Darwin

"Darwin" is also a: user

(thing) by JohnKFisher (5.6 y) (print) ? Mon Oct 15 2001 at 20:17:25

Little more detail on Apple Computer's Darwin:

Darwin is a *nix POSIX-compatible Operating System based on FreeBSD and the Mach 3.0 Microkernal. It also shares significant codebase with NeXTStep, a product of the former NeXT.

Available as an Open Source OS under the APSL, it is available to run on both Macintosh computers and x86 systems.

Although Apple's main interest in Darwin is as the core of Mac OS X, Darwin can indeed be run as a full stand-alone OS.

As of this writing, the most up to date version is Darwin 1.4.1, which corresponds to Mac OS X 10.1

Darwin can be downloaded at opensource.apple.com

(person) by Elrac (1.7 mon) (print) ? Sat Apr 20 2002 at 12:45:27

Ensign Darwin

Darwin is a crew member of the SeaQuest DSV, the Deep Sea Vehicle that gives its name to the TV series.

In the show, Darwin is a bottlenose dolphin who was found and rescued from distress in his youth by the SeqQuest's Captain Bridger. Some “advanced experimentation” later on gives Darwin the ability of human speech, with a vocabulary of about 125 words both understood and spoken. This, along with his high native intelligence, qualifies him to participate in the SeaQuest's missions. He is trained for deep-sea tracking and data retrieval. A modified torpedo port allows him to enter and exit the SeaQuest at will, and a system of aquatic tubes gives him the run of part of the ship.

Interestingly enough, Darwin is not played by a real living dolphin. Instead, he is a mock-up created by Edge Innovations, a special effects company specializing in animatronics which has also provided special effects for other movies, and series, including Flipper, Free Willy and Star Trek IV.

References

http://atreides.dynip.com/ueofleet/darwin.htm
http://www.edgefx.com/seaquest.htm

(place) by Mardy (1.7 mon) (print) ? Thu Mar 04 2004 at 11:53:39

There aren't many Western cities that can claim on their CVs to be located in the tropics, or to have been destroyed twice.

Darwin is the administrative and commercial capital of Australia's Northern Territory, situated at the 'top end' of Australia on the Arafura Sea.

In the nineteenth century there were a number of unsuccessful attempts to establish a settlement in the area inhabited by the Larrakia aboriginal people. Eventually Palmerston - later renamed Darwin in honour of Sir Charles Darwin who visted the area in 1839 - was founded as a town in 1869. Darwin managed to survive long enough to witness a gold rush 200 miles south in the the late nineteenth century. This provided enough momentum and population to give the town some semblence of permanency and population, although its population did not hit the five figures until around the 1950s.

Darwin was repeatedly bombed by the Japanese in World War Two, and was devasted by Cyclone Tracy in 1974. In both instances the civilian population of the town was evacuated. It was later used by the United Nations to support peacekeeping operations in East Timor in 1999, a disturbingly short jump across the Arafura, and to support Bali Assist in 2002.

Darwin's population of 80,000 is too small, too isolated (and the weather too unbearable) to support a viable manufacturing industry. Much of Darwin's economy supports mining and pastoral activies in the Northern Territory, as well as a large military and public service presence. Darwin is hoping to see the proceeds of a planned mining operation of natural gas in the Timor Gap in the near future. Compared with other city dwellers in Australia, Darwinians are more likely to be younger, transient and of Aboriginal heritage.

A train line was built to Pine Creek in 1889, which only got connected to Alice Springs and the rest of Australia in 2004. This kind of speaks of how Darwin is seen. Australians dwelling in more temperate climes tend to regard Darwin as far-off plucky outpost of Australia hewn into a tropical jungle; a sentinel watching Asia (nowadays more for commercial than defence opportunities), populated by public servants in sweat drenched shirts. Think Anchorage (one of its sister cities) with crocodiles, and you'll get the picture.

Naming Darwin after the man who is considered (incorrectly) to have devised the notion of survival of the fittest is more than ironic.

(fiction) by badme (3.3 d) (print) ? 1 C! Tue Jul 03 2007 at 17:20:21

It was night and it was the SubSlums and it was silent. And then there was a scream and it wasn't silent in the SubSlums anymore.

"So what is it this time?" asked Mitch Roonie. He was a big man. Tall. Muscular, but not excessively so. Brown hair. Pale skin. Irish features. Getting up there in the years, but still a field-man; no desk-job, but thanks for the offer!

