DISCLAIMER: In accordance with international copyright law and all that fun stuff, "XENA: Warrior Princess" is the exclusive property of Renaissance Pictures and Studios USA, Rob Tapert & the rest of that wonderful bunch of visionaries & crazies. The following story was written strictly for fun & enjoyment, and not for profit. I ain’t gettin’ a dime from this; nor would I accept one if offered. I’m just a fan who loves the show, and this is my humble way of attempting to pay tribute to it.

If you'd like to tell Lykos what you thought of the story, feel free at il_stregone@juno.com .There is also some violence and rude words...but not much!

Her bedside alarm clock buzzed insistently, shattering her dream and demanding attention. With a sigh and a groan, and with her eyes still shut, she rolled onto her other side and smacked the snooze button with one palm, knocking over an empty water glass and sweeping a box of tissues and a Dean Koontz paperback novel to the floor in the process. She opened one bleary green eye and gazed coldly at the soft green digital readout as the last tattered remnant of her dream faded away. Five-thirty AM. Slowly, she rolled onto her back once more and groaned again. She’d been having that dream again; the one about the tall woman with the black hair and the piercing blue eyes, who seemed so important to her. A friend? Sister? Whenever she thought of this dream-person, she always felt so safe and warm and peaceful, like sitting comfortably in front of a warm and crackling fire on a cold winter’s night. This figment of her imagination felt like...home. She also remembered the golden palomino that the woman rode, and something about swinging a fighting staff. And there was something about...a frisbee? What the hell was that about?

Dreams, she thought, smiling to herself and wishing that she could slip back into its warm embrace. Why do they have to be so weird?
She believed very strongly in the power of dreams. Without them, there was no hope.
The automatic coffee machine had already switched itself on, and was gurgling gently as boiling water began to drip and stream through the rich, dark, French vanilla grounds and into a black "X-Files" mug. It wasn’t long before the entire studio apartment was filled with the invigorating aroma of freshly brewed coffee.
She rose up on her elbows and yawned with a long, mild squeak in her voice, switched on the fluorescent bedside lamp, then peeled back the covers and swung her bare legs out of bed. Dressed in khaki boxer shorts and a matching tank top, she sat on the edge of the bed for a moment with her head in her hands and her honey-blonde, sleep-tousled hair hanging about her face and shoulders. Slowly, she rose from the full-sized platform bed and made her way across the apartment and over to the stereo. She punched on the receiver, the compact disk player, and dropped in a cd. The machine whirred softly for a moment as the carousel spun to position it, then she hit "shuffle" and turned up the volume. A moment later, John Mellencamp nearly blasted from the high-quality bookshelf speakers as he began singing about life in a small town.
After going into the bathroom to brush her teeth and tie her hair into a pony tail, she went to the coffee machine and hefted the cup, took a sip (strong, black, no sugar), then carried it over to the weight machine. With one more sip before lying on the black, padded bench, she took a couple of deep breaths, then began pressing a hundred pounds worth of flat, steel weights, straining to keep in time with the music. She was just beginning to work up a good sweat when the phone rang.
She eased the weights down with a clank! and turned down the volume on the stereo with the remote control, and rose to answer the phone. She picked up the cordless receiver. "Yeah?"
"Rise and shine, Tex," said the cheery voice on the other end. "And how are we this morning?"
No one had a right to be this cheery in the morning, she believed. "I’ll rise," Lieutenant Commander Linda Gabriel replied, "but I refuse to shine. I haven’t had my workout or my morning coffee yet; how do you think I am?"
She could hear the smile in his voice as he responded. "Just reminding you of the bet you lost last night, and that you get to take over my morning rounds."
"I didn’t forget, Brad," she replied. Unlike some people I know, she added silently and disparagingly. "I’ll be there, don’t worry. I just need a shower and a quick stop at the bank. Oh, hey, listen. Maybe you can answer a question for me."
"Fire away."
"Why is it that people hate like hell to get up so early in the morning to go to work, but are happier’n hell to get up even earlier to go play golf?"
"It’s the only way to be first in line to tee-off."
She scowled in bewilderment at the phone. His logic, at its best, was impaired. Much like the rest of his personality, she thought. "And on the DMV license renewal test, when they ask when’s the proper time to turn on your headlights, do you also answer ‘When everyone else does’?"
Not being able to come up with a good response, he dodged the question. "You have a nice day." The receiver clicked.
"You too, jerk," she muttered to the silent phone. She went back to finish her workout.

He regarded the prisoner with a look and a snort of cold distaste. "Americans," he said. "It seems that just about anyone can be a soldier in the American army these days. It must be a sign of their ‘political correctness.’ Our leader Saddam Hussein would never allow such utter nonsense."
Dressed in desert camouflage fatigue pants and a matching tank top, the prisoner hung from manacled chains that were looped over a steel hook, which hung from a chain that had been tossed over a wooden beam that ran across the ceiling. The prisoner’s bare feet hung maybe a foot from the floor.
The jailer approached the prisoner. "What do you have to say, American pig?" he asked in a low, contemptuous voice.
The prisoner’s head raised slightly, and piercing, deadly blue eyes gazed at him from beneath sweat-matted black bangs. "I am not...a ‘soldier’...you dumb fucking smeg-head," she growled as she bared her even, white teeth in a defiant snarl. "I’m a Marine."

Flashback:
Captain Tom Cooper had been observing the maintenance that the helicopter’s pilot was performing on the weapons system while Melissa Etheridge’s "All American Girl" blasted throughout the aircraft hanger. Cooper was a good chopper mechanic, but he believed there was always something new to learn--and he wanted to learn from the best, who, at the moment, happened to be inside the government’s latest secret prototype combat helicopter. Its code-name was Ares. Long, sleek and black, and one of the deadliest air machines ever created, it positively exuded sinister elegance; the very sight of it inspired absolute awe in its allies, and blood-chilling terror in its enemies. It was easy to understand why it had been named after the ancient Greek god of war.
Tucking a ratchet and a screwdriver into one of numerous pockets, the pilot addressed the keyboard in the engineer’s seat and gazed at it with piercing blue eyes. "Okay," she said as she settled comfortably into the seat. Cooper crouched in the open hatch, watching over her shoulder. "Let’s see if we did this right." If she were killed or incapacitated, there would be little she could do to stop someone from flying this machine; the controls were too similar to those of any other helicopter. But locking out the weapons system, and therefore minimizing the damage this machine could cause, was another matter. She could deny weapons’ access to anyone who managed to commandeer Ares. She had been spending the last two hours doing precisely that by redesigning and rebuilding the electronics behind the weapons, and re-programming the onboard computer.
She quickly typed in her personal password and hit "enter." Something on the console beeped five times, and on the black screen that was set into the console the words "weapons systems activated" blinked in angry red letters, which were quickly replaced by a computer-generated icon. Using the directional arrow keys on the right side of the keyboard, she ran a green light-bar up and down the on-screen list of weapons that had suddenly appeared beneath it.
She grinned like a black wolf. "Cool," she purred.
"What is that thing, anyway?" Cooper asked. He remembered seeing one painted on each hatch, standing out in stark contrast against the blackness of the aircraft’s metallic skin.
"I don’t know," replied Major Gina Di Falcone. "It’s just something I saw in a dream one night, and I wanted to personalize this thing a little." She regarded him with a dazzling white grin. "I thought it looked kinda neat." And then, with one eyebrow raised melodramatically, she added, "Maybe there’s some mystical significance to it."
She didn’t go into the part about the woman who was constantly in that dream; the young, high-spirited blonde who always made her feel so warm and comforted...so loved. Nor did she mention anything about the echoing, repeating, and dire warning of, "Gabrielle! Look out!!" that always jolted her out of her sleep, drenched in cold sweat and with a frantically pounding heart. On the one hand, she wanted to push the dream out of her mind so she could concentrate on her job; on the other, she wanted very much to remember the warm and comforting feelings that always seemed to be associated with her–whoever this imaginary person might be. If she could just sleep in a little later, she thought, she might remember her, and perhaps even conquer those dark and threatening forces that always seemed to endanger them, and ultimately jolted her awake.
She believed very strongly in the power of dreams. Without them, there was no hope.
Returning her attention to the job at hand, she wiped the sweat from her brow with one sleeve of her coveralls, brushing aside black bangs that flopped back into place.
"You believe in dreams?" Cooper asked. "I mean, that they really mean something other than the subconscious being at play while the body is catching some z’s?"
"Could be," she replied as she deactivated the weapons systems and began to tuck the wiring back in before closing up the circuit boards and screwing the small panels shut. "It’s not like I’ve ever done any deep research in dream analysis or REM states, but I just get a feeling sometimes..."
She couldn’t remember how long ago that was. It was difficult to remember anything right now. But she did remember that Coop was dead now, shot point-blank in the back of the head by the enemy. He hadn’t been able to make it back to the Ares with her, not with his shattered ankle, and she had sworn that she wouldn’t leave him behind-–no matter how much he had pleaded with her to get to the helicopter and get the hell out of here. Their mission had been completed; it was up to her to get back to base with the intel that they had gathered.
"No way," she had told him. "No fuckin’ way I’m leaving you behind." That was when the second squad of Saddam Hussein’s "elite guards" had come up on them from the south and found them hiding from the first squad behind the sand dune. Cooper had been unable to march back to the bunker, and none of the Iraqis was willing to help him...so they had shot him instead.
And it’s my fault, she thought. The original plan had been to perform high-altitude surveillance; snap some pictures and then go home. Tom wanted to do a high-altitude surveillance, but no–I had to bring us down here and go in on foot for a closer look.
But the intelligence they had gathered... It was the only way they could have obtained it, and now that she knew what the enemy was building she had to escape. It was the only way she could prevent World War III, and quite possibly save the world from nuclear Armageddon.
She was battered and bruised, and on the brink of complete exhaustion. And hanging here in these chains didn’t help matters any. She sighed and groaned, and tilted her head back to ease the strain on the back of her neck. When I get out of this, she thought as her guard returned to his chair and table once more, someone is going to pay big time!

