Ramsey found his hot coffee to be a nice counter to the rather chilly breeze coming off the water. He did not think of his war years much these days. He now had a nation to run and living in the past was a waste of his time.

But this day was different. War was indeed on Ramsey’s mind. Not a war from the past, but a war that had yet to be fought. A war that he might have to start.

His house, really a palace, sat on the white sands of Panama City Beach in the nation of Superium, the peninsula formerly known as Florida. Ramsey had constructed this mansion fortress in the early 1960s, just before the first war he'd started. The Ultra War of '68. This was his home. Looking out over the gulf, over the expanse of sand and sea grass, he remembered what it had cost him to win it.

Allison Five came up behind him and stood in the open sliding glass door, taking up the entire space.

“It’s a beauty morning,” she said, turning her face to feel the wind. The sun caught her metal skin and filled its silvery surface with color, a wash of red and orange.

“There’s a storm coming,” Ramsey said.

“Yes, I see it.”

“I think I’ll go for a fly. Do you want to come?”

“No, thank you,” she said, and again he saw that look on her face. The new look. The one that made him feel alone. “You go ahead, I’ll wait here.”

He took another sip of coffee. Allison came out and leaned against the balcony rail. Her six-foot six-inch frame still held the lines and curves of a woman, a woman cast in stainless steel. She was as beautiful as all the Allisons who had come before her. Different, of course, but every bit as beautiful.

“I don’t want to go to war, Allison,” he said, still watching the distant storm, enjoying the morning on his balcony.

She reacted only slightly to the comment, a small turn of her head.

“Sometimes it is necessary,” her silver lips offered, “when the cause is just.”

He finished off his coffee and let the stab of emotion in his chest pass. The original Allison would have never said such a thing.

“I haven’t decided what to do yet.”

“To bring an idea to life, an action must take place,” she said, looking over the ocean. “Force must set events into motion. Otherwise the ideal will never come to life. It will only be words.”

He set his empty cup on the rail and let his robe slide from his body to the balcony floor, leaving him standing in his black swim trunks. For ninety-two years old, he looked great. A slight tint of gray at the temples, a few wrinkles around the eyes, and a body kept solid through careful diet and exercise. The Ultra Syndrome had given him prodigious strength, but it took discipline to keep it all tight.

“It’s not that simple,” he said, putting an end to the dialog. “I’ll be back in a little while.” He kissed her on the cheek. It was as warm and soft as any woman’s.

Ramsey floated over the balcony rail and headed south toward the storm. As he moved farther out over the ocean, he looked back and saw Allison watching him. She didn’t smile much.

It took him a good minute to get up to four hundred miles per hour, his maximum speed. He loved the roaring wind in his face, the ocean rushing beneath him. As he got closer to the storm, he flew through pockets of falling rain that came upon him like sudden refreshing breaths of cool.

The sky grew dark before him and he saw lightning pulse in the heart of the storm. He banked through twisting currents of air and flew low enough to drag his hand across the white caps on the water. Then he entered the storm and let himself go, allowing the gusts within the thunderheads to carry him where they may. He was nothing more than an errant fleck of dust.

He needed to be thinking about his next move against Nelson, about Burma, about war. Instead, he couldn’t stop thinking about Allison Five.

She was different than the others; stronger and more certain, but also colder and more serious. Almost brooding. She was too eager for this war, too quick to send men to die. Was it her own possible immortality that made her so detached? This was her fifth version, the fifth time she’d been born. Was there anything left of the person he originally fell in love with?

Ramsey knew it didn’t matter. He loved her as much as he had all the others. To him there weren’t really others. Just one.

He had met Allison, the original, in 1965, two years before his first war. She was a librarian in Michigan when the Ultra Syndrome got her. She was quite the sight when she showed up at Union Ultra Headquarters, a shining tower of pure womanhood. Her shoulder-length hair held a shape not unlike a helmet. Nodules that appeared to be rivets encircled her shoulders and neck. And, of course, she had those gigantic knockers.

But the strangest thing Allison brought with her that day was her egg; a perfect platinum egg the size of a man’s head.

“I laid this right after I turned to metal,” she had said, holding up the egg. Even now, almost fifty years later, in the middle of a storm above the Gulf of Mexico, the memory made him smile.

Ramsey broke above the top of the storm and headed to higher altitudes. The air temperature dropped and the wind relaxed to a slow push. Clouds roiled beneath his feet.

He knew Allison had a strong argument for going into Burma. When would there be a better time to support his own ideals? What Ultra would be better suited to lead than Aung San? The Burmese had a Ph.d. in economics from America, and had been a political prisoner before he contracted the syndrome. Most importantly, he had already made the ultimate sacrifice for his cause when his wife and child “disappeared” during his imprisonment.

What man better deserved the power?

Aung San had been locked up in a Burmese prison, when the syndrome hit him. One second he was chained to a wall in a dungeon, the next he could control the power of lightning. Apparently he was some kind of high-powered electric gun, an Ultra that could project energy blasts.

After destroying the secret police headquarters and knocking down a few military aircraft, Aung San had escaped into the jungle and united with the guerillas already operating in the area. From there, he had been giving the establishment hell for eight months.

Aung San’s politics were more socialist than Ramsey liked, but there was always hope the new nation would evolve into a democracy if exposed to the right ideals. Even Ramsey was not sure what the proper structure of an Ultra government should be. Many possibilities had to be explored.

Ramsey’s biggest problem was Doctor John Nelson. If he made a move in Burma, Nelson would definitely send in the troops. There would be bloodshed. Ultra had not killed Ultra for more than three years. Not since Allison Four and McVee had fought.

