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Harvest

By: trismegistus



O.K., I admit I probably shouldn't have done it. But, really, who in their right mind would have expected this? But, then again, who do I know who's in their right mind? Sure, I mean, all the tales warn against doing it, but nobody ever suggests that this can happen. Come on. What? You look puzzled. Maybe I should start at the beginning.

Slowly?

Right.

Well, I had never really gotten into any trouble, though I'd harbored seditious thoughts on many occasions. I was just discreet enough to keep myself clear of overt political complications, as I liked to remain. I never would have expected the road I walked to lead to such an end. I mean, who expects to get into trouble for the politics of one's magic?

There it is, in a nutshell. Honestly, is it my fault that I didn't take such a consideration into account? If I did anything wrong, it was merely the drunkenness by which it became easy to choose loosely to perform the act. Really, though, who would have expected this?

Maybe it is my fault. Maybe I should have realized that such an act carried with it its own reality, that one could expect anything. Again, I don't know.

The problem is, it's too late, and They say that ignorance of the Law is no excuse. They don't listen when I suggest that a touch of publicity to that Law would still be nice. I mean, so it wasn't a friendly thing to do. Nobody ever before told me there was a law against not liking someone, and I would have called them a liar if they had. I mean, really. What's a little curse among friends?

Before you decide that I'm a lunatic, let me assure you that I'm not. I'm just as stable as you or your neighbor. I merely happen to disagree with most of you on one point: I'm a pagan (as opposed to a heathen). As a pagan, I see magic as a fairly common and straightforward thing, or maybe seeing it that way was what landed me in this mess. I don't know anymore.

Here's what happened: I got drunk and ritually evoked a certain Entity in the process of cursing someone I particularly dislike. Now, who would even suspect that anyone would be watching such a very private little transgression? But, there's the rub. The recipient of my unpleasant intent was very public, none other than the President of the United States, and such a one has guardians too numerous to count...

It all began the following day.

"Dr. Randall," intoned the voice on the telephone, "I've heard through a friend of a friend of your interest in magic, and I need a ghostwriter. I suppose I felt that the two were a powerful conjunction, and I just wondered..."

Well, I'd not been doing too well lately (cash flow, the real "writer's block") and was only too happy to have work drop from the sky. This really helped to cut the edge of the hangover from last night's disgruntled drinking spree, and I don't think I even thought to ask into the exact pathways by which my interlocutor had come to know of me. "I agree. That sounds like a wonderful conjunction," I silked, careful not to be too eager. "I'd love to hear more, but it sounds like we'd better meet, first. How do you wanna do this?"

We made an appointment to meet in her office the next day. Now, I really don't think that I can be faulted for taking the whole thing at face value, surprising or not. My unknown client-to-be ended the conversation by saying, "You have no idea how much I'm looking forward to this. I can't wait to get going."

The next day found me outside a midtown office building ten minutes early -- right on schedule. (I find that hunger and punctuality go hand in hand.) I noticed as I walked through the corridor/lobby and into the dumbwaiter that passed for the building's elevator that my client-to-be didn't appear to be doing much better than I was. This might not be such a windfall after all, if they didn't have any more money than this. Thus lost in somber -- aye, sobering -- reverie, I arrived in front of the agreed-upon door, 1339.

Only one fact was certain through the door's frosted window: no lights were on inside. The cracked window rattled in its pane as I knocked on the loosely latched door. "Hello?" I inquired. Nobody. One of the hazards of being early, I consoled myself as I settled back against the wall in cool quiescence. My cool lasted about half an hour, as well as my certainty that I had come to the right address. I considered that the office might well be empty, a possibility hardly unlikely considering the building's condition.

Drawing near the frosted glass, I strained casually to catch a glimpse of the chamber's interior through the transverse crack that split the pane. The exercise yielded eye-strain and an incipient headache, but nothing more.

OK, so I should have paid attention to the flaming green aural sparks which shot from the doorknob as I reached toward it (green being a color which I have always, in some contexts, associated with hazard). I chalked it up to the eyestrain and sealed my fate, grasping and turning the doorknob. That mechanism rotated without resistance until I felt the latch release. The office was unlocked. Puzzled, I slowly pushed the door open, stepping across the threshold as I did so, a greeting on my lips which died there.

Inside was something from a bad dream. Blood or something convincingly like it smeared the walls, broken by assorted portions of assorted creatures, and symbols crawled over the room like giant spiders. In the center of the room sat its only furniture and the only untouched surface, an apparently empty, dilapidated desk. Upon that desk was a glass-mounted photograph which faced the door. I couldn't make out the contents of the photograph through the glare that came from the window across from the door, a window through which the dried-blood hues of the setting sun were just now pouring. I nearly bolted on the instant, but there was something about that photograph on the desk.

Slowly, almost mesmerized, I walked into the room, so engrossed that I don't even think I heard the door close behind me. Crossing to the desk, I picked up and studied the photograph. Now, you tell me that you could have held onto it once you realized that it was a picture of you, from your own collection. I couldn't, and the picture dropped to the floor, the echo of its breakage coinciding with the voice that startlingly pierced through me from behind. "So. I wondered when you'd choose to attend us." To say that I spun would be to grant me a grace that my actions lacked, but it would convey the alacrity with which I responded to this unexpected greeting.

Three white-robed persons stood before me: a short, squat woman flanked by a tall, angular young man and his companion, a somewhat heavy, moderately tall and very cherubic elderly gentleman. From where they had materialized I have to this day no idea, for the hall had been empty when I entered and no other doors disturbed the walls of that unspeakable room. "Who...? What...? Why...?" I inquired with uncharacteristic eloquence of the somewhat toad-like woman. Only now was I beginning to recognize the voice from the phone and connect it with this unseemly apparition.

"Why don't you have a seat," suggested the dark young man, gesturing at the desk behind me. Angel-face just stood to one side, his arms crossed.

"No thanks, I'll stand."

"Oh, but we insist," husked the woman. She nodded to her two companions, and they came forward, flanking me on either side.

"Well, since you put it that way," I agreed, backing slowly around the edge of the desk until I felt the chair press against me. Her companions advanced as I retreated, one moving around my side of the desk, one around the other. I rather shakily took my seat, looking up at Stretch who stood before me. No sooner had I settled into the chair than I felt hands that could only be Angel-face's settle upon my shoulders, gently but insistently locking me in place.

"Dr. Randall," began the over-stuffed munch kin who seemed to be in charge, "you've been a very bad boy. It has come to our attention that you've meddled with some, shall we say, rather negative forces, and used them in a highly treasonable manner." I was starting to feel dissociated, and I began to suspect that maybe this was a dream. I heard the munchkin's words, but her toadish face seemed so serene -- I just couldn't stop watching the calm movements of those bloated lips as the fantastic words flowed forth. "There are penalties for such acts. I'm afraid that you've brought them upon yourself, if you know what I mean."

The dissociation seemed to be deepening. It was becoming uncomfortably similar to an induced trance-like state, and given the circumstances I found such entrancement unnerving (though I could do nothing to clear my mind). "You've got to be kidding," I gasped. "That's it, isn't it? This is some kind of joke. Who put you up to it?" The robed woman brought her face very close to mine, her eyes focused directly on my own and filling my field of vision. I felt myself transfixed by a sliver of spectral ice as she invaded my eyes.

I can't say that I remember much more of that encounter. If I try, all I can dredge up are memory-images so jumbled and disjoint as to be beyond words or description, images seen as if through the eyes of something which has nothing in common with the conditions of human perception. The next thing I knew, I was walking down a busy midtown street, unsure of how I had arrived there. I immediately noticed the shocked stares that greeted me as I walked, and as tactile sensibility returned an increasing sense of draftiness told me why. I noticed my nudity just as the voice of authority arrived on the scene, stepping from the squad car and pulling my hands behind my back as the ritual words of Miranda were invoked.

"...really," she was going on (and on, and on) as we left the precinct, "what you were doing there in such a condition. If you don't want to tell me, I guess there's nothing I can do about it. After all, I'm just the person you share your life with. But, if you don't want to tell me, well, I guess..."

The lingering dissociation coupled with a healthy sense of humiliation made it easy to block out Maude's tirade, and I let her words flow over me undistinguished as the sights and sounds of city traffic floated past my window. I always have found taxis to be soothing, even in New York City, and I was more than willing to let myself be carried within the ebb and flow of the tidal surge of the streets. We were nearly home by the time Maude began to wind down and I had recovered sufficiently to attempt an explanation for what had occurred. Most distressingly, however, the second I tried to describe that unspeakable room and the events therein, I was overtaken by a bout of projectile vomiting that left the curses of the cabbie ringing in my ears long after he ordered us from his vehicle and consigned our souls to Hell.

I began to suspect that I had been drugged, and reassured us both that everything would be fine once enough time had passed for my body to detoxify itself. This was an explanation that Maude could accept (especially knowing my past), and I settled into the safety of our apartment to await the return of normalcy.

Maude moved out the next day, and I can't really say that I blamed her. It was an idea that was starting to sound good to me. There's nothing like a night of finding yourself paralyzed on a bed which violently oscillates between floor and ceiling to make one less than enamored of remaining until the next night. My downstairs neighbor's ceiling showed the effects of my bed's repeated violent contact with my floor, and it took one healthy bribe to convince the building's super to forget about it and replaster the ceiling.

"Auras read and adjusted," read the sign in the window. "Authentic psychic astrologer and spiritual healer." Well, even someone who dabbles as I do normally doesn't pay any attention to these street-corner practitioners, but I didn't know of anyplace else to turn. Taking a deep breath, I rang the outer bell. The door buzzed in response only a few seconds later, and I stepped reluctantly into the tacky parlor with its inevitable trappings.

"Come in," came the thickly accented voice from beyond the curtained doorway that faced me from the back of the room. "I've been waiting for you." Yeah, sure, I thought. What a line. What was I doing here, anyway? Still...

I stepped into a twilit room, the subdual of its lighting magnified by the dark shades and heavy textures of the room and its contents. In this lighting, the white turban of the ancient mahogany-colored woman who sat at the room's small table seemed almost to float free in the gloom, its wearer receding into the dusky light. "Please, sit down," intoned the old woman as I stood for a moment in confusion, my eyes adjusting to the lighting (or, more properly, to the lack thereof). Shaking my head in an effort to clear my jumbled thoughts, I lowered myself with only minor hesitation into the waiting high-backed wooden chair.

"You're troubled. Unseen forces are at work in your life, and you don't know what to do about them."

I chuckled involuntarily. "Great line. Have you found anyone yet that it doesn't apply to?" I shifted uncomfortably in the spartan chair as the expected retort didn't come. I strained to see my hostess's face as the seconds dragged by, but only a dark, oval smudge was visible in the subdued lighting. My unease increased as the silence stretched, until finally I could stand it no more. "I'm sorry. Listen, I didn't mean to ... that is, it was rude of me to say what I did. Please. I need to talk to someone."

"You need more than that," the shadowy woman replied. "Unfortunately, it's too late. The die has been cast. I see about you the pall of a doom. I also see, however, that if you are lucky you may be able to survive it, to ride out its duration. If you are lucky, and if you learn."

"What do you mean, 'a doom'? What kind of doom? And what do you mean by 'its duration'? All I know is..."

"All you know," my seeress interrupted, "is that you have been visited with occult afflictions. I don't know the precise nature or source of them, though I suspect that you do. I suspect that the visitation has occurred because of occult transgressions on your part. Power is a balance, and every act requires its offsetting. You may take some hope in the fact that your doom is not permanent, else you would already reek of damnation sealed and accomplished. You have but a taint, a touch, the merest odor of corruption to you. Who put this upon you -- such as this requires to be enacted?"