Khakis were the uniform of the day for the officers, so Linda was dressed appropriately as she stood in line at the bank, tapping one foot in mild impatience as she glanced at her watch again. There were a lot of military personnel here; the naval air station was nearby, and it provided a vast number of customers.
"Nobody move!" someone suddenly shouted. "This is a holdup!"
What!? Linda thought, more in disbelief than in dismay, as she turned toward the source of the voice. You’ve got to be kidding me! I don’t have time for this!
Suddenly there were the sounds of a scuffle, and then a gunshot rang out. Civilians screamed everywhere; some of them dropped to the floor to avoid being shot while others panicked like a flock of pigeons, running pell-mell without a thought as to where they ought to be going. The military people kept their heads and raised their hands, and wished they’d had their weapons; they would have made short work of this brainless thief.
A second shot rang out as Linda pinpointed the origin of the scuffle. A Marine Corps gunnery sergeant, dressed in jungle camouflage fatigues, had been grappling with the would-be robber. The robber was now down on the floor with half of his head blown away by his own gun while the Marine was falling to join him with a bullet in his abdomen.
Sailors and fellow Marines swarmed in to see if they could help him.
"Out of my way!" Linda yelled as she pushed her way through the gathering crowd. "Get out of my way! Medical personnel coming through here!" They parted like a sea of khaki and forest camouflage, granting her access, and she quickly assessed his injury. One round, probably a .38 or a 9mm, in his spleen. Great, she thought sarcastically as she pressed her handkerchief against his wound in an effort to slow, if not stop, the bleeding. Just terrific. Dumb-ass gun control laws sure kept that miscreant bastard disarmed, didn’t they? While honest people can’t-- She pushed the thoughts out of her mind. Right now, she needed to concentrate on saving this man’s life.
"What’s his status?" asked a Naval officer who was suddenly crouching next to them. Linda spotted the silver wings of a captain on the points of his collar. "Gunshot wound, upper belly." She glanced around the gathering crowd. "Anybody got a bandanna?"
A dozen or so suddenly appeared from the surrounding contingent of sailors and marines. She took several, and without removing her handkerchief she pressed them, one at a time as needed, against the wound. The coagulating blood that soaked into several layers of cotton material helped to slow the bleeding, but did not stop it.
The captain turned to one of the men next to him. "Get to a phone and call 911, seaman."
"Nine-one-one?" Linda glared incredulously at the captain. "And hope they arrive in time? Are you nuts??" Ignoring the senior officer’s sudden disapproving frown, she turned her eyes to the enlisted man who was crouching next to him. "You his driver?" She indicated the captain with a sideways motion of her head.
"Yes ma’am."
"Good. Bring his car up to the front door. We don’t have time to wait for an ambulance; we need immediate transport."
"Yes ma’am!"
The captain scowled at her, but she didn’t care. "You--" She turned to a young ensign who stood next to her, and fished out her cellular telephone from one pocket of her uniform blouse. Bright streaks of red smeared against the beige material. "Call the base and tell them to fire up an OR, we’ve got a wounded man on the way."
"Yes ma’am!" Immediately, he flipped it open and dialed rapidly.
The captain’s scowl deepened. He didn’t like the way this mere woman–this youngster who didn’t look a day over twenty-seven–was taking control of the situation. After all, he was the captain here; it was his job, his privilege. He hadn’t spent all these years in the Navy to have his command seized from him by some female junior officer who looked like a mere kid. Nor did he want blood all over his seats. After all, he had meetings to attend once this was all over and done with. "Now wait just a damn minute," he said. His hand clamped around the seaman’s arm as the enlisted man prepared to dash off. "Hang on there." He turned on Linda. "Who the hell are you to--"
"Linda Gabriel," she replied, her cold eyes matching the captain’s. "Doctor Linda Gabriel." She turned back on the driver. "Are you still here? Get that car, sailor! Now!" Her voice was calm, but no less emphatic.
"Belay that order!" the captain shouted. Addressing Linda once more, he said, "I don’t know who the hell you think you are, commandeering my car and taking charge of my personnel, but the admiral is definitely going to hear about this!"
She fished into a pocket of her uniform blouse with one free hand, further staining the beige khaki with bright red, and suddenly she remembered that she had given the cell-phone she was seeking to the young ensign. Otherwise, she would have tossed it contemptuously against the senior officer’s chest. Instead, she narrowed her eyes dangerously and said, "Five-five-five, twenty-three twenty-seven. That’s his home number. He should be settling down to breakfast right about now; I’m sure he’ll appreciate hearing from you."
The captain glared angrily at her, but he did shut up. How did she have access to the admiral’s home phone? Who the hell was she?
"This is a medical emergency, captain," she said, "so for the moment that puts me about one rank higher than the President of the United States." She turned back to the surrounding sailors and marines. "Where’s that fucking car?!"
"On the way, ma’am!" a marine corporal replied. Even as he spoke, there was the screeching of tires right outside the door.
"All right, Marines!" she said. "Let’s move ‘im out!" Keeping direct pressure on his wound, she looked into the eyes of the wounded sergeant as his brothers carefully lifted him and carried him toward the door. "Don’t you worry, Gunny," she said softly. "You’re gonna be okay."

