Читать книгу When The Stars Fade - Adam L. Korenman - Страница 9

October 12, 2236

New Armstrong Station

Luna

Earthrise always took his breath away. Standing on the bustling train platform, the old man breathed in recycled air and yawned. His first coffee stirred restlessly in his stomach while a second warmed his hand. The freshly pressed fabric of his uniform hugged his shoulders and waist. He didn’t stand out, even with all the medals and ribbons on his coat. This was Luna Station, and there were plenty of veterans around.

“Come on,” a voice said. “We’re going to miss the train.”

Commodore Hiro Osaka turned to face his escort, a handsome young soldier whose name was already forgotten. The sixty-year-old officer took a sip of bitter liquid and grimaced. He couldn’t wait to get back to his boat. Midway always had fresh Paradiso brewing in the galley. Hiro gestured for the soldier to lead the way to the tram. Fort Yonkers waited at the end of the line, along with briefings and paperwork and, just maybe, a little sleep.

Hiro stole one last glance through the triple-paned window. Through the cloud and heavy satellite cover, he could just make out the island of Japan. His father’s home stood out as a vibrant green crescent against a deep blue canvas. His heart swelled at the sight. Hiro paused. He’d seen the homeworld from Luna—the moon—many times before. Why this feeling now?

“Sir? We really need to go.”

He nodded. “Lead the way.” Hiro matched the soldier’s brisk gate and followed toward the sound of an arriving train. He let the odd sensation drift to the back of his mind for later inspection. Right now, he had a more pressing concern. Midway needed to get off Luna.

Earth Orbit

On the opposite side of the moon, in the absence of the sun’s light, space began to bubble. A small weather satellite drifted too far off course, its fuel reserves depleted long ago and never refilled. As it meandered into the depths, it suddenly sparked and shuddered. Blue light engulfed the satellite in its final moments, before the truck-sized capsule vanished into the ether.

Beside this new vortex, a dozen motes of light winked into existence and began to grow.

Terran Space Initiative (TSI) Observatory

Andretti Crater, Luna

The wail of an alarm shocked Raymond Lee awake. He rubbed his eyes and looked at the computer screen. Glowing text popped onto the monitor, creating an endlessly scrolling list of notices. Raymond thought first that the machine had glitched, but then he saw each alert came from a unique ISP. Of the three hundred satellites controlled by the observatory, nearly all were calling for help.

Raymond hadn’t been with the Terran Space Initiative long; he’d only just been promoted to full time. TSI paid well for the graveyard shift, and the long hours left him with enough time to study for school. During his orientation, he’d been taught what to do in case the AI controller broke down, or if there was a fire in the lab, or if the CO2 filters malfunctioned. No one ever brought up an invasion.

A number of satellites reported anomalies consistent with a spatial disruption; something was leaving interdimensional space and arriving near Earth. Raymond double-checked the coordinates, relieved to see they were nowhere near the Earth gates. An invasion force would have to arrive as close as possible to the station, otherwise they’d never survive more than a few minutes. This strange signal seemed more and more like a transport ship using an old traffic code.

It had taken Olivia—his boss—a full six hours to explain, but Raymond figured he understood enough about the science of space travel to be absolutely terrified. Given the advances in quantum mechanics, quantum physics, and something called AeroSpatial Disturbance Theory, there were now three ways to cross distances in space: Standard, Stride, and Blue.

The first was simple and had been around for hundreds of years. Normal engines and rockets could propel any vessel at what was known as Standard speed. This was good for travel between stations, in orbit, or from a planet to a moon. Ships used their rockets and zipped about, agile as figure skaters.

For longer journeys, intrasystem travel required Strider drives. At Stride speed, the time it took to cross the Solar System dropped from decades to days. Precise calculations were required to avoid slamming into an asteroid at Stride speed, but given the network of relays in the system, it was a fairly painless process. Not every ship had the Slush Erbium Drives—or sleds—built in, so smaller craft often had to hitch a ride.

The final form of travel, and infinitely more dangerous, was Blue. Discovered only a century before, and more regulated than any other form of travel in history, Blue Space allowed interstellar travel and became the backbone of the colonization movement. The first probe sent into Blue Space transmitted a report back via FTL one week later—from over one hundred lightyears away. Using nodes—building-sized relay stations around the colonies—ships could pinpoint their destination within a few kilometers and arrive hundreds and billions of kilometers away in a manner of days, if not hours. The only requirement for “safe” travel was a linked terminal at both ends of the journey. Otherwise a ship could exit Blue Space anywhere in the universe. Anywhere.

But what made a Blue jump really terrifying was the fact that, aside from the evidence that it worked, no one in any field of science understood how. Ships ripped into the fabric of space, emerged unscathed, and all of it happened without solid proof that it made any logical sense. TSI devoted one quarter of its budget every year to plumbing the depths of Blue Space in search of answers, but so far had come up empty. That thought alone convinced Raymond that he would never, in a million years, travel through the “Blue Tunnel.” Especially with the stories one heard about civilian ships that never exited and simply floated in another dimension for eternity.

Curiosity kept Raymond’s mind racing. He found himself at the telescope controls, not entirely sure why he was there. The powerful lenses responded to his commands, rotating until they faced the indicated coordinates. The entire room spun on a disk, bringing the table-sized glass plates to bear. Raymond tapped out sequences on the keyboard, bringing up a view of a brilliant expanse of nothing at the edge of the planetary plane.

The massive monitor displayed the star-filled sky, but little more. Raymond saw comets streak by in the distance, the strobe lights from two weather stations on far orbit, and the red and yellow pulse of a relay station. Nothing. And then, something.

No, Raymond thought. What is that? He leaned forward and tapped a button on the keyboard to increase the focal length. A small point of light came into view, barely the size of pinprick. As Ray watched, the dot expanded rapidly, becoming as wide as a hangar and pouring blue rays across Lunar space. A dozen more pinpricks flared into existence, peppering the space around the enormous Blue exit. A cold fist gripped Raymond’s chest.

Jesus, it’s a goddamn invasion. Raymond grabbed his headset and dialed the link for the SP Operation Center. He rubbed his shaking hands together furiously as he waited for the operator to pick up. Raymond watched the Blue funnels spew out twisted black shapes. He switched to a higher-powered lens, and the objects grew in size. Hulking battleships and frigates hurtled through space, spewing blood-red energy in their wakes. As the Blue Space exits began to close, he had counted twenty total ships.

“Sector Patrol Luna, this is Operations.” The woman’s voice on the other end was crisp and clear. “What is the purpose of your call?”

“This is Raymond Lee, TSI station Andretti. I have a major situation here.”

“Andretti, if this is a civil incident, you need to contact TSI Control. Do you need their information?”

“No. What? Listen to me, I have unauthorized Blue Space exits in…” He threw files off his desk until he found the map of the space above Luna. “Quadrant forty-five, sector twenty-one.”

The operator paused, typing on her computer. “I don’t have any reports from Terra. Andretti, I need you to authenticate this channel.”

Shit. Raymond squeezed his eyes shut, trying to remember the code for his station. He nearly panicked until he saw the note posted above his computer. “Uh, seven-four, er, nine-one-oscar-zulu-zulu?”

A longer pause. “Andretti, this is Operations. We authenticate, seven-four-niner-one-oscar-zulu-zulu. Send coordinates when ready.”

Raymond read off the coordinates from the telescope. The armada of ships had slowed down and seemed to be forming up into a battle group. The largest of the vessels, what looked like a giant beehive, was surrounded by the smaller craft.

“Andretti, we confirm contacts in Lunar space. SP will take over from here. Continue to monitor the situation, but if contacts come within fifty kilometers, seek out shelter immediately.”

The line closed. Helpless, Raymond watched the hypnotizing shuffle of ships move into a battle group and creep toward Earth.

New York City

United America

Dr. Markov Ivanovich sat on a wooden bench near heavy double doors, waiting for his turn to speak. The impressive hallway of NYU’s new Silver Center stretched endlessly in each direction, curving around in a massive circle. The seven-story structure overlooked the Hudson River, one of the few unobstructed views in the ever-growing city. Skyscrapers reached toward the stars in every direction, connected by a web of Sky Rails.

Markov placed a hand on his knee but failed to stop his restless leg. It bounced constantly, relentlessly. He swallowed, then swallowed again. His chest felt too tight. He checked his buttons to make sure they were in the correct order, then checked his padded binder. Indeed, all of his documents were in order, just as they had been ten minutes prior, and the half hour before that.

“You need to relax,” a heavy voice said opposite Markov. Sasha Otravlyatovich regarded his liberator. Sasha had been rotting in a gulag on Phobos when the infamous Dr. Markov recruited him. Despite having spent thirteen years chained to a wall, Sasha was reluctant to leave the comforts of a UEC dungeon, even one on a planetoid as unforgiving as Phobos.

But when Markov told him the old government had been disbanded as part of a treaty with Mars, Sasha agreed to leave. As their transport lifted off from the small moon, Sasha found himself one step closer to the culmination of his life’s cause and goal:

A free and unified Mars.

But now Sasha didn’t know what he stood for.

“If you spook the Joint Chiefs, this project dies tonight.”

“I can’t relax,” Markov said, eyes lingering on Sasha’s scar, which stood out on his face in the fluorescent light.

“This is too important for relaxing. Everything we’ve worked for…”

“I did nothing,” Sasha replied. “You’re the mad scientist.”

“Fine. Everything I’ve worked for depends on getting this grant.”

The heavyset man leaned back on his bench opposite Markov. His black leather coat still dripped on the floor from the rains outside. His skin was monstrously pale—a souvenir from a long stay in prison. “Tell me again why we can’t use the Cove?”

“The Fade uses the Cove,” Markov said, referring to the Fleet Analysis of Intelligence Division, known in the armed services as FAID, or colloquially as the Fade. The mystery of what went on in the myriad of onyx buildings they maintained around the galaxy led to many conspiracy theories and cheesy thrillers on the Net. “I won’t have their greasy fingers getting into all my projects.”

He was about to say more when the double doors opened. Both men turned to face a pretty young redhead. She smiled and gestured toward the chambers.

“Dr. Ivanovich, the Joint Chiefs are waiting.”

Sasha picked up a soggy newspaper from a nearby table and starting reading. Markov swallowed a final time, stood, and walked into the room.

There were seven men waiting inside the chamber, all dressed in their respective uniforms. Admiral Walker, the commander of Fleet, sat front and center on a dais. On his left were members of the military, all four-star generals or their naval equivalent. On his right were the Joint Chiefs, dressed in civilian suits. Markov nearly gasped when he saw another familiar face leaning against the wall, barely concealed in shadow. Chief of Staff Jerry Ahmad needed no introduction; he was the face of the new government, as famous a man as High Chancellor Burton himself.

“Doctor,” Admiral Walker began. “Thank you for making the trip. How is Titan this time of year?”

Markov’s mouth tasted like sandpaper. “Cold. I really appreciate this opportunity. I know that the last conference wasn’t my best showing, and I agree with you saying I needed time to develop my ideas and sift through the chaff to find—”

“Markov,” Walker said, cutting the young man off. “We’ve listened to almost sixty presentations today. Let’s cut to the chase.”

The doctor sniffed. “Right. Okay.” He opened his binder and pulled out his tablet. The thin sheet of polymer was clear as glass, but lit up at his touch. He swiped on the screen, sending the information to a massive projector on the wall to his right. “The guidance you gave for this task was pretty simple: provide a new method of dealing with terrorist operations in the Systems. You said to make it man-portable and as safe for the soldiers as possible.”

General Sanders yawned. “We know the rules, Doctor. We made them. Get to the point, please.”

“Of course, General.” He advanced his slide show rapidly. “What you’re looking at is my proposal for the new and improved CROWN Mark V.”

There it was. Markov had said it, and the room fell insantly silent. Sasha braced for the backlash.