"They said something about a Tribunal."

"They?"

"Yeah. Two men and a woman in white robes. They said something about a Law."

"So," she hissed, "you're a political." There was a moment of silence before the murky figure snorted in derision. "You must not be a very good sorcerer. If you were, you probably would have brought down a permanent damnation upon yourself as an example."

"Please, you've got to help me. What can I do?"

"Nothing, I'm afraid. The Law is absolute. You break it, the Balance is extracted."

"But, nobody ever told me about this. It's not fair. How can I be held responsible for a Law I didn't know about?"

"Ignorance is no defense. Come on, everybody knows that. You wouldn't expect a traffic court to let you off with that excuse. Why would you expect a magical court to do so? Besides, you're telling me that you never heard Black Magic has unpleasant costs? And you're a sorcerer? Save it for the rubes." The woman lapsed once again into silence. It seemed that the darkness of the chamber was deepening, as was my depression.

"How long will it last?" I pressed. "How long do I have to endure this?" I strained to see through the gloom, to see across the table to where my informant sat. All I could make out was a heavy, dark shadow, and even that became harder to distinguish with each passing second. There was no response. I became angry at being so treated, being so rudely ignored. "That's a fairly simple question, isn't it?" I insisted forcefully. "How long?" Still, there was no response.

I'd had enough of this. The thought ran through my head that the old woman was probably sitting there in the dark -- for dark it now was -- laughing at me. I'd cure that. Rising quickly, I strode to the curtained doorway and threw the hanging aside, letting in a diffuse but still revealing light from the parlor through which I'd entered. It is hard, now, to convey the true measure of my agitation and confusion when the gloom of that chamber was lifted for, though I could now see the entire room, nowhere was the ancient seeress with whom I had been talking.

Uncomprehending, I walked around the table, almost half believing that I would find the mahogany colored crone crouching down below its edge, afraid to face my wrath. It took me only a few moments to satisfy myself ("satisfy" -- indeed, such a strange turn of phrase for an experience which left such a chill on my soul) that I was alone in that room. I did, however, find an object upon the chair occupied previously by the old woman: a handmade and painted wooden rune. It was the rune of harvest, a definite period, or one year.

Well, it was clear that the old lady was playing games with me and had escaped through another doorway in the rear of the room when she had somehow turned down the lamps (I am certain to this day that the room had been lit by low, flickering oil lamps when I entered, though I could now see only glass-shaded electric lighting). I determined to give her a piece of my mind and wasted no time locating the doorway hidden behind yet another hanging curtain -- this doorway complete with a quite solid and, I found, securely locked door.

The question was still frothing about in my mind how the old woman had made it through that locked door in the dark without making a sound, when I heard the lock in question turn, its tumblers loud and sharp in their movements. Confused by the noise emanating from what I had been in the process of deciding must be an extremely precise and silent mechanism, I stepped back, dropping the curtain into place, and waited for my hostess to reappear. The door swung audibly open on hinges long overdue for oiling, and the air currents of its opening caused the curtain which hid the passageway from view to flutter and sway. I would have thought at that moment that my bewilderment at the recent turn of events could grow no greater, but I would have been completely though understandably wrong. In the next moment, an almost bone-white hand came into view, gripping the curtain and moving it aside as the body attached to that hand moved through the veil.

My caustic greeting gurgled forgotten in my throat as the figure entered that chamber: tall, slender, almost bleached white, and younger than I. She looked at me in shock for a second, before she demanded (in a classic Brooklyn accent), "What're you doin' here? How'd ya get in? 'M not open yet." She was glancing uneasily about the chamber, and I could feel her preparing to bolt back through the doorway behind her.

"Who are you?" I almost pleaded. "Where's the old lady who was here?"

"What? You on drugs?" she asked, becoming irate. "This place here's mine. Ain't nobody here but me." She was backing up, and was looking at me as if she expected me to explode at any second. "Now, you get out of here before I call the cops. You go, now, before you get hurt. I got a dog," she warned me, pulling a whistle from where it hung between her breasts on a neck chain.

Things were just happening too fast, and my mind was reeling under the strain of trying to follow the deformation which my reality had just undergone. I couldn't think clearly, but I realized that something had just gone very wrong and I was probably in no position to make it right. That dog whistle especially worried me -- under the circumstances it wouldn't have surprised me to see it summon Cerberus, itself. I tried to speak, to explain, but my throat had gone dry and words just wouldn't come, only an inarticulate squeaking. Panic gripped me, and I turned and fled that room. It took me an almost delirious moment to unlock the front door (I still cannot figure out how the door came to be locked, since I had entered unimpeded) and I then ran blindly into the street, nearly getting myself run down stopping the first taxi I saw.


Harvest Moon



Notes: 

Head-rooms: “Max-Headroom,” a television show originating from 20th Century Earth in which an artificial intelligence construct is tapped from a Network 53 cameraman. 

Mega-plex: A large, multi-level agricultural complex. Crops and livestock are raised beneath domes to minimize the effects of weather, temperature, and insects on output. 

47 Ursae Majoris

UM-2/Avalon

Avalon was terrestrial. The planet wallowed in a thick blanket of Nitrogen and Oxygen that covered the surface and allowed humans unrestricted movement without pressure suits. Weather patterns, sometimes vicious, were a consequence of the planet’s heavy atmosphere undergoing severe heating as the planet reached perihelion. It was early evening, as local time marched on, and just after the harvest, as far as the local seasons did.

Squad Sergeant Alvin Kray, NCCF, breathed deeply the husky aroma of newly reaped crop-fields and powered his optics. He lifted them to his eyes and then to where he saw a flash in the sky. The button beneath his thumb zoomed the view to “max-enhance.” Resolution at that setting was poor and all he could make out were fuzzy, oblong blotches floating low on the horizon. 

"Sigis, what do you have in orbit at three-three-zero?" He said and looked over his shoulder towards the shelter set up next to the cluster of 2-meter sat-dishes that was the headquarters commo-array.

Specialist Armand Sigis, the 1st sergeant's nodie, turned and inspected that part of the sky. Nodies were battlefield information feeds, the guys he always saw looking over the shoulders of command personnel. They lived in a virtual, bitmapped world via the Mk. 5 BUGEYE data-visor mounted on their helmets, far superior to the Mk. 2 SNAPSHOT visors Kray and the rest of his boys had on their own.

Kray had looked through nodie helmets before and found them odd experiences. The node-pack sorted the data-flow and displayed it in a media they could rapidly interpret; visually, as a real-time, high-refresh, full-color, point-glance display of everything generating data within 8 kilometers. It was an extra 40-kilograms on top of their regular loads. Sigis and the others were privy to its secrets but paid the price in lost sunsets. 

"That's classified." Sigis replied. 

“You must mean Task Group Romeo then.” Kray said and let his eyes drift over the horizon. A group of Straked Bounders, bipedal native xenoforms, shuffled over the open ground 100 meters away. 

“You didn’t hear that from me, Alvin.” Sigis radioed back.

Kray laughed. “That’s affirmative.”

The only vessels left under that command were a few heavy freighters still off-loading supplies; food, munitions, and new equipment. Three troopships had come and gone, discharging soldiers and taking on cargo of a different kind… refugees. The convoy delivery was unusually large- crates piled up at the prime spaceport. Supply shuttles were brought in one at a time while traffic control diverted stacks of falling vehicles to secondary sights.

"A probing skirmish? What?” Corporal “Harley” Jamband, his assistant squad-leader said, always the natural skeptic. “Hey, hey Sergeant Kray. The head-rooms are wide-banding smleck again.”

Harley came from a farming mega-plex in Alberta Territory, Canada and his helmet receiver was set to the feed from a university station in the settlement around the spaceport, three hundred klicks to the North and lifetimes away from home. 

"Of course they are. Do you think that they want to start a panic? Just wait until they announce a mobilization," Kray said and looked out over the plains. The planet’s twin moons were rising. "What is it now?"

"Task Group Romeo. They're saying that the damage is from a pirate attack," Harley said and shook his head with a sour look. "On that scale? Do they think we're stupid?"

The story of the latest arrivals in orbit was the current sensation; office workers kept datapads set to the government and news stations, virtual teachers issued evacuation instructions to children in education centers. Avalon had been taken from the EuroCon during the Neo-Colonial War. Citizen-soldiers frequently drilled for the day they might come to take it back.

"Not good, see if you can bring it up the datapad,” Kray said. He and his troops were from all over the NorCom… members of the garrison that the Northern Combine contributed to Avalon defense. “I got my receiver linked to the company net."

“There's nothing but lies on that one, either.” Harley said but complied, opening a panel in his radio, setting it for the news station in Savage Rift. Kray flinched as a voice came to life inside his helmet. The speaker volume was set too high.

"Bulldog calling Bravo Two Actual."

A call went out over the company tactical net. Bulldog was Captain Cortez. A veteran of the Procyon Crisis like Kray was, Cortez was a Lieutenant when Octavian separatists, mostly student radicals and miners laid off from the gigantic APEX 3 mine, seized the colonial parliament on that world. UN peacekeepers were sent from SOL when they demanded an independent state for those that wished to “launch from the company.” When they arrived, the malcontents had been in power for two years and had weapons powered and waiting.

"Go Bulldog."

"Hey, Alvin,” Captain said. Both were veterans of the Procyon Crisis and on familiar terms. “Where’s Lieutenant Swift? I’ve looking for that boy for dang near an hour."

"Chow-line, sir." Kray said but opted not to add “that ignorant vermin-weed.” He concentrated on pulling the bolt-assembly from the upper-receiver of his M-32. The cleaning kit for it was already laid out on the berm in front of him.

"Right. When he gets back, tell him that I’ll be down to have a look at your positions in about twenty mikes."

"Roger that, sir." Kray said and used a small squeeze bottle to dampen a rag with “Clean-Lube” solvent.

"Bulldog out."

Harley snapped on a datapad and put the feed through so that Kray could watch and listen.

“Thanks,” Kray said and froze as there was a familiar horn. “There’s the supply track. Try to get something good.”

“Sure thing, Alvin.” He shuffled off toward the supply point. Troops were gathering around the tracked chow vehicle.

“Hold on,” Kray said as the “breaking news” prompt flashed on the screen. It cut to a live broadcast from the spaceport. “Something’s happening.”

The byline “Kim Pel reporting” flashed across the screen as she pointed out across the gray fibrocrete landing field. 

"As you can see from this footage, the crews of the landing craft stay only long enough to drop their cargo ramps and roll out their palletized loads- following a timetable that, at times, seems almost frantic,” Kim Pel paused for a breath as the cameraman zoomed past her and the view centered on people streaming toward the dropships with open cargo doors. “Curious, yes… but business carries on is the attitude from Freeport officials. Very few here believe what they’re being told, when what they’re seeing is telling them that they have a very good reason to be concerned."

The news anchor turned to face the correspondent framed in the monitor beside him and said, "Are there any signs you’ve been seeing, any common concerns that might offer a clue to what’s on people’s minds?"

"Absolutely. Those we’ve talked with feel that critical pieces of information regarding Task Force Romeo are being withheld. There has been virtually no communication with the group since they passed the outer beacon line and came under military traffic control. Shortly after that, we saw the garrison bases at Freeport, Solstice, Alpine, Little Springs, and Savage Rift issued an alert and personnel recall. Those bases have been locked down… nothing coming in or out.”

“Kim, has there been any word from officials in Freeport?”

“We tried to find someone at the Ministry of Defense to answer our questions, but the only official statement we’ve been given is that these are scheduled maneuvers. The public knows that Task Force Romeo has taken battle-damage, they can see the ships from the ground. With no statement from the Haderson administration, most are in wait-and-see mode."