With her blonde hair tied back in a sensible, single braid and dressed in loose-fitting surgical greens and a white smock that bore her name tag, rank and medical insignia, and with a stethoscope draped around her neck and a clipboard full of medical records under one arm, Dr. Gabriel entered the hospital ward room to a round of enthusiastic applause. Visibly taken aback, she froze for a moment, and then smiled shyly as the crimson color rose in her face. News of the shooting and the emergency care and surgery she had provided for the fallen Marine had traveled quickly, and so had the good news that the man was out of danger.
"All right, you guys," she said modestly. "This is a hospital, not a football stadium. Let’s settle down now."
"Hey, Doc!" a nearby voice called out. "When are you gonna dump that wimpy Navy and join the Corps? Word has it you’re a natural-born Marine!" A number of other voices responded with a resounding "Hoo-rah!"
"I’ll transfer to the Corps just as soon as you guys realize that you’re not all bullet-proof," Linda replied with a smile.
"That’ll be a cold day in Hell," a smiling voice said behind her.
"Admiral on the deck!" someone shouted, and every able-bodied person present–medical and non-medical alike–snapped to attention. Everyone, that is, except for Dr. Gabriel. Not that she meant any disrespect; it’s just that she was a doctor first and a Naval officer second. Perhaps that was why Admiral Hastings admired and respected her so much; he knew that his people were in the best of medical care when Dr. Linda Gabriel was on watch. He knew when to pull rank on her, and when not to. Conversely, she was perfectly willing to follow military protocol; she fully understood the necessity of the chain of command. But when it came to the care of her patients–especially in an emergency situation--there was absolutely no questioning the fact that she was in command, and military rank be damned.
She smiled charmingly. "Admiral," she said. "Good afternoon, sir."
"Good afternoon, Doctor," he said. "I heard you had some excitement this morning. Something about hijacking a captain’s car outside of a bank?"
Her smile changed to an apologetic one. "I meant to get back to you about that, sir," she said, "it’s just that I’ve been--"
"No explanation necessary, Commander, I’ve already been briefed," Admiral Hastings said as his gaze took in the number of patients in the ward room. "I can see you’ve already got a full plate in front of you. Which makes me feel a little guilty about adding one more item."
"Captain Blair?" she asked with one eyebrow raised in mild uneasiness. Blair was the captain from the bank this morning, and evidently he had wasted little time in reporting the incident to the admiral. There was no telling what kind of shit she was going to catch on account of him.
"Captain Blair is currently cooling his heels on board a C-130 cargo plane headed for Antarctica. No, unfortunately, it’s something completely different. I’ll need to see you in my office once you’ve finished here."
"Of course, sir." She checked her watch. "I should be finished by sixteen-thirty."
The admiral nodded once. "Very good, Commander, sixteen-thirty. Carry on."
This time, she did snap to attention. Not out of respect for his uniform or even for his rank, but rather out of respect for the man himself. Squaring her shoulders and gazing straight ahead, she said, "Aye aye, sir."
He turned and headed for the exit, then paused for one more glance over his shoulder as she continued with her rounds. I’ll never understand how she can do it all, he thought. Doctor, naval officer...spy...

"Are you familiar with Ares?"
They were seated in the admiral’s wood-paneled office. Brilliant sunlight streamed in through the picture window behind the admiral’s chair, which revealed blue skies, a few swirls of white, marble-like clouds, and an excellent view of the Pacific Ocean.
Linda shifted slightly in the expensive brown, leather-padded chair. "Ancient Greek god of war," she replied. "He was the son of Zeus and Hera; nephew of Hades, the lord of the underworld; the brother of Aphrodite, the goddess of love; and half-brother of Hercules...and a general pain in the posterior to most of his acquaintances."
"There’s nothing wrong with your Greek mythology," the admiral said, "but what I have in mind is a different Ares. In brief, it’s a hybrid of the AH 64A Apache attack helicopter, an RAH 66 Comanche armed reconnaissance chopper, and a UH 60 Black Hawk combat assault helicopter. It also seems to be missing."
Linda arched one eyebrow. "Missing, sir?"
"It was on a high-altitude recon flight, gathering routine intel. For reasons unknown, its crew decided to land and go in on foot. Evidently, they’ve been taken prisoner. Naval Intelligence and CIA say they’ve pinpointed their location; we’re hoping you can negotiate a release. Perhaps trade some new medical technology in exchange for Ares’s crew."
"What about Ares itself?"
Hastings sighed. "Unknown. The self-destruct may or may not have been activated. The only way to find out is by asking the pilot. If it hasn’t been, we need to get it back. We’ve been monitoring as well as we can via surveillance satellites, and so far we haven’t picked up any explosions, so we’re assuming Ares is still intact. And if the Iraqis want to find it, it’s crew also needs to be intact so they’ll have someone to question.
"You’re to meet with Sallah Muhammad; he’s the local State Department field officer. His orders are to negotiate a meeting between you and the Iraqi government."
Linda nodded once. "When do I leave, sir?"
"Right now."

Saddam Hussein himself, huh? was her first, unimpressed thought when her eyes fell on him. Somehow, I thought he’d be a little taller than that. And a little younger. And maybe thinner. He looks like an overfed black poodle with an ulcer and a bad tooth.
"So," the Iraqi dictator said with a diabolically charming smile, "what is it that we can do for you?"
"I’ve heard you have some American prisoners," Linda replied. She knew there was little chance of being allowed to meet with them, but she had one sure-fire way of accomplishing that goal anyway. Not one that would have been approved by her superiors or the State Department rep--which was why she had come here alone--but it seemed like such a familiar idea, one that she might have used long ago in... "Look. I’ve been sent here on a goodwill mission. If you would be willing to release the prisoners, I could stay behind and help your medical people get caught up with the 20th century."
Saddam’s face fell just slightly. "Excuse me?"
"Everyone knows your medical technology is...geez, how can I put this delicately?" She thought for a moment. "The pits," she finished at last.
Saddam’s smile vanished completely. "The...pits?" He wasn’t quite familiar with the vernacular.
"Bottom of the barrel," Linda said. "Backward. Ancient. I mean, for the love of God, man, your medical people are about as bright as...oh, Jesus, words fail me. Have any of your doctors heard of penicillin yet? Are your people still treating patients with leeches? I mean, come on, Saddam! When are you guys going to wake up and join the 20th century?"
Now he was scowling in rage.
"Oh, don’t go looking all like that," Linda said placatingly. "I’m here to help. You let the prisoners go, and I’ll introduce your doctors to antibiotics and antiseptics. What do you say?" She glanced around the circle of scowling, red-faced Iraqis, and smiled her sweetest and most innocent smile. "Yeah?" she asked brightly.