And, of course, he had other concerns.

Peacehammer was still a factor, although not as much as he used to be. Not since he got his butt kicked in Antarctica. And this Allison was definitely in his league. Her flesh was now many times stronger than steel, and her true might had yet to be measured. If she wasn’t his match, she was damn close.

And Ramsey had more muscle to throw into the mix. Sixty-one Ultras -- or Super Heroes as he chose to call them -- had already cast their lot with him. He had a dozen flying strongpoints to Nelson’s ten. And for home security he had a human army topping a quarter of a million men. He could definitely go against Nelson overseas.

Then again, he had underestimated the doctor before.

The storm had grown, and thunderheads rose like dark mountains above the surface of the Gulf. Ramsey circled an anvil-headed cloud and headed back to shore.

His house was the size of a luxury hotel and sat on the beach like a brilliant jewel. Its multistoried glass spires held over one hundred rooms, including a ballroom, auditorium, movie theater, specially designed gymnasium, a battle command center and a museum dedicated largely to Ramsey. In the back yard, a swimming pool the size of a football field reflected the morning sun, now high and white in the sky.

Ramsey landed on the balcony and went inside. Allison was not around. He entered the hallway and flew down the staircase, never touching a step. He was headed to very special room, one that he had only visited twice before.

In the subbasement of the palatial dwelling, Ramsey had a direct line to Nelson anywhere on Earth. Ramsey called it the Red-Phone Room. It was locked behind a heavy vault door and sound proof. Only he knew the password. Inside, a chair, a telephone and a giant television monitor collected dust.

Ramsey sat in the chair and dialed the phone. It took Nelson a good three minutes to answer.

The screen blipped on and there was Nelson, his weird full-body suit shifting pattern and color.

“Yes, Stu? What is it?” Nelson said, as cool as ice. Ramsey could not see his face. He had known the man for seventy years and had never seen his face, just the blank that moved in multicolored pulses and patterns. Images that appeared to be planets and suns rotated and morphed across various parts of Nelson’s head and body.

“I wanted you to know up front,” Ramsey said. “I’m making a stand in Burma.”

Nelson let a pause come between them before he spoke.

“What do you mean?”

“I’m going to actively back Aung San. I’m going to help him.”

The astronomy disappeared and was replaced by a pulsing red glow at the center of Nelson’s head.

“The truce will be broken. It will mean war.”

Ramsey lifted his chin a bit higher in the air.

“I know … Ramsey out, ” he said, pressing a button and breaking transmission. Nelson’s image on the screen contracted to a small white dot.

He left the Red-Phone Room and floated to the ground level.

It was Nelson who had killed the original Allison in 1968. Ramsey did not hate him for it. It was a time of war. She had been collateral damage.

It happened during the battle for Atlanta. He had mistakenly engaged Nelson, not realizing the true power of his old friend’s alien suit. Over the years, Ramsey had decided that he could take the shifting man in a head-to-head fight. It took about five minutes to realize he was wrong on that one. The dark-matter energy bolts Nelson could fire were far more powerful than Ramsey had guessed. He’d seen Nelson use them several times before, but taking one in the chest himself was another matter. They made a Howitzer feel like a spitball.

Allison had found them fighting in the downtown rubble and flew into Nelson from behind, trying to stop him without hurting him. Nelson lost control of his energy flow, shooting out charged dark matter like a loose fire hose. Allison took a direct hit at pointblank range.

She wasn’t as tough as her successors, and it was more than her steel body could handle. When she died in Ramsey’s arms, with Nelson watching, she exploded into a million silver sparks and disappeared, leaving him weeping on the shattered streets of Atlanta.

Ramsey did not feel rage. He did not want revenge. He just gathered his army of humans and Ultras and retreated to Florida. To Tallahassee.

That’s when they found out what Allison’s egg was for.

He had regrouped his army for what would be his final battle of the war. A hundred thousand of his troops had taken defensive positions around the Florida capital. Rollo, the greatest strongpoint who’d ever lived, stood guard to the north. His other remaining Ultras had bandaged their wounds and prepared for the fight. He, himself, had taken up a reconnaissance position at the top of the 40-story Jackson building.

That’s when Allison -- Allison Two to be precise -- walked into the room.

“It’s me, Stu,” she said. “I grew from the egg and flew up here to join you. I am alive.”

She was taller than she had been, her armored flesh was more ornate and angular, and she seemed more focused. But her memories, her feelings, were all Allison. Inside she was the same woman.

After subduing his initial shock and elation, he chalked up the resurrection to the Ultra syndrome and accepted it. Her return was what kept him alive that day.

Ramsey came up the stairs to the main level of the house. Allison Five was standing in the Great Room. She was wearing the look again.

“We have intercepted an international transmission from Dr. Nelson,” she said, a hair too robotically. “He has issued a call to quarters to the Ultras. Your name was mentioned. What has happened?”

He looked at her for a moment. So beautiful. So magnificent. A statue of platinum. A goddess of war.

But not his Allison.

“I’m sending you to Burma,” he said, walking up to her. “Make contact with Aung San. Engage the Burmese army and any Ultras who try to stop you. I’ll send reinforcements as soon as possible. Put him on the throne, Allison.”

She did not react, but Ramsey knew there was a smile in her heart.

“I’ll satellite Aung San’s coordinates to you in flight,” he said to her.

Allison Five leaned over and kissed him on the lips.

“Goodbye, my love,” she said. “I will bring us victory.”

With that she threw open the two huge front doors and took to the air. In a few seconds, the rumble from her sonic boom shook the windows and made the chandeliers rattle.

“Bring us victory?” he said to the empty room. “Jesus Christ.”

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