The anchorman swiveled in his chair to face the camera. 

"We’re here talking with Senator Tanis from the Solstice settlement. Thanks for joining us in the studio."

The view panned over to an older man in clothes that did not suit him. He attempted a smile, but his face froze someplace between a frown and a sneer.

"You've openly disagreed with the Haderson policy of 'wait-and-see.' Do you think that there's more out there than what's being officially stated?"

"Absolutely,” Tanis said. His nose flared as he took a deep breath. “The few members of Task Force Romeo that we've been allowed to speak with have given us dodgy answers or outright silence. We’ve heard rumors coming out of the Big Deep that there was a large-scale battle there- one apparently fought between the ships of the NorCom Ninth Command and a larger, unidentified force around Zebra Station. We cannot confirm this but it doesn’t take an ELP graduate to figure out there’s something going on here.”

The anchorman looked thoughtful and said, “The sensor logs of Task Force Romeo have been sealed and classified, is that correct? What could they possible want to hide at this point?"

The planetary garrison was broken into Northern and Southern groups. The 10th Heavy Infantry (Mechanized) Division was the bulk of the Group North. When the infantry went on alert so did their scouts… the skimmer-cav. They set up near the projected forward edge of battle, between the 10th ID (Infantry Division) and the plains where the E-Cons were expected to land. NorCom and local militia forces rushed for their pre-determined staging sites, though their haste had made complications- the supply train was still forming. The armor and infantry were behind the cav, marshaled at strong points. The skimmer cav was the thumb under the NorCom hammer. Once they had fixed the enemy, the sledge would fall.

"Run, you navy pukes. You got the easy way out." He said and stuffed the rag back into his pocket. 

"What the hell is this? Talking to yourself again, Sergeant?" Harley said from behind him. "Just make sure you don’t mistake those voices in your head for someone giving you orders." He laughed at his zinger.

Each soldier got enough rations for two days, but the supply crawler was often late, so they quickly learned how to conserve. Camp Buford, headquarters and home base of the 21st Cavalry Brigade (airmobile), was still being evacuated. If they were EuroCons, then the standard procedure would be to bombard all of the major military bases before attempting a landing.

"It's about time," Kray said and accepted a meal pack. The plastic wrapping is green instead of brown or blue, the mark of an old batch. He scrutinized the label. "Scrapple loaf! This smleck has been sitting in a warehouse since twenty-one eighty. It’s probably left over from Octavia." 

“Your own fault, Alvin,” Harley said with a grin. “If you had come with me you could’ve gotten something better. Them privates in First Platoon are eating better than you right now.” He laughed again.

"I doubt it… the crawler had to go through all of Ten Division to get to us. The only way I can eat this stuff is if I try to pretend I'm eating something else. Let's see," Kray said and closed his eyes as he tore open the wrapper. "Ahh, Chicken Cordon Bleu sounds good."

Kray took a bite and grimaced, then set down the ration bar and uncapped his canteen, Harley saw the look on his face and laughed at him.

"How's the Chicken Two Bravo? Nutritionally perfect goodness?" Harley said as he inspected his own brown package.

"Don’t ask,” Kray said as he started taking out the smaller packets filled with meal sidelines. “What did you get?"

"Beef enchilada with rice! Stellar!"

"Trade you? I'll throw in my brownie and my last pair of clean boot liners." Kray said with fake desperation that might not have been. The enchilada meal was a common favorite. Harley shook his head as he tore open the packet.

"I don't want your germs."

"Then I order you to swap rations with me."

"Sure," Harley replied as he brought up a large glob of spittle, which he dribbled theatrically into the open packet. He wiped his mouth and offered over the enchilada with a grin. "Here ya go, Sarge… bon apetite."

Kray frowned and waved it away, sighed at the injustice, and shook the chemical heating sack to warm his food. The meal came with a packet of processed cheese whip to be squeezed over the Scrapple loaf and crumbled cracker added. If the cheese was still solid he will never get it down. A rumble from the north and clouds gathering overhead tell of a coming storm, perhaps the first big one of the harvest season. He adjusted the temperature of his weather-proof jacket another 10 degrees warmer as the wind picked up. There were four seasons on planet, each divided into early and late parts, each with it’s own unique climatic characteristics. Avalon could often be unpredictable, but one of the constants was the wind.

During Sede it was an easy zephyr that carried the smell of moist earth and growing things. Twelve Mons long, Sede was the longest season. In Risen, during the planet’s apogee, heat produced whistling messengers that pushed tri-hulled sailing-craft along settled coastlines. It eddied during Harvest and gathered its strength. When Gale season came, so did a shrieking plague, one that required physical effort to walk against. The slight of build were often swept away. Although only into late Harvest, the warm barracks and fully serviced mess hall were missed by all.

“At least when it gets colder, we won’t have to deal with these damned diggers.” Harley said as Kray felt something crawling on his wrist. He pulled back his cuff with a finger and found one of the small, worm-like native pests. It resisted when he pulled it off and squirmed in his grip as he squeezed it. When he felt its exo-skeleton crack, he opened his fingertips and wiped the remnants on his uniform leg. If allowed to burrow in, the human immune response to the alien invader was an itch irritating enough to scratch bloody.

"I was talking about what’s happening out in the Big Deep. Hold on, don’t answer that yet... hey, Private!" Harley said as he spotted a new arrival; a pasty white new-boot (new recruit) crossing over the berm sheltering their fighting positions, his head on a swivel, taking everything in. He stared at the cluster of Strake-Bounders grazing outside the perimeter then turned Harley’s way. “Get over here! Now!”

The approaching E-1 was J.O.B.- just off the boat- and looked confused. Forty-eight months on a troopship messed with the brain.

"Yeah, Corporal?" He said and went to parade rest in deference to Kray, who spooned seasoned potatoes out of a packet and watched in silent amusement as Harley testified. The newbies got a hard time from everyone at first.

"Well, well… would you look at this odd job. The King is dead, son… you need to straighten that collar and keep it that way,” Harley said and the odd job was quick to comply. “It ain't even got cold yet. Who's your First Sergeant, odd job?"

The Private was carrying a sheet of hardcopy in one hand. Harley snatched it and brought it to his eyes. "Let's see here… Bravo Company… Twenty-first…" He lowered the sheet with a look of stunned disbelief and said, "Sweet Mary, he's one of ours."

Harley handed back the hardcopy and started tugging at pockets, protesting to Kray in silent amazement when he found something not up to his personal standards, normally very liberal. Harley was a slob.

"I…"

The private got out the beginning of a reply before Harley stabbed at him again.

"Look at this smleck. Pouches unfastened, water bladder half-empty, straps hanging all over the place… are you an octopoid, Private?" Harley said and Kray guffawed. The private shook his head with wide-eyed confusion. "Because you sure look like one. Judas Priest! Did they just give you a rifle and put you on the ship?"

"I…"

"Listen up, son! I don’t know what vacuum rock you fell off of, but you didn’t land in the mud. We rule land and sky and we got manners here. Do I make myself clear, Private?"

"Yes, corporal."

"Well, that’s just stellar." Harley said and scowled.

"I…"

"Now you seem okay, Private…" Harley said and leaned in close to inspect his name badge. "Elroy. We’ll get you squared away. The First Shirt is over in the commo-shelter, just give him your orders and he'll get you assigned." 

“Ok, sir.” The private said and moved off, equipment and weapons clattering against the rigid armor plates protecting his vital parts.

"Hey private! While you're up there, tell them you need a prick-e-nine," Harley shouted and pointed at the tactical radio beside his boots. "The one we got is all worn out and we need another one, pronto."

Elroy turned and waved an acknowledgement.

“Hopefully the prick E-nine that he finds in the commo shack will square him away with a roll of tape after he gets done with his corrective training.” Kray said and crumpled up the empty side-line pack, reaching for another one labeled “Applesauce.”

“Top’s gonna be so pissed.” Harley said and chuckled. “Looking for a prick” was a pick-up line used by the queens-in-green, female troopers… the number afterward was the preferred length in inches. Top was a no-nonsense type that longed wistfully for the day all but “real” men were barred from combat infantry, but he treated them all like soldiers, male or female- as long as they never forgot who had the biggest bulge in the outfit.

"Now I know they’re not going to be able to get everybody off. Look, there’s only a few transports left. There’s another one outbound." Kray said and pointed out a contrail rising on the eastern horizon. It was another dropship burning for orbit.

“You know, I actually think it’s kind of pretty, I guess if it weren’t for the circumstances.” Harley said. Dropships had been falling from orbit for days, unloading cargo and taking on passengers, then lifting them to the task force overhead. People were afraid. “Where they going with all those people? They don’t got enough freezers for all of them.”

"Pax, I guess. Fifty-one Pegasi is closer so some of them might give Transterran a shot. You can tell if they’re inbound or outbound by their orbital path. The planet spins counter-clockwise so by coming east to west, it decreases their time to ground from orbit… its just the opposite when they’re outbound… and do you see how low they are? They’re staying below the horizon of the defense batteries around Freeport. The dropships are clear of the free fire lanes for the planetary defenses."

Kray and Harley grimaced as a heavy lift skimmer, a massive Avianca CV-19 in three-tone “Savannah Tiger” paint droned overhead. The flight-vehicle mounted twin box chutes for air-deployable mines used to sow suspected landing zones; a mix of anti-vehicle and anti-personnel devices that filled its wide cargo bay to capacity.

“I don’t think the Scrapple-loaf is sitting quite right,” Kray said and put a hand to his stomach. Conical objects began tumbling out of the chutes. The mines were easy enough to find and dispose of, but that took time… the skimmer could sow a minefield a kilometer square in much less.

"This better be a drill. What do you think, Alvin?" Harley said and flipped up his data monocle. The nodie had the minefield pin-pointed and the location was a critical feed, so it appeared constantly while in line-of-sight.

“I hope so.” Kray said. He spent two years with the 71st Infantry Division, one of only five units in the whole Combine that dropped on hostile worlds from space. There was a falling star patch over his right breast pocket, above it- centered on the gray strip stitched with NCCF, is a melancholy reminder that he is a qualified drop trooper. The large spiked-gauntlet-on-shield patch covering his right deltoid reminded others that he had seen action with the "Iron Fist"- orbital assault, and lived. Kray took a bite of warm Scrapple loaf and chewed thoughtfully.




Harvest Moon



“If it’s not, I’m gonna get me a charlie-kilo,” Harley said and grinned fiercely. “Hey, Alvin, how many confirmed kills you got?”

"Don't worry about it. Just do your job and try not to be someone else’s," Kray said and contemplated the remaining half-eaten loaf in his hand with a disgusted look. “An unsupported drop into a hot LZ is a mad twenty minutes, I’ll tell you that. Our T-A fighters are gonna chew them up once the planetary defenses get done. Meat on the table."

“How can you be so sure?” Harley said and took his enchilada pack out of his own chemical heater. There was a plastic spoon vacuum-sealed to the bio-degradable napkin.

“I read the manual.” Kray said and wolfed down another large bite. The processed cheese was already beginning to cool. What he left out was that the drop onto Octavia had been the day they paid the butcher.

"So why haven’t they attacked yet?" Harley said as Kray dropped the uneaten loaf and opened his brownie. The cheese in the scrapple loaf congealed before he could finish it. At least he knew what the brownie was. 

"Maybe they had some trouble with their transports getting dispersed,” Kray said. Planetary assaults required the utmost coordination. “What’s your hurry?" 

Harley looked out over the flatlands to the south and said, "And this is where they’ll land?"

"They have to,” Kray said and bit into the brownie. “It’s the only flat ground they can land assault units in place. It’s where we came down sixty years ago.”