"Was it something I said?" Linda called out as the door to the dungeon clanged shut, its metallic sounds reverberating throughout the chamber. Hanging from her chains, she tilted her head back to stare at the ceiling and groaned. "Aw, man...one little mistake..." On the other hand, it had been the fastest way to find the other prisoner. With the phrase "the black wolf" running over and over through her mind (What have black wolves got to do with anything? she wondered), it just seemed to be the right thing to do.
"Be assured that you will not have to wait long to pay for it," the lone guard said as he settled down in his chair. He tilted it back against the cement wall and put his feet up on the wooden table. He opened a magazine on his lap and began to read, his lips moving visibly.
"Terrific," she muttered.
"So you’re American, huh?" asked the tall, black-haired woman who hung near her. She had already recognized the uniform.
She turned as well as she could to face her, throwing her entire body into the movements that turned her only slightly. "Yeah," she said, attempting to smile pleasantly. "I’m Linda Gabriel."
The other woman nodded once, sullenly. "Gina Di Falcone. Glad to meet you."
"Same here," Linda said. "I’d shake your hand, but..." Here her smile became apologetic, and she shrugged as well as she could. "...I’m a little tied up."
Falcone stared coldly at her.
Linda’s smile faltered, and then disappeared.
Slowly, Falcone turned her face away from her as a tiny, reluctant smile tugged at one corner of her mouth. "Yeah," she growled, "I know the feeling."
Linda glanced around as well as she could, and noticed that, except for the lone guard, they were alone. "So where’s the rest of your crew?" she asked, her voice soft.
"Dead."
Linda grimaced sympathetically. "I’m sorry."
"Yeah, so am I... So what’re you doing here?"
Linda dropped her voice to a whisper. "Actually," she replied, "I’m here to rescue you."
Her sarcastic laugh was like a single, sharp bark. "Yeah, right," she said. "And who’s gonna rescue you, junior?" Suddenly, she smiled scornfully. It was a beautiful, breathtaking smile--but also a dangerous one. "Don’t tell me, let me guess: You’re SEAL Team Six. Right?"
The guard looked up from his magazine. The short, irritating blonde was a SEAL?
"Hey!" Linda hissed sharply. "I coulda been a SEAL!"
The guard leaned forward to listen more closely. If they really were SEALs, and if he could get any kind of information out of them, it just might get him a promotion.
"Oh, yeah? Don’t they have a minimum height requirement or something?" the six-foot-tall Marine asked.
"Hey listen, ‘Stretch,’" she snarled. "If you’re such a badass Marine, what are you doing here? Huh? Were you lookin’ for Iwo Jima and get lost or something?"
"Hey–! You watch your mouth, blondie, or I’m gonna kick your ass!" They weren’t SEALs after all, the guard concluded. Just a couple of jabbering, bickering American women. He returned to his magazine.
Linda regarded her with a mocking smile. "Oh, you’re gonna kick my ass? You and what army? Oh, I forgot--" Suddenly, her voice became a mocking sneer. "You’re a Marine, aren’t you? Big, bad, big-ass Marine!"
Falcone tried to lunge at her, but the chains held her securely in place. "You just wait til I’m out of here, you little snot rag!" she roared. "I’m gonna rip you a new asshole, right between those two zits you call breasts!"
Linda lunged back at her, with equal success. "Yeah?" she roared back, thrashing uselessly in her own chains. "Well, come on, sister! Come and get some, leather-ass!"
The guard was growing weary of their bickering. "That’s enough from the both of you. Be quiet!"
In unison, they turned their faces toward him and yelled, "Fuck you!"
The guard leapt to his feet as he suddenly tossed away his magazine. "Foul-mouthed American pig-dogs!" he shouted. "You will be silent!"
"Piss off!" Falcone shouted at him. "We’re having a private discussion here!"
"Yeah!" the young blonde agreed. "Why don’t you go stick your head up a camel’s ass and suck hard?"
He approached them quickly, with a side-handled baton in one hand as his boot heels echoed solidly throughout the underground chamber. "Do not speak to me in such a manner, you impudent American infidels!" Approaching Linda, he threateningly tapped the wooden baton against his hand.
"Hey, dickless!" Falcone yelled. "What’s the matter? You gonna go beat on blondie ‘cause you’re scared of me? You fuckin’ coward!"
He turned toward her with rage in his eyes. Linda turned toward her, too, with disbelief and shock in hers. A moment ago, the tall Marine was talking about ripping her apart; now she was trying to save her from a savage beating. What’s going on here?
"I will be most happy to beat on you instead, infidel," he said with a sneer as he stepped forward. He raised the baton high– –and Falcone slammed her knee squarely into his family jewels.
He dropped the baton and into a crouch, curling into a ball with a strangled gurgle, but he didn’t quite lose his footing. The baton clattered nearby as Falcone kicked him again, this time under the chin, and he partially straightened. One more kick–this time she pulled herself up by her chains and struck with both feet–caught him in the nose and chest. He went down, and didn’t move.
Linda watched in amazement, which quickly became open admiration. "Nice move!" she said. "But what do we do when he wakes up?"
"He’s not gonna wake up," Falcone said, her voice suddenly straining as she brought up her knees and tilted backward. "The first thing I had to do was to get him close enough to take him out. And believe me--" Here, her voice tightened even more as she pulled her legs up and draped them over the wooden beam from which she was hanging. "--I don’t think I could have done it without you." Her breath exploded from her lungs in a heavy sigh.
Linda brightened visibly. "Really?"
"Yeah. I knew you’d be able to draw him closer because you’re a lot more irritating than I am." Hanging by her knees, she swung back and forth a couple of times as Linda’s face fell, then threw herself forward and released the wooden beam, and dropped lightly to the cement floor. Linda watched her with a stung expression in her eyes that quickly turned into a dark scowl (I am not irritating! she thought) as the tall Marine went to the unconscious guard and took his keys, and uncuffed herself. Next, she took his bayonet and slit the man’s throat. That’s for killing Coop, she silently told him as Linda paled at the cold-blooded act. "So where’s your backup?" she asked as she went back and wrapped her arms around Linda’s legs. She lifted her so that the young blonde could slip her own chain from the hook.
"Umm...there is no backup."
She eased her down. "No backup?" She unlocked her cuffs.
"Sorry."
"Shit." She went to the dead guard and crouched over him, and relieved him of the rest of his weapons–his Makarov pistol and his AK-47.
"Well, I did tell you so."
Falcone glanced over her shoulder to regard her with mild puzzlement in her eyes. "Tell me so, what?"
She smiled smugly. "That I came to rescue you."
Falcone lost the battle to suppress her crooked grin as she rose and handed her the Makarov. "Did the Navy teach you how to use one of these?" She smacked it into her hand.
She removed its clip to check its ammunition status. Satisfied that it was full, she slipped it back into the weapon’s butt and racked the slide back to chamber a round. "Yeah, they teach us shooting in medical school–between gross anatomy, pharmacology, and tank-driving. We got to spend our summers shooting at cadavers and having a helluva time." She let the slide snap back into place and eased the hammer down with her thumb, and slipped the weapon into her belt at the small of her back.
"You musta gone to one mean med school," Falcone said under her breath as she slipped the bayonet into her belt. Then she took the Kalashnakov’s magazine from its well, checked it to make certain it contained a full load, then rammed it back into place and racked the bolt back, chambering a round. "So you’re a doctor, huh?" she asked skeptically. "What would a doctor be doing here? Say something medical."
Linda thought for a moment, then remembered the subtle insult of a moment ago. "Osculate my gluteus maximus," she replied sweetly.
Falcone stared at her suspiciously, with the distinct feeling that she had just been insulted.

