The heart of the security system that Milo was installing was a wireless communication hub made by Raxxon Industries. He had dismissed the idea at first glance. After all, what good was a security system that could have its signal hacked and taken over by someone else? After seeing many mentions of how secure the system was and how many high-profile customers praised it, he took a second look. Similar to how he communicated over the data-net, the signal from each camera was split into seven distinct channels and broadcast to other parts of the system, where it was reassembled. Not all the channels were useful, some being dummy channels broadcasting gibberish. An ever-changing pattern made sure that someone couldn't hack the channels and find the pattern by brute force. Milo knew that wasn't true. Given time and inclination, he could do it, and Wally would find it trivial. He preferred sixty-four channels and a code that evolved constantly.

Milo ordered the system, and then took apart the hardware looking for flaws, and went through the programs that would modify the mutating code. As expected, he found a back door into the system. Raxxon sold security, but Milo saw no reason to trust them not to sell information from their own customers. That was the way the world worked. The first back door was obvious and easy to remove. He went looking for another and found it. This one uploaded data to Raxxon at random times. Milo set aside the programming, noting that he could use it to gain access to part of Raxxon's systems. Not something he needed, but who knew what the future would bring?

He almost missed the third back door. It was far more complex and subtle than the first two, laying dormant until an outside signal triggered it. It was beautiful coding and made him a little jealous of whoever could think this way. Instead of removing it, he modified it for his own use and then reconstructed the entire software set to manage his security system. Thousands of small cameras throughout the habitat would report back to him while feeding the expected coverage to the Manpower system. He left the old system in place and over-rode their signal. If they checked, their hardware was still there.

Raxxon also sold specialized security drones that would crawl and roll through ductwork, installing cameras where needed. Milo used those for much of the work, leaving delicate and hard-to-reach places to himself. All he needed was a line of sight to where he wanted the micro-cameras. A wrist-mounted 'gun' would shoot the cameras up to 200 feet using compressed air. The mounting would adhere to any surface. The cameras were nearly invisible to the naked eye, they were so small. Every day for two weeks, Milo roamed the habitat, installing surveillance cameras to watch everything. It would make keeping things fixed easier, as well as tracking people's movements, specifically Victor and his underlings. Milo felt much better when he was done. Between his new set of eyes and the protection Steven had talked Wally into giving him, he was getting back to his normal level of paranoia.

He had missed the game and its challenges. But he didn't want to log in and lose himself in Genesis if he was vulnerable in the habitat.

"Shit, here the bastards come again. Don't they get tired of us kicking their ass?" It was hot as hell, and Mick was sweating in his heavy armor. The stuff was protective with iron plates over heavy leather, but it wasn't made for fighting in heavy terrain in a semi-tropical zone.

Sgt. Barnard 'Big Butch' Volkov yelled down the line. "Because Orcs don't think that way. If they're charging us, that means we haven't won yet. The losers are the dead bodies they're climbing over to get us. So straighten the line, and get those shields up. As soon as the big guy gets done yelling at them and telling jokes, he's going to lead another charge."

"How the hell do you know that, Butch?" Mick yelled back to argue, but Butch noticed he got in line and got those around him organized. Mick loved to argue, but he was a solid fighter. All the guys were. Bad as this was, fighting orcs was like a holiday compared to most jobs available in the habitats.

"I picked up some of their lingo talking to the prisoners we took. They won't talk to the inquisitor for shit, but if you bring them a beer, they don't mind talking to grunts like us. Now get ready."

The orcs were forming up in their assault groups, with the biggest in the front, holding heavy bull hide shields to protect from arrows and javelins. The smaller ones ran behind in a close pack. The one that worried Butch was the big one who'd been yelling. He was going for a promotion. He had a glowing axe in one hand and a long knife in the other, and he was running in front of the shields. He had confidence, and that was all an orc like him needed. He'd send them all to respawn if he broke their line, and the orc tribes would have a new Warlord. Losing ground, getting hacked to death, and respawning each day would become common, and Butch's paycheck would suffer because of it.

"Get your pilum ready. Throw on my mark, and I want every one of you bastards to aim for the big guy." The orcs started across the broken field littered with dead orcs and mercenaries, gaining speed as they went. The big one in the lead was glowing red, and a shimmer in the air spread from him to the other charging greenskins.

