenter. "Should I give you a blowjob now, Ryan? 'Cause I'd probably rip the thing off. Not intentionally, of course. But it's so small…at least, it was when last I saw it."

She looked at the massing army. She wondered what to do. She figured she'd give herself up shortly; it wasn't like she wanted to be big. Maybe they'd help her shrink.

At least she'd had a bit of revenge. She'd play for a bit longer, make them afraid, and then, satisfied, she'd give 'em up.

Patiently, she waited for them to address her.

◘ ◘ ◘

3

◘ ◘ ◘

"You can't be serious, General."

"Who is this? Is she for real?" Mitch Michaelson was still on a high from the jump, and he was ready to go charging in. He didn't need some do-gooder female telling him what to do.

"Ana, patience. General Michaelson, with all due respect, this is something I've got some experience with. We can handle this without troubling the military."

"You're that Chelgren, right? Married to one of 'em? I don't like you. I don't trust you. And the President himself has greenlighted this operation."

Scott bristled, but maintained his composure. "General, I myself am one of 'them.' And my apprentice and I are quite prepared to take this on."

"Tough. Colonel, move the men into position."

"General, please!"

Michaleson looked at Garcia disdainfully. "MPs, if either of these two breaks the perimeter, shoot them dead. That's an order."

"It won't come to that," said Scott, turning and pulling the young deputy back behind the police.

"Master, what do we do now? We could easily shrink the army, and then take care of the giantess."

"I know, Ana, I know. But we are not vigilantes. We work with the government, not against it. If General Michaelson wants to exclude us from this proceeding, then we will patiently wait."

Ana frowned. "Wait for what, Master?"

Scott sighed. "We will wait until things go badly. And then we will act."

◘ ◘ ◘

"All right," said the General to nobody in particular. "Who said they had the giantess' parents?"

"That'd be me, General," said a slight police officer, bringing Jessica's parents to the fore.

"Right. You—you're her dad. Here's a megaphone. Go tell her to quit this."

"Uh, General, I—"

"Go!" thundered the brick of a man, pointing at Ray Johnson's daughter. Ray dejectedly approached the titanic figure of his daughter, stepping tremulously ahead of the leading row of soldiers.

"Uh, Jessica," he called out, the megaphone echoing in the empty space of the parking lot, "it's me. I, uh, I don't want you to get hurt. Please put those people down and step away from them."

Jessica looked up at the speech, and saw her father standing on the ground, unprotected.

She did set her four prisoners down.

General Michaelson smiled. They'd have victory without firing a shot.

Jessica advanced quickly on her father—and suddenly, Michaelson's jaw dropped.

The titaness seized him with the vicious ferocity of a hawk, and lifted him to her face. "I'll surrender," came the voice, quavering even at its enhanced volume, "but first, you need to do something for me."

Ray looked into the face of his daughter, the girl he loved, the girl he hated, and shook. Because he knew, he knew what she would ask.

And she knew he knew.

"Tell them what you've done, Dad." The voice shook, the echo of a cry in it. "Tell them what you did to me!"

"I, uh, I…."

"TELL THEM!"

"I molested you."

"INTO THE MEGAPHONE, DIPSHIT!"

"I molested my daughter!" he called out, loud and clear, over the hush.

An audible gasp went up from the onlookers. Suddenly the immense and scary figure before them became what she was—a scared and vulnerable woman, feeling power that she'd been denied her whole life.

And that's when the shot rang out.

A military tribunal would later largely clear the corporal—a scared, shaky eighteen-year-old with inadequate training and a missile launcher on his shoulder. They'd find, rightly, that he hadn't intended to fire his weapon; that it discharged because he had failed to secure the safety properly.

The result, of course, was the same as if he'd fired it in anger; the missile shot forth into Jessica's shin, and she howled in pain as it broke the skin.

Physics worked a little differently now; the effect was something slightly worse than being shot with a bb gun. But the pain was significant, and perhaps that was why Jessica howled, righted herself, and with one fluid motion launched her father as far as she could possibly throw him.

In the few moments left in his life, Ray reflected that he'd taught his daughter to throw a softball one summer afternoon, then raped her the same night.

He prayed that God was merciful.

As he neared the ground, he revised his prayer. He was going to Hell for what he'd done. He prayed that God have mercy on his daughter.

He had given her a terrible father; He owed her that much.

Jessica, for her part, was no longer tracking the pathetic figure. Instead, she had turned her focus on defending herself. She sprinted back toward her for hostages. She couldn't hear Mitch Michaelson shouting the command to attack, but she felt the sting of bullets and rockets on her back, just as she approached the huddling four. She lost her balance and fell on top of them, crushing them instantly.

She rolled over, moaning. "You bastards," she groaned, as she peeled the remains of Amber, Ryan, Heather, and Dan off of her stomach. "I wasn't going to kill them.

"But I—will—kill—YOU!" she thundered, as she rose and sprinted into the oncoming hail of bullets. She reached the tanks first, lifting one up and throwing it down upon one of the others; the resulting explosion told her that it was a good line of attack.

Mitch Michaelson's face had fallen. "Retreat! Retreat!" called Col. Stevens, "Fall back and regroup!"