"Something you might have a bit of experience in, Mitch. Costumed serial killer. Straight out of the comic books," replied Jordan Freder. Mitch's chief in the Special Circumstances Section (SCS) of the Suburban Police Force (SPF), Philadelphia (Philly). The man oversaw cases a touch...different than your usual murders or larcenies or Suburb-Squatters. He was shorter than Mitch and older - not much though, five years at most. He had emerald eyes set deep in a tanned round face, and radiated an energy that was characteristic of far younger men.

"It's been a long, long time since I've seen one of these loons. What do we have?" Mitch spun the one-credit coin on Freder's desk as he spoke.

Ker-chink SLAM and the coin dropped to its side.

Both men looked up, startled, to see a pretty, thirty-something redhead in a suit stride in.

"Oh, it's only you," said Freder. "Welcome, have a seat, we were just talking about the new lunatic."

Mitch grunted. "Janice, stop scaring your partner like that."

"I believe they call it 'investigative associate' these days, partner."

"Never had much of a use for titles like that, myself." And the coin was spinning again.

Janice pulled a wood-backed chair next to Mitch as Freder stood.

"Well, let's get down to it. There was a murder in the 5-A subs the other night. A garroting. The cuts on the neck resemble what we'd expect from that kind of weapon, but they're smaller than any I've ever seen."

Janice leaned in. "What else do we have?" Mitch was still spinning the coin.

"A note and a picture.," said Freder. We've swept the place for everything else: DNA, proteins, video recordings. Hell, we even tried fingerprints. Guy's a goddamn ghost. Only lets us see what he wants us to see."

He fumbled in his top-right desk drawer before withdrawing an envelope and tossing it across the table. Janice immediately took out the paper inside as Mitch stopped the coin to read:

Dear Officers of the Law,

I have made my judgment. I am the gardener,
and I must weed.

Tonight I, in a tiny way, have furthered the evolution of the human race.

Darwin

Beneath the writing was a photograph of a man in a full-body armored suit. Green-black against the dim lighting, the suit held a slight air of menace. Looking at it was feeling the temperature drop a few degrees - perceivable, but barely.

Mitch found it difficult to tear himself away. Something about the helmet - the mask on front, with its eyepieces and rebreathing gear and smooth contours, vaguely resembled a skull.

He blinked and the image was gone.

"A Social Darwinist? I thought those beliefs died out centuries ago. They always did give real evolutionary theory a bad name," said Janice.

Freder shook his head. "They did, beyond certain individuals like our Darwin here. But the Psych-boys don't think he is one. Not really, anyway. There was a twenty-six, twenty-four, and twenty-seven year old in the Sub he hit. All of them healthy. And one was white, one black, one asian. So they don't think it was a racial thing, either. We don't have anything else to go on."

"So what are we doing?" asked Janice. She pursed her lips - the strange mix of confusion and determination that Mitch recognized so well from identical situations over the past three years.

"We alerted residents and installed security devices at all possible gates into the SubSlums. We're starting nightly patrols. Your schedule's been emailed to you. You know the regulations - report suspicious activity and all that. Apprehend if possible, but everyone has authorization to take this one down. Dismissed."

"I'm getting too old for this sort of thing," said Mitch,

"What, the chasing the crazy serial killer or the waiting?" said Janice.

"Both. I'm impatient now. An eight and a three year-old, a beautiful wife who I don't see much of anymore will do that to you," said Mitch, as he fumbled in his pocket, finally procuring two cigarettes and a battered lighter.

Janice chuckled. "And how are they doing now?"

"Will's fine. Click. "Emily won her spelling bee." Click. "Aditi's squeezing in seven hours of sleep a night again, none of which been home for in the past two weeks. Can you imagine that does to -" Click. "Ah, goddamnit!" Mitch shouted, and held the lighter out with his left arm to Janice. He curled his right into a hard fist as he stared through the front window.

"Thing cut me again. Can you...?"

Janice took the offered lighter. "You know, they have these electronic, body-heat sensitive ones nowadays that go for five credits. Even with our measly paychecks, you can afford one." Clic-fwoosh. Mitch took the lighter back with a grunt.

"Janice, the second one's here for you. Do you still...?"

"Nasty habit. Gave it up two months ago."

"So did I," Mitch mumbled. "So did I."