"So when are they coming?"

"Soon enough." Kray said and looked over his shoulder. A large figure, the First Sergeant, had emerged from the commo-shelter and was heading their way.

“You better make tracks,” Kray said as Harley gorged the remains in his ration pack. “Top’s on his way.”

He turned to where his assistant squad leader had been resting, only to find the space empty. Harley, rifle in hand, was beating feet for parts unnamed.

“Kray!” An angry shout drew his attention.

“Of an evening, First Sergeant.”

“Have you seen Harley?” Top’s usually round, placid face was clouded by dark anger.

“He went down to the armorer to replace a part on his weapon,” Kray said, covering Harley’s rapid departure with an impromptu alibi. “I don’t know when he’s coming back… probably not for a half-hour at least.”

“Tell him to come see me.” Top said and turned on his heel, muttering something about ideas being put into the heads of zapped privates. 

***

"Have there been any other contacts with Ninth Command?" Planetary governor Alexander Haderson said, a question asked 20 times in 20 hours. 

“Nothing… nothing but the jump flares from ships that have already left.” Phillip Greeley, Director of Avalon Intelligence, said as he sat back in his chair and scratched thoughtfully at the stubble on his jaw.

“Could it really be the EuroCon? Again?” Florence, the Minister of Agriculture, asked from her seat across the council table. "After the Neo-Colonial War they swore that we would finally have peace."

She stared at Greeley, who shrugged and drained the cold dregs of coffee from his chipped cup. He examined the “Galaxy’s Best Dad” lettered across the side and briefly thought back to his birthday seven years before. The mug had been a gift his daughter had picked out. He ran fingers across the enameled letters, tracing gently each one, smiling a bit. She thought it was perfect when she found it in the onboard mall of the Andromeda, the luxury liner that carried them to the frontier. 

“I suppose it’s possible. Avalon belonged to them first, but the NorthCom fleet is the largest on the frontier," Greeley said and set the cup down. "The last time we've had a news courier come through, they said that the EuroCons were starting open up their markets to outside investment."

"That's fine for Earth," Florence said, her temper flaring. "But if they now intend otherwise it would take a decade for those fools on Earth to realize what happened and send help."

"Our analysis is that they're trying to generate currency for TransTerran, which brings me to my next point," Greeley said calmly. "The EuroCon is bankrupt… we've been living in economic detante."

"He's right," Haderson said, verbally interjecting himself between his ministers of agriculture and intelligence. "It cost billions of credits a day to fight a combined arms conflict on an intergalactic scale."

"Right," Greeley said and interlaced his fingers on the table. "So how are they going to pay for it? Borrow from TransTerran? I don’t think so. Besides, the intercepts that Task Group Romeo picked up aren't in any code we can identify as EuroCon."

"Then what happened?" Florence said, or rather, demanded. "Zebra Station didn’t destroy itself. The garrison fleet there didn't commit mass suicide." 

"We're still running models." Greeley said and filled his cup with soy-caff from the silver coffee service at the center of the table. His experts had been going through the sensor logs from TG Romeo meticulously. He’d found the results troubling.

"But there has been an attack on Zebra Station," Stewart, the Minister of Defense stated firmly. “I thought we already confirmed that?”

"Yes." Greeley said as he spooned in synthetic sugar. "And if you want to tell the public that it was EuroCons that did it, fine… my directorate will back you up one hundred percent. We’ll back you up, but there’s no evidence that says it was them.”

The council digested Greeley's words in silence.

"Well, who else would it be?" Peterson, Minister of Finance erupted. Greeley fixed him with an exasperated stare and lifted his mug.

"We're running models," Greeley said slowly, tired, sounding too much like a broken record, but all of his logical explanations had been exhausted. “But nothing we’ve modeled so far makes any sense. We’ve detected no fleet action around New Haven. It couldn’t have been Five Kreigsmarine, we’d have seen it.”

“For the time being, we must assume that it is." The Governor said. "What’s the status of our garrison? Will we be able to repel an attack?”

He turned to Stewart, a balding, fifty-something widower who considered the Avalon Defense Force “his boys.” The defense minister rummaged through his briefing folder for estimates.

“It depends on what they hit us with. My boys will give them a rough time if they stage a landing. There’re four divisions of regular army troops garrisoned here, plus another three of our own militia. Throw in the two wings of aerospace fighters at Base Harding, we could give them a very rough time. Task Group Romeo is dropping some new equipment, so we’ll have a better edge. I told my boys to make getting everything assembled and deployed their top priority. ”

“How’s the public taking all this now?” Haderson postulated to anyone who could answer him. Greeley took the question.

“They’re getting nervous. A few have already left, but for the most part the public is watching our moves. They want to see some action from the administration though, something to let them know that the government is calm about the situation.”

Haderson nodded and said, “So they want some action, fine then. I’ll announce that a warning will be issued to any ships coming out of the Zebra Station corridor to remain in the outer system unless they declare an emergency. Avalon is hereby closed. Get a courier out as well, the NorCom has to be made aware of our position. We don’t know what Task Group Romeo has run into since it went into transit.”

“We’re not budgeted for that, and whatever is going to happen will be over by the time the courier gets to Earth,” Peterson said, the minister of finance always with an eye toward the ledgers. “Couriers are expensive to send out, even the drones.” 

“Send it to Pax then, there’s a naval base there. That should show them that we’re committed to their defense." Haderson said, sounding pleased with his decision.

“If we give the order to start evacuating now, then we might have a chance of getting some people out before we're attacked.” Florence groused in her high, nasal voice. Greeley notices several eyes around the table perk at the mention of that option. Everyone was scared but noone wanted to be the first to place the evacuation issue on the table.

“We don’t even know if there’s going to be an attack, and if there is, the only people ‘getting out’, as you say, would be the wealthy who own their own transports and the administrators with access to government vessels," Greeley shot back, fighting to keep his anger restrained. "If the workers and academics see the bureaucracy abandoning them, there’ll be riots for space out on whatever's left."

The governor nodded thoughtfully and rose from his chair, walking to the large window admitting the yellow light of 47 Ursae Majoris into the council chamber.

"Director Greeley is right," Haderson said and stroked his chin as he looked out over the settlement. "We must see this one through to the point where diplomacy is no longer an issue, then we will concern ourselves with evacuation.”

Greeley swiveled in his chair and looks to see what held the Governor’s attention. On the horizon were massive shapes above the low-hanging clouds, but fewer than there were before. The number of ships in orbit has dwindled from twenty down to the half dozen still unloading their cargo, all in the span of twelve hours.

"This meeting is in recess," Haderson announced and turned away from the window. "Everyone get some food, some sleep. Keep your com-badges on."

Greeley remained seated while the other council members stood and stretched, bantering quietly with one another as they filed out the door. The Governor and his aide were the last ones out, leaving Greeley to his reflection. He removed his comm-unit from his belt and dialed in a three-digit code as the defense minister returned, wiping his hands on his elaborate work uniform.

“Happy Founder's Day, sweetie," His wife said, smiling back at him through the phone-camera in their home. "I've got a special surprise for you when you get home.”

It looked as if she was cooking him dinner instead of just programming a course into the auto-chef, a rare treat because her specialty, soy-chops with spinach rice, was his favorite. 

“Hey gorgeous. Whatever it is you’re making looks pretty good from here.” Greeley said. She laughed at him and blew a kiss at the transmitter on her end. Their daughter looked up and waved then dropped her eyes back to her studies. Both of them were good girls.

“Honey, I need you to do something for me… and we need it done now," He said with a firm, serious tone. "Call the spaceport and book passage for both of you on the next transport out of here, don’t worry about the price, even if you have to go today I want you two to leave until we can get a hold of the situation around here."

"What do you mean?" She said.

"Go see your aunt on Pax,” Greeley said. “Tell our friends that you’re taking Nicolette on a little holiday.”

Keeping his voice from quivering takes superhuman effort. She put down the knife she was using to chop spinach and he saw tears appear in her eyes. Her voice dropped to a hoarse whisper.

“My God, why?” She said. In his mind he saw fire coming down from the sky. The Neo-Colonial War had seen the introduction of large-scale orbital bombardments, which rained chaos and destruction on colony worlds throughout the frontier. 

“There’s something coming out of the Big Deep, Zebra Station is… gone… and the way it looks is that we’re going to be having visitors here real soon.”

“I feel sick.” She said but he cut the connection before she could say more. He did as well.

“Sir, we’ve got a signal from DEWS command.” The aide-de-camp to the defense minister reported. Stewart nodded and pointed at the large vid-screen on the wall.

“Put it on.”

Overhead speakers crackle as the signal was put through. It was the duty officer for DEWS, a subbranch of the Avalon TOC (Trans-Orbital Command), monitoring the Distant Early Warning buoys guarding the outer orbits of 47 Ursae Majoris.

“Commander Ferguson here, sir. We’ve just picked up a single inbound bogey approaching from the Zebra Station corridor… a jump flare. It appeared six minutes ago at eight hundred A.U.’s, coming in at full transit velocity. It’s one of ours. At the speed they’re closing, the communication window will last for about thirty seconds if they don’t drop out of transit.”

“How soon until we can talk to them?” Stewart demanded.

“Anytime, sir. I’ve just been informed that they’re in range for two- way traffic. I’m logging into the NorCom command net to see if I can raise them.”

Greeley waited on needles and pins for the connection to go through. The audio was set too high and he jumped, startled, as a link with the contact was established, a grainy audio/video transmission that broke through at mid-sentence.

A haggard unshaved face appeared on the big screen as an agitated voice boomed from the speakers hidden around the room.

“…On approach. USS Pickett to Avalon approach. We don’t have much time so listen up if you can hear me. Zebra Station is gone. Ninth Fleet is gone.”

“Pickett, this is Defense Minister Stewart. Can you tell us more about what happened? Are you being pursued?”

“Quiet! Just shut up and listen! I just told you we don’t have time. We didn’t stand a chance, we didn’t stand a feking chance, their technology is decades ahead of ours. We might as well have been using clubs and stones."

"What happened, damn you!" Stewart bellowed.

"My ship is depressurized to the command module and my people are in life pods along our approach path starting four light-hours back," The captain of USS Pickett said and leaned away from the camera, shouting at his helmsman before reappearing. “And we had a clear jump to Pax (61 Virginis) when command ordered us to tell you all they were coming."

They heard another voice coming through the bridge speakers of the far-off destroyer.

“George, it’s Roy. I got as far into the rescue deck as I could… it’s totally empty and everything forward of bulkhead nine’s been spaced. We sent them out two in a pod and we got the rest packed into the ship’s boat. I just sealed the main hatch. We’ve got all the severely wounded loaded and the medics have got them stabilized for now but they need proper treatment. We have to this, George, we can keep their conditions from degrading but we can’t save them… this is the only way.”

They watched the Captain waver for a moment, then he shook his head sadly and said, “Take care, Roy. You keep those men in proper order, you hear me?”

“I will, George. Don’t you forget about us.”

“The drinks will be on me when this is over, Roy. Detach life-boat," Captain, USS Pickett, ordered with panache. "What’s the status of the transit drive?”

A voice in the background reported 30 until full charge. The Captain turned to face them again.

“What do you want me to tell them when we get to Pax?”

Stewart leaned back in his seat and ran his fingers through his thinning hair. He looked up and said, “Tell them that we’ll hold out as long as we can. I guess that’s all.”

More words came from the crewmen at the bridge stations in the periphery. Ten seconds to full charge.

“Helm, conn… stand-by to initiate transit!” The captain said and fixed them with a determined stare. “You take care of my boys. Do you hear me?”