"I’m getting this incredible sense of deja vu right about now," Gabriel whispered softly as they slowly crept forward, keeping low and close to the wall. Out in the cool evening air, they were stealthily making their way toward an open jeep. There were three soldiers standing next to it; a fourth one sat in the driver’s seat with the engine running.
Gina glanced suspiciously at her over her shoulder. "Y’know, I was about to say the same thing. You sure we haven’t met somewhere before?"
"Pretty sure," the blonde replied.
Falcone wasn’t convinced. She shook off the thought and returned her attention to more pressing matters. "That’s our ride. All we have to do is get rid of the excess baggage. Get ready to--"
A soldier suddenly stepped from around the corner some thirty feet behind them, surprising them as much as their presence surprised him. "Alarm!" he shouted, reaching for his weapon with Linda standing between him and Falcone.
"Gabriel!" Falcone shouted as she pushed her out of the way. "Look out!" Before the soldier could ready his weapon, she raised hers in one hand and shot him square in the face. The rifle’s recoil kicked the barrel skyward, but the job had already been done.
The crew by the jeep turned and spotted the two escaping prisoners.
Falcone spun and dropped the weapon into her other hand, flicked the selector switch on the AK from semiautomatic to full auto, and braced the metal stock against her shoulder. Rapidly sighting down the barrel, with her feet spread and her shoulders squared in a professional shooter’s stance, she fired off three quick three-round bursts, hitting each target in the head as Linda sat, fallen on her butt, in stunned shock. The driver was the first to go down; next was the soldier behind him, and next was the one to his left. The last remaining soldier was unslinging and raising his own rifle, but he never had the chance to fire it. Three high-powered .308 bullets shattered his head like a discarded Halloween jack o’ lantern.
She grabbed Linda by the front of her blouse and hauled her to her feet, and then they were off and running even as the last man fell. When they reached the jeep, Gina’s eyes went wide. "Whoa!" And then she grinned that dazzling grin again, beaming like a kid on Christmas morning, when she identified the contents of the cardboard boxes that surrounded the belt-fed machine gun which was standing on a tripod in the rear of the jeep’s cargo bay. "Hot damn!"
"What is it?" Linda asked.
"Explosives!" she declared merrily. "Boy, have we got explosives!" She turned to Linda with an almost lustful look in her eyes. "You drive; I’ll give you directions to Ares and keep those good ol’ boys busy with these bright and shiny toys."
She dragged the driver’s body out of the seat, put the jeep in gear, and they took off as wailing sirens suddenly went off behind them. Four more jeeps quickly fell into pursuit behind them.
With her ice-blue eyes narrowed dangerously, Falcone racked back the bolt on the machine gun and opened fire. Bright red muzzle flashes illuminated her in the darkness as a continuing burst of fire erupted from the barrel. Return fire from the pursuing soldiers forced Linda to swerve the jeep in a zig-zag course in order to avoid being hit; unfortunately, it was also throwing Falcone’s aim off. She did, however, manage to take out the first jeep. It burst into flames as it veered off to one side.
Falcone tore open one of the boxes and took out a fragmentation grenade, and yanked its pin. "Come and get it, boys!" she shouted as she threw it.
The pursuing jeep that had taken the lead veered off and the grenade missed. It exploded off to one side, throwing sand and rocks everywhere.
Linda’s eyes were riveted forward, and they widened in terror when she saw the motorized chain link gate rolling across their escape route.
Reaching for another grenade, Falcone saw it, too. Her eyes widened. "Veer off!" she shouted. "We’re not gonna make it!"
Linda crushed the gas pedal to the floor, and steered straight for the gate. "We’ll make it! We’ll make it!" she shouted back. In an instinctive effort to make herself smaller so that she might squeeze through the narrowing aperture, she hunched over the steering wheel.
Falcone watched with horrified eyes. "Break it off! Break it off!" she shouted. "It’s too close–we’ll never make it!"
"Yes we will!" Linda shouted back. "Shut up and keep firing!"
She glared angrily at her only for a moment before returning her attention to their pursuers. She picked up another grenade, pulled its pin, and threw it at the lead jeep. It veered out of the way, and the grenade missed it; fortunately, though, it landed directly in the lap of the next jeep’s driver. When he realized what it was, he lunged madly for it in an attempt to toss it out just as it went off, blowing off his face and hands.
The chain link fence was looming before them, with the gap shrinking rapidly as the gate slid shut. We’re not gonna make it, Falcone thought once more as they rapidly approached. She didn’t have the heart to tell the young blonde, though; it wouldn’t do any good to say anything anyway. She admired her determination, but...
And then they were through, with scant centimeters to spare. Falcone could have reached out and actually touched the gate; as a matter of fact, the edge of it barely brushed against the spare tire that hung on the rear bumper as they zipped through.
Never taking her eyes from the road, Linda whooped in delight. "I told you we’d make it!" she shouted over the gunfire and the screaming engine. Behind Linda’s back, Falcone grinned at her in open admiration. I’ll be damned, she thought, she did it! Just like back in– She stopped. Back in what?
The last two jeeps, unable to stop in time, slammed into the electrified gate and burst into flames.
Falcone settled into the passenger seat and breathed a deep sigh of relief. "Kill your headlights!" she told the driver, shouting over the roaring wind.
"Isn’t it a little dark for that?"
"I don’t want those guys to see us; besides, I can see well enough without them. We need to pick up Ares."
Linda nodded in agreement. "It’ll be nice to get out of here and go home."
"We can’t leave yet."
Linda looked at her, her incredulous eyes wide as her heart fell into her stomach. "Why the hell not?"
"Y’know that dungeon we were held in?"
"What about it?"
"It’s a breeder reactor."
Linda’s green eyes went even wider as the expression in them shifted from incredulity to shock. "Oh God, no." Her voice quavered with terror.
Falcone nodded grimly. "Yeah," she said. "They’re producing plutonium for their nuclear arsenal."
Oh, dear God, Linda thought. The bastards are building nukes! She glanced at Falcone. "Gina, we gotta stop ‘em!"
"I agree. That’s why we need Ares."
Linda glanced to her right, and didn’t like what she saw. "Then we’d better haul ass," she said with grim determination.
Falcone saw them, too. Less than half a mile to their right were three more pairs of headlights headed toward them. One of the jeeps was sweeping the area with a powerful spotlight. It flashed in Falcone’s eyes, swept past her, and then swept back to freeze on her. "Shit! They’ve made us!" "How much farther to Ares?"
She strained her eyes in the darkness. Suddenly, her arm shot forward with one finger pointing. "There! Eleven o’clock!"
Linda glanced slightly to her left and spotted the chopper. It looked like a long, sleek tiger shark that had suddenly emerged from the murky depths of the ocean; some of its angles gleamed faintly in the dim starlight while the rest was obscured by inky blackness.
They pulled up alongside the helicopter just as the three pursuing jeeps opened fire on them. Bullets punched holes in their jeep and glanced off Ares’s armor plating, and snapped at their heels as the two women ran for it. Falcone turned to face their pursuers as Linda rushed for the hatch, and fired a long burst with the AK, sweeping its barrel back and forth and exhausting its magazine as return fire spat up sand around her feet. Tossing the now useless weapon away, she pushed Linda with a yelp of pain through the hatch and followed closely, and scrambled to pull the hatch shut again.
As soon as Linda settled into the flight engineer’s seat, small, bright, and multi-colored lights came to life on the console and on every bulkhead around her; she felt as though she were sitting inside a decorated Christmas tree. The only thing missing was the fresh scent of firs and pines. This is pretty neat, she thought as she pulled on her helmet.
In the pilot’s seat, Falcone was rapidly switching on the batteries and activating the helicopters’s rotors as the three jeeps continued to approach. As she pulled on her own helmet, the turbines came to life with a winding scream and in a moment desert sand was being blown about in an opaque cloud.
With its rotor blades thudding against the air and its engines roaring, Ares rose only a few feet from the ground before the landing gear retracted into its belly, and swung ominously toward the Iraqi soldiers. Impervious to the small arms fire that sparked and ricocheted harmlessly against its armor-plated skin, and with the nose tipped downward slightly, it slowly approached the jeeps. But instead of opening fire on them, the incredibly powerful down blast of its rotors blew sand and rocks into the faces of the men, and tipped the jeeps over to send them rolling down the sand dune. With a deafening roar, the helicopter lifted its nose once more and rose gracefully into the night sky, and headed east.
"Wow," Linda said as she looked around the inside of the cabin. "This is neat. What is all this stuff?"
"Radios, scanners, radar, turbo boosters..." Falcone replied. "Don’t worry, you’ll get a chance to use them. Activate the radar suppression."
Linda glanced around with puzzled eyes, searching. She found it and switched it on. "This suppresses their radar?" she asked curiously.
"Indirectly, yeah. We’re absorbing, scrambling and dissipating any radar signal that comes our way so it doesn’t echo back to the bad guys and let them know where we are; essentially, that makes us invisible."
Linda frowned at a message she had just received. "I’ve got a prompt from your radar suppressor: ‘negative function.’"
"Shit," Falcone growled. "That damn thing always has been a little twitchy; I thought I’d fixed it."
"This mean we’re not invisible anymore?"
"‘Fraid so." She sighed heavily. "Okay. Chances are we’ve left at least one survivor behind, and we have to assume that they have a functioning radio--which means they’ve warned their buddies that we’re on our way. We’ve got no radar suppression, so that means we gotta hit ‘em hard and hit ‘em fast. You see those rotor and turbine readouts on your right side?"
Linda glanced around for a moment. "Got ‘em."
"On my five count, I need you to disengage the main rotor and bring the primary turbos on line. You ready?"
Linda nodded. With one hand on the rotor disengage switches and the other on the turbos, she said, "Ready."
"Mark! Five...four..."
She flicked off the short row of toggle switches to disengage the massive rotor that was spinning over their heads. As the RPM readout dropped to zero, and even though the forward momentum of high-speed flight was keeping them moving ahead, she could feel Ares begin to slowly dip as it was suddenly deprived of lift.
"...three...two..."
She squeezed the twin handles of the turbo ignitor in one nervous, sweating hand as a sudden adrenalin rush surged through her bloodstream. Trying to slow her pounding heart, she took a deep breath. "...one...ignite turbos!"
She slammed the handles forward. "Turbos!"
Falcone squeezed the red trigger on the stick.
It felt as though they had been fired from a high-powered rifle. A giant, invisible hand shoved her into the thickly padded seat, nearly crushing the air from her lungs, and Linda thought, Holy shit! as her eyes suddenly and frantically searched for, and then found, the airspeed indicator. A moment later, they widened even more in astonishment. Oh, my GOD! she thought as she watched their air speed shoot skyward. "Helicopters can’t do mach one!" she softly whispered to herself.
"This one can," Falcone replied, her voice electronically altered by the built-in microphone near her lips and the small built-in speaker next to Linda’s ear. "Actually, the best I’ve done in this so far is mach two-point-four. This little puppy knows all kinds of tricks."
"Yeah, I heard this was a hybrid helicopter. Part Black Hawk, part Apache tank-killer, and part...what was it, Comanche armed recon?"
"And a little bit of an F-15 Tomcat jet fighter thrown in just for shits ‘n’ giggles," Falcone informed her.
Then she noticed the altimeter. "Gina, we’re only flying at fifty feet."
"Yeah, I know," she replied calmly as she guided the helicopter through the valleys of the sand dunes, banking it left and right with the practiced ease of over eight thousand hours of intensive training. It was almost pitch-black outside, but with the night-vision built into the visors of their helmets the desert was bathed in a soft, green glow. "With the radar suppressor out, it’s the only way to avoid detection."
Nervously surveying the lay of the land ahead of them, Linda said, "Just don’t slam us into any sand dunes, okay?"
With a mischievous grin, Falcone skillfully guided Ares up and over an imaginary dune. Pulling the stick straight back just slightly, the chopper’s nose gently yet quickly rose; pushing it forward, the nose dipped; and then, returning the stick to its original position, the aircraft stabilized again. It was like guiding a speeding Ferrari up and over a gentle slope without quite becoming airborne. "You mean like that one?"
"Cut that out, godamnit!" For some reason, Linda didn’t like having her heart rise into her throat and then plunge into her stomach.
Her grin broadened. "What’s the matter, Doc?" she asked as she brought Ares out of mach speed. "Don’t you like roller coasters?"
"I hate roller coasters!"
"Man, you’re no fun..."
"You wanna see fun?" the young blonde asked angrily as she re-engaged the main rotor. "You wanna see fun? I’ll show you fun! How ‘bout I upchuck down the back of your god damn neck??"
Falcone laughed.
Still simmering with anger, she returned to monitoring her numerous screens. "Uh oh," she said, her displeasure slipping away to be replaced with disquiet. "I’m getting something on our forward scanner. More jeeps, machine gun bunkers, missile launchers loaded with scuds and heat-seekers, half a dozen tanks...and an incoming round!"
Falcone was checking her own screen. "Yeah, I see it. Looks like they’ve been warned." She pulled the stick to the left, and a few moments later an explosive round went off to their right, rocking the aircraft. "Bring the weapons on line."
She hit the switch, and was rewarded with the message "access denied." "It won’t let me in!"
"Key in my password: x-ray, echo, November, alpha one."
She began typing. Then she looked up from the screen. "Is there a dash in here in ‘x-ray?’"
Falcone growled in exasperation. "First letter of each word, Gab–" Another explosion went off near them, drowning her out. "That way there’s no mistaking what letter I’m calling for! X-ray! Echo!"
"I’m a doctor, damnit, not a flight engineer!" she replied defensively as she continued to key in the code. "November, alpha, one..." she repeated to herself, hitting each letter. Concentrating on the keyboard, she hit "enter"–but her eyes did manage to catch a glimpse of the password before it disappeared with a blink. "X-E-N-A--1?" she asked herself, her green eyes bewildered. There was a soft beeping sound, and those three angry red words appeared on the black inset screen once more: "weapons systems activated." A moment later, they were replaced once more by that computer-generated icon that slowly rotated on a ninety-degree axis and nearly filled the entire screen. "What the–?" she began to ask herself, when suddenly she recognized the icon. It was a flat, silver ring with squared, golden teeth painted on one side, and angular, razor-like blades painted on the other. A small, round stone of virtual amethyst was inset in the middle of each tooth and blade.
A list of fifteen different forms of firepower–machine guns, sidewinder missiles, heat-seekers, rockets, Hellfires, and nuclear-tipped shrike missiles, among others--suddenly appeared under it. How she knew what the icon was, she couldn’t say; maybe she’d seen it in a dream. She felt as though she were on the verge of understanding something of major significance–
She gasped as she suddenly remembered the vision that her alarm clock had shattered. The dust, the thundering of the horses’ hooves, the swinging of a fighting staff...and the shouted words that echoed through her mind, "Gabrielle! Look out!" as the weapon on her screen had gone flying and ricocheting from the warlord’s helmet.
"That’s a chakram!" Staring at the icon, she suddenly remembered the echoing name of the dark-haired warrior-woman...and then the final piece of the puzzle fell into place as thousands of memories suddenly flooded into her. Her eyes went wide, and her voice quavered. "Oh, my God!" she said in a soft exclamation as she raised her stunned eyes to stare at the back of the pilot’s helmet. "Xena!?"
In the pilot’s seat, the Marine’s eyes also went wide in sudden surprise and realization. Chakram! she thought as that same chill of recognition abruptly washed over her. Of course that’s what it’s called! Why didn’t I remember?
"Gabrielle!" she said, her astonished voice no more than a soft breath of a whisper. She turned her head as far as the helmet and the headrest of the seat would allow. "Gabrielle?" she said again. "Is that you back there?"
The young blonde’s eyes suddenly filled with tears. After all of these years of thinking she was nothing more than a dream, a fantasy, merely a figment of a hopeful and overactive imagination...
Xena felt the same tears welling in her own eyes. There was nothing more she wanted right now than to leap into the flight engineer’s seat, throw her arms around her in a tight embrace, and bury her face against her; to inhale the familiar scent of her hair and skin deeply into her lungs, to feel the firmness and the warmth of her body in her arms, and to savor once more the feel of her heart beating in unison with her own. Instead, she had to settle for reaching awkwardly back with her left hand, seeking her long-lost soul-mate.
The young doctor laced her fingers with the Marine’s, and both women instantly thought, I’d know that touch anywhere!
They squeezed tightly, desperately, wanting never to let go now that they had finally found each other.
"Gabrielle," Xena said at last, "I’m afraid I’m going to need that hand back; we’re in the middle of a fight!"
She squeezed it once more before releasing it.
"What do you say we kick some?"
Despite the tears, Gabrielle suddenly grinned that sweet, familiar, and spirited grin that Xena loved so much. "Hoo-rah!" she replied.
"Hoo-rah!" she reaffirmed, the warrior’s own grin as wry and as dazzling as Gabrielle remembered.
The magic was back. And this time, they had a whole bunch of brand new toys to play with.
"Gimme rockets and chain guns!"
"Rockets and chain guns, aye!" Gabrielle repeated, confirming the order as she quickly ran the light bar down, highlighted the desired weapons, and clicked on them.
A quartet of .50 caliber machine guns, fully loaded with armor-piercing ammunition, suddenly sprouted from each side of Ares, and rocket launchers emerged from its chest. Taking a deep breath, the pilot suddenly let loose with a high-pitched, ululating war-cry that was drowned out a moment later by the ear-shattering roar of automatic weapons fire.
Three jeeps burst into flames as they were shredded by machine gun fire, and two batteries of missile launchers were blown away by a multitude of rapid-fire rockets. The front of a half-track went next, spewing flaming fuel and bodies as the rounds exploded on contact, and after that one of the tanks erupted in flames. Ares roared past them and swung around in a fast, tight arc, flashing the bladed chakram that was painted on its belly, and came up on the remaining tanks from behind. More machine gun fire shredded enemy soldiers who were attempting to launch what was left of the missiles, and then a dozen rapid-fire rockets blew the rest of the tanks apart, sending their turrets and molten shrapnel flying everywhere. Two more rockets took out the rest of the missile launchers. By the time the shooting was over, there was nothing left but black, oily smoke and bright orange flames that illuminated the desert night sky.
Hovering almost motionlessly above the smoking remains, with its rotors thudding against the air, Ares reigned supreme over complete and utter destruction.
From the flight engineer’s station, Gabrielle gazed in horror at the carnage. "By the gods," she whispered in stunned awe.
"Yeah," Xena said softly, her expression stony. She understood Gabrielle’s reaction, and in some ways she even agreed with it. But what else could they have done? Negotiations with the Iraqi government had proven fruitless in the face of its denials that the reactor even existed, and they had to be stopped. "You ready to take out that breeder reactor?"
She nodded. "Let’s get it over with so we can get the fuck out of all this madness."
"Hoo-rah," Xena agreed softly.