Markov had been a genius since childhood, excelling in math and science at an early age. He’d been discovered by the headmaster of a prestigious school for gifted youth and graduated early to join the United Earth Council’s Department of Science and Research. Markov quickly earned his stripes as the UEC’s top mind. When Mars revolted, he was chosen to find a swift solution.

His idea had been the Carbon-Reinforced OverWear Network armored suit, or CROWN. Using simple neural networking, a single soldier controlled a twelve-foot-tall, armored battle suit. The intent had been to create a weapon any soldier could learn to use.

Too bad it was a disaster.

And everyone in the room knew it.

Markov pressed on, “Using a proprietary method, we can enhance a soldier’s survivability by a factor of—”

Walker cut him off again. “Are you fucking serious? CROWN? Is this a joke?”

Markov’s mouth opened and closed without sound.

Sanders seethed. “I still have nightmares about your last round of tests. One of my men had a seizure when your contraption went into a forced reboot. We found him at the bottom of a lake, sealed into a CROWN suit like it was a goddamn tomb.”

“Please, I know the name isn’t popular, but this is a completely new system.” He flipped through his presentation until he found a series of action shots. “Look, you can see the results clear as day. These suits enable a soldier to run faster, jump higher, and fight longer than any other human in existence. This is the evolution of power armor, and it doesn’t require a license to operate. You could slip one on right now and go fight.”

Markov continued, “And that’s just the beginning. We’re experimenting with new protein-based dermal enhancements to make the human body more capable and adaptable. All I need is a team, a lab, and willing candidates, and I can have a working operations unit in under a year. Send seven of my soldiers into a Red Hammer den and you’ll never worry about them ever again.”

“You’re still using SQUID,” Walker said. “Doctor, let me be blunt. I don’t like this. I don’t like that you’re using century-old tech. I don’t like that you’ve stubbornly refused to try ANGEL networking. And I especially don’t like you wasting this committee’s time when you have zero governmental support.” The admiral rubbed his temples with both hands. “The budget is tighter than ever this year, and you’ve given us no reason to trust you with a single cent. You do understand the reason behind this project, don’t you?”

Markov nodded quickly. “The Martian rebels?”

Walker dropped his head into his hands. “Jesus, Doc. Mars is pacified. That generation has all but died out. Why would we want to prepare for a war we already won?”

“The prompt for this project referenced the Guardian initiative. I just thought—”

“That we were fighting Red Hammer with armored knights? They’re just a grubby militia living out of cheap motels.” Walker sat back and exhaled through his teeth. “Markov, until you get a Councilor on board or the goddamn sky starts to fall, this committee will not pay any more attention to your mad science. You need to go.”

Markov’s head sank. He switched off the projector and collected his things. “I understand, Admiral. I’m sorry for wasting your time.”

Walker stood along with the other members of the committee. “I don’t think it’s just our time that was wasted here.” The men marched from the room in a single file, disappearing into an annex behind the dais.

The doctor was so busy moping that he barely registered movement by his shoulder bag. He nearly shouted when he saw Chief of Staff Ahmad leafing through his notes.

“Sir, I’m so sorry,” Markov said. “You startled me.” He took a moment to catch his breath. “I didn’t know the Federate government was watching this project so closely.”

The chief of staff nodded but didn’t look up. “The office of the high chancellor has no interest in wasting money on defense projects, especially when our greatest threat is a psychopath from Mars.” He glanced at the trembling scientist. “Relax, doctor. I’m on your side. I think CROWN never really got a fair shot. Then again, I didn’t watch three men’s brains melt when they tried to wear it. How much field testing have you done?”

“Tons,” he offered quickly. “My team is small right now, just six of us, but we’ve been making some incredible advances with the tools available.” He fidgeted. “Titan is a great place to build ships, but the facilities there are lacking in the proper equipment for my needs. Please, give me a small space on New Eden. I guarantee the results will astound you.”

The chief of staff shook his head. “Out of the question. As far as the Joint Chiefs are concerned, this is the last time this project will ever see the light of day. Understand?”

Markov felt ill. “I do.”

“Good. Now go back to your hotel and clean up. I want you ready to present this to the Centurial Council in a few days.”

“What?”

“We’re voting on funding to new Special Projects. If you can make a better case, this might just pass muster. And for god’s sake, change the fucking name. Everyone in the four systems knows about CROWN.”

Markov bobbed his head up and down. “I’m actually headed to Kronos after this. I want to catch the end of the Crucible. Perhaps I’ll find some new test candidates for CROW—for my power armor. I’ll write a new report tonight on the flight over.”

Chief of Staff Ahmad held up a hand. “No rush. Just get me something good to present to the high chancellor. He could use the win.” He walked toward the door where his assistant, the young redheaded staffer, waited. “And I’m serious about keeping this quiet. As soon as people hear about new defense projects, they act like the sky is falling.” He paused at the door. “And enjoy your trip to Kronos. I hear it’s lovely this time of year.”

Kronos

Third Moon of New Eden

Eros System

Kronos was hell.

From orbit, the medium-sized moon was a uniform brown, broken only with canyons and mountains. What little water existed on the planetoid was buried deep in the ground, accessible from the many wells built on the surface. It was a place where no human would ever dream of living.

Naturally, it was the Army’s favorite training center.

While the citizens of nearby New Eden went about their days, the soldiers of the 185th Combined Arms Battalion endured the Crucible. For five months straight, the mixed units trained in high intensity combat. Wearing advanced simulation gear, they fought for every inch of defendable dirt in a hundred-square-kilometer arena. Aside from bragging rights, the top performers could hope to join the ranks of the infamous Black Adders, or maybe earn a coveted slot for Team Hercules.

The slow rotation of the moon meant thirty-hour days, most of which was spent under the blistering heat of nearby Eros. The soldiers had been cut off from the outside world for half a year and were eager to get home. While generals and politicians and weapons manufacturers watched on, the men and women on Kronos prepared for the end.

[no image in epub file]

Lying in a small outcropping of rock, Joshua Rantz of Charlie Company tried to still his breathing. His tan uniform and gray ceramic armor blended well with the bleak terrain, but a moving target still stood out like a sore thumb. Closing his eyes, Josh measured each breath in a slow four-count. In the dim light he became just another boulder on the canyon wall. The sun had just set, cooling the training area to a blissful ninety-eight degrees. Josh raised the shade film on his visor and gazed at the beautiful horizon. The blue star made an impressive show every evening, turning the sky into a watercolor with every shade of purple, red, and orange.

“You’re dead.” The deep baritone was felt as much as heard.

Josh opened his eyes and looked up at a mountain. Dax Goodman, his fellow Charlie Company soldier, was nearly three hundred pounds of sharp muscle. He looked every bit the sports celebrity, with his bright white smile and dimpled chin. Dax tried hard to maintain a serious expression but lost it after a few seconds. He offered a beefy hand to Josh and hoisted his friend to his feet.

“Alexa’s in position?” Josh asked.

“Just getting set up, Sarge.”

“Stop that.”

“You got it, Sarge.”

“I’m not kidding.” Josh shot Dax a mean look. They walked side-by-side toward base camp through a wide canyon. There probably wasn’t an enemy for miles, but they still paused every few dozen yards to scan their surroundings. Months of living in a combat zone—even a make-believe one—had imprinted new instincts. Corners were now dead zones. Shadows were possible threats. And every sound could be the last they ever heard. “In a month, I’ll be a corporal again and all will be right with the world. I’m not earning the pay, so what’s the point in pretending I’m a sergeant?”

“All right,” Dax said, holding up both hands. “You got me.” The darkness swallowed the huge soldier, his brown skin blending into the surroundings. “Rank looks good on you, though.”

Josh glanced down at the chevrons on his uniform. They were borrowed off of Sergeant Luker, who had taken a sniper round a few months back. That had earned Josh his battlefield promotion, as well as control of the squad. There were dried red droplets on the rank, leftover dye from the sim-round that “killed” Luker.

“Bravo’s done,” Dax said suddenly. “Alexa got the word from the XO. First Platoon took them out at first light. Picture-perfect ambush.”

They arrived at their improvised patrol base, buried in the canyons. Accessible from only two directions, it was a perfect spot for a tactical pause. The squad was invisible unless the enemy stumbled right in. A sentry held them at gunpoint and waited for the password, then waved them through and resumed his guard.

Dax set down his DaVinci Heavy Machine—a massive three-barrel monster—and sucked down mouthfuls of water. “Just Delta…”

“And Alpha,” a voice said. Alexa Haines jogged over. She had stripped down most of her armor, with the exception of the simulator vest. If she removed that, she’d be automatically killed for breaking the rules of the Crucible. Still, it was cooler than wearing all fifty pounds of her scout gear. She sweat from every pore, but still looked cheerful as ever. “XO says we need to stand by. Something’s happening at the FOB.”

We’ve been standing by for three days. Josh paced irritably. “Delta still has more boots on the ground. If we don’t pick a few more off, we’re coming in third place. That means no extra leave.”

Alexa punched Josh’s arm. “Had a big weekend lined up? Hot date?”

Josh dodged a second punch and blushed. “No. I mean, that’s not what I’m saying. We shouldn’t settle for anything less than a total win.”

“I’m pretty sure Alpha’s already locked that up,” Dax said.

Alpha Company had sailed through the first few months of the Crucible with endless momentum, conducting blistering assaults against their opponents. Now, with a little more than a month left, they were relaxing in an easily defendable position at the North side of the training area. If they made it to the end without suffering more losses, they would win the event without lifting another finger.

Josh turned to Alexa. “Have you…been working on it?”

Her face brightened. “I thought you’d never ask.” She led them to the center of camp where a map rested on a large boulder. Her red hair had grown long during the half-year exercise, and she wore it in a tight ponytail. The armor across her right shoulder bore a long crack—earned during a tense struggle with a Delta sniper. “They definitely don’t have this hill covered. I’ve counted their patrols three times, and no one watches it.” She tapped the map. “I mean, it’s suicide to attack from here, but still.”

Josh rubbed his chin. “I’ll work that part out. Just keep a tab on their movements.”

“What is all this?” Dax asked.

“I asked Alexa to take her scouts and find out about Delta’s FOB. We’ve got a little more than five weeks before this all shuts down.” Josh tapped the map where a cluster of red dots had been drawn. “We can take Delta out before then. I just need to convince the XO. If he gives me two platoons, I can get Charlie into second place in a single night.”

Near Earth Orbit

The first invader slipped free of the swirling Blue portal and shot out into the Sol System. Forward rockets fired, slowing the heavy craft until it was nearly stationary. Its iridescent silver hull shimmered in the light of Sol, the system’s small yellow star. The engines cooled, venting puffs of green and white gas into space.

Seconds later, three more vessels joined the larger ship, popping into existence with flashes of blue light. Their numbers grew steadily as a variety of large and small craft entered human space. Finally, the Blue Space funnels shrank and faded, leaving behind an armada of silver and blue. The alien craft looked cobbled together in haste, with different colored panels and sloppily repaired hulls. They ranged from small saucers to enormous, cigar-shaped cruisers. Engines ignited, and the strange collection of ships advanced toward the human homeworld.

With all eyes watching the interlopers, few even noticed the second series of Blue exits opening just a hundred kilometers away.

October 13, 2236

Lunar Sector Patrol Center (SPC)

Luna

Cameron Davis and George Locklear sat at a table in the quiet mess hall, nursing steaming cups of coffee. A few other pilots ate their meals in silence, ignoring the overpowering smell of whiskey and beer wafting from the two men’s table. George sat with his head on the table, groaning. Cameron seemed unfazed by a night of poor decision-making, and barely suppressed his smirk every time his friend winced. Their flight uniforms were clean, if not fresh. They’d changed out of their dress blues a half hour before.

Like most members of Sector Patrol, their uniforms were recycled from Fleet. The tiger-stripe pattern in gray and blue had long ago changed to a hexagonal charcoal for the Active component. There was no malice in the decision; it made no fiscal sense to spend the money on brand new uniforms for the weekend warriors. Still, to members of SP, it felt like just another in a long list of slights by big brother Fleet.

Folks called the military the “fourth pillar” of the government. It broke down into five functional areas. There was the Army, designed to defend planets and moons. Marines were trained in similar tactics, but they only served aboard ships or stations, a fact that disturbed anyone with even a passing knowledge of the branch’s history. The Navy had long before been rebranded as Fleet. It covered everything from pilots to commanders.

Finally there was SP, the reserve forces that acted as jacks of all trades. That included Cameron and George.

Cameron leaned his long frame back in the plastic chair. He fit the uniform just right, creating a striking figure. His wingman George, on the other hand, seemed extra frumpish in his too-large jumpsuit. A few coffee stains on the sleeves didn’t improve the look.

“I told you that last shot was a mistake,” Cameron said.

George looked up with red eyes. “No, you said the second-to-last shot was a mistake. You didn’t see the one after.” He hiccuped, choking back a sudden surge of bile. “Or the two after that.”

“Are you okay to fly?”

He grinned, tapping a subdued black badge on his chest. “I’m an ace, son. A hangover is just part of the job.” His stomach gurgled, and George fought to hold down his meager breakfast. “Anything on the board today?”

Cameron turned toward the massive briefing screen, looking for the flight list. Strangely, the board was empty. Not even the runs from the previous night. Normally, the names and routes for dozens of wings would be laid out for the day. He was about to say as much to George when the panel suddenly flashed white.

An alert bell rang out in a sudden shotgun blast of white noise. They clapped hands over their ears in defense. Red strobes activated, washing over the room. The entire hall leapt to attention, accompanied by a cacophony of shouting voices. They glanced around, completely disoriented by the ready alarm. Then, one by one, they registered the meaning of the noise. Cameron nearly knocked over the table as he bolted toward a comm terminal and activated the line to OpCenter. George joined him quickly, massaging his temples as he walked up. He’d brought his coffee over and sipped from the steaming mug.

“What the hell? We’re off this weekend. It’s supposed to be a holiday.”

“That’s next weekend. It’s Thursday.” Cameron raised an eyebrow. “What holiday happens on October thirteenth?”

“Leave George The Hell Alone Day.” He yawned, limbs splayed out like a cat. “What do you think?”

Cameron shrugged. “Could be another passenger liner lost thrusters.” It was the most likely possibility. Ever since the recession hit, interstellar cruisers were going longer and longer between repairs and refits. They’d handle a call like that once a week at least. SP advertised as the reserve component of Fleet, but it was more like being a space cop.

The crowd around the station grew, and Cameron felt dozens of eyes on him as he waited for the operation center to connect. Someone finally silenced the alarm, but the startled pilots still huddled and shivered like wet dogs.

When the monitor lit up, they found themselves staring at General Burnside, the elderly post commander. Cameron immediately went to attention, while George merely stepped out of the camera’s view. After a moment, they both realized it was a recorded message.

“What the hell?” Cameron stammered. “This is new.” He looked over his shoulder at the remaining crowd, shrugging.

Burnside was old but tough. A former infantry officer, the three-star general ruled the base with a firm hand. SP personnel often found their passes revoked for minor infractions. It didn’t stop the civilians from acting like imbeciles, but anyone in uniform behaved as professionally as a West Point graduate. George had nearly exploded the first week. Cameron found the transition smoother.

Burnside spoke, his voice tired and full of gravel. “Attention. This is General Lawrence Burnside, commander of Federate Reserve Post Yonkers. Earth and her moon are facing an imminent threat. All pilots report to your hangars and you will receive full briefings. Godspeed.” The feed cut out.

George looked at Cameron, bewildered. “Imminent what?”

Cameron took off out of the mess hall and down the corridor, with George struggling to keep up.

Fort Yonkers

Luna

Fort Yonkers hadn’t been built for Fleet. That much Commodore Hiro Osaka knew. Grown from the skeleton of the first lunar colony, the sprawling base lacked the facilities and equipment to properly care for anything larger than a six-man Griffin. The complexities of a Terran carrier seemed to baffle the gaggle of civilian engineers that pored over the flagship like ants on a picnic. Two weeks into the refit and they were already a month behind schedule. The fifty-year-old officer had walked the halls of his ship only hours before and had been horrified by the disastrous mess left behind. Cables hung down from the overhead panels and entire sections of the walls were missing, exposing the innards of the vessel.

As the commander of Carrier Battle Group Sol, Hiro oversaw a flotilla of the most advanced ships in the Terran Fleet. But even without the support craft, Hiro had the Alpha vessel.

Midway, the Terran flagship, was unlike any carrier before it.

Designed during the final days of the Emigration War, she replaced the fallen TFC Shiloh. Three times as large, and holding eighty more fighting craft than her predecessor, Midway had become the unquestioned symbol of the Federate’s supremacy in the dark skies. It wasn’t hard to see why; unless someone saw her in person, they never believed the stories of her size.

In recent years, even as newer ships of the line flew out from the various yards over Titan and Phobos, Midway had remained a sentinel in Terran space. Her crew could populate a small town or conquer a small moon. Though armed only with standard weaponry, the carrier was a match for any fighting vessel in the known universe. Hiro’s weapons officer lamented that they never installed some of the latest and greatest tools of destruction, but a forty-inch gun still packed a hell of a punch. Which made it all the more frustrating to have it under repair, collecting moon dust.

Alarms sounded throughout the base, muted now that the initial alert had gone out. The commodore seethed at the idea of sitting idly by while Mars launched an attack. Hiro looked out the small glass window next to him, imagining he could see the red planet. It was such an unimaginable distance away—but unbearably close for a military man. He took a final look at his prone and gutted berth before heading back down the hall. The civilians and soldiers he passed stared at him as he walked by. With his closely cut gray hair and piercing blue eyes, Hiro was as recognizable a face on a military post as the high chancellor himself.

He pinched the bridge of his nose, his other hand holding a small clear phone to his ear. He didn’t like the new model—the synthetic material wore too quickly and felt tacky against his cheek. His jaw clenched and relaxed, and he tried to slow his racing pulse.

“I don’t care about the old plates,” he said. His voice was calm, but he felt acid rise in his stomach. “I can’t fly until you replace the port hangar’s armor shielding.” Hiro paced back and forth in the hall, his eyes locked on a distant point of the Earth’s surface. “You have until I reach the OpCenter to give me a better answer. When the fighting starts, I’d better be up there.” He hung up, lingering in place to soak in the spectacle. For a moment he considered calling his daughter, maybe asking to speak to his grandson, but it was already late. With a sigh, he put his phone away.

The commodore turned to walk toward the operation center and nearly collided with two young men running down the corridor. They stopped cold when they saw the golden star on Hiro’s collar, the scarlet “S” designator at the top point. Each snapped off a crisp salute, which the commander took a moment to reflect on before returning. The ranking officer walked around the two pilots, glaring as only a superior can. His perfectly polished shoes clacked on the tile with a satisfying echo.

“What unit are you with?” Hiro asked.

The taller of the two turned to speak. His flight uniform was clean and pressed, with creases along the sleeves. Silver pilot wings crested his lapels with a large “A” in the background. “Sector Patrol, Wolf Squadron, sir.” His friend, a head shorter with dark and unruly hair, grinned in agreement. “We’re responding to the alert.”

“Names?”

“Lieutenants Davis and Locklear.”

Hiro stared at the growing number of winking Blue portals in the distance. “You had better get moving, boys.” He saluted, signaling for them to run off. The shorter one immediately began speed walking away, but the other remained a moment.

“Is that your ship, Commodore?” The young man pointed out the nearby window. From almost any area inside the post, the supercarrier could be seen. It blocked most of the view, not that there was all that much to miss. Just a sea of gray stretching to the horizon.

Hiro smiled. “Midway has been my home for seven years now, but I can never claim her as my own. She belongs to the crew and the pilots, to the engineers who brought her to life. Though she does do what I ask. Most of the time.” He took a moment to take in the younger officer. The dirty blonde hair was a bit long for regulation, but he couldn’t deny the man possessed a powerful bearing. Hiro liked him right away. “What is your name again, pilot?”

“Davis, sir. Cameron Davis.” He scratched his head. “We sort of met before, sir, at my commissioning ceremony. You talked about the battle at Phobos, said it made you wish you’d been a pilot again.”

“Did we speak then?”

“No. I was laid up in a chair in the back. My Dodo bricked out fifty yards from the deck. I was lucky; only sprained my neck. They had me on so many meds, I slept through my pinning.”

“But you remembered my speech?” Hiro asked.

“Some things stick with you.”

Hiro looked at Cameron’s shoulders, noticing the silver bar on either side. He almost called him a Junior Grade, but he recalled that SP worked off the Army ranking system. “May I ask you a question, Lieutenant?”

“Of course, sir.”

Hiro stared out the window, fingers brushing against the cold glass. His breath fogged the view when he pressed his face closer. “Why SP? Why not Fleet?”

“I failed the health test.”

“Really? You look perfectly fine.”

Cameron tapped his chest. “Hypertrophic cardiomyopathy. Fancy way of saying I have a genetic disposition towards a bad heart. Fleet wouldn’t accept my packet without a letter from a doctor saying I would live forever.”

Hiro nodded. He’d seen so many good soldiers turned away from service because of geneticism. “What does the disease do?”

“For now? Nothing. But, if the wrong things happen, my heart gets thicker and I can’t pump blood as well. Makes it hard to be a pilot.” He waved off the look the commodore was wearing. “It doesn’t bother me, sir. Sector took me, and they let me fly whatever I want. Besides, I’d never fit in with the active side. Too rigid.”

Hiro turned his eyes on him. “Is that right?”

“Sorry, sir. No offense meant.”

The commodore let the moment dilate. Then he smiled. Cameron felt like he’d just received a stay of execution.

“Well, Lieutenant Davis, I’ll see you in the air. Good hunting.”

Cameron grinned. “Thank you, sir.” He became serious, extending his hand to his superior. “It’s an honor to meet you, Commodore.”

The commodore took his hand. “It was very nice to meet you, Lieutenant Davis.”

The pilot saluted and ran off toward his friend.

Hiro watched him go, then continued on to the operations center.

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The long stretch of connected pods stank of stale air and rust. SP had been relegated to the older section of post, in the units left over from some of the first attempts at a lunar colony.

Cameron normally enjoyed a leisurely stroll through ancient history, but now they raced past it all until they arrived at the shuttle to the hangars on the opposite end of the base. When the door opened, they boarded the automated craft and waited for it to launch.

“What the hell is this, Cam?”

The taller pilot looked out the window, admiring a series of sparkling dots clustered in the distance. It was impossible to make out shapes this far away, but the patterns of their movement were mesmerizing. “Looks like an invasion.” He and George stared in awe at the spectacle. “Are those rebels?”

“Mars ships are always red,” George said. “It’s like they have to color coordinate with the dirt. Lonz used to say it was a branding thing. You remember Lonz?” The shuttle bobbed and weaved past different hangars. They watched a wing of Sparrows—small fighters with thin, fixed wings—launch from magnetic rails and race to join the SP battle group growing in the sky. “It’s all hands on deck. They’re even deploying Junos Squadron.”

Cameron followed George’s finger to where six Griffin bombers were lifting up from their pads. The long-necked craft handled like barges, but their heavy-duty ordnance could turn the tide of a battle. Their wings were in the VTOL position, bent midway so the rockets could fire straight down; they were much too heavy for MagRails. Even in the lower gravity, it took a minute for the immense craft to push off the dirt. Clouds of moon dust billowed and swirled around, coating every surface.

“Approaching hangar W, stand by for landing.” The automated voice was followed by a chime, and Cameron and George braced for the usual rough stop. Another relic, the shuttle was older than either of its occupants. It hit the landing surface with a screech, lurching to a sudden halt. The doors hissed as they pressurized to the airlock before opening.

[no image in epub file]

Inside the hangar was a frenzy of activity as ground crews raced to launch their fighters. Wolfpack comprised only FS 115 Phoenix II superiority fighters, a single-winged craft that dominated the sky—at least until the Phoenix III had launched 15 years back and rendered “the Deuce” obsolete. Now the craft was a hand-me-down from big brother Fleet. The cool gray metal glistened in the harsh lighting, and the fighters on the rails shimmered as they grew near the purple barrier that separated the building from the elements outside. Cameron and George quickly spotted Captain Newman, the SP commander for Yorktown Air. Standing a head taller than anyone around him, Newman barked orders into radios and urged crews to work faster. An aide stood nearby, shouting into a phone. Even with the roaring engines of launching fighters, it was the loudest corner of the room.

“Captain,” the aide said. “Normandy has two squadrons aboard, but Stalingrad went up without an escort. They were shadowing while the new commander got his sea legs. They have plenty of anti-air, but they’re not adding much to the fight.”

“Where does Gilroy want us?”

The aide searched around a nearby table until he found his dusty tablet. He tapped the screen, bringing up a holographic map of lunar space. “Sector is in a scouting position here and here, near the Alpha contacts. I’m still being told to wait for our flight order.”

Newman nodded, taking the information cooly. Fleet problems were now his problems, and his peaceful drill weekend was long gone. Newman noticed George and Cameron standing a few paces away and waved them over. He returned their confused salutes and put them at ease. Rubbing his bloodshot eyes, Newman silently prayed for a cup of coffee. Like everyone else, he’d been asleep an hour before.

“Lieutenant, you two are the last in the hole. Wolfpack is at half strength today, so you’re taking over the Squadron as Wolf One.”

“Sir?” Cameron asked. “What happened to Lieutenant Rico?”

“Down with a bad bug. And another six are in the drunk tank with the MPs. I can’t fly them, even with this shitstorm. You’ll do.”

“Roger, sir.”

George looked around, taking in the reality of the situation. On the table, a trio of screens showed zoom-ins of the two unknown armadas. George studied the ships’ strange designs, trying to place their origin, but he’d never seen anything like them. His palms felt suddenly cold. “Captain, have they said what we’re up against?”

The field officer shook his head. “It’s not Mars, or at least that’s what they’re saying. Could be that splinter group out of Colorum. Be prepared for a fight. People don’t show up unannounced just to shoot the breeze. Once you’re out there, rendezvous with the rest of SP and stand by.”

Cameron took in the information, his mind flipping through scenarios. Even with the colonists of the red planet pacified, the Federate had no shortage of enemies in the outer sectors. “Those don’t look like converted mining vessels, sir. Have they been converting old derelicts or something?”

Newman sighed, clenching his jaw and counting to ten. “Lieutenant, I know about as much as you right now. What I do know is that these ships are in violation of the Vienna Pact and Sector is part of the mission. So shut up, get in your ship, and get up there.”

George interrupted, placing his palm on Cameron’s chest. “What’s the rally point?”

“Savanna,” Newman said.

George immediately took off and ran over to his fighter. The hangar crew already had the ladder out for him, and they handed his flight bag up after he sat down in the cockpit. Cameron realized he hadn’t moved yet and followed suit, climbing into his ship. The newer Phoenix had cushioned interiors and poly-crystallic screens with a refined holographic overlay. Cam’s fighter was pieced together from eight different versions of the Deuce, and looked it. One computer flickered green while another beamed images in sickening orange. It had taken him months to be able to process the kaleidoscope.

In the cockpit, Cameron flipped on the master power and waited two seconds for the computer self-test to complete. He reached behind his head and pulled out his helmet from the stowage rack. The water line was still connected, and he bit down to test if it was full. A sweet mixture of water and electrolytes filled his mouth. He squeezed the baggy and shook, hearing the slosh of a half-empty bladder. Won’t be out more than an hour. It’ll be fine. Cameron pulled his helmet on and plugged into the communication box. Immediately he heard traffic from Wolfpack. It was the usual buzz: what people thought of the mission; if anyone knew something new; did so-and-so get lucky last night.

Switching to a local line, Cameron spoke. “George, you read me?”

“Lima Charlie, Cam. This shit is crazy.” George leaned back as a flight crew chief—an attractive woman with bright green eyes—tugged his harness tight and checked for frays in the straps. As she pulled away, George held up a hand. “No kiss for good luck?” The chief smacked his helmet hard enough to make him wince, but she still blushed. George laughed and pulled his canopy shut, waiting for the magnets to connect and seal. He listened until the locks clicked twice before giving the crew a nod. The Heads-Up Display, or HUD, read green, meaning the cockpit was now pressurized and ready for launch.

Cameron felt, rather than saw, the crane grab his fighter and begin moving it toward the rails. It wasn’t as efficient as launching from the airfield, as only two fighters could take off at once, but the magnetic launcher allowed crews to immediately enter the battlefield rather than waiting to taxi out into the vacuum. Cameron connected his flight suit to the hoses inside the craft. Zero-G combat was a fairly different animal than planetary dogfighting, but the human body was the same. The flight suit would help keep him conscious during even the most intense fights. Air and water flowed in hoses around his legs and torso, contracting and relaxing as the system came online. When needed, this would keep blood in the right places.

“This is Wolf Two—shit, Wolf One—show me attached on rail two.”

“Wolf One, this is Yankee One-Two.” Captain Newman’s voice came through calm as a schoolteacher over the line. “You are cleared to launch in minus sixty seconds. Good hunting.”

“One-Two, this is Wolf Six,” George said. “I’m on the rail, show me outbound.” He toggled his power amp. The engines whined in response.

The Phoenix began to vibrate around Cameron as the magnets picked up their spin. Once the green light came, the hangar crew would switch his arresting magnet forward and propel him to launch speed in under two seconds. He remembered the first time he’d launched off a rail. George had been telling jokes into the radio from the ground, and Cameron had turned to make a face at him. Three weeks in a neck brace had cemented that lesson: face forward on launch.

“George, test control jets.” Cameron watched as the twenty vertical and horizontal nozzles on George’s fighter spit out white flames in sequence. Once in the vacuum, those jets provided precise control of the craft. Had the fight been planetside, the Phoenix had standard flaps and ailerons for gravitational warfare. “You’re green, spot me.” He activated the jet self-test and watched the numbers count up. A yellow light came on for number fifteen. “Damn it. I thought they fixed that last month.”

“Yeah, still sputtering. That’s fifteen, right?”

Cameron banged his helmet against his headrest. “Same shit, different day. Like I really needed to turn right anyhow.”

“Hey, the day everything works right the first time, call in sick. The universe is clearly trying to kill you.”

An alarm chimed in their cockpits. “T-minus ten…nine…eight…”

Cameron pulled his restraints tight. His left hand rested on his engine control and missile guidance stick while his right gripped the yoke. He pressed his head back against the rest and waited for the sudden acceleration. George howled over the intercom, laughing maniacally as he always did before launch. The engines spun faster and faster, the whine deafening. Cameron only heard the mad thunder of his heart.

One moment all was still, and then the stars rushed forward at three hundred kph. Cameron sank into the molded seat, his vision blurring, his stomach somersaulting into his back. Then they were clear, rocketing out of the lunar atmosphere with the dusty ground falling farther and farther behind.

Mobilization and Training

Equipment Site (MATES)

Fort Yonkers

Luna

“I don’t care what your status is, goddammit. I want Midway cleared to launch in fifteen minutes.”

Hiro rarely swore, but the engineers on this post infuriated him. He glanced at a nearby radar screen, watching red dots populate the black monitor. The newcomers had yet to fire a single shot, but Hiro wasn’t about to wait for an olive branch; they had dropped an armada directly into Terran space. That called for a firm answer from Midway.

Unfortunately Hiro was grounded, thanks to the chief engineer, a civilian.

“Commodore, we have personnel on board completing the refit,” he said, looking sleepy. “Half your plumbing is still ripped out, and most of the lights are on emergency power. I’ve got doors chocked open and entire sections of hull removed so we can access the wiring. A week ago you asked for my estimate, and I said one month. That still stands.”

Hiro’s head throbbed, but he forced his voice to steady. “I don’t need my men in the latrine, chief. And the crew is trained to operate in pitch black if necessary.” He leaned in close, smelling mustard on the man’s breath. “Listen carefully. I’m ordering my team aboard, and any man you have left is going to be conscripted onto the crew for the duration of this incident. And if you don’t have those docking clamps deactivated by the time our engines fire, I will personally guarantee you end up in front of a firing squad.”

Hiro left him whimpering in place and stormed away. Outside the OpCenter, Hiro took out his phone and dialed his executive officer, Captain Earl MacReady. The two longtime friends had served with each other for twenty-five years, back when Hiro was a fighter pilot and Earl a radar operator. The commodore knew he could trust the XO to get things ready while he contacted Fleet and developed the situation from the ground.

Earl picked up on the second ring. “Hiro? Jesus, it’s four in the morning. What’s going on?” Hiro filled him in on the invasion. “Christ. I’ll have the master chief get the crews up to speed. Most are going to be racked out. When do you want to ship out?”

Hiro thought for a moment. “Thirty minutes.”

“We’ll be at battle stations in half that.”

“Thank you.”

“Shit, I can’t even try to go back to sleep now. Have I ever mentioned you’re a prick of a boss?”

Hiro chuckled. “I’ll see you aboard.” He disconnected and immediately placed a call to Admiral Gilroy at Fleet Command. He waited while the line was redirected through the relays down to Earth. Despite the incredible distance between them, the field-grade officer sounded as though he were only a few feet away.

“Admiral Gilroy speaking.”

“This is Commodore Osaka, sir. We have a situation developing over Luna.”

“That’s putting it fucking mildly.”

Hiro could hear the two-star admiral shuffling around at his desk. He tried to remember the time difference and figured it was around noon in Vienna. There were other voices in the background. Aides more than likely, from the condescending tone the admiral used with them. Gilroy was a career soldier, battle-hardened and brutish. He never could grasp the political side of the military, which was why he was still searching for his vice admiral slot.

“Commodore, I’m looking at some disturbing readings from a TSI observatory and a panicked transmission from a Sky Guard captain. What can you tell me?”

“A few minutes ago, a battle group jumped into quadrant four-five-two-one. They aren’t responding to any method of contact, though thus far they haven’t shown hostile intent. I have SP completely mobilized, and I’m working to get Midway in the fight.”

“Whoever this is, they made an illegal jump into Earth territory with a group of warships. I want the welcome party to get them the hell off the front porch. Are they Martian? Raiders?”

Hiro pondered the idea. “I don’t believe so, sir. Mars doesn’t have the tech to pull a maneuver like this. Can’t be raiders, either. These are…different, sir.” Not of this world? Not human?

Gilroy shouted something to an aide. “All right, Hiro. Get your group in the skies and form a block. Fleet is mobilizing as we speak, and I’ll have Valley Forge out to join you in two hours.”

“What about Sidney?” Hiro asked.

“I’m bringing her in personally. TFC Normandy and Stalingrad are already in sector with CBG Solus, but they’re at half strength,” Gilroy said, referring to a Carrier Battle Group. “We’re gonna outnumber them by a hair.” He dropped off the line as one of his aides shouted something in the background. Hiro waited patiently. “Commodore, what were those coordinates again?”

“Right on top of us. Q-four-five-two-one, off the Luna map.”

Admiral Gilroy didn’t speak for a minute. “Describe the craft you’re seeing.”

Hiro pulled out his crystal tablet and scanned through the images. “Silver vessels, varied shapes. Looks to be cruisers, destroyers, and fighters. Green or blue lights coming from their engines, we think.”

“Then who the hell are the black and red ships coming from the other side of the goddamn moon?”

Hiro took off toward Midway, his heart pounding in his ears.

Toronto, Canada

The soldier sat in a darkened den, smoking and watching. His throne was a worn leather couch, his fiefdom a chilly speakeasy in Toronto. A ribbon of smoke coiled from his cigarette. Piercing blue eyes stared at a television screen. A news anchor reported on the situation over Earth.

“Terra Node has initiated the Clear Skies Protocol, so we are urging all viewers to set down immediately and seek out shelter. No word on if this is in fact a Martian invasion, but speculation is high.”

“Giving me credit already?” the man said. He drew the words out with a faint southern drawl. “Appreciated, but this ain’t my style.” A young woman approached from the back, offering a bottle of beer. The man took it with a grin, handing the pretty girl a folded credit note. She tucked the bill into her bra, winked, and went to serve more drinks. “Hell of a Reformation Day.” The man turned to share his little joke, but no one paid him any attention.

Around the room, groups of men busied themselves with various tasks, mindful to keep their noise down while their leader watched the TV. Some cleaned rifles, others played cards. Mostly, they sat and thought about the week to come. The mission had taken almost four years of planning, months of preparation, and now could crumble with the smallest slip. Not that they worried. They were never to concern themselves with failure, or the possibility thereof. Only the mission.

The soldier smiled. If a younger version of himself walked in the room, he wouldn’t even recognize what he’d become. There wasn’t a proper word for him. Rebel? Terrorist? Monster? Hell, he was fine with “disillusioned soldier,” but the media loved to portray him as some kind of anti-establishment nutjob. No matter. The hour of judgment was approaching so rapidly that he rarely slept anymore, lest he miss it.

From inside one of his many hideaways, the soldier known as Jonah Blightman waited for his moment of triumph. Soldiers of the Red Hammer had waited too long for vengeance, but now that time was at hand. He looked down at the sprawled notebooks on the coffee table and began to go over his plan, beat by beat. It was complex, but not overly so. Contingencies were in place should anything go awry. And, in Jonah’s experience, plans like this had a tendency to stray off the intended path.

If they succeeded, they would undo the damage of the past ten years in a single hour. An entire galaxy of people would know the extent of the lies told by the Federate. Jonah knew that the odds might fall against him, and that this would be his last trip out, but the time for doubt had long passed. So instead, in that Toronto speakeasy, he prepared for his hour of glory. Looking over the plans for the attack, he felt a familiar numbness growing.

While Jonah looked at the reports from his various cells, one of his veterans approached. The old man smiled with a scarred face and placed a small tablet in front of his leader.

“Everything is set, and the delivery boys are in place.”

“Good,” Jonah said. “Now let’s talk about Buenos Aires. The casualty estimates still feel too low.”

The Front

Lunar Space

Craft from each side filled the wide gap between Earth and Luna. The Terran Fleet continued to pour out of hangars on the moon and in nearby stations, staging off-center from the two unknown groups. On either side, thousands of strange ships flew into formation. The silver saucers and cigars of one group shimmered on the black canvas. The others were harder to see but appeared more menacing, with thorny black and red hulls.

No signal sent to the alien armadas had elicited a response. The two strike groups drifted toward each other, each well within range of long guns and missiles, yet no one dared to take the first shot. In the Terran Fleet, fingers twitched over controls and triggers, anxious for anything to happen.

[no image in epub file]

Cameron and George raced toward the front. Their engines kicked in automatically as soon as the craft were far enough from the hangar. With the twin slush-hydrogen jets spewing out a steady stream of white and blue fire, the Phoenixes cruised out of Luna’s gravity on their way to meet up with the rest of the air wing.

The skies were clear, which was oddly terrifying. A normal day between Earth and Luna would see hundreds of thousands of ships coming and going to the various stations, outposts, and colonies. Having an empty canvas of black night in every direction felt wrong. Cameron’s view was only blocked by the massive Terra Node. The monolithic diamond-shaped station hovered between the homeworld and her satellite. Most of the time, Terra served as a travel hub into and out of Sol space. Today it was a fortress, bristling with armaments.

“Sector Patrol Luna, this is Wolf One. Sight me inbound on approach vector four-two.”

“Wolf One, this is Valley Forge. Approach on flight path Whiskey Seven, on your HUD.”

Cameron looked out over his port wing at George. “Shit, wrong channel.” They shared a look of uncertainty before Cameron went back to the radio. “Valley Forge, Wolfpack is Sierra Papa. Please advice which net to switch to.”

“Wolf, this is Valley Forge actual.”

Cameron straightened up. Commander DeHart’s smoke-charred voice was unmistakable. Head officer of the supercruiser Valley Forge, he was second-in-command to Terra Node, which essentially made him second-in-command of the Sol System. That the station had committed its own security detachment meant the threat level had jumped dramatically. “You will rendezvous with elements of Earth’s SP and form on CBG Terra’s flank. Fleet has operational control of this task force. Valley Forge out.”

George laughed nervously. “Well, now I’m sure this isn’t just a drill.”

“Wolf, this is One.” Cameron let out a breath he’d been holding. “We’re escort for Savanna. Tight cluster, nexus formation.”

“Roger,” came the expected response.

“Cam,” George said. “You almost sound like a leader.”

“Not my first wing.”

“Did I ever apologize for that? Though, to be fair, you’re the one who let me bring the Maneton inside the armory.”

Cameron was about to respond when a shadow blotted out the light around him. He looked up, his mouth dropping open. Engulfing all space above his puny fighter, the enormous girth of the TFC Midway emerged overhead. The ship was a half mile long, with hangar bays that spanned its length. An escort wing of Phoenix III fighters flew in graceful figure eights around the hull, quad-rockets leaving parallel streaks behind them. As the carrier passed, driven by sixteen fusion-cell engines, Cameron made out crews inside the hangars prepping the bomber squadrons for launch. The almond-shaped Seed craft sat on rapid-deployment rails along with dozens more strikers. Soon they disappeared from view as the flagship joined its group outside the standoff between the two mysterious formations. Medium-sized frigates and much larger destroyers took position around the supercarrier while a heavily armed battleship arrived from the rear.

“Fuck,” George blurted.

A curt female voice came on: “Please keep the line clear unless issuing an official report.”

“Open net, man,” Cameron hissed.

George quickly switched to a secure channel between him and his wing. “Sorry, guys.” The young pilot gawked at the front line. “But seriously. Fuck.”

The two armadas were a study in contrast. The one on the left was a hellish swarm. A gigantic black hive-carrier spewed forth squadrons of tiny ships whose glossy hulls glistened with red markings like bloody runes. The fighters flew in swirling clouds of three dozen, perfectly matching speed and direction changes. Four acorn-shaped cruisers flanked the flagship, cannons peeking out the front of their pointed hulls. Ten destroyers—long, scooped craft with turrets covering their skin like spines—edged slowly toward the other side of the battlefield. Finally, mixed in with the other vessels, spherical missile frigates drifted like space debris.

Opposite the hellish swarm, the silver flotilla was all elegance. Their supercarrier, a crescent of platinum and gold, glided on glowing engines toward the fray, surrounded by a gleaming array of cylindrical cruisers and destroyers. The fighters and bombers were all-too familiar in their shape.

“What do those look like to you?” George asked.

“Oh, I dunno. Disks, maybe? Or dinner plates?”

“They’re saucers, Cam. Flying saucers. It’s an alien invasion.”

“That’s stupid. There’s no such thing.” But Cameron’s voice wavered.

Cameron and George finally arrived at the edge of Fleet’s blockade. Wolfpack, made up of seven Phoenix II fighters, floated alongside the missile frigate TMF Savanna, a.k.a. “the bulldog,” a nickname it earned from its silhouette, which looked like an English bulldog poised to pounce. The 130,000-ton vessel carried a payload of 600 Trebuchet missiles, 1,400 Ram dummy rockets, 40 Brimstone warheads, and 10 nuclear munitions—colloquially called the “Ten Plagues” by the crew.

“Savanna, this is Wolf One. I’m on your starboard side.” The green lights of the craft’s right dorsal fin bathed Cameron’s fighter. He looked up and saw a gunner flash his target strobe; a friendly taunt from the under-gunned ship. Crews of missile frigates knew that without an escort they were slag-in-waiting. Cameron lifted his wing and opened the munition doors, showing off his own assortment of toys. That earned another flash from the frigate. “Wolfpack, this is our rally point. Leash is thirty klicks.”

“I’m on your six, leader.” Ensign McLane’s battered fighter appeared in Cameron’s rear camera.

“I see you,” Cameron said. “Scan your sectors.”

George glided up alongside his wingman. “If I need to puke, can you cover me?”

“That’s it. You’re done with bourbon.”

“But I’m a good ol’ Kentucky boy. It’s in my blood to drink the brown water.”

Cameron laughed. “Nothing you just said was true.”

George was about to retort when the sky in front of them exploded. “Holy shit—what the hell is that?”

From the darker armada, a maelstrom of red energy—plasma bolts and missiles from the various ships—launched at the silvery craft. The dam burst, and the two formations exploded into attack. Silver craft roared at their enemies, firing salvos of green energy that blew holes clear through the dark armor. The carriers and cruisers deployed countermeasures to disrupt the incoming fire, but the heavier slugs passed right through and shattered hulls. From the surface of Earth, the light show was visible even in the daytime sky.

“Shields up, teeth out! It’s starting!”

Kronos

Josh knew something was wrong the moment he made the call. He and his platoon were holed up so he could call the FOB, or Forward Operating Base, to check in with the rest of Charlie. Normally, such a call would be answered by the RTO—radio telephone operator.

“Calico Six, this is One-Two,” Josh said. “Radio check?”

More static. Then a burst, what sounded like gunfire, and another moment of silence.

An angry voice finally spoke: “Who the hell is it?”

“This is One-Two,” Josh said. “Who is this?”

“Lieutenant Sandford. I’ve taken command at the FOB. Are you secure?”

Josh exchanged confused glances with Dax and Alexa. Sanford was pretty far down the rungs; that she’d taken command meant Charlie was getting clobbered. “Yes, ma’am. What’s the situation at the FOB?”

Over the radio, the unmistakable sound of a DaVinci’s barking echoed again and again. “Pretty well fucked, One-Two. Alpha’s got us pinned on all sides.”

“We can be there in twenty.” Josh gestured for Dax and Alexa to round up the troops. “We’re only twelve, but we’re fully armed up.”

“Negative, One-Two.” Sandford paused to return fire with her pistol. “We’re blown. I’m in the Alamo.” She took a deep breath. “Initiate Plan C.”

Holy shit! “Ma’am, I promise, we can get to you in time. The Alamo is damned secure. I should know. I helped set it up.”

“You’re a good man, Sergeant. I appreciate the offer, but I’ve already primed the charges. I’ll see you at Camp Noble, sooner or later.” The line ended as Sanford pulled the zero switch, burning the radio frequencies on her end. It would prevent anyone from using the equipment.

Josh dropped the radio and stumbled away. He shuffled aimlessly for a minute before ending up just outside the patrol base, on a low rise that faced the sunset. Eros had long ago dropped below the horizon, but New Eden’s many moons reflected the star’s light down onto Kronos.

“What now, Sarge?” Dax stayed back a few yards, but not to give his friend space. Someone his size was simply too easy a target on high ground.

Alexa went right over to Josh. She was almost two inches taller, but she made sure she remained eye level. “What did they say?”

Josh swallowed. “Plan C is in effect. We’re to zero out radios, burn the strip maps, and go to ground. If any Charlie elements make it through the next twenty-four, we’ll rendezvous with them in F-forty-one.”

A pillar of smoke rose four miles away, punctuated a moment later by a tremendous explosion. The ground shook. Josh pulled his helmet off and let it drop into the dirt. “The Alamo has fallen.”

“So what? We’re supposed to hide here for another day, then crawl to the rally point?” Alexa squeezed his arm. “We still have your plan.”

“It won’t work,” Josh said. “We need at least a platoon. We’re only twelve people.”

Alexa leaned in. “It’s still a plan.”

Dax lumbered closer. “We can do it. Take out Delta. At least get Charlie to second place.”

“No,” Josh said a little too forcefully. “We don’t have the manpower, we don’t have the firepower, and we don’t have any way to get into that base.” He slumped down on a large rock, dropping his head into his hands. “It’s not good enough. I’m not good enough.”

“Bullshit,” Alexa said.

Dax squirmed. “Language.”

Josh shook his head. “It won’t work.” He faced them, crestfallen. “I know I missed something. A small detail that won’t be obvious until we make some huge mistake. If the XO were here…”

“He’s not,” Alexa said. “He’s dead. Well, fake dead, but dead enough to us. We’ve got each other, we’ve got ammo enough for a big push, and we’ve got you.”

Dax joined his friends, placing a heavy hand on Josh’s shoulder. “Coach always said it’s better to make an okay move now than wait for a great move to come to you later.”

“Yeah, listen to Coach. That man won three rings for New Freeman.” Alexa seemed unfazed by the smoking ruin of her Company in the distance.

Josh pushed past his friends. “We’re not talking about the Grudge, where you’re evenly matched. This is us against two of the best Companies in the Battalion. Alpha and Delta always dominate the Crucible.”

“Sure,” Alexa said. “But this is the first time we’ve been through one. I think Charlie Company’s day is due.” She lost her smile when she saw Josh’s face. “But if you’re ready to throw it in, then fine. I’ll get my fire team to start digging trenches if we’re gonna be here long.” She stormed off down into the camp, bumping Josh’s shoulder as hard as she could.

Dax and Josh watched the dust settle at the Alamo. The charges were mostly powder and reactive salt. No one was hurt, but symbolically, that pillar meant the end of the safety net.

“If I messed up before, we always had the Company to bail us out.” Josh sighed. “Now it’s just us. We’re all alone.”

“Did I ever tell you about my first goal?” Dax pulled his large helmet off and slung it under his arm.

Josh smiled. “Yes. A dozen times.”

“Fine. But you’re missing out on a great story.”

“That I’ve heard before.”

“I’ve heard the gospel before. Doesn’t mean I don’t feel it every time.”

Josh had to give him that. “So, what does the good book say about this?”

Dax thought for a moment. “‘Glory in our sufferings, for suffering produces perseverance; perseverance, character. And character’?” He grinned at Josh. “‘Hope.’”

The Front

Lunar Space

“All stations this net, this is Midway. Hold fire, I say again, hold fire.”

Cameron looked down at his hands, surprised to find them shaking. He turned to his wingman but for once George was silent, staring open-mouthed at the spectacle. Cameron looked back at the surreal beauty of the battle. Silver craft exploded in a dazzling rainbow of colors, and black Y-shaped fighters spiraled and erupted, leaving glowing red nebulas in their wake.

“Can you track them? I can’t get an acquisition lock.” The voice came from another pilot in the SP line. Cameron realized he couldn’t get a lock on signal from his passive radar. The system was designed to pick up on space debris, but seemed dumfounded by the new ships.

“What do you think, George?”

The pilot pulled his attention reluctantly from the battle. “Laser lock should work. We could try getting closer, but I’d rather not.”

“Afraid of a little action?” Cameron teased.

“Nah,” George said. “Just feeling particularly lazy at the moment. Let someone else draw suicide detail.”

Cameron felt around his belt and located his good-luck charm. Regulations prohibited jewelry, but the small silver cross had more than religious value for the pilot and he loathed to be without it. Still, rather than risk strangulation, he had found a better place to stow it than around his neck.

“Wolf One, Valley Forge.”

Cameron took a quick sip from the line before answering. “This is Wolf One, go ahead.”

The operator on the other end of the line spoke softly, almost anxiously. “FRAGO to follow. Standby for Valley Forge actual.” Cameron’s pulse quickened. Seconds passed while the radio transferred to DeHart. Fragmentation orders were usually passed out by communication officers, not commanders.

“Wolfpack, Valley Forge actual. You are ordered to close with unknown vessels in quadrant forty-one-thirty-two and scan using active radar. Once a proper signal is acquired, you are to check for radio, laser, and beam traffic in order to identify what net these ships are using for communication. You are to hold fire unless fired upon. Do you understand?”

Cameron couldn’t answer for a moment. “Sir, you want us to paint unknown targets?”

“That is correct. Ensure all safeties are engaged before moving out.”

“Captain,” Cameron stammered. “Couldn’t that trigger them to attack?”

DeHart mumbled something away from the mic. Cameron could swear he heard the phrase “dumb shit Sector flyboys.” “They haven’t so much as sniffed in our direction yet. No reason to suspect they will now.”

“Unless we start bouncing target signals off their hulls. Sir.”

Valley Forge continued: “Your orders are clear. Brief your pilots and move. Valley Forge out.”

Cameron stared out his cockpit at the distant cruiser, absolutely dumbfounded. That Fleet could so casually dispatch SP into a violent collision of unknown warships infuriated him. A Sparrow, piloted by a Fleet scout team, could get in and out without risking fire from the enemy. The Phoenix packed a punch, but the older second-series models were far less maneuverable than the new fighters. And given the acrobatics the unknown vessels seemed capable of, Cameron had every right to feel uneasy.

“Wolf Squadron, this is Wolf One.” Cameron cleared his throat, unhappy with the orders he was about to give. “We’re going to move in on the unidentified ships in quadrant forty-one. ROE hasn’t changed, but we’re going to paint them with active radar to determine if we’re able to achieve target lock. Once you have acquisition, maintain line of sight and try to get some data for the ghosts in the Fade. We’re dividing into Flights, so break into your fighting pairs. Wolf Nine, you’re the odd man out, so you’re with George and me.”

George snickered. “Who the heck is Wolf Nine?”

“Cut it out, Locklear.” Ensign McLane pulled his fighter up alongside George’s. “It’s a dumb joke, and I’m getting really sick of it. I’m gonna tattoo my ID number on your chest when we’re done here.”

“I’ll hold him down for you,” Cameron said.

“Devil’s threesome?” George chuckled. “I’m in, but my safe word is ‘doily.’”

TSC Valley Forge

Lunar Space

Aboard the supercruiser Valley Forge, Commander Sam DeHart paced the bridge. The size of a bedroom, the operation center of the half mile-long ship sat dead center and twenty feet below the top hull. When the first battle cruiser sailed from the International Orbital Ship Yard back in 2101, the bridge sat atop the vessel and gave the officers on the deck a magnificent view of the stars and any action that occurred on their plane of the battlefield. That design choice lasted until the first pebble smashed through the diamond windows, killing the command-and-control structure for the entire ship.

Subsequent models placed the bridge in a safe position, and numerous cameras fed live images to a wall of monitors all around the room. It made for a more impressive view—and a more dynamic one. At any moment, a direction could be called up and viewed with incredible detail, allowing for full 360-degree situational awareness. And, most important, the chain of command would be maintained unless an attack achieved a catastrophic kill.

Captain Fuller, the executive officer, stood near the battlefield projector marking positions on his personal tablet. Though DeHart had a mind for ship-on-ship warfare, Fuller’s specialty remained the big picture. It wouldn’t be long before he commanded a ship of his own—in fact he could have had any vessel of Destroyer class or under already. Yet the allure and prestige of the Cruiser, the last true warship the Fleet possessed, called to him. DeHart would, in short order, be promoted to commodore, and he could either take a carrier or a desk. Not that he felt there was much of a difference.

“It’s a dogfight so far,” Fuller said. He watched the graphical display more than the monitors around him. The computer used images from the various cameras to create a three-dimensional model of the battlefield. But without proper tracking signatures, the smaller craft jumped around erratically whenever they moved beyond the cameras’ line of sight. Fuller had placed a whiteboard next to the display and was taking notes on each ship type by hand. “These two frigates,” he pointed to two floating spheres, “seem to be air-denial. They’re building a wall of shrapnel around that carrier.”

DeHart, from his chair above the main tier of the bridge, watched the action on the monitors. “Both sides have cruisers. Why aren’t they engaging?” No one answered. DeHart often posed his thoughts aloud as a part of his mental process. It took some getting used to. A lot of new crewmen would try to answer his questions, but one withering stare from the commander was enough to teach them when to respond and when to stay quiet. “It could be our presence is putting them in a defensive posture. They don’t know which side we’ll come in on.”

“And if a round from a cruiser misses its target and hits us, or one of the civilian stations…” Fuller let the thought die in the air. “It’s not a bad theory, Commander. It could be this is a new form of martial etiquette.”

The CO stared blankly at his second-in-command. “Are you saying this is a British line formation brought into space?”

Fuller shrugged. “If I’m the only person thinking it, then lock me up. We don’t have ships that use weapons anywhere near this design. I’m not familiar with all of the Cove’s dirty little secrets, but I think I’d remember catching a glimpse of one of these being built at Colorum.” He pointed to the two unknown battle groups. “These aren’t humans, Sam. They don’t have to think like we do, nor do they have to behave like we’d want them to.”

DeHart bit his thumb. He didn’t want it said aloud. There wasn’t any proof either way, but the evidence stood on its own legs at the moment. No ships like these existed anywhere in Terran space; or, if they did, they were the best-kept secret in human history. But to take that leap, to say the word “alien,” it was too much.

“Commander, I recommend we pull SP back. If we get in the middle of their intergalactic barroom brawl, we’re dragging ourselves into uncharted waters. And it looks pretty deep from here on the shore.”

DeHart nodded. “Pass it out to SP. Recall to former position and hold.”

“Intel is going to be upset you didn’t get a scan.”

The commander sighed. “Right now I’d rather deal with a ghost than a little green goblin.”

Wolfpack

Lunar Space

Cameron, George, and Ensign McLane flew in a tight formation just to the rear of the unknown black fleet. Wolfpack had spread out across a line of a thousand kilometers so as to appear less aggressive to the alien ships. Alien—the word sounded wrong the first time Cameron had said it, but he was hard-pressed to find a better description. He’d never visited the colonies before; that trip was out of his budget. Once, while serving as a skycap pilot over Europa, he’d seen strange lights that seemed to chase his Sparrow around the small research station. But those were just vapor wraiths. This was something far more…otherworldly.

“McLane,” Cameron said. “Did you ever hear back from the Fade?”

“Nah. Assholes don’t see SP as enough experience.”

George snickered. “You applied for an intel position? You do realize you have to be smart to do that, right?”

“Shut up, Locklear.”

“Make me, buttercup.”

“All right, all right. Cut the chatter,” Cameron said. “We’re almost in range.”

The dark fighters appeared to have been built with the sole purpose of looking as scary as possible. A three-wing design gave the hull a distinct Y-shape, and the red splotches across the glossy black metal resembled animal markings or war paint. Radar and sensor array spikes popped out at odd angles across the body. Two gray barrels hung under the smaller wings—the main cannons—and fired rapid bursts of red energy at the far-off silver craft. Sound didn’t carry in the vacuum, but the resonation from each salvo echoed inside Cam’s cockpit. The engines leaked thermal energy in a red stream behind the vessel as it flew.

Up close the missile frigates no longer resembled perfect spheres. Made of six layers of rotating disks, the warships spewed out a steady barrage of heat-seekers that locked onto targets and gave chase. The cruisers revealed a secret up close as well: a gargantuan barrel that protruded from the nose and seemed to run the length of the ship. Every few minutes the main gun would fire, rocking the entire ship as a breach dropped out the rear of the vessel to expel gasses. The engines had to rev to max power just to keep the ship from rocketing backward with each shot. Flying this close to the giant vessels played havoc with Cameron’s nerves, but he focused on the mission.

Ensign McLane volunteered to be the one to scan the ship. His fighter was relatively old, but had recently received a new port engine. If the active radar caused the aliens to grow hostile, Cameron and George could hold the line while the younger pilot escaped. As the ensign’s Phoenix closed with a solitary Y-fighter, George pulled off to his flank to watch for other ships. They hadn’t said a word in twenty minutes, save guidance on flight patterns. When they neared a slow group of alien craft, the silence finally broke.

“This is maybe the second dumbest thing you’ve ever gotten me into,” George said. He was sweating. His arms were stiff from holding the yoke so tight.

“Second?” Cameron looked off at a distant explosion. A silver fighter broke into thousands of pieces as a missile connected. He was lost in the image for a moment. There wasn’t much debris left after the fireball, and no evidence of a pilot trying to punch out. “This is way worse than Angela Hershbach.”

“Angela would have ruined my life. You’re only trying to kill me.”

“First of all,” Cameron began. “Angela was a catch. She had a robust figure, a smile that most members of the species would not find alarming, and she could whittle with her feet. Plus you always wanted to grow a mustache, and she was clearly the best teacher.”

George jerked his ship to the side to avoid a fiery chunk of debris. “All good points, but she also smelled exactly like hydraulic fluid. Woman never spent a day in her life around heavy machinery, but every inch of that apartment reeked. I spent a full day digging through her stuff looking for an empty bottle of H-twelve.”

Ensign McLane couldn’t resist getting in. “You spent a day rooting around in some lady’s apartment while she was out?”

“No, McLane.” Cameron suppressed a laugh. “That would have only been sad. George looked through her stuff while she slept on the bed.”

“Hibernated,” George shouted. “It’s how her kind recovers after a session of passionate mating.” All three pilots laughed.

Cameron’s collision alert sounded. He looked around for a moment but couldn’t see any source of danger in his flight path. He adjusted his height, dropping down two meters. Better to trust the sensors than to run into some unseen debris. His kinetic shielding would protect him from smaller fragments, not chunks of wrecked fighters. “I invited you to a party at a friend’s apartment. You’re the one who got blasted on coolers and ended up neck-deep in mistakes.”

The alien fighters had drawn far away from the main battle, performing some elaborate banking maneuver that seemed excessively slow and deliberate. It took a full thirty seconds before they were pointed in the right direction again. Cameron and his wingmen fell in behind, ready to complete their mission.

An alarm sounded across their comms. McLane panicked, jerking his fighter laterally for a moment. He regained control, but tripped the toggle on his stick and activated his laser lock. The Phoenix’s active radar projected out and found the nearest object and began creating a firing solution. Laser locks were used when the target had no readable signature, such as an asteroid or chunk of debris or an alien spacecraft that refused contact. The L-DAR, even more so than active radar, worked like a tracer round. It almost guaranteed a targeting solution, but drew a gigantic line back to the fighter for the enemy to follow with their own weaponry.

“McLane, you all right?” Cameron’s heart pounded in his chest, but he recognized the alarm as a distance warning, not a threat detection. They had crossed beyond the range of their supporting vessels and the fighters warned that they should turn back. “We’re working without a net. Stay sharp.”

The radio squawked and a female voice came over the net. “This is Valley Forge. All SP fighters are recalled to position. All SP fighters are to return to Fleet position, time now.”

“Seriously?” Cameron stared at his radio, dumbfounded. “Why the hell did you send us out here then?”

George whistled. “Common sense wins out. That’s ten bucks, McLane.”

“We didn’t have a bet going,” the ensign said.

George pulled alongside the ensign’s fighter and shrugged. “I don’t think that’s how it works, but I can understand your confusion. Tell you what, I’m a fair guy. I’ll settle for a beer.”

At once, all three fighters’ collision alarms sounded. Cameron looked across their formation, noticing both pilots react as well. Something pulled at his mind, a sudden thought racing through. He looked up and noticed they were flying alone. The alien ships had vanished.

“Contact rear! Disperse!” Cameron jerked his yoke to the right. Jets on the port side of the fighter fired off, propelling the craft away. One nozzle sputtered without effect, slowing the turn. A bolt of red energy grazed Cam’s wing, digging a divot along the underside. A warbling note informed the pilot that his compressor valve was gone. Another two inches and it would have been the whole wing.

George and McLane dodged left and down, avoiding incoming fire as they separated from their wingman. Cameron looked over his shoulder and saw a trio of Y-fighters bearing down from their six o’clock position. His stomach lurched. They were all on him. “Valley Forge, this is Wolf one. Under fire, I say again, under fire from enemy fleet.”

Presidential Tower

Vienna, Incorporated States of Europe

They sat in a half circle around a polished wooden table, all eyes watching the twelve glowing screens on the far wall. Each monitor showed the attack from a different angle, with a statuesque reporter spouting guesses about the situation. Chief of Staff Jerry Ahmad, along with his aide, stood off to one side and whispered to one another. When the older man was satisfied, he walked over to the large, well-dressed man in the seat of honor.

Alexander Burton, high chancellor of the Terran Federate, barely looked up as his closest advisor approached. He sat hunched forward in his leather chair, hands cupped over his mouth, brow furrowed. His normally crisp suit grew deep wrinkles from the awkward position. The dim light made his brown skin look even darker, but hid the stubble he’d forgotten to shave away. Finally, he managed to pry himself away to look at his friend.

“What is it, Jerry?”

The chief of staff sighed. “Admiral Walker finally made it to Terra Node. The station is secure, and all civilians have been moved to the emergency areas. Sol and Terra Battle Groups are moving in on the enemy as we speak.”

Alexander nodded and swallowed a lump in his throat. “Do we have confirmation? Is it Mars or not?”

“The Unions were never good at keeping secrets, Alec. These vessels didn’t come from any human shipyards.”

“Jesus.”

“We need to draft a speech.” All eyes turned to Jerry’s aide and goddaughter, Adeline Quinn.

She leaned closer to the high chancellor. “Sir, this is first contact with an alien race. Doesn’t matter how this fight turns out—we need to have the first word about it in the morning.”

Alexander scratched his chin scruff. “Why not now? Won’t that make more sense?”

The aide shook her head. “With respect, no one wants to hear from you right now. They’re glued to their televisions, and that won’t change until the cleanup gets underway. Unless one of those ships crashes on your front lawn, you’re not getting in front of a camera until tomorrow morning.”

Alexander made a face. He wasn’t fond of people treating him like a child. Still, the woman made a valid point. “What’s your name, miss?”

“Adeline, sir. Been working for Jerry—sorry, Chief Ahmad—for about a year now.”

“Well, Adeline, why don’t you get with my speechwriter and work up a first draft?”

Her face lit up. “It would be my pleasure, sir.” She walked swiftly from the room, barely hiding her excitement. When Alexander turned back, Jerry had taken the nearby seat.

“Did you read the proposal?” Jerry asked.

“Are you serious? You want to talk about it now?”

“Alec,” Jerry urged.

Alexander’s face darkened. “I don’t like Dr. Ivanovich. We’ve been over this before.”

“He gets results. CROWN may have been a PR nightmare, but it provided enough raw data for the Cove for ten years. And don’t forget Team Hercules. They’re wearing most of his designs.”

“I’ve got sixteen weapons manufacturers with bids to replace all of it,” Alexander said. “Ivanovich is a nutcase, and I’m not going to offer him more guinea pigs to torture.”

Jerry glowered at his boss, his shoulders tense. “Alec, do you remember when you told me you were the wrong man for this job?”

“I remember.”

“Do you remember what I said?”

Alexander nodded slowly. “You told me, ‘Someone is going to be high chancellor. Someone is going to sit on the high throne and decide humanity’s fate. Shouldn’t that be someone who will at least try to do some good?’”

“We had other contenders, Alec. Men and women with plenty of experience. Some were even from the right side of that war. I fought for you because you’d demonstrated the most important aspect of being a leader—you made difficult and unpopular decisions in order to keep people alive.” Jerry tapped the folder on the table. “We’re here to do right by our species. We lose sight of that, and we’re no better than every dictator in history. Markov may not be a popular choice, but his work could give us the tools we need to survive. He’s a necessary evil. A really necessary one. We need to get him on board before a less scrupulous person snatches him away.”

“Stop,” Alexander said. “Shut up and let me think.” He rubbed his temples. “We’re not having this conversation. Not right now. Get Walker on the phone and get an update on Fleet’s positions out there.”

Jerry almost shot back but thought better of it. He rose, reaching for his palm-sized phone from the table. “It won’t be Walker,” he said as he placed the call. “Gilroy was already mobile when this started. He’s running the battle.”

Alexander’s eyes bugged out. “Gilroy.” He clenched his fist and bit his knuckle. “As if my day weren’t already perfect.”

Hostile Front

Lunar Space

“Lock on target.”

“Get him off me!”

“Stay still! I’ve got you.” Cameron blinked a droplet of sweat away from his eye. In zero gravity, moisture built up and hung around until it had enough density to move out on its own. At fighting speed, however, it ran like a river from the pilot’s nose to the back of his head.

“Shit!” McLane’s fighter listed, spewing smoke and sparks. “Port side wing is hit.”

Cameron let his speed drop, sliding his Phoenix behind the Y-fighter trailing his wingman. When the laser lock found the target, he loosed a single missile, a medium-range ship-to-ship Harpy. It tore through space and pierced the alien craft beneath the engine. The Y-fighter burst into three flaming chunks, spewing a nebula of red fuel. Cameron drove through the debris, pinwheeling to knock loose bits of slag. “At least they go down easy.”

“Like a Luna girl.” George opened on the fighters with his twin Kraken gauss cannons. Compressed tungsten ripped into a fleeing vessel, rupturing the ammunition beneath the cockpit. Its back blew out and the ship drifted away, gutted and dead. The enemy destroyed, Cameron and George led their crippled wingman toward their own front. McLane’s Phoenix was chewed up but still flying. Every few seconds a pinch of fuel would hit the burning wing and flash out, rocking the entire body. George dropped back to watch for more aliens, but they seemed to have turned attention on the larger frigates and destroyers.

“How you holding up?” George asked.

McLane checked his instruments. “It’ll keep, I hope. I lost port jets completely, so no right turns until we get back.” He chuckled. “Chief’s gonna take this one out of my ass.”

George scoffed. “How many birds have you lost?”

“Lost? None. I’ve broken three.”

“Pittance,” George said. “Lieutenant Davis over there, war hero that he is, has totaled seven of Sector’s decaying fleet.”

McLane seemed shocked. Cameron was flying alongside and could see the expression register on the young man’s face. “What the hell are you doing to them?”

“Riding ’em hard, and putting ’em away wet.” Cameron grinned. It was something his dad always said, though he only had a vague idea what it meant. He struggled to catch his breath and calm his racing heart. He hoped his wingmen didn’t hear the staccato in his voice. “I’m just stress-testing the girl.” He bit down on his water line so hard his jaw hurt.

George cracked up and drifted off course. He caught himself and corrected, but he was still red-faced and teary-eyed. He realized, after a moment, that the tears weren’t stopping on their own. He wiped at his face with a gloved palm. “The last time, Chief Webb said he was going to make Cameron build his new ship out of the old ones.” Something winked on his computer, grabbing his attention.

Cameron started to retort when a bright flash blinded his left side. The Phoenix bucked violently starboard. His head smacked against the canopy. A sharp ringing in his ears drowned out the world. He saw stars. Alarms warbled. The ship twirled, riding the concussion wave for a moment before Cameron regained his senses enough to wrestle back control.

George’s voice was muffled. “You motherfuckers!”

Everything slowed to a crawl and then, suddenly, sped right back up.

Cameron saw he was facing directly toward the heart of the battle. Thousands of warships swarmed the larger vessels, lighting up the darkness of space with an endless rain of fire. A bolt of red streaked past the cockpit and blinded Cameron. When he looked up again, he saw George racing after two Y-fighters with guns blazing. Outside the cockpit, fiery debris drifted through space. A piece of matte-black metal floated by, trailing glowing embers.

Along the side it read “W-9.”

Ensign McLane was gone.

Ice water ran through Cameron’s veins. He pressed his right foot down hard, activating the afterburner. Pure hydrogen flooded the engine, rocketing the fighter forward. Missiles rained out from the wings, tracking targets down with discrimination and removing them from the field. His right hand gripped the yoke tight, finger pressed hard against the trigger. His Krakens barked and rattled, tracer rounds chasing each target.

“George,” Cameron said. “I’m coming up on your five. Break left.” The Phoenix carved a path through the sudden sea of broken ships, hull denting slightly with each impact. “We need to rejoin the Fleet.” His heart caught in his throat and Cameron realized he’d never been more terrified in his life. He started his combat breaths, willing his body to stop shaking and focusing on simple tasks. Flip the target switch. Activate lock. Fire four and six. Die, you sonofabitch.

George loosed a Harpy and pulled back on the throttle. The missile connected and blew the alien craft into pieces. “Cam, Fleet’s already here.”

The war raged all around them. They were no longer on the outskirts of the battle; they were at its very core. Fleet fighter squadrons battled with the nimble Y-shaped craft, aided in small part by the silver saucers. The sleek, silver saucers weaved in and out of debris fields and line formations, searching for the opportune shot.

Heavy destroyers launched huge Hull Reduction warheads at the opposing side. The thirty-foot missiles bore deep into the center of the alien frigates, trailing an explosive cloud. When they detonated, the HRs ripped the hull apart like a can opener. The TFC Stalingrad held at the rear of the formation, a smoldering hole punched straight through her main engine compartment while her escort slugged it out nearby. Valley Forge had arrived at the center of the fray, firing main guns at the battleships while building a cloud of flak to disrupt the enemy craft. Every few minutes, her monster 50s would loose two huge slugs toward the nearest capital ship, punching building-sized holes into their black frames.

Midway, looming over the battlefield, fired surgical shots from her five-meter-long guns into the enemy carrier. The hive-shaped warship shuddered with each ten-ton round, explosions racking the deteriorating body. A missile frigate placed itself between the flagship and Midway, only to disintegrate when the projectile rammed straight through its hull.

“Cam, a little help here.”

Cameron snapped back into the fight. He dropped his throttle, letting George and his tail come into view. The Y-fighter banked hard left, trying to evade Cameron’s fire. Before he could lock on, the ship slammed into what remained of an alien destroyer, smearing itself along the battered metal surface.

“What the hell?” The alien craft hadn’t tried to swerve or change direction at all. Cameron shook his head clear and turned back to the fight at hand. They’d found a sweet spot in the battlefield, away from the main effort. Cameron sucked on his water line, taking mouthfuls of the solution down with each sip. He tasted copper. “George, I need a minute.”

“Take your time,” he replied. “War’s not going anywhere.”

Cam’s hands moved in a blur, snapping switches and flipping toggles. His computer ran an immediate diagnostic and battle update, gauging fuel and ammunition consumption in a few seconds. Satisfied with the feedback, Cameron reset the system and took watch while his wingman did the same. He silently willed George to move faster. Every second they stood still, the chance of an attack increased. After what seemed like ages, George’s collision lights flashed, and he moved out.

“Cam?”

“Yeah?” He could hear the strain in his friend’s voice.

“What are we gonna do about McLane?”

Cameron touched his face and his fingers felt syrupy blood. “Focus on the fight. I’ll write the letter.”

“He had a sister.”

“I know.”

George was silent for a minute. “We met his dad at the family event last year.”

“I know,” Cameron said softly. But nothing inside him felt calm. Guilt rolled his stomach like a snowball, growing bigger and faster with each moment. You fucking idiot. You just let him die. The what-if’s came faster than expected, spinning his brain in circles. And then, as suddenly as the fear arrived, it was gone. There was still work to do, and he was in charge. “Get on my six and keep me covered. Fangs out.”

Together with George, he raced toward Savanna to rejoin with the rest of SP. The frigate loosed the rest of its payload of warheads at the stream of incoming ships. Having pushed too far forward of the main battle line, Savanna sat unprotected and vulnerable and the enemy made all haste to capitalize. Squadrons of alien bombers, hideous crab-shaped machines, unloaded a relentless bombardment onto the stranded and crippled battleship.

“Come on, George,” Cameron said, hitting his afterburner. “She won’t take much more of this.” He activated a signal beacon to all friendly fighters. “Wolfpack, on my position. It’s hunting season.”

Toronto, Canada

Jonah Blightman stared at the monitor, watching the incredible events unfold. A news orbiter struggled to keep up with the action. Ships from every side burst and crumbled on screen, spilling debris onto the battlefield. Every time a human vessel took a hit, the news anchor would immediately speculate about the loss of life.

“What you’re seeing now is the Savanna, one of our frigates. The warship normally carries a crew of six hundred. We have Andrea Lautner, wife of Lieutenant Edward Lautner, who is currently fighting for his life in the skies over Earth.”

Jonah turned the sound down and focused his attention on a warm lager to his right. He hadn’t felt this good in years. “Brooks,” he shouted.

The bartender waddled over. He was by and large the fattest person Jonah had ever seen, but he was jovial and, most importantly, a sympathizer.

“Whaddaya need, Jonah?”

“A round for the bar. On me.” He slapped down a wad of bills and raised his beer. “To our brave soldiers in the sky. May the gods watch over them.” The crowded bar cheered and raised their own drinks. Jonah drained his glass and gestured for a refill. He felt a hand on his shoulder and spun around.

Victor, his second-in-command, stood at attention. He carried a large tablet and a barely concealed pistol under his overcoat. Numerous craters on his face made him a hard man to miss. “Sir, the operation just passed phase three.”

Jonah pumped his fists. “Yes. I loved phase three. That was a personal favorite of mine. Sorry to see it go, but glad it’s done.”

“You’re drunk,” Victor muttered.

“Yes, just a hair. I don’t know if you’ve been paying attention, but there’s some pretty exciting news on TV. For once.”

“I don’t see how this affects us.”

Jonah lost his buoyant personality. Everything about him darkened at once. He grabbed Victor’s shoulder with surprising strength and drew him close. “Everything that affects humanity affects us, you imbecile. There’s no point in trying to start a revolution if you don’t have the means to defend the population once you’re done.” He pointed at the screen. “Whoever those fuckers are, they just became a big variable in our little scheme.”

Victor regarded his superior coldly, but made no move to break the hold. “So?”

“So? We need to rethink phase four. And especially phase five. I need you to send out the word that everyone moves up the due date by a month.”

That got Victor’s attention. “That’s impossible, Jonah. We’ve planned this out to the detail. There’s no room for change.”

“Any plan without flexibility will break at the first sign of resistance.” Jonah smirked. “The first Blightman said that.”

“I know,” Victor said. He pushed away from his boss. “I was with you when he said it. What I meant is that we’ve planned out the timeline very carefully. Certain things have to happen at the right time. If we move this up, we’re bound to lose more than a few foot soldiers.”

“Sacrifices must be made in a time of war. Right now, the Federate is learning that first hand. We need to use this opportunity. In one month, we teach them their second lesson.”

Vienna

Incorporated States of Europe

The high chancellor sat at the table, a glass of bourbon within arm’s reach. Jerry paced the room with the other staffers, yelling at someone on the other end of the phone. Alexander was reaching for his glass when his aide, Arthur Roden, took a seat in front of him. Arthur was his usual immaculate self, spit-shined and perfectly tailored. Alexander wondered if he’d been up all night grooming himself for his entrance. Probably.

“Midway is taking a beating. We don’t want to lose that ship.”

Alexander nodded. “Who’s commanding her?”

Authur leafed through his notes. “Hiro Osaka. He’s a vet, well decorated. Says here he turned down three promotions to admiral so he could stay with the ship.”

The high chancellor smiled. “I should have done that.”

“Sir?”

“Times like this, I really hate wearing this suit.” He tugged at his shirt and tie. “I used to feel in control, when I wore the other uniform. Now, I’m grasping at smoke.”

Authur choked back his first comment and waited to formulate a thought. “Sir, there’s no one in the universe who could have seen this coming. We can’t kick ourselves for not realizing an intergalactic war was on the rise. All we can do is find the opportunities and exploit them while the timing is right.”

Alexander shrugged.

Jerry stormed over, throwing his phone down on the table. “We’re losing ships, but so are they. And, a small spot of good news, it seems we have friends up there. The silver armada either understood our broadcast or just doesn’t see us as a threat.”

“Broadcast?” Arthur asked.

“We put it out in every language, and a binary print that some scientists thought to use. Basically it said, ‘Stay out of the way.’”

Admiral Gilroy, watching from a large display, coughed loudly. His large, bald head dominated the screen, close enough that the staffers could see the vein bulging in his temple. “High Chancellor, with all respect, I need you to reconsider my request.”

Alexander glared at the screen. “You’re out of your mind if you think I’ll even consider it. Ronin protocol is completely unnecessary.”

Gilroy snorted. “Chancellor, this is only the tip of the spear. Just because you’re scared of a little political fallout doesn’t mean we should risk the whole goddamn planet.”

Alexander rose to his full height. Fire burned in his eyes. “I won’t hear another word about this, admiral. I will see stars fall off your shoulders if I hear it again. Am I understood?”

The officer looked ready to explode, but buried his anger and ended the call with a curt nod. Arthur and Jerry exchanged worried glances.

After a long pause, Jerry said, “He’s not wrong.”

“Are we seriously talking about this?” Alexander looked at a second set of monitors. Images from the battle over Luna flashed on screen. “What the hell is going on today?”

Jerry leaned in close to his boss. “The last I checked, sir, there were fifty thousand members of the special-forces units in Sol and about a million men wearing any uniforms. The military is still rebuilding. You need boots on the ground. Now.” He sat down at the table, resting his head in his hands. “Perhaps we should revisit the draft.”

Alexander stared coldly. “This is a nightmare, Jerry. Let’s not make it worse.”

“All wars go to ground eventually, Alec. I’m just being pragmatic. It won’t be popular…”

“That’s an understatement,” Arthur said. “It’s political suicide. We’d all be out of the job at the next election, and that’s assuming one of the Pillars doesn’t try to impeach.”

The chief of staff tapped his lower lip, his eyes locked on the various monitors. “We need something to show the public. A new project that can demonstrate a decisive step toward combating these new threats.”

“We don’t even know what these new threats are,” Alexander said.

“Nonetheless, we need something.” Jerry pushed the CROWN file closer to the high chancellor. He locked eyes with his old friend. “It doesn’t have to fix the problem, just buy us time to find a better solution.”

Alexander put his head in his hands. He couldn’t bring himself to look up. “Fine.”

Arthur’s phone rang and he stepped out of the room. He could be heard in the hall shouting for a moment. Before anyone could speak, he popped his head back in. “Sir, New Eden has one hundred thousand soldiers stationed on the surrounding moons that can be deployable in the next forty-eight hours. The Black Adders have a battalion that’s just finishing their deployment to Kronos.”

The high chancellor blinked to clear his eyes. He felt the room still spinning. Burton had been raised to believe in the system—that doing the right thing would lead to the right end. He sneered at the thought. That ideology hadn’t prevented his father’s murder. He downed the rest of his drink.

“Tell them to activate every unit in the system. When those soldiers are finished training, I want them ready to deploy.”

Arthur frowned. “Shouldn’t we pull them all in now, sir? Why the delay?”

“Because they’re green,” Jerry said. “Most of them haven’t seen a day of real combat. Pulling them out of training now will only shake them up more. Better to let them finish.”

Alexander nodded. “Jerry, get me another drink. I have a feeling it’ll come in handy.” He looked around for his chief of staff, but Jerry was already gone.

Hilton Hotel, Vienna

Earth

Markov read over his proposal for the umpteenth time. He’d worded it perfectly, using layman’s terms so that it would be understood. How had they not seen what he was building? This wasn’t just about winning some silly fight with rebels. This was about the next fight. This was about the very future of humanity.

How shortsighted these politicians can be.

He sipped from his glass of ice water. The liquid tasted grainy; expected, given the amount of additives he’d thrown in. Markov couldn’t stand clear water. It felt wasteful. He hoped to one day cure the need for water altogether, but he hadn’t found the time to devote to that side project.

CROWN. It always came back to that one failed experiment. Successes are quickly forgotten, but one public failure will follow you for the rest of your life.

His phone rang, and he planned to ignore it. But on the second ring there he was, standing next to the half desk with the small, clear rectangle in his hand. The image on screen was just a silhouette, so the call was from a secure line. That piqued Markov’s curiosity.

“Hello?”

“Dr. Ivanovich.”