Stewart picked his head up as the image lost vertical hold and then all cohesion. “Full alert… all commands. I want search-and-rescue (SAR) off the ground within five minutes. Do we have anything that will handle a ship’s-boat of that size?”

“No, sir.” His aide said.

“Then I want a constant data-link established. Find out if they’ve been damaged. If they have, find out what they need. Inform me when they’ve found the first lifepod. Get me Base Harding.”

The aide entered a number into his datapad. The surprised face of Vice Admiral Orville McVeath, commander of the small ADF (Avalon Defense Force) fleet, appeared on the big screen.

“Ronald, what’s going on? Why is my base on alert? Why are all of my SAR boats making full-power burns for the Zebra Station jump point?”

“No time to explain, Orville. I want our system defense boats loaded and underway within the hour. All of them. I want our Pathfinders with the Mark Seven arrays to go with them. Anything detected coming in from the Zebra Station corridor is to be reported immediately. Do you understand?"

“Yes, sir.” Admiral McVeath said as he nodded and signed off, instantly comprehending the significance of his orders. The Pathfinders were patrol ships manufactured in Avalon orbit. They were fast and had great endurance. The Mark Seven arrays were the most deep-ranging sensors that Avalon heavy industry had produced. If something was out there, the Pathfinders would give them plenty of notice. Stewart leaned away from the tele-com and pulled his aide closer with a fistful of shirt-collar.

"Issue a full mobilization warning and start getting the planetary defenses heated up. They want a fight? Well then, by God, we'll give 'em a fight!”

Greeley found his own data-pad and dialed in his office. He and his team would go over the data-dump from Pickett bit-by-electronic-bit. 

"Get me Governor Haderson," Greeley said. His hands were shaking so badly that he could barely hold the data-pad steady. “We waited too long, we all waited too long.”

Haderson shifted as a new message arrived from the Avalon Academy of Science… the surface of their sun, 47 Ursae Majoris, was becoming unsettled. They were watching it expectantly for signs of an impending flare. 

***

SOL-3/Earth

The mood in the security office, Leda judged after careful analysis of the looks on others faces, was overwhelmingly pensive. Cutter sat at the head of the conference table, tapping his fingers absently against the white laminate covering the tabletop, others shuffled through stacks of hardcopy, still more lined the walls of the meeting room and just stared out at the lights of the city at night. The hum of the air circulation system was the only noise breaking the tangible silence.

“He’s coming.” One of the window-watchers said as the anti-collision lights of a VTOL approached and passed out of sight as the aircraft made for the rooftop landing pad. The CEO of TIL was due in for a security briefing on the new threat. Cutter had met him more than once… Leda, like most of the others in the room, never had. She felt eyes on her and turned back toward the table. Cutter lowered his head to the table when she looked at him.

Preparations for the executive visit had been ongoing for days… fresh plants had been brought in and arranged around the room, a silver coffee service was the centerpiece on the expansive table, new wallpaper and carpeting had been installed, the professional attire of everyone present was pressed and spotless. Despite the comfortable chairs, no one was at ease, Leda’s impression of the mindsets of those around her was, “Please God, don’t let him single me out.” Everyone stiffened as the door facing Cutter began to open. An impeccably dressed man with gray streaked hair stepped through. A coil of insulated wire dropped from the input behind his ear and disappeared beneath the collar of the pinstripe tunic draped over his shoulders. The man smiled as Cutter stood and moved around to the front of the table. Cairn Wallace, CEO, had arrived.

“Artie! So good to see you!” Wallace called as Cutter took up position at the head of the table. “How’s New York treating you?” He was shorter than the TIL security chief by several inches but radiated authority despite his jovial greeting. Cutter was rigid as stone as Wallace clapped him on the shoulder. “The same as always?”

“I wish I could say that, sir,” Cutter said and fell into a position beside him as Wallace started an informal review of his security staff as he made his way around the room, gladhanding the people lined up along the wall with the same smile. “But recent events may prove otherwise. Business as usual… well… is not quite right to describe the situation.”




Harvest Moon



“First things first,” Wallace said. Leda watched the people he put behind him slump with relief. “Introduce me to you stellar performers so I can know who to thank for keeping the company in such good category.”

“We all do our part, sir,” Cutter said and stopped in front of a trio of neatly groomed and attired men, two cookie-mold Caucasians and a tall African. “My assistants… Gerrard, Novex, and Kotumbe… the security directorate is nothing without them. I fully expect that they will find their way to directorships of their own when the opportunity arises. I’ll hate to lose them.”

“Gentlemen, well done.” Wallace said, stepped up to each and shook their hand, then moved past them. He continued down the line in silence, nodding at the mumbled greetings given him, but stopped in front of Leda, who anchored the end opposite where he’d started.

“Stars… who is this?” He said as Cutter paused beside him. Leda smiled and accepted the handshake Wallace offered, holding it as he surreptitiously massaged her hand gently with his.

“Leda Montgomery, sir… certified liaison and my most esteemed advisor,” Cutter said in an even tone. “She predicted the EuroCon collapse a year ago…among other things… which allowed us to adjust our production factors accordingly. I trust her.”

“Then I have a prediction of my own to make,” Wallace said as he let his hand drop. Leda resisted the impulse to wipe her hand on her slacks. “I predict that Miss Montgomery will go far, and do great things for the company.”

Leda blushed as Wallace adroitly leered and said, “Thank you, sir… but as Mister Cutter noted, we all do our part. I’m happy I can make a contribution.”

“Fine, fine,” Wallace said as he turned away, moving to take the seat at the head of the table that Cutter had vacated. Novex filled a coffee cup from the service and moved to set it with the CEO’s reach. “Artemis, you now have my full attention.”

“Lights- dim,” Cutter called out and the building computer responded, reducing the setting of the overheads to 5 candlepower. A large, flat-panel display lowered into position and locked. A large header came up on screen that read, “Restricted- Onyx Clearance.” In terms of classification, the material about to be viewed was considered secret, everyone in the room had been pre-cleared and pre-selected. “Roll it.”

File footage of Amber-Rivet on the tarmac at JBMS slowly played while Cutter provided the commentary. “Shortly after the recent solar-storm, reports began coming that there was a migratory asteroid field moving in from the Kupier region. Customs Authority closed Omega Control Zone to merchant traffic but we got the OK to go in for a look. Amber-Rivet launched five days ago to do just that. Except for the new Bonventure-class, she’s outfitted with our best sensor technology, and the pilot… Hale Uzen… is one of our most experienced men.”

The display changed to show the location of the field in relation to Omega Beacon, equivalent to the distance between Earth to Jupiter, with the field shown as moving in-system at 40 km/sec. The scene froze and a yellow circle appeared at the edge of the field as Cutter continued. 

“Amber-Rivet approached without incident and the pilot began transmitting visuals. Everything was fine until he powered his active sensors. Twenty seconds after that, Amber-Rivet disappeared at the location shown here, just after reporting some very unusual scans.”

“Such as?” Wallace said and swiveled in his chair to face Cutter.

“That the asteroids were of relatively uniform shape,” Cutter said and folded his arms as he stared at the screen. “That they were emitting thermal radiation, and most surprisingly, that they seemed to be hollow.”

“These asteroids clearly have already been mined out,” Wallace said and turned back to face the display. “I’m not sure how this constitutes a threat to the security of the company… unless you think one of our competitors was responsible for the loss of our spacecraft. I read the report on the problems we’ve been having with AtlasCorp. Have you verified this data?”

“Impossible, sir,” Cutter said. “We were about to launch a search-and-rescue for Amber-Rivet but the military has closed Omega Control Zone entirely, the traffic advisory was issued twelve hours ago. Half of the Home Fleet has embarked with orders to form a picket line around the control zone. Nothing gets in or out. Research vessels are swarming over the area. If this information weren’t being suppressed it would definitely raise some eyebrows.”

“What’s your assessment of this?” Wallace said.

“Our sources within the military report that they’ve been receiving a message from within the field,” Cutter said. “There’s someone or something out there asking us for sanctuary. They’re not human.”

“As a species we’ve been waiting a very long time for this day,” Wallace said and steepled his fingers thoughtfully. “We’ve found other life… but not intelligence, until now. You’re correct, Artemis… this changes things from now on, but how can we assure our position in the new world coming?”

Cutter shrugged. “That’s for marketing to decide.”

“Yes, indeed,” Wallace said as a smile crept over his face. “In the meantime, find out all you can about our new friends. Find out what kinds of things they need, or want, specifically the things we make that they can use… all in the interests of security of course. How soon can you have something ready?”

“We’ll already working on it, sir.”

“Good, good.”

***

47 Ursae Majoris

Pathfinder 7

“…after careful analysis of the mission logs from Task Group Romeo, the parliamentary council has issued an evacuation advisory effective immediately. All citizens are encouraged, in an orderly manner, to make their way to the nearest civilian or military spaceport and await further instructions. To reduce space requirements, no pets and only one bag per person will be allowed. All members of the Avalon Defense Force are to report to their designated assembly points immediately and await further instructions…”

Now they tell us, the Communication Officer thought and shut off the radio. She was a reservist with another two years on her contract and had never imagined the day would arrive when she would be so afraid of real war.

"Papa Seven to control, over."

The communications officer took her finger off of the "transmit" button and waited… and waited. The ship was passing the gas giant labeled Ursae Majoris-4… its orbit marking a distance of 30 A.U. (1 A.U. = 91.4 million miles at Perihelion) from the star. As deep as the ship was into the outer system, the signal required ten minutes to travel from transmitter to receiver. The return from Avalon took just as long to get back. Task Force Romeo was disappearing from their scopes, each ship on a heading for Phi Beta Canatorum, the next system down the run, the last system on the run was 61 Virginis.

"Control to Papa Seven, we read you." The signal from ADF Command was weak. The comm officer boosted power to the high-gain array.

"Papa Seven to Control, we've completed our sweep, there's nothing out here. Sectors one through nine are clear out to thirteen light-hours." She said. The ships monitoring the approach corridors from Zebra Station showed only friendly craft conducting search and rescue. Most of the pods from the destroyer Pickett had been retrieved. Past thirteen light-hours there was nothing but trace interstellar hydrogen.

"Papa Seven. Sweep sectors eleven through nineteen and report any contacts immediately."

The communications officer groaned. Only days before, she had been enjoying a comfortable life in the Solstice settlement, but Pathfinder 7 was fully loaded and could stay out for months without replenishment.

"Contact… I got contact." The sensor operator called out. 

"Talk to me." The captain said from his position forward.

"We just got a massive power spike… like a feking planet just came out of transit. Once it dissipated we got the first contact but there’re more. Doppler indicates the contacts are moving, twenty KPS," The sensor operator said with some distress in his voice. "Wow, they're big."

"Call it in."

"Papa Seven to control. We have contact, sector eleven. Repeat, we have contact, sector eleven."

***

SOL-4/ Mars

Jena walked slowly into Kinkaid’s office, eyes fixed on the brim of the wide-bottomed mug she held between her hands, watching the coffee inside it slosh from side-to-side with each step. Kinkaid, deeply engrossed in an old book she could only see the title of- “Prospero and Caliban/ The philosophy of colonization”- lifted a pen to underline a passage he thought particularly relevant.

She set the cup down on his desk and stepped back as he reached for it, lifted it to his lips, and took a loud sip. He frowned as he swallowed, lowered the cup, and gave her an irritated look.

“Is everything all right, sir?” Jena said and smiled meekly.

“This is the worst coffee I’ve ever had,” Kinkaid said and pushed the cup away. “It tastes like Juan Valdez took a shit in the pot and cut it with some Chicory.”

“I’ll make some fresh, sir,” Jena said and stepped forward to retrieve the mug. “Is there anything else you need?”