He jerked up from the dash as though he'd touched a live wire. "Did you just-"

"What?"

"Saw something. Stay here." And he was out of the car and into mud and running forward with pistol drawn in one swift movement. "Stay here!" he shouted back, and the man was off: a tiny silhouette against the darkness.

Mitch's stakeout was a hundred yards away from the SubSlum but he was an athlete. So he crashed through forest and the black-green undergrowth that lay between. Janice had the car radio and would be calling the other teams if he didn't return soon, and he didn't intend on that happening. The noise of twenty-one officers bearing down at once when there wasn't any confirmed sighting would probably blow any chance at success this night. Mitch didn't want to waste the whole operation on a glance, but-

There. Corner of his right eye. A silvery glint in the forest that moved and froze unnaturally when Mitch turned - too late.

"This is the police! Stay where you are or I'll shoot!" And the glint rushed full-speed this time, and Mitch squeezed round after white-hot round into the dark leaves. The glint didn't slow, moved impossibly faster, and Mitch saw the rough outline of a ghostly figure clad in armor. And then it was gone - just vanished.

Mitch resisted the almost overpowering urge to chuck his weapon into the woods and scream in frustration. Instead, he tucked the gun into his coat and began the slow jog back to Janice: was 100 yards, felt like a million. When he was halfway there he heard a faint whoosh behind him and looked up. There, maybe three-four-five miles away, was a tiny puff of flame and a...was that a human shape on the other end?

"God-" He left the curse to dangle as he quickened his pace.

"Well, I've got good news and I've got bad news. Which do you want to hear first?"

"I'm tired of this 'good-news-bad-news' bull crap. Just tell me what happened," said Mitch as he took his seat, unrolling a cigarette. There would be no interruptions this time; Janice had taken the day off.

Mitch was sitting across from Freder's desk. The chief had an...oddly amused look on his face, supported by a wry smile.

"You're really bothered by last night, aren't you, Mitch?" he asked. Suddenly his nose wrinkled in disgust.

"Nasty habit. I thought you gave it up."

"I did too. What the hell happened?"

"The Forensics boys were on the site the other day. They didn't much of anything except for a few footprints when you found him. I have you to thank for that," he said. Freder gave Mitch a satisfied nod and leaned back in his chair.

"Mitch, we found something else."

"Yes..."

"Spent ammo. Thirty shots, fired form a standard-issue P42 pistol. The bullets have your Officer's Tracking Sig. on them. You told me shot at him, Mitch, but I didn't know you spent an entire magazine."

"Fat good it did. I missed with all of them."

"No, you didn't."

Mitch leaned forward, a quizzical look on his face. "What?" No demand for information, no confused statement of disbelief, just a simple, "What?"

"What?" he repeated, making that the third time he'd said the word.

"Your accuracy wasn't great, but under the circumstances, we couldn't expect much. Four of the bullets have physical deformities that suggest a sudden path deflection. And the angles work out, assuming the positioning between you and the target. Four of your bullets did not miss, Mitch."

"Then..."

"The costume's not a prop. It's metal, it's proof against police rounds, it's lightweight enough to run in. And it has a jetpack. Whatever it is, Mitch, I don't have a clue, and neither do the Forensics boys."

Mitch's eyes lit up. "I just might."

Janice killed the engine and leaned over to snatch the keys. Mitch opened the door on his side and looked up at the rising sight of the building in front of him, partially obscured by the smoky rain. It was all steel and vertically-piled stone; it smelled of industry and looked like death. The high-security federal R&D center wasn't pretty, but it just might hold some answers.

"Mitch, old buddy, how you doin'?" The voice belonged to David Light, and as he spoke he extended a hand. His face was one big smile that hung over an odd mix of muscled chest and pudgy belly. It was a handsome face; older, certainly, but with sharp features and surf-boy-blond hair.

Mitch took the hand and used the other to pull David into a clumsy, one armed hug. His smile was warm and sincere.

"Never been better, man. Never been better."

David peeked over Mitch's shoulder. "Who's the pretty lady?"

"I'm Janice Baker, although 'Pretty Lady' is fine, I suppose."

David laughed: deep, from his chest. "A feisty one! I like your style. You this loser's partner? Oh man, have I got stories to tell! Like this one time, that involved a cat and a blowtorch and lots (and I mean lots) of alcohol -"

"I'll just excuse myself and let you two reminisce for a bit. Will be outside," she said with a wink, and shut the door behind her.