The reactor squatted like a hulking concrete monstrosity, surrounded by an electrified fence. Machine guns were set up in the thirty-foot-high guard towers, and armed guards patrolled the grounds outside of the fence. Missile launchers, tanks and cannons were in place and standing in red-alert mode, having been warned by the pursuit party that had gone after the fleeing Americans. They were ready and waiting for the helicopter, and itching for action. It wouldn’t last a minute against Saddam Hussein’s elite guards.

"So are we going to go in there with guns blazing to take those bastards out?" Gabrielle asked.
Xena was a little surprised by her sudden thirst for action. "I hadn’t really planned on it," she replied. "I don’t know about you, but I’m a little tired of getting shot at; I thought I’d keep things simple." She shifted in her seat and winced slightly. With the reactor lying ten miles dead ahead of them, she said, "Bring a Hellfire on-line."
She ran the light bar down the list, found the Hellfires, and punched it up. "Why do they call it a Hellfire?" she asked. "Is it a nuke?"
Xena shook her head. "Not quite." With Ares ten miles out from the target and a missile armed, she squeezed the trigger. The missile took off, and they watched as its tail flames gradually shrank and disappeared in the darkness.
"Better drop your visor," Xena warned, and Gabrielle reached for the button on the side of her helmet. Smokey-gray plasticine dropped down before her eyes.
It looked as though someone had kicked open the gates of Hell. The flash of light wasn’t white, as with a nuclear detonation; it was bright orange, and it illuminated the two occupants of the helicopter, even from ten miles out. Roiling flames and oily black smoke half a mile wide erupted volcano-like from the reactor, and the explosion sounded like the violent death of a planet.
"Jesus," Gabrielle whispered in stunned awe.
"Yeah," Xena agreed. She pulled at the stick and swung Ares around. "We’d better get out of here before that shock-wave hits. Turbos!"