Kinkaid laid down the book and rubbed his eyes. “I need a situation update on Omega control zone, and I need to know how long it will take Home Fleet to deploy, and I need to know why my son won’t speak to me, and I need to know when NorCom will let me retire. If you have any of that info, please tell me.”

Jena cleared her throat and said, “Well, sir… the speed of the asteroid field is unchanged, nor has the message. The signals that Omega beacon has been transmitting into the field have gone unanswered. The last report from HMS Hood indicates that they’ll be in position within eight hours. As for the last two, sir… those I can’t answer. I didn’t even know you had a son until recently.”

“Neither did I,” Kinkaid said with an exasperated sigh. “Duty kept me away from home so often. I went away one day, came back another, and found him all grown up. Poor Melvin. We didn’t even know each other. He wanted to follow in my footsteps though, despite his mother’s best efforts to talk him out of it. Mel served under my command during Procyon. It was a mistake… I should’ve reassigned him.”

“Did he not live up to your expectations, sir?”

“That wasn’t it,” Kinkaid said and shook his head for emphasis. “He was with fighter command and damned good at what he did. The Octavians hated him enough to put a bounty on his head, but that’s not what the problem was, not at all. The crisis dragged on, and he- like a lot of others did- started to question the wisdom of our intervention there. He felt that too many lives were being thrown away and that as commander of the U.N. expedition, I was responsible.”

“And after the crisis had passed?”

“I came back to Earth,” Kinkaid said and leaned forward on his elbows. “He went… I don’t know where, but I’ve heard stories about what he’s been up to while I’ve been in storage… bringing shame to the family name. I’m not sure I even have a son anymore.”

“Excuse me, sir.” Someone said from behind her. Jena turned and saw a scrawny twenty-something with dusky skin and dark eyes standing in the open doorway, holding a sheet of hardcopy in one hand. A Mexican flag was stitched onto his right sleeve above his rank.

“Just the man I wanted to see,” Jena said as she folded her arms. “You’re relieved of coffee-making duty, Valdez, effective immediatly. What do you want?”

“Priority message from Earth, ma’am.” Valdez said and offered the hardcopy forward. Jena took it and scanned over the lines as Valdez about-faced and hurried back to his station.

“Word from NOAA, sir,” Jena said as her eyes traced over words, she drew in a sharp breath, urgency suddenly making her heart race. “Another solar storm just erupted… the same strength as before. It’ll be here in six minutes.”

“Sound the alarm!” Kinkaid said and surprised Jena with his agility as he leapt up and moved to close the heavy metal shutters over his office windows. Jena turned to see all eyes in the command center on her.

“You heard the man,” Jena called out and moved to slam a palm down on the large red button next to the 3-D situation board mounted to the far wall. “Get this building locked down. Issue alerts to all planet-side commands and to all ships in orbit. Establish a comm-link with Customs Authority… we’re gonna be very busy. Move, move, move!”

Kinkaid had his command staff trained well. They went about their duties in an orderly and efficient manner as the emergency specific warning tone sounded from PA speakers throughout the complex. Jena pressed her face against the nearest window as a storm shutter began to lower. Workers in space-suits were bounding across the dusty red landscape for the safety of the Holdfast or scrambling into the few vehicles in sight near the building perimeter.

“What in God’s name is going on?” Kinkaid growled from beside her. “How can we have two Mega-class storms in the same week? Why hasn’t NOAA given us any warning?”

“It surprised them as much as it did us, sir,” Jena said and handed the sheet in her hand to Kinkaid, who snatched it from her and began reading down the lines of text and data. “We might have to close Sol system to traffic until we can get some better early detection equipment online.”

“A fine thought,” Kinkaid grumped as he dropped the hardcopy into the nearest shredder bin. “But convincing the NorCom, EuroCon, and Outworld Alliance of that would be a different matter entirely. Sol system has never been closed… not even during the Neo-colonial War. They certainly won’t do it now… they’ll just leave the mess for us to clean up. What’s the status of the fleet?”

“Valdez!” Jena yelled. The young Mexican lieutenant lifted his head from his commo board and removed his headset. “Did you get the warning sent out?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Valdez said. “All commands have been alerted and we’ve gotten replies from Home Fleet units in near orbits. The units picketing Omega control zone won’t receive our message for another eight minutes. Customs Authority is mobilizing. Ares Prime spaceport is officially closed for the duration of the storm.”

“The spaceport traffic in queue for landing are burning for high orbit.” The lanky, red-headed Canadian in charge of sensors called out as the situation board came to life, displaying the shipping traffic over the Holdfast and over the civilian spaceport on the Mons.

Jena stepped away from the window as the heavy shutter reached the bottom of the window and locked into place. Kinkaid was already in action.

“Is the Holdfast secure?” He bellowed.

“We’ve still got people on the outside!” The operations officer, a captain of the 92nd Highlanders, looked up from the display showing a silhouette of the Holdfast, the airlock symbol was blinking red at several locations, indicating that the building was still open. 

“Sensors! Report!” Kinkaid called out as he folded his arms across his chest and turned to the sensor station. The female junior-officer tapped her fingers on her console as she waited for a return. She looked up when she had it.

“The plasma wave from the storm will be here in three minutes.”

Kinkaid turned to the ops-station and said, “I want this building secure in two-minutes. No exceptions. None.”

“Aye, sir.” Operations replied as she programmed instructions into her console. The computer responded with a code string of system acknowledgements.

“Get me an outside video feed.” Kinkaid demanded as he moved to the operations desk and leaned over the girls shoulder. Jena followed him and looked over his. There were ten cameras set up around the Holdfast and the view from each took up an entire display screen… 9 were empty, but there was a speck of white on #10. The camera zoomed in. A person in a spacesuit, a man judging by bulk, was running for the Holdfast, arms and legs pumping furiously, stumbling over the rocks dotting the terrain, nearly losing his balance.

“He’s not gonna make it.” Operations said quietly.

“Get a vehicle out to him.” Kinkaid said.

Operations shook his head and said, “There’s no time. He’s too far away. All of our vehicle sheds have already been sealed.”

“Damn,” Kinkaid said as Jena turned away. She stopped as she felt his iron grip seize her shoulders. “I want you to watch this, Commander. This person has just guaranteed his death by letting himself get too far away from shelter. Someday you’re going to be running your own crew… I want you to remember this.”

“I believe you, sir,” Jena said as he spun her around. Her eyes immediately locked on the desperate figure on the screen. She gasped as the man tripped over a rock and fell, raising a cloud of red dust, but his was up after a single bounce and running again. She tried to step away but was held in place by Kinkaid’s suddenly iron grip.

“All other sections reporting secure, sir.” Operations called over his shoulder, his hand poised above the switch that would seal every entrance to the Holdfast still open, waiting for the order to drop the doors.

“Two minutes!” The sensor operator called out.

“This man is buying you a lesson, Commander, a lesson that you are never to forget,” Kinkaid said with soft firmness. “Always know what safety is… never let yourself drift too far way from it… have a plan ready in case the worst case scenario comes true.”

“Yes, sir.” Jena said and wondered if the man she watched could see death running beside him with a stopwatch.

“Even when you think you are safe, you are not safe,” Kinkaid said, gaze fixed on the screen, a figure in white reflected in his eyes. “Even when danger is a thousand kilometers away, it is right next to you… it is always around you, waiting for the opportunity to strike… accept that.”

“I accept that, sir.” Jena said.

“If you let your guard down for only a moment it will find you,” Kinkaid said. “And if that happens it may not only cost you your life, but also your ship and lives of your crew, do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

“One minute, sir!” Sensor called.

“Seal it up.” Kinkaid said quietly. The operations officer lowered his eyes to his desk and brushed his thumb against the toggle, his display changed, each blinking airlock symbol went from flashing red to solid and the Holdfast was closed. Jena turned as she felt people behind her. Valdez and several other staffers were clustered around the Operations board, eyes fixed on the screen, looking on in morbid fascination.

“Here it comes!” The sensor officer said finally just as the resolution on the display screens began to fuzz. Outside, the man in the spacesuit slowed to a walk, arms limp at his sides, then began to stagger. He took several reeling steps forward and then stopped, torso swaying, trying to keep his balance. Jena gasped as he took one more step, closing her eyes as he tumbled face down into a cloud of dust, after a moment she opened them again and saw him laying there. A wisp of black smoke from inside the helmet dribbled into the placid Martian sky, the electronics inside the suit had just been fried by the intense radiation of the storm, as had the occupant.

*** 

UM-2

Freeport

"We just lost Sally-two!"

Greeley and the rest of the council sat in silence around the meeting table, listening to the morbid play-by-play called in by the forces engaging the bogies coming in from 55 Cancri, the last system in the Virginis run. They had come as a surprise and had refused to identify themselves until the system defense boats moving in to intercept them were fired on. Greeley had never met any of the SDB (System Defense Boat) crews in person but he felt each loss acutely. They were all Avalon boys.

"We saw it, Sally-nine,” The flight leader called. “Close in with Sally-five and six once they make their pass and come about. We'll hit 'em from zero-zero-seven this time."




Harvest Moon



"Roger, lead." Sally 9 radioed back.

"How many contacts are there?" Haderson said as he watched the tactical display. It was fed directly from the Avalon Defense Force HQ and showed the positions of each SDB as well as where their weapons were targeted.

"We're tracking over two-hundred right now," Stewart said quietly and shook his head solemnly. "They just keep coming."

“But are they EuroCons?” Greeley said.

Darby shook his head and said, “Not unless the E-cons have taken to using hollow asteroids instead of cruisers for their Kreigsmarines.”

"Sally-four to lead,” A new voice came through the speakers. “Pathfinders just picked up another group… smaller and slower… maybe fighters. Request permission to engage."

"Denied, Sally-four,” Sally Lead replied. “Stay on the first element."

"Roger, lead. We got a good look at the center group on the last pass,” Sally 4 sounded nervous. “It looks like eleven, maybe twelve, big ones… all the same size and shape. They’ve got some kind of silver pods hanging off of them… could be transports."

Greeley stood when the anxious energy he felt building got the better of him. He pushed his chair back and stretched, then stepped away from the meeting table and walked to the window. When Haderson issued the evacuation notice Freeport, for all their dedication and planning, teetered on the edge of chaos. The sun was setting. Greeley decided it was an omen.

"This is lead. Transfer power to main guns and follow me in. Aim for that big one low on the flank of the first group."

"We're with you, lead."

"This is Sally-seven! Smleck… we're taking hits! We’re losing reactor containment! Ahh!" Static popped from the speakers. The signature bloom of an atomic burst lit up the tracking board.

"Yow! Who was that?" A different pilot said.

"Sally-four to lead, over."

When the tactical plot updated, the icons of two more SDB’s had disappeared. Each one had a crew of eight… another 16 men were gone.

"Sally-four to lead, over." The same frightened pilot called out.

Greeley put a hand on Stewart’s shoulder and spun him around. The Minister of Defense wore a nonplussed look.

"Get them out of there," Greeley said feverishly. "For God's sake, get them out of there, they can't stop them."

Stewart gave him a hard stare.

"Don't you think they know that?" He said somberly. “We need time… they’re buying it for us.”

Greeley turned in silence and watched another transport shuttle lifting off of the pad, praying to any god listening that the two most important things in his life were on it.

***

Kray was startled to waking by the sharp crack of missiles firing far to the north. He crawled out from beneath his shelter to see groups of bright lights shooting skyward, the tail-cones of the Mako 5 anti-shipping missiles, fired from the planetary defense batteries ringing the capital. In the twenty seconds it took for the autoloaders to ready new missiles for launch, salvoes from the secondary energy weapons filled the sky with a brilliant display that drained power from every grid on the planet’s surface.