As soon as she was gone David's smile died. "Am I losing my touch, man?"

"No, you're not. She's just very business-like. A professional. Focused. Hell, when it comes to this case, it's weird...I am too." Mitch was rummaging through the MiniFridge at the back of the room. "Got one of those new Budweiser Diet Cherry Mango Lights? I kind of want to try one."

"They're in the back, you blind old man."

"Got it. And fuck you."

Both men sat down at opposing sides of David's desk. It was one of those ornate jobs: gold-plated drawer handles, holographic cover-top, the works. Must've cost a fortune, thought Mitch.

"Yeah, Dave, as I said, it's weird. When I was chasing this guy through the forest I felt...into it. Driven. But when I'm doing paperwork or sifting through the endless non-results of Physic Scanners or out on a four-hour stakeout, man, I feel so...tired, Dave. Like I'm wasting all this time. Hell, it goes back way earlier. Two years now, I figured...maybe I will get a desk-job. Let the young guns with nothing to lose and something to prove go at this Darwin freak."

He sighed, his right hand dancing idly on the neck of the bottle. "I can just spend the rest of my life wastin' away with Aditi and the kids."

"Well, you are forty-three now."

"I should've listened to Aditi when she told me she wanted a family at twenty-five." He took a big draw on the bottle and jerked forward, fssspzzz, spitting out an impressive spray of foam.

"Good God, what the hell is this shit, Dave?" He looked up and realized that Dave's face was currently dripping. With whatever it was. "Ah, Christ, Dave, I'm sorry..."

But for his part Dave just laughed - that same deep, full one again - and waved his friend off as he took out a handkerchief.

"I'll get one of my servbots to clean up the mess you made of my desk."

"You know, handkerchiefs aren't clean. You should use paper towels instead."

"I don't know if I should take sanitation advice from someone who just vomited beer all over my face." And this time, Mitch laughed, loud and full.

"So, Dave...business."

Dave nodded. "Yes, business. Well, I looked over the information in your email: the police report, the ballistics analysis, the logged conversations between the Forensics team, everything. And I checked it against every database I could think of, including a few that I'm not supposed to have access to. And my own knowledge, of course."

Mitch leaned in. "And?"

"Nothing. No material, natural or man-made, would even come close to fitting all those specs. I don't know what Darwin's armor is made of, nor do I even know how to figure it out. It's metal. That's it."

Mitch's mouth dropped full-open, teeth and gums showing.

"But...that's..."

"Impossible, I know. At least on paper. But you know as well as I that there are some research projects I don't have access to, that even the black-on-black materials scientists don't see the full picture. Whoever your friend is, he's got some connection to the most secret level of personal defense technology there is."

"But this is terrible! For all we know, we might need a point-blank artillery shell to take him down!"

David stretched his hands. "I'm sorry."

Janice held the passenger-side door open; Mitch climbed in and buckled his seatbelt without a word. Heavy rain clumped on the windshield as wipers struggled to clear it.

"And?"

He told her.

She raised her left eyebrow, confused.

"Well, that can't be all bad."

"Oh, Janice it is. We have no idea what we're up against, what this schmuck could really survive. Worst-case scenario, we call the local national guard, borrow some of their shoulder-mounted anti-jetpack stuff."

"I repeat: that doesn't sound all that bad."

"I'll talk with Freder about it in an hour. But, damnit, this could takes weeks - paperwork and all."

Janice just looked out, into the muddy rain. She fired the engine and drove.

"We're not taking any chances with this one."

Freder stood at the front of the briefing room. It was hot; stiflingly so, and too much for the three ceiling fans to fight against. Twenty-one Special Circumstances officers were seated at plastic tables in three rows. They faced the front of the room where Freder stood, his back to a large, white projection screen.

"As you all know, there was another attack last night. Darwin's struck again at 5-A, and left another note for us." Freder clicked a button on his remote; the screen behind him lit up with hand-written words.

Dear Officers of the Law,

Are you still trying? I'm out here and I'm killing.
Dare you try to stop me?

Darwin

"As you can see, he's dropped any reference to a motive and is now outright taunting us. This is his third hit within six days; he alternates and I see no reason why he'll deviate from the pattern. Tomorrow, I expect another one at 5-A. This time, we'll be ready." Freder flicked a lock on the briefcase that stood on the table in front of him. Thirty pistols glittered inside.