Admiral Hastings read the report with a heavy heart. There had been a massive explosion in Iraq, and he couldn’t help believing that Lieutenant Commander Gabriel had been involved with it. There was no sign of Ares, either. He sighed heavily, finished the paper work, and filed the forms to pronounce Dr. Linda Gabriel, Major Gina Di Falcone and her crew, and Ares all missing in action, presumed killed.
I hate this job, sometimes, he told himself.

Dodging radar and search planes, they crossed the Greek border at 0417 local time. Xena landed the chopper in a small clearing between the edge of a forest and the side of a mountain, well away from any major or even mid-sized cities. They removed their helmets, pushed open the hatches, and stepped outside. It was good to stretch their legs after so many hours of flight.
With tearful eyes and a soft cry, Xena caught Gabrielle in a fierce embrace, and then gently took her face in her hands and kissed her. In return, Gabrielle’s arms slipped around her waist, and with a gentle sob she melded into her as she prolonged the kiss. When they finally broke off, Xena smiled as she gazed into those beautiful, teary green eyes and softly said, "Hi, sweetheart..."
"Hi..." Gabrielle replied, gazing warmly at her and smiling through her tears. "So this time you got the haircut, huh?"
Xena smiled. "Yeah..."
Grinning impishly, Gabrielle’s hand suddenly shot forward and playfully ruffled Xena’s short, disheveled black hair; with a smile of her own, Xena let her do it.
She moved to bury her face in the hollow of the warrior’s neck, but the warmth of the moment was suddenly shattered by the feel of cold, congealed blood. "Oh, God, Xena, you’re bleeding!"
She glanced down at the bullet wound in her side. "Yeah, I caught one back there when we were jumping into the chopper. Bleeding’s stopped; it’s just a flesh wound."
"‘Just a flesh wound,’ my ass," Gabrielle said. "If this thing gets infected, it can kill you." She wiped her eyes, and suddenly she was all business. "I need to get you into an OR and knock you out under a general anesthetic, and do a proper job of cleaning, debriding, and stitching. That bullet shoved a bunch of cotton fibers from your shirt in there, too, y’know."
"Oh, come on, Gabrielle," Xena said mildly, trying to set her at ease as she brushed blonde hair back behind one ear. To her, the wound was no big deal. "It hurts like hell, but I’m fine. What are you, my mother?" "No, I’m your doctor–so zip it. You got an emergency medical kit inside?"
"Yeah, there’s one under each seat."
"You sit right here," she said, easing her to the ground and leaning her back against one of Ares’s landing gear.
She still thought she was making a big deal out of nothing. She sighed. "Gabrielle, it’s--"
"Hey!" she said sharply. She placed two fingers against Xena’s lips, motioning for silence. Softly yet definitively, she said, "I said zip it."
Surprised into obedient and amused silence, she watched as she went back into the chopper, found one of the kits, and brought it back outside. With Xena lying on her side and holding her shirt up, Gabrielle cleaned the wounds–the bullet had passed clean through, just above her hip and not having struck any major organs–with cotton balls and hydrogen peroxide, then flushed the wound itself with more peroxide and betadine antiseptic solution. "You’re damned lucky that bullet didn’t nick a major blood vessel or hit a vital organ," she muttered softly. "Damn, thick-headed Marines...you all think you’re bullet-proof..."
Xena watched her with interest and affection, and only an occasional wince as the young blonde worked with gentle hands. "So you finally became a healer, huh?" she asked with a smile.
Gabrielle grinned. "Yeah," she replied. She looked into her eyes. "It feels good, y’know? Really good."
"I’m glad."
"And you’re still fighting the good fight," she said as she gently applied thick, sterile gauze pads to the entrance and exit wounds. Taping them down with white bandage tape, she added, "Somehow, I’m not that surprised." She gently placed a soft, warm hand against Xena’s forehead. "How’s your temp?" she asked softly. "You have a fever?"
"Naw, I’m good."
She poked around in the medical kit and found a plastic 3cc syringe, a small glass vial of injectable tetracycline, and a small bottle of 250mg tetracycline capsules. She handed her the plastic vial of antibiotics.
"Here, take one of these every six hours. In the meantime," she added as she peeled the thin metal cover from the glass vial, "show me your ass."
Xena’s eyes widened in surprise. "Jesus, Gabrielle!" she chuckled with a lusty glint in her eyes. "Some things never change, do they?" She began to unbuckle her belt.
She popped open the small, cylindrical plastic case with her thumb and withdrew the blue-capped syringe. Dropping the empty casing back into the medical kit, she pulled the needle’s cap off with her teeth and prepared the injection.
Xena noticed the needle and the way the faint starlight glinted from its tip. It was only a 22 gauge–they didn’t come much smaller than that--but it still looked awfully big. It hurt just to watch it plunge through the rubber stopper. She could take a bullet through the side or an arrow in her shoulder, or even a gash across her arm or leg; and she could watch without concern as someone stitched the wounds shut. But for some reason, whenever it came to hypodermic needles, she suddenly had an urge to be somewhere else. The idea of getting a shot just seemed to be so deliberately and unnecessarily invasive. "Gabrielle, I’m fine–"
She silenced her with The Look. Filling the syringe, she spoke around the plastic cap that was still clenched in her teeth. "If you’d told me about this earlier, and I’d been able to treat you sooner, you might have avoided the shot." With the syringe full, she removed the cap from her teeth and slipped it back over the needle. Then she soaked a cotton ball with some alcohol. "Come on," she said with playful encouragement. "Let me see your ass, and I’ll give you a lollipop."
"Pervert," Xena called her. "You sound like a child molester." Scowling menacingly at her, she opened her fatigue pants and tugged them down to bare one hip as she gritted her teeth. Gabrielle swabbed the injection site. "You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?"
Thinking about the helicopter ride and the imaginary sand dune, Gabrielle took hold of one firm, round cheek. "Not at all," she said with a tiny, mischievous smile, and plunged the needle in.

After having spent a restful night and most of the next day in the helicopter, Xena slipped into Gabrielle’s uniform blouse, leaving the blonde with her own tank-top. It was a tight fit, but it was better than the bloody undershirt, and wouldn’t attract the wrong kind of attention. They had walked into town where Xena had made a phone call to a friend and called in a favor; within an hour, a thousand dollars had been wired to her, and they took themselves into a shop where they purchased new clothes. The owner of the shop had been in the process of closing for the night, but when he saw them through the wide front window and waving cash, he decided he could stay open a little longer.
Gabrielle had opted for brown leather riding boots, dark, rust-colored jeans, and a light green t-shirt over which she wore a short, dark green denim jacket. She was just settling the jacket on her shoulders when Xena had rapped gently on the door of her fitting room. She poked her head inside. "You ready?"
"All set." She stepped outside and smiled at the warrior. She was dressed in black leather riding boots, black jeans, a blue blouse of shimmering, clingy satin, and a black leather coat. "You always did have a fondness for black leather," she said.
"I seem to recall you liked it pretty well, too," Xena replied with a wry smile.
Outside in the late-night darkness, Gabrielle took a deep breath of fresh, clean air. "So where are we off to next?"
"You’ll see."

"What are we doing in Greece, anyway?" she asked. "Greece was a long, long time ago; you feeling nostalgic or something?"
"Remember the Hall of Ambrosia?" Xena asked as she shut the starboard hatch of Ares once more. She glanced off toward the east and noticed that the darkness of night was gradually retreating. It had been a long walk to and from town.
"The Hall of Ambrosia?" She thought for a moment. "You mean where you–" She stopped for a moment. That wasn’t right, so she corrected herself. "I mean, where I–" She stopped again, because that wasn’t quite right, either. "I mean, where we fought Velasca to try to stop her from getting the ambrosia and becoming a god?"
Xena smiled knowingly.
"But it was all destroyed when it fell into the fire pit...wasn’t it?"
"Maybe. As long as we’re in the neighborhood, would it hurt to stop in and take a look? And if memory serves...the Hall should be right...over..." She pointed to a spot no more than fifty yards away. "...there."
Gabrielle looked to where she was pointing, then regarded her once more. "What are you, kidding me? With your wound, you need to be in a hospital, not traipsing around the Greek countryside in the dark--" She stopped suddenly and glanced around to take in their surroundings again. "Oh, my God," she said as her green eyes suddenly reflected stunned realization. "I know this place. I know this place!" She turned back to the warrior and regarded her ambivalently. "You’re not really thinking what I think you’re thinking...are you?"
Xena’s smile widened into a grin.
Gabrielle regarded her critically. "You’re not suggesting... I mean, what right do we have to..." She stopped and thought for another moment. Finally, she sighed. "Look, the chances are there’s nothing there anyway."
"Then it wouldn’t really hurt to go look, would it? If there’s nothing there, I’ll fly us out of here to the nearest allied military base, and I’ll go under your knife. Then we can turn Ares back over to the DoD, and we can finish out our commissions in the military. Okay? Unfortunately, we’d have to finish them separately. Or..."
Gabrielle listened carefully to the rest of what Xena had to say, and she found herself nodding and grinning in agreement.

