by Bob Mayer
“Hold on!” Turcotte yelled. “Hold on!” He turned on the radio to be greeted with a string of profanities from the merc commander.
Turcotte waited for a pause. “We had to leave your men. There was a warship inbound and none of us would have made it.”
“You sons-a-bitches vented us!” the merc commander screamed. “You vented the pod, then you vented our compartment.”
“What?” Turcotte checked one of the displays. The cargo bay wings were wide open on the pod. “We didn’t do that.”
“We can’t over-ride it and shut the compartment,” the commander said. “Six of my men got spaced because they couldn’t get their helmets back on in time. Who the hell did it?”
“Hold on,” Turcotte said. He shook his head. “We have no control over your pod. Nothing. Just the tow connector. Let me find out.”
He tapped the flexpad, connecting to Leahy. It took a moment for her to appear.
“Yes?”
“Someone vented the pod; killed some of the mercenaries,” Turcotte said.
Leahy shook her head. “Had to be Mrs. Parrish. She tends to discard people she no longer needs. Let me check.” She glanced away for a few seconds. “Yes. The pod was going to be opened anyway just before you entered the atmosphere.”
“Can you shut it and restore the atmosphere?”
“The way the pod is designed,” Leahy said, but corrected herself. “The way I designed the pod, the bay wings have to be open in order to get the lift and attitude needed to land intact to re-enter and land on Earth. They slow it down on reentry into Earth’s atmosphere in combination with thrusters. Did you get the instructions on how to bring it to Earth?”
“Not yet,” Turcotte said.
“You’ll get that from her,” Leahy said. “Essentially you’ll be cutting it loose at a low orbit position they should be sending you. Then it will land itself wherever programmed—hold on—“ she looked away again—“at Area 51. The exterior is a superb heat shield. It also has thrusters designed to slow it and allow it to conduct a pinpoint landing. The bay wings give lift, helping in deceleration and stability.”
“What about the people in it?”
“They have a shielded interior crew compartment.” Once more she checked. “Yes. That was vented and is locked open. It cannot be over-ridden manually.”
Yakov spoke up. “We were not told we would part ways with the pod. Once we cut the pod loose, we lose control over the ruby sphere. You should have told us this.”
Leahy sounded surprised. “How did you think you would land on Earth with it? You could slide it in on Mars, but Earth is different. Thicker atmosphere, stronger gravity well.”
Yakov muttered something unintelligible which was obviously a Russian expletive.
“Don’t worry,” Leahy said. “You still have the regeneration tube and the body in it for leverage. I can assure you that is a priority for Mrs. Parrish.”
“Can you give control of that compartment door to the merc commander?” Turcotte asked. “Let them get inside. Not let Ethos know you’ve done that? Maybe save some lives?”
“But they’re not part of the Strategy,” Leahy said. “A defunct thread.”
“Whose?” Turcotte snapped. “Yours or Mrs. Parrish’s.”
“Both,” Leahy said. “Why would you want to save them? They work for her.”
“I don’t think they’re going to want to work for her any more,” Turcotte said.
THE FACILITY
Asha was seated cross-legged in the observation pod, high in the ceiling of the empty dome. Her flexpad and wristpad were dead, cut off from Ethos. The door wouldn’t budge and the glass surrounding her was, as Mrs. Parrish had assured, unbreakable.
It was also impermeable. The seal around the door was the same. A small vent above the door was gently circulating the air.
Asha was in a classic meditation pose, hands curled up on her knees, thumb and forefinger lightly touching, eyes closed, breathing very lightly. Her left shoulder was warped from the dislocation, but there was nothing she could grab onto to pop it back into the socket.
Her eyes snapped open as the lights went out. She was in absolute darkness.
She stood and put her hand over the vent. There was no indication of circulation.
Asha resumed her position on the floor, but had a slightly more difficult time getting her heart beat regulated.
MARS
The Core was a single AU from Earth, having passed through Mars’ orbital path, without diverting.
The Airlia outpost on Mars had cost several scout ships, a negligible loss, but a confusing one given the data that humans were the dominant species on Earth. The data also indicated a strange mixture of weaponry used: an Airlia solar powered surface array and a plasma weapon that didn’t fit any known profile.
A single alien ship of indeterminate origin, although not Airlia, had escaped, heading toward the third planet. The Airlia Base had been obliterated by the warship.
The first of the asteroids that had been redirected by the warships in the asteroid belt began to impact the surface of Mars. An array of surface mining ships were launched toward the red planet to gather the required elements from what was in those impact craters, a much more efficient method than trying to capture and distill them while still in the Asteroid Belt.
The third planet, Earth, was the final destination.
The nine surviving scout ships had reached the third planet and were in high orbit, surveying the orb, confirming what had already been gleaned from the transmission and scans, fine-tuning the plan for the reaping.
The Metamorphosis was almost complete.
DANCE WITH THE DEVIL
EARTH
No one needed a telescope or a television screen to know the Battle Core was inbound. It was visible to the naked eye.
Humans were now experiencing the same terror and dread which Scale life on thousands of worlds across multiple galaxies over the course of many millennia had.
For all of them it had been confirmation of the beginning of the end.
AREA 51
Rows of Airlia sleep tubes extended as far as one could see, rack upon rack, filling the large space deep inside the interior of the mothership. Mentors were guiding the Chosen, one to each tube, in a carefully choreographed maneuver that had long been planned and was now finally being implemented.
There were exactly 5,000 tubes.
Mrs. Parrish had known that number for many years, based on data siphoned from Majestic-12’s Area 51 files. It had been fed into Ethos and become an integral part of the Strategy. Asha had advocated for more than 5,000 Chosen, pointing out that ten thousand was the optimal number genetically, but this practicality had overwhelmed her chief biologist’s arguments.
The Mentors hadn’t known that number, and because each was assigned their specific bloc, and the sleep hold so large, they still didn’t. It was located in the center of the mothership, just below the long central passageway that ran the length of the spaceship. It was the most heavily armored and protected place on the ship.
Despite the planning, the math wasn’t exact. The Strategy had started with 5,000 Chosen. Over the years, 2,057 had been tagged as metabols and purged. Replacements had been brought in, but the system had not been able to stay current. The number stood at 4,312.
The Strategy was currently spitting out a list of names: the 688 Mentors who would occupy the other sleep tubes. These were chosen based on their skills for starting a human colony on another planet, thus the list was a bit different than the one from just a few days ago when the priority had been for re-occupying the Earth after the Danse was released.
The other Mentors had not been informed they were being left behind.
On a platform at the front of the sleep hold, Maria was to Mrs. Parrish’s right, one step back, as always. George was to Maria’s right, so close, he was pressing against her leg. Julius, the nominal ‘captain’ of the Mothership was to Parrish’s left. Kara, her head
bandaged was also present.
Julius gave a status report. “A large number of personnel are still inbound, but all are airborne so it’s only a few hours until there are here. The seeds are being loaded. Once they are on board, we are at one hundred percent in supplies.”
“Except for the ruby sphere,” Mrs. Parrish said.
Julius didn’t respond.
“And the regeneration tube,” Mrs. Parrish added. “Maria, have you sent Turcotte the re-entry point where he is to release the pod?”
“Yes, ma’am.” She was quiet for a few moments. “Do you wish to talk to Major Turcotte about the regeneration tube?”
Mrs. Parrish turned away and started walking briskly toward the exit. “I’ve already talked to him about it. All the talk was nonproductive. That phase is over. He has to come to me now. Julius, prepare your crew. We will be departing soon.”
Julius was puzzled. “But the inbound—“
“Prepare your crew,” Mrs. Parrish said. She gave an order to Maria. “Have security escort the unnecessary Mentors offship.”
DAVIS MOUNTAINS, TEXAS
“Where is Asha?” Leahy demanded as she brought the cart to a halt inside a rough hewn cavern a mile in diameter with a roof forty feet high lined with Tesla lights.
The old man waiting for her was leaning on a cane. He was Native American, with wrinkled, dark skin and a bald scalp. It was covered with faint tattoos like Asha’s. Behind him was a village composed of ramshackle contrivances built from a variety of materials, including old trucking containers. Children were running about playing. Others were in various groups, each centered around an adult, paying rapt attention to something being read or demonstrated or discussed. There were 1,524; all the metabols who’d been ‘purged’ from the Chosen, minus a number who’d subsequently perished.
“I have not been able to raise her flex or wristpad,” the old man said.
Leahy put her flexpad on her knees. It confirmed that Asha was off Ethos and also the subroutine. She began to work on the flexpad while speaking. “Power level, Joseph?”
“There was some adjustment as we went from nuclear to wind, but all is good.”
“There’s been a change,” Leahy said as she watched the last record of Asha’s wristpad.
“I imagine so,” Joseph said. He pointed his cane at the roof. “Given what is coming.” He glanced at the children. “We have not told them.”
“Good.” Leahy nodded at her flexpad’s data. “Asha’s last signal was in the observation pod while with Mrs. Parrish and Maria. Their signals left, but hers went dark.”
“They killed her?”
Leahy shook her head. “No. If they’d killed her, we’d still get a signal but no life signs. They left her and darkened her flex and wrist. She’s still there.”
Joseph smiled. “Good. She is a pure soul. And we need her.”
“We do indeed.” Leahy put the flexpad aside. She stepped out of the cart. “We’re going to have to move.”
“I figured as much,” Joseph said. “To Area 51?”
“No. There isn’t time.”
Joseph understood. “Ah.”
EARTH ORBIT
Turcotte turned the Fynbar so they could watch the untethered pod enter the upper reaches of the atmosphere.
“Leahy is still playing her cards in her chest,” Yakov groused.
“Close to her chest,” Nyx corrected.
They both looked at her.
“I have studied all human languages,” Nyx said. “And much of your literature, film, and art. It is—“
Yakov cut her explanation off. “Closer to her chest. Whichever. She didn’t think we needed to know we were going to give up the ruby sphere?”
“Would it have changed anything we did?” Turcotte asked.
Yakov considered that. “It would have kept me from complaining right now. But what if Mrs. Parrish suddenly decides she wants a divorce from a dead man? When she gets the sphere, she controls the fate of the human race. Is one man that important?”
“Seems to be to her,” Turcotte said.
“I do not understand,” Nyx said.
“No time to explain,” Turcotte said. “Let’s play the next card.”
He pushed the Fynbar into the atmosphere, taking a steep descent.
“It is getting hot in here,” Yakov said.
“No, it’s not,” Turcotte said. “It’s just your Russian imagination.”
“I believe Mister Yakov is correct,” Nyx said. “The temperature is slightly higher.”
“Great, two of you,” Turcotte muttered.
“I do not have an imagination,” Yakov said. “At least we will get Leahy in hand. I do not trust her.”
“She sent us a grid where to meet,” Turcotte said. “It’s close to where we dropped her off.” He was piloting by sight, which meant seeing the west coast of the United States and adjusting. “Bring that grid up, please.”
Yakov entered it and Turcotte adjusted the flight path.
Yakov pointed to the left. “Look.”
A reentry fire trail from the pod stretched behind it for over a mile, and the pod was intact.
Turcotte banked right slightly, heading for Texas while the pod descended toward Area 51. The flexpad was buzzing.
Yakov answered. “Yes?”
“Are you following the pod down?” Mrs. Parrish asked. “Our window of departure is closing.”
Yakov glanced at Turcotte.
“We’re busy,” Turcotte yelled, then indicated for Yakov to turn it off.
RAVEN ROCK, PENNSYLVANIA
Not far away from Raven Rock Command Center, on the evening of the 4th of July, 1863, in a miserable downpour, a long wagon train of wounded Confederates, Union prisoners, and vitally needed supplies retreating from the fields at Gettysburg, were attacked by Union Cavalry. This became known as the Battle of Monterey Pass. The pass goes between South Mountain and Raven Rock Mountain.
Just under a century later, the military built an ‘underground Pentagon’ inside Raven Rock for the military command to occupy in case of nuclear war.
The Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff had relocated to Raven Rock several days earlier as World War III burned across the planet. She was well aware of the history of the local area, having spent a tour much earlier in her career teaching military history at West Point. She’d led numerous staff walks over the Gettysburg Battlefield, which was 15