"Mitch couldn't get details on what Darwin's armor was made of, and we have no idea, ourselves. And since Fed stuff takes forever to get approved for, we went with the best we have in-station. These are X57s. Military-grade weapons. Mach-3, trans-alloy. A single round will pierce frontal tank armor. There's some nifty engineering trick they do that removes most of the recoil, so firing it doesn't blow your arm off. This is serious hardware."

Freder looked out over his subordinates.

"We're going to hit him hard and fast. All twenty-one of you will ambush him tomorrow night. As soon as one of you sees him, call everyone else. You will shoot to kill. Any questions?"

"And so we wait."

"It'll end tonight, though."

"It better. I need a cigarette."

Mitch popped the passenger door open and stepped out. He and Janice were back at their stake-out place: same one he first saw Darwin. The night was cool and quiet, the kind of night where everything slows. Even cigarette smoke, thought Mitch as he took a pull.

Mitch kept walking, through brush and under dark tree branches. Crickets chirped. The growth grew thicker. Clouds covered the moon. It took Mitch some time to realize he should go back - but then he was lost. He had turned, somehow. Mitch tried to remember landmarks but he couldn't even see anything. He reached into his left pocket for his radio and -

It wasn't there. He dug deeper, feeling for the cellphone...nothing. Must've left them both in the car. Mitch bit back a curse and pushed through more tangled branches. Faster now. He felt panic rise and - THUNK

Mitch opened his eyes and jumped up in one confused, spastic motion. He rubbed his hand against his forehead, felt pain, and looked up at the branch above him. It was at head-height and had a tiny bit of red on it. And this time, Mitch did curse.

At least the moon was out. Mitch retraced his steps until the trees thinned. Can't be long now...

And Mitch ran into the opening and he stopped cold and grabbed - fell into, really - a nearby tree for support. What he'd found was a massacre. In the silent grove, surrounded by a ring of trees and bushes, lay a score of bodies. All of them in police uniforms, all of them covered in glistening splotches. The moonlight made it look like silver but Mitch knew the color was red.

Mitch retched - little food this day, he'd skipped lunch, so not much came out - and gathered his strength. He radioed a Medevac and ran forward to check pulses. No good. Not this one, either. This one's was weak but alive. Mitch set to work on first aid. He couldn't do much; just bandage and pressure. Bandage and pressure. Slow the bleeding until their tiny, jet-engined savior, the Medevac chopper, came through.

The next one wasn't alive. This one - Janice!

He recognized the face as his fingers held her wrist. Her heart beat: not powerfully, but enough to last. Her uniform was dark with blood, and the wound was deep, but the bleeding was slow. Mitch could do little more, but she'd survive until the helicopter arrived to carry her off.

Mitch looked down at the five people he'd saved as they lay strewn amongst the fifteen corpses of those he couldn't. He felt warm wet drops on the back of his head as he finished with Ryan V's bandaging and had a sudden premonition of blood. His body tingled throughout with a jolt of nervous energy and - water. Just rain. He couldn't risk moving the wounded, so he closed their water-proof, plastic police coats and stood. The Medevac would be here in minutes, now...they'd all get better...he'd be home, soon, this night behind him, firmly locked away in memory...

What happened next happened very quickly.

Out of the corner of his eye, Mitch saw a glimmer and he turned to his right and dropped his flashlight in horror. For there, on the other side of the clearing, stood Darwin. The armor glistened in the dark, black-green against the moonlit rain. A sudden lightning flash illuminated the clearing; Mitch felt the terror of the unknown rise within, cold and overpowering.

But terror couldn't stand against bullets. Without thought Mitch pulled his X57 and fired and fired and fired and when he was out of bullets he reloaded and fired and fired and fired. Blue sparks raged wild over Darwin's armor; a cloud of smoke arose, chocking, confusing...Mitch was screaming and firing and firing...

And Mitch reached for his next magazine and it wasn't there and he looked up. He thrust his hand against the downpour, the haze cleared - and there Darwin stood. One hundred and fifty trans-alloy rounds later. The lightning struck again on Darwin's mask and Mitch saw - knew - the skull-and-rebreathers of Death, come to collect. Mitch could swear the metal visage smiled. But then the moment passed and it was just the man and the monster in the woods, each staring and neither moving.