A few bright flashes above him told that many of the weapons struck home, hitting the ships gathering around the planet, he could see them with his optics. Several created a beautiful display as pieces of them fell across the horizon, burning up in the atmosphere. A suppressive response from above was expected but still shocking. He turned away, dazzled, as several intense flashes lit the horizon. Harley cursed as the news station he was listening to cut out in mid-sentence.

“What the hell is this?” Harley cried and clicked the tuner up and down several notches. “What happened?”

“They can detect our transmitters from orbit.” Kray said as he put his hands over his eyes and waited for the white strobes popping in his brain to stop. 

“Aww… man.” Harley said and clicked the radio off. Most of the military systems were hardened against electro-magnetic pulse and protected in bunkers but the civilians ones were not. The Little Springs settlement was off the air. 

Kray was not a religious man, but he knew enough to remember the story of Sodom and Gomorrah. As new ships maneuvered in to replace those knocked down by the planetary defenses, the return fire started coming down harder, as if a storm rolled in off the Northern Sea dropping glowing rain of orange-red neon. Wherever the light touched earth, ground and equipment exploded and people died. 

“Get everyone ready... it’s starting.” Kray said and unzipped his sleeping bag. Once the invasion began landing, the Cavalry would hit them first. Memories came vividly as Kray left Harley to his task, of the Iron Fist. The eight months of primary training at Fort Bliss, Texas, then Base Tharsis on Mars, all forgotten in a moment, replaced by the pride he felt when he got his orders to the 71st Infantry Division... orbital assault. 

His first combat drop had been onto a rocky plain on the outskirts of the Octavian capital, the Procyon crisis well underway by the time they arrived in orbit. Kray was an E-1, and had discovered true fear that day. He’d wet his pants as missiles reached up for their falling shuttles, taking the craft in front of, and directly behind, his own. The stink of his urine had gone unnoticed amidst the sour smell of cold, oily fear that permeated the troop compartment.

Shame had kept him from crying outright when they fell within range of the surface guns, his dropship evaded the slugs accelerated to hypervelocity, most of them, though several punched through the hull and into several members of his platoon. The injured men screamed as others held them down on floors slick with blood, waiting for medics who did what they could for the wounded.

It was blowing dust on the surface when the dropships punched through the cloud cover and touched down, saving Kray from the embarrassment of being seen with his pant leg matted to his skin. Most orbital assault troops were alcoholics. The ones that were sober were either dead or hard-core, section 8, insane. 

Kray shook away the memories and looked skyward again. The bombardment had slackened off and he can hear frantic commo-traffic from the tent set up a few yards away... troop skimmers and gun-ships were lifting off from their hardened shelters. He could still remember the advice that his squad leader had given before that drop so long ago… the oldest and strongest human emotion is fear. It’s all right to be afraid... it’ll keep you alive as long as it doesn’t blind you. But there’ll also be a time when you have to put your fear behind you and do your duty. Remember that and you’ll do fine.

There were contrails visible in the moons-lit sky far above him; Avalon Defense Force F/A-300’s rocketing into the upper Stratosphere. 

"Kray!" A voice called from behind him, Kray turned and saw the 1st Sergeant, Sigis behind him, also watching the activity going on overhead. Usually the three were on a first name basis, but there was none of that formality now.

“Hey Top, what’s the Op?”

“Briefing at the commander's tent. We’ve identified what the S-two boys think will be their primary drop site. ETA on the ‘skims is fifteen mikes.”

Fifteen minutes until their rides to battle arrived to collect them. They would hear the shriek of engines when they were two minutes out.

“If you say so, Top… but that’s an awful lot of flat land out there to drop in on. I just hope that we’re not being premature.” Kray said cautiously. Darby stared off into the southern horizon and muttered a curse towards wherever the invasion would land.

“That’s for the officers to decide.” Top said, then turned and moved for the next squad area. Kray found the tube for his camel-packand drained it, his mouth suddenly very dry.

"We have contacts moving into geo-synchronous orbit," Sigis said as he paused and looked skyward. "We just got a bombardment alert for this sector."

"Shut it down!" Kray shouted at his men. They scrambled to comply. They drilled for this and responded quickly, but not quickly enough for him. "Shut it all down!"

Vehicle engines were turned off, ground-radar and data-pads were shut down. The noise of all things electric stopped as power switches were thrown. The radios were essential to leave on but transmissions stopped. Depending on how sensitive the scanners were on the ships passing far above them, the electrical signature of a single data-pad could betray their positions. 

Something glowing dropped out of the sky on the horizon and landed with a flash. Doom. Kray could feel the impact through the soles of his boots. Doom. At an ever-increasing tempo, intense streaks fell to earth. Doom. 

"Incoming!" Elroy shouted as he watched the bombardment land behind the hills on the horizon.

"Relax, Elroy," Kray said, as if such a thing were possible under the circumstances. "Our visitors upstairs are just prepping the drop zone."

“Does that mean they’ll be coming soon?” Elroy said and lifted his too-large helmet from over his eyes, readjusting it and tightening the chinstrap.

“Very soon.”

***

From the windows on the leeward side of the council building, Greeley watched in raptured fascination as the bombardment, advancing behind a visible squall line, landed in the outskirts of the city. The council chamber was shielded against sound, but the impacts shook the windows.

On the ground, hundreds of meters below his observation point, people streamed into the spaceport by the hundreds of thousands, in long lines that resembled columns of ants fleeing a concrete jungle.

“What havoc.” Greeley muttered. He had seen the pictures from the news, of terrified men and women carrying children on their backs, travel-bags in each hand, The city, once a jewel that artfully blended classical architecture and modern technology, burned behind them. The lights of the ground cars abandoned along the access road pointed the way for the skimmers racing through the air above. People spilled into the spaceport terminal from each train that pulled into the station.

The spaceport itself was chaos. Hundreds had already been trampled in the rush to board the few remaining vessels sitting on the launch pads. The police called in to stabilize the situation did little to organize the horde, instead throwing down their shock-batons and riot-shields to join the mad rush, military police attempted to fill their positions but they were too outnumbered. 

Greeley covered his eyes from the flash as the TIL corporate pyramid was slammed by three direct hits that demolished the top twenty levels. Shards of falling plexi-block and concrete showered people in the streets below. The speakers in the council chamber crackled with the voices of emergency crews responding to the new casualties, three hundred more dead and three times that many wounded. Not that there are many in the council chamber to hear it. The others excused themselves to deal with various “administrative emergencies,” running for their private spacecraft the instant they were out of the council building.

“No, damn it! Permission to engage is denied! You tell your pilots that their primary mission is to cover the evacuation ships! If we lose a freighter with four thousand people on it because one of your men decided to play cowboy, I will have his ass on a platter! You make sure that your boys understand that! Once the transports are away, I’ll authorize full weapons release… and if your base is under bombardment, start staging your fighters from someplace else!”

Governor Haderson was still there, conferring with Darby and issuing orders to various civil and military units in a vain effort to make order out of the chaos. Haderson was determined to see things through to the end, which earned him Greeley's respect, but his mind was not on the invasion. 

Greeley turned back to the window, knowing what was coming, and that they had two choices, fight or flight, but Haderson would not surrender. Next thing to go was the primary power station, the explosion that demolished it dug a crater he estimated to be twelve feet deep. Lights in the council room flickered then stabilized as backup generators snapped on. Except for those buildings with generators of their own, Freeport was dropped into darkness. He could almost hear people screaming in overloaded maglev cars as trains slowly ground to a halt on guideways 60 feet above ground.

“Sir! It’s time to go!” A concerned voice called from behind him. There was a NorCom sergeant at the chamber doors, holding a compact assault rifle, waving the administrative staffers running down the hall towards the roof exit. Greeley took a last look at the masses fleeing below. His wife and daughter were hopefully already on a ship bound for Pax Oceanus. The call bell on his datapad chirped. He slapped it on and saw the tear-streaked, hysterical face of his wife. Behind her, anarchy ruled as mobs of settlers raced for the safety of waiting transports.

“She’s gone!” She screamed at him between sobs.

“What? What do you mean?” Greeley said. His stomach sank into an icy pit as he realized that he already knew the answer. His daughter should have been there beside his wife but was not.

“The damn dog broke loose and she ran off after it! I can’t find her! I’ve looked everywhere! Oh God, what do I do?”

"Sir! We can’t waste time!" The sergeant said and put a hand on his shoulder. Greeley shrugged off the sergeant’s beefy mitt and shook the datapad as if it would affect his wife.

“Don’t worry! I’m leaving right now! She’s probably on another ship already but if she’s not, I’ll find her and take her out with me!" Greeley shouted. "Get on the transport, we’ll meet you at Pax!”

The image was lost as she got jostled by the crowd and dropped her datapad. The last image Greeley saw from it was the tread of someone’s boot coming down on the screen. He allowed himself to be led out the door. Governor Haderson and Minister of Defense Stewart were being hurried by their own escorts.

“We have to hurry, Sergeant," Greeley said as he took the steps to the roof two at a time, went through the door, and ran towards the flashing strobes of a waiting skimmer. The lights of two others were already out over the Northern Sea with Haderson and Stewart aboard. "My daughter is still down there somewhere. We have to find her.”

"It's going to be tough, sir." The sergeant said and piled into the passenger compartment behind him.

"We have to try, sergeant," Greeley said grimly. "We have to try."

"Message from Defense Command, sir," The skimmer pilot, an ADF colonel, turned in his seat and shouted at him to be heard over the scream of the engines. "They just picked up new signatures. It looks like we got dropships coming down."

"Then heavens help us." Greeley said quietly as the pilot increased power to the engines and they clawed for altitude. 

***

At points further south, troop skimmers began touching down, forming lines nose-to-tail in front of sticks of men, teams of eight waiting to board. Kray found his squad assembled and ready at one end of the landing field. Harley smiled when he saw the somber look on Kray’s face. Elroy sat beside him.

“You ready to go to war, Private Elroy?” Harley said and slapped the kid on his shoulder. Elroy was pale in the face and shaking.

“At ease that smleck,” Kray said and removed first his helmet, the the datapad from its carrying case at his hip, sitting on the helmet once he’d dropped it to the ground. “Everyone open your ears and eyes and close everything else.” He turned to Elroy. “Are you going to be okay?”

“Sure thing, sergeant.” Elroy says, managing a smile just before his stomach convulsed and vomitus splashed to the ground. Harley patted him on the back and pulled the water tube from the young man’s camel-sack, offering it to him once his heaving had stopped.

“Easy, chief,” Harley said as Elroy pulled on the water tube. “We’re not in the shit yet. You just make sure you get all of this out of your system before we find it.”

Kray opened the first graphic he’d downloaded at the mission briefing and passed the datapad to the muscular, female PFR (PFC- Private First Rank (E-3)) to his right. Her name was Rosie and she carried the rapid-fire HISS (Heavy Infantry Squad Support) gun.

“Intel has identified three primary drop-zones,” Kray said as Rosie looked at the map on the display and passed it to the next man in line, PFR Carter. “These sites are really getting hammered from orbit… we all saw the fireworks last night.”

Carter passed the datapad to the squad missilier, Corporal Martinez, who carried a Rapier tube. PFR Hutch, her AG (Assistant gunner), sat next to her with three extra missiles strapped to the back of his combat-pack.

“Hutch, bring up the next graphic,” Kray said and waited for the lanky teenager to comply. “Their landing zones have been designated Pebble, Malibu, and Riviera. They all lay within the Da Valley… three-hundred clicks south of here.”

Hutch passed the datapad to SPC (SPC- Specialist (E-4)) “Doc” Xiao, the squad medic, who raised his hand. Kray nodded toward him.