General Sweeney had enough. "Belay that order!" she barked. She turned into the chaos and walked toward the other points of calm. "Mister Chelgren, would you and your apprentice be so kind as to assist?"

"Of course, General," said Scott stepping toward her. "Come, Deputy Garcia. General, can you order a cease-fire?"

"Cease-fire! Fall back and cease fire, damn it!"

Scott and Ana approached Jessica, who was facing the troops, momentarily puzzled. The two stepped out, and Ana approached the heaving, bleeding figure.

"Jessica, I know that this situation has gotten out of control," said Ana, calmly. "But I also heard what you said—we all did. We know you didn't want to hurt anybody. We can help you."

Jessica looked at the miniature girl at her feet, and began to cry. "I just—I just wanted to scare them."

"I know. We can help you. If you'll let us, we'll shrink you down and help you."

"They'll kill me," said Jessica, pointing to the military.

"No, they won't," said Ana. "They can't. They already tried. And we will protect you. You'll have to pay your due for what you've done, but we'll help you with that."

Scott nodded. He knew somewhere that Sarah was already on the phone about possible defenses; he felt sure that self-defense would have to figure into it.

Jessica looked at the tiny figures, and closed her eyes. "Okay," she said, a simple, eternal surrender.

Ana looked back at the Master Adept, and nodded. Together, they raised their hands and called out the shrink spell that would restore Jessica.

The giantess began to shrink. Slowly, deliberately, she was reduced to Brobdingnagian, then immense, then merely Amazonian.

It was at this point the last shot was fired.

It struck Jessica in the heart. She opened her eyes, shocked. She didn't want to look down, didn't want to see what she knew was a mortal wound.

She fell backward onto the ground, her mind already slipping away. I'm here, love, came the voice.

"Laura?" murmured Jessica.

I'm here.

And Jessica Johnson died.

Scott Chelgren looked on the scene, aghast. He turned back toward the assembled military, and saw the same look on their faces.

"Who? Who fired?"

"I did," said a figure coming out of a tank. Gen. Michaelson straightened his shirt, and said, "I'm the one who killed that bitch. She took out fourteen of my men. Protection, my ass."

Scott looked back at the girl, frozen at nine feet tall; he walked to her and closed her eyes. Then, he looked at his apprentice, and said, simply, "Come on, Ana. We're going."

The two members of the Society strode through the throng, breezing by a three-star who was trying in vain to find someone to celebrate with. As they passed, Ana said, simply, "General Michaelson, you failed today."

"Bullshit, missy. I won today."

"Actually," said General Stevens, "I concur with her. Fall out," she called, and the unit slowly began to disperse.

"I'm sorry, Master," said Ana, looking at Scott. "I shouldn't have said that."

"I would have called him a cocksucking asshole. So it's better you spoke," said Scott, smiling sadly. "Ana, you're going to get a field promotion to Defender. You proved yourself today."

"Master?"

"Call me Scott. You've earned the promotion."

"But…Scott…we failed too."

"I know," said Scott, looking back on the fallen figure in the parking lot. "But we failed for the right reasons. We failed because we showed deference. That was right. Next time, we won't be hindered.

"But that doesn't mean that we didn't fail. We did." He slumped a bit. "And that never feels good."

After a few moments, Scott spotted the minicam swarm. "Come on," he said. "No time to give a statement like the present."

"Scott?"

"I'm going to teach you a lesson in media relations, Ana. Watch and learn."

◘ ◘ ◘

It was, of course, the story of the day.

People saw what they wanted to see. Certainly, the statement from Scott Chelgren that the initial action by the military was seriously flawed carried some weight; so did the deaths of fourteen servicemen; so did the revelation of molestation; so did everything. It was a day with few heroes.

Save one.

Mitch Michaelson reached the temporary barracks whistling a happy tune. Whatever that idiot Chelgren had said, he knew he'd done himself proud. He'd be polishing a fourth star soon enough; then, once he had his Giantess Killers up and running, the sky was the limit. Chairman of the Joint Chiefs? Senator? President? He felt sure that he'd secured that path.

"General, there's a call for you," said a sergeant.

"Not now, sarge."

"It's the Secretary of Defense."

Michaelson beamed. "I'll take it here," he said, grabbing the phone. "Hello? Yes Mr. Secretary. Yes, I sure did. Yes, I did. No sir. No, I didn't think. I, uh—"

Suddenly, Michaelson grew very silent. His face fell. Finally, he stammered "Yes, yes sir."

He hung up the phone, and considered his orders. He was to be recalled to Washington—immediately.

He ran a finger over his third star. He felt a tear form in his eye. Because if the Secretary of Defense was telling the truth, it wouldn't be on his shoulder for long.

◘ ◘ ◘

The Society clean-up group went over the parking lot; it was standard procedure now. Ronnie Ceres was heading the investigation. It was her first foray into active duty since she'd been almost killed in Madison; she leaned a bit on her cane and directed the young recruits and enlisted troopers.

"Master! I think I've found something!"

"Coming," she said, limping toward the young woman. She was holding a huge hubcap of some sort, with a design that—

Ronnie gasped. "Oh, no," she said, suddenly recognizing the object, an object that had once been a coin. A coin bearing the Great Seal of the Athena League.

It could only mean one thing.

Leah Jackson was still alive.
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