They descended the stone steps with the bright beams of four-cell flashlights guiding their way. Cobwebs, heavy with the dust of centuries, hung tattered in corners and brushed against their faces with feathery touches. Xena wasn’t in the least bit disturbed by them as she casually brushed them aside with one bare hand, while Gabrielle swatted angrily at them with a stick as she made small, angry noises. "I’ve never liked spiders," she muttered. "Damned, eight-legged little creepy-crawlies..."
Xena pointed ahead with her flashlight. "There," she said, her voice echoing slightly in the stone chamber. Gabrielle swept her beam over to join it.
The flames were long extinguished, but the sooty blackness was still evident. Around the square pit were the upright stakes, although some of them had decayed and collapsed under the appetites of millions of termites over the years; others, though, were still erect and retaining sharp points. And there were vines still hanging from the ceiling. Some of them were short, some hung directly over the pit, and some reached to the floor.
Down on one knee, Gabrielle cast the beam of her flashlight into the fire pit. "Damn, it’s dark in there," she muttered. "It doesn’t even look like there’s a bottom to it. I think we’re out of luck, Xena."
No answer.
"Xena?" She looked up.
The dark-haired warrior was examining the ceiling. In the center of it was the spiraling trap door that had remained open and untouched for all of these centuries. Even the Dagger of Helios, which Autolycus had stolen for them and had been used as a key to open the door, still remained in the door’s locking mechanism. No archaeologists, no tomb raiders, no scavengers, no one had been inside this chamber since that fateful day.
She reached for one of the vines to test its strength. If it could support her weight... She winced sharply.
"What are you doing?" Gabrielle asked disapprovingly of her patient.
"If there’s more, it’ll be up there. If I can just climb up there..."
"You’re not climbing anywhere," Gabrielle said. "I don’t want you busting that wound open and bleeding all over the place again. I’ll climb. Besides," she added, "I’ve done this before." She grabbed a vine and tugged, and it snapped immediately. Dust and plant fiber floated downward into her eyes. She grabbed another and tugged, and it held. She grabbed it in both hands and pulled harder, and it still held. She glanced at Xena. "Wish me luck," she said, a little nervously. The thing might still snap and send her plunging to her death.
"You got it."
She climbed slowly, hand-over-hand, and remembered the last time she was here--possessed by Xena’s spirit, swinging back and forth, and kicking and lashing at Velasca in an effort to stop her from obtaining the only known supply of Ambrosia, the food of the gods.
She had to grab onto another, shorter vine that would bring her closer to the trap door. From below, Xena watched with wide, worried eyes. "Careful," she whispered as Gabrielle continued to slowly ascend. She gasped through clenched teeth. "Careful!" In a few moments, her head was above the trap door. One arm quickly followed it. "Anything?" Xena called out, her voice echoing.
"Hang on a sec..." She thrashed and swayed for another long, agonizing moment.
Still watching from below, Xena said, "Stop wiggling around so much! The vine might snap!"
"Just a sec," she said again. More wiggling, more thrashing...and then she was slowly climbing back down. She swung back to the longer vine and continued her descent.
"Any luck?" Xena asked as she watched. "What did you find?"
She dropped the last few feet, her boots echoing against the cold stone floor, and reached into one breast pocket of her jacket.
It rested in the palm of her hand. About the size of a hen’s egg, it glowed pink and pulsated, and illuminated their faces in the darkness. "That’s all there was," she said. She looked into Xena’s eyes, and Xena gazed back into hers. Slowly, she reached for the Ambrosia, took it in her fingertips, and pinched it in half.
"You really think we ought to?" Gabrielle asked, uncertain yet hopeful. Xena shrugged. "It could be worse; someone else could get to it." Gabrielle shrugged and nodded in thoughtful agreement. "Good point." It was only one bite apiece.
Xena winced slightly at the taste. Speaking around it, she said, "Tastes like stale marshmallows."
"Yeah," Gabrielle agreed, her face twisted slightly in quiet dislike. "Maybe it’s spoiled. What’s the shelf-life of Ambrosia?"
"Beats me."
She dusted her hands off as they went back up the steps.
It was good to get outside again, away from the stale air and dust and webs. With the sun just beginning to come up in the eastern sky, they approached Ares and began to off-load what they could. Xena thought seriously about activating its auto-destruct; Gabrielle, on the other hand, thought that maybe they ought to keep it.
"Yeah, I thought about that, too," Xena said as she reached inside for a duffel bag. "Since no one’s been here for, what, about the last two and a half millennia, give or take? Maybe we can just disable it and leave it here, and decide what to do with it later."
"Yeah," she said, gazing at nothing in particular as she considered the idea. "Maybe we should keep it. Can you imagine what it would be like if the power of Ares were used for good?"
"Are you talking about the war god or the helicopter?"
Gabrielle thought for a moment, then smiled and said, "Yes." She regarded her more seriously for a moment. "How’s your side? Any pain?" She remembered her pained reaction when she had reached for the vine.
"Kinda itches."
"I’ll bet it’s infected. Lemme look."
With a sigh of mild exasperation, Xena raised her blouse and Gabrielle peeled away the bloodstained gauze pad.
Her wound was gone.
Gabrielle regarded it with wide eyes. "Shit!" she whispered. "Holy shit!"
Xena gazed at it with equal stupefaction. "Yeah," she said in quiet amazement.
Gabrielle thought for a moment. "I’ve got to try something." She reached into her bag and withdrew a dagger, and pressed its point against her palm.
"The Dagger of Helios!" Xena exclaimed. "How’d you–"
"I figured as long as I was up there..." She pressed the point harder against her palm until it drew blood. She winced slightly in pain, and watched as the blood welled from the cut. With Xena’s bandage, she wiped at it and discovered that there was no wound. Not a mark.
"By the gods," the bard said with quiet awe. With her heart pounding excitedly, she looked into Xena’s clear blue eyes and quietly said, "We really are going to be together--forever." It wasn’t a question.
Xena smiled optimistically as she fondly brushed a few wayward strands of blonde hair back behind Gabrielle’s ear. "Yeah."
Suddenly, she turned to slip the dagger into her bag. She rummaged furiously around inside it for another moment, and then victoriously withdrew a pen and a notebook. She began to scribble furiously.
"What?"
"You’re not going to believe this, but I just got an idea for a story; I want to get it written down before I forget it."
Xena grinned. "Gettin’ ready to do the old ‘bard’ thing again, eh?"
Gabrielle grinned and nodded without looking up from the notebook as she continued to write. "Yeah, I thought I’d give it a try."
They started off down the path, heading eastward. The sun was coming up fast as Gabrielle slipped the book and pen back into her pack. "Lemme know what you think of this," she said. Addressing the brightening sky, she continued: "‘I sing the song of Xena, the Warrior Princess. The eternal nemesis of all tyrants, defender of the weak and the innocent...’" She paused thoughtfully for a moment, and then smiled at her as she added, "and my best friend."
Xena could feel herself growing misty-eyed. She slid an arm around Gabrielle’s shoulders and pulled her close. She could smell the scent of her hair and skin, she could feel the warmth that radiated from her body, and she could almost swear that she felt the beating of her heart in unison with her own. She kissed the top of her head. "‘And I sing the song of Gabrielle, the Queen of the Amazons,’" she said, "‘the eternal bard and healer...’" She gazed into her eyes. "...and my best friend."
It was so good to be home again.
With her arm around Xena’s waist and Xena’s arm around her shoulders, they held each other close as they continued on down the path, heading into the early morning as their silhouettes were gradually swallowed by the sunrise of a new day.

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