“What’s up, Doc?”

“Which one are we going into?” Doc said and absently tapped a finger on the circle indicating the nearest hostile dropzone.

“Dammit, Doc, I was getting to that,” Kray said as Doc passed the datapad to Harley. “As you all can see from the graphic, the Da Valley terminates on the nearest end at the Wesserflussen River gorge… two kilometers deep… but the bridge over it is strong enough to support armor. If they take the bridge, they get the short route in toward our largest settlements… we can’t allow that to happen. It’s our job to stop them.”

“It looks like they dropped right onto ADF Harding,” Harley said as he passed the datapad to Elroy. “I hope they don’t have armor. What we’ve got won’t be much good against big bruisers.” 

“Armor is too heavy to drop intact… it takes time to assemble,” Kray said and took the datapad from Elroy, who’d been holding it upside-down, he cast an exasperated look at the young man Harley had taken under his wing. “Ours is already rolling… moving south from the Savage Rift garrison… two whole regiments from the Tenth Division. All we have to do is hold the bridge until they get there.”

“Hell, if we we can hold it long enough to get our armor across, we’ll have them in a pincers,” Harley said, drawing nods from the troopers around him. “The other end of the valley exits on a coastal plain but that’s at the far side of the continent… between us and the units moving down the coast to block off that end, we should have them in a pretty bad way.”

“That’s the plan,” Kray said, killed the power to his datapad, then stored it in the waist-pouch. “We’ll have artillery on call and gunship support. The ADF fighters at Harding have been relocated but should be ready to go when we need them.”

“What about medivac?” Doc said and raised his hand. “If any of you smleck-eaters get hit I’m gonna be pissed.”

“Our air assets are going to be a little strained,” Kray said, ignoring Doc’s sudden scowl. “Our armored units will be bringing ambulances with them. Next question.”

“How long are we supposed to hold it?” Martinez said without raising her hand. “I’d rather carry extra ammo rather than extra food.”

“Four hours is the word from high command,” Kray said and clapped his hands over his ears to block out the sound of an an empty CV-7, their skimmer, landing five meters away. The noise died away as the ADF pilot at the controls powered down his systems. Kray coughed as the debris dislodged by the thrust from the ducted fan engines washed over them. “I want everyone packing as much ammo as you can carry. Don’t worry about the food… one or two ration bars will probably be enough.”

Kray looked up as the skimmer crew chief slid open the door to the cargo bay and made a circular motion with his hand. He acknowledged the signal with a wave.




Harvest Moon



“Everyone on your feet!” Kray shouted and the squad, burdened by their fighting gear, slowly complied, forming a stick. Elroy was the first one in line. Kray quickly but efficiently went checked over the young man and his equipment, making sure his weapon was unloaded and his water bladder was full. Done with his brief inspection, Kray jerked a thumb at the skimmer and Elroy hustled away, Harley was the next man in line and was cleared more quickly. Doc was the last man in the stick. Kray knew him to be the most professional member of the group and waved him past, falling into step at the rear.

“Remember... once we hit the ground, we spread out in standard two-by-two!" Kray said into the boom mike jutting from his helmet. "It’s going to be getting dark when we get there so use your visors on the starlight setting! Weapons on safe until we touch down.”

Kray made sure his fire selector switch was on “safe” before hitting the button to chamber the first from a magazine of 200 rounds. Cradling the M-32, he found a seat in the opposite door, next to the crew chief and the rotary cannon defending that side of the ship. As soon as he was aboard, the pilot increased power to the ducted-fans and the skimmer lifted off, trailing the others that carried the battalion. Their anti-collision lights went out in sequence as they rose, like a swarm of angry dragonflies, from under the rising faces of the twin moons… Artemix and Mithrix… each glowing and red with the change of seasons, planet Avalon embraced the end of reason. The flight into danger took less than 20 minutes.

“Charlie two bravo, this is Bulldog. We're on the ground,” Captain Brandywine’s voice crackled through Kray’s helmet speaker. “What is your ETA?”

From the door of the skimmer, data-visor running on low-light settings, Kray looked out ahead. LZ Pebble was there, with the Da Valley spreading out behind it, and marking the site was easy. All he had to do was follow the blast craters from the orbital strike, or the dark smoke billowing into the sky and dimming the glow of the twin moons, or watch where bright fingers of thrust lowered falling drop-ships to ground. There was not much cover to be found, just isolated Finback shrubs and sparse patches of wire-grass, Kray tapped the pilot on the shoulder.

“What’s our ETA, sir?” Kray said. The pilot held up three fingers. “Bulldog, this is two bravo… ETA three minutes, over.”

He leaned out of the door and watched the moon-shadow of the skimmer blurring over the ground. The bottleneck in the hills where the valley plain ends was drawing close. His stomach jumped into his chest as the skimmer suddenly dropped, imparting momentary weightlessness, startling him. He could see the flames leaping from the wreckage of what looked like a large dropship type craft in the distance… large shards of silver debris. 

“Bulldog, this is two bravo. We’re on terminal approach. Out.” Kray called in as he tightened his grip on his rifle and watched the ground come rushing up at him.

“Let’s go! Everyone out! Go... go... go!” He hollered when he felt the familiar shock of the skimmer touching down. Kray threw himself out followed closely by the rest of the squad. Skimmers were the most vulnerable when loading and unloading, a fat target for any Euro with a missile or crew-served weapon, at least if it took a hit they wouldn’t be in it.

"Fek it, fek it, fek it." Harley cursed and jumped out behind him, falling into a prone position, training his weapon toward unfriendly territory. Behind him, the skimmer increases power and lifted off, deafening them with the screech of its engines and showering them with debris blown around by vectored thrust.

“Bulldog, this is Charlie Two One... we are on the ground with objective in sight... tree-zero-zero meters behind our positions,” Kray calls as his men set up a parameter. The reply from the company commander is fragmented, filled with static; almost indecipherable. “I think our tactical channels are being jammed.”

“Charlie two... this is Bu… og. Be advised these aren’t... we don’t… who the... are but they aren’t... ns. There’s too… Ge... out... wh...”

"Bulldog, say again," Kray said into his boom-mike. "Your transmission is one-by-one." Static hissed from the open channel. “What the hell is going on here?”

"A big charlie-foxtrot." Harley said as he opened a collapsible bipod and fixed it to the muzzle of Rosie’s HISS gun. Rosie was digging a fighting hole, angled to provide a clear field of fire over the LZ, the ground was hard and the going slow.

"Alright! Get set up for anti-armor," Kray said and found a sheltered spot to consider his position. "Everyone else in two man teams, one on watch while the other one digs, get moving!" He fumbled to pull his optics from the protective case they were stored in, then grabbed Elroy by the arm as he passed. "Where do you think you're going?"

Elroy spluttered a response as Kray pushed the optics into his hands and shoved him toward the inclined slope. "I want you up on the hilltop,” Kray said. “You see anything, you call it in." Elroy nodded and ran for the top. 

Kray found a site with a good view of the valley in front of him and slammed the blade of his digging tool down into the soil. Sparks flew as the carbon-steel blade rebounded off of the rocks hidden beneath the thin layer of earth. Flashes appeared on the horizon, artillery impacting another landing zone, LZ Malibu, hidden by the curvature of the planet. Movement to his left drew his attention. He dropped his hand-spade and lowered his data-visor.

Through thermal-optics, he watched five people making for the bridge. He recognized the bulky kits that all five carried as explosive charges. The engineers were set to wire the bridge for demolition.

"Sergeant Kray!" The sound of a scared Elroy came out of his helmet speaker.

"What is it, Elroy?" Kray said. “And use proper radio protocol, dammit! Over.”

"I can see 'em, Sergeant." Elroy called back. "There's hundreds of them, like nothin' I ever seen before… over."

"Take it easy, Elroy." Kray said and tried to calm the young soldier. "Just tell me what they’re doing, over."

"Nothing, Sergeant. They’re just kinda all clustered together, like they're waiting for something, over."

"Where are they, over." Kray said, scanning the terrain before him, trying to see through Elroy's eyes.

"Eight-hunnert meters,” Elroy said. “Just around where the valley doglegs t' the south… over."

"Can you see any unit markings?" Kray said, forgetting his own demand from proper protocol. The last report he had heard before transferring out of the Iron Fist was that the EuroCons maintained nine orbital assault units but only two, the 533 and 534 Marine Infanterie, were at combat-ready status. If they were serious about grounding an invasion force, both units would be used. If Elroy was right, they’d already landed at least a battalion.

"Negative, Sergeant. I only can pick 'em up on infra-red."

"Then keep your eyes open," Kray said as he wiped his face on his sleeve and locked the blade of his digging tool. "They even breathe like they're moving in this direction, you let me know… out."

Drenched in sweat, Kray had a shallow fighting hole chipped into the hard earth when he heard a strange whistling noise that grew louder as the minutes passed, then something fell into view.

“Sarge… are you seeing this?” A scared voice went over the squad-commo channel. Sergeant Alvin Kray knew the voice when he heard it… Rosie, calling in from her fighting position on the downslope of the hill in front of him.

“Kray, check out two-three-zero,” Lt. Swift was the next to call in. “What the hell is that, some kind of air-cushion vehicle?”

“Hold on, L.T.,” Kray said and looked out to see three massive vehicles settling into the wide valley in front of them. They had dropped from the sky and braked to a hover… eight feet off the ground by his reckoning. “Zero ID. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“Hey, L.T., check ‘em out on infrared,” Harley said and pointed out something he’d spotted trailing the vehicle. Kray activated his IR sight and was surprised to see that the invisible force supporting each vehicle was white hot. “I don’t think that’s one of ours, whatever it is.”

Kray turned as he heard someone coming up behind him… Lt. Swift. A battalion level message came down through squad intra-net. Colonel Xavier… in command of the Regiment, by God… was demanding a realtime video feed.

“Where are the skirts? Please tell me that’s an air-cushion vehicle you know of.” Swift lifted an arm to flip the data-monocle down from his helmet, navigating the point-glanced to a virtual comm display on which the colonel’s round face appeared. 

“Let me get a look at it, Lieutenant,” The Colonel said. Swift took off his helmet and aimed the integral camera built into it at the silver half-eggs hovering two kilometers away. “I’ve seen enough. Put your helmet back on, son, and keep it there.”

“Yes, sir,” Swift said and returned it to proper place. “If you don’t mind me asking, what should we do about it?”

“Hmm… let’s see, you stay put and watch the thing while I call headquarters. If it’s heading for you, get out of it’s way. Take a defensive posture.”

Swift deactivated his helmet mike. “Command doesn’t think they’re ours… definitely not ours.”

“Brilliant, sir,” Kray said and added a derisive snort. “Do we have any projects with anti-gravity I should know about, because from my end, there’s nothing else I can think that could be keeping those things up.”

The lead vehicle lowered itself to rest on the ground. Kray signaled headquarters. After a moment, Colonel Xavier’s face appeared in his data-monocle.

“Yes, what is it?” Xavier demanded.

“One of them just landed, sir,” Kray said. “There’s been no activity yet. What should we do?”

“Don’t panic,” Xavier said. “Just sit tight and do like a told you. Report in if you feel the need to, but keep in mind that wheels are already in motion, we won’t forget where you are, don’t worry. Set up a continuous feed. I want to see what they’re doing at every moment.”

“We’ll make it happen, sir.” Swift said and waved Harley forward to set up a small video camera. For the first time Kray noticed that Harley’s knees were shaking. Both men recoiled as a nightmarish form with joints at the wrong angles rose up out of the darkness. Kray stumbled and fell backward, triggering his weapon, feeling his stomach lurch sickeningly as a scream pierced the night… something inhuman. 

***