The silence was broken by a dull roar from above. Mitch jerked his head up in surprise, and saw the Medevac chopper, cutting up the black night with its silver. Slowly, almost casually, Darwin unholstered a pistol he'd stored in that armor and fired three shots upward. Only his right arm moved. The rest stood statue-still. And in that wordless action Mitch knew Darwin could kill him at any point he wished, knew the man in the metal suit held death in his hand as you or I might hold a toothbrush.

Darwin reholstered his weapon and plod slowly, menacingly forward. Mitch ran.

He stumbled and tripped and fell through viney undergrowth. The black forest smothered like an imprisoning blanket. His body had switched to automatic and Mitch breathed shallow as his legs pumped fire and his mind blared thunder. Mitch couldn't hear Darwin but his twisted gut knew the hunter was close. He was trying to piece everything together as he ran. Darwin hadn't looked where he was shooting, hadn't aimed his shots. It was an attempt to drive off the helicopter, not to take it down. But why...the trees thinned. Light bled through as Mitch ran from the dark forest.

He rushed forward. The wind whipped Mitch's brown hair and suddenly, in the center of an open field, Mitch realized he needed tree cover against a man with a jetpack. He turned to check behind and -

There was Darwin, twenty feet away. Advancing slowly, just like before. Menacingly.

Mitch flicked his eyes left and right. The treeline on either side must've been two hundred feet from him. No good. And with the faintest of stumbling, confused steps Mitch turned and flew.

Straight into a chain-link fence. Or nearly, anyway. There was a white sign on the front of it that Mitch couldn't make out in the darkness and barbed wire all along the top. It was tall and Mitch spun back with a curse and there was Darwin, still twenty feet away. As if that last sprint was a dream.

Mitch looked into the hard metal mask. He knew he had no escape, not a dream of a hope - but it wasn't anger or fear he felt. Just -

You want me, fucker? Come and get me!

And without a word Mitch lunged, hurled his gun at Darwin's head and dove forward. Black-metal palms slapped away the unlikely projectile and - too late.

Mitch's body slammed into Darwin's unprotected legs and the armored man fell: backwards and hard. He toppled with a terrific crash and a very human cry of pain. Mitch was on top now, and shoved and prodded for weak points. His fingers rang against metal and - there! At the base of the neck! He brought his fists up and smashed down at the rubber gap again...and again...and again. His enemy struggled below in a writhing attempt to escape, but the armor's weight buried. Mitch was a mad, wild thing. Fist up and down, do it again. Lightning flashed and lit up a dark, red stain, dribbling through Mitch's pounding blows. He couldn't tell whose it was. Fist up and down.

And then suddenly Mitch was down and off. He scrambled to dodge a flailing kick and caught a steel toe in the side. He tripped backwards but recovered standing. Darwin was pressing on now, at full speed. Wounded. Hurt. Not as intimidating as before.

Mitch raised his left fist to block a hard straight and ducked. Darwin's knee was there but Mitch was too fast, far too fast and then he was behind and his right arm was wrapped around Darwin's neck. Mitch took a hit to his shin for the trouble, but held on and shifted weight. Darwin's metal limbs found no place to wind-up for a powerful strike, close-in like this, and the extra weight made them awkwardly slow. Mitch dodged a shuffling left kick aimed for his groin and pulled tighter tighter tighter and Darwin screamed and blood drooled out the breathing slits in the mask. Left elbow met belly; Mitch fell but before Darwin could rally, the detective was on him again. Darwin had leverage this time, and for a second, they both hung motionless in their fumbling grips. And then Mitch slipped on the wet armor and instead of tightening his one-armed choke-hold, threw Darwin a few feet backwards.

The man tried to right himself, failed, toppled, rolled lengthwise, and struck the fence in a shower of sparks. Lightning lit up the sky again, giving Mitch enough time to read the fence's sign. It was a yellow triangle with a zig-zaggy arrow down the center, and two words:

"High Voltage"

Well, thought Mitch. And before he could expand on that one, the pain and the shock and the fear all hit at once. Mitch looked up at the stars to orient himself with something solid. To his surprise, he found that they spun, faster and faster. In the moon-covered night, in the center of that silent clearing, Mitch fainted dead away.

The memorial was a public affair, held in the courtyard behind the station. It had to be; when you have sixteen slain officers out of a unit of twenty-one, you need as much space as you can get. It was a simple thing, really.