"Now, toss 'em." Two dozen iron-headed pilum flew up into the sky before coming down with the orc chief as their target.

Butch threw his spear a second later. It wasn't a pilum. After a battle two months ago, he'd found the seven-foot-long orc war spear on the body of a Redmaw Orc Chief. It was a heavy, nasty weapon. Throwing it was a pain in the ass, the spear fighting against him, even in target practice. But it hit hard. Butch was sure it was magical, but it wasn't his magic. The thing even growled at him now and then. The big guy charging was from the Whiteskull tribe. Whiteskulls and Redmaw orcs could barely be on the same field of battle together. The war chiefs put the tribes on opposite flanks, and they always fought with each other afterward. Butch was hoping that inter-tribe rivalry carried over to their weapons.

The pilums came down, landing short or bouncing off the red haze around the big orc. Seven of them should have hit him, but each one was deflected, weakening the protective magics. Butch's spear hit a second after the last pilum. The spear hadn't fought with him this time, and he managed a good throw. The heavy barb-headed war spear glowed as it punched through the red haze, dispersing it, and then punched through the skull of the big orc. He stumbled forward with three feet of shaft protruding from the back of his head. The charge of the other orcs faltered. Then, incredibly, the leader stood up and yelled at the humans.

Butch had been hoping he'd just die, but he didn't, and was calling for single combat with 'the one warrior you piss-ant humans seem to have'. "Shit. Hold my beer, Mick." Drawing his short-sword and picking up his shield, Butch walked down to meet his opponent. The other orcs pounded their shields and screamed. The big orc tried to pull out the spear but couldn't get leverage. Butch shrugged, and spoke in orcish to him. "Here, let me help; then, we can get on with our fight."

Whether the orc understood or not, he didn't attack when Butch tossed set down his sword and shield. He grabbed the spear's shaft, put his foot on the orc's back, and pulled the spear entirely through his opponents skull. The spear was entirely coated in blood and brains, but felt good in his hands. Butch decided it was a better weapon in this fight than a weedy little sword.

He backed off as the wounded orc shook himself, and his one good eye focused on his opponent. He charged, screaming, and Butch thrust the spear with both hands into his chest, puncturing his heart, and stopping his momentum. The orc looked up at Butch and smiled. "Good fight." And then he died. The other orcs argued a little, but most of them shrugged and turned around, walking away. The spear in his hands was humming to itself and felt light as a feather. Butch turned around and walked back to the line of men. "Pack it up; we're done for the day. Time for a few beers before we have to fight the bastards tomorrow."

A messenger came up on a lathered horse. "I'm looking for Barnard Volkov. Any of you grunts answer to that?" Butch wearily raised his hand.

"Yeah, that's me. What's up...sir." He almost forgot the last part. The corporate pricks were a pain in the ass. All officers, no matter how dumb they were. So you called them all, Sir, no matter what happened.

"You're logging out. Get back to camp, then bring up your screen. The 'Wake Up' button is active, and you won't get fined for leaving the game without permission." He turned and rode off. Butch shrugged. He'd been looking forward to drinking a cold beer, something he couldn't get in the hab, but maybe he could make his report and get a day off to see his family. Overtime was nice, but he missed the little sprouts; they grew up too quickly."

When his pod opened, there was not one but three attendants waiting for him. "Careful, sir. You've been in for three weeks; walking takes some getting used to." The politeness told Butch something was up. He ignored the guy with the wheelchair who wanted to drive him around, took the offered clothes, and drank down a quart of something that was supposed to get his functions working again.

"The boss wants a report or something?"

The attendants looked nervous. "No, sir. You're needed at home—an emergency of some sort. You have a three-day paid pass. The express elevator is waiting to take you up. As is a representative from The Department of Habitat Dwellers and Itinerant Population."

Now Butch was really confused. Someone from DHDIP, (normally called 'Dips' by hab dwellers), rarely showed their faces in the habs, and certainly not for someone like him. He saw a well-dressed man waiting for him as he got to the elevator. They shook hands, and Butch found himself alone with him as the elevator started to ascend. "Mr. Volkov? I'm Agent Smith from DHDIP, but please call me Stan. It's been found that you're having trouble adopting some orphaned children. I'm here to make things easier. We'll meet with your wife soon and get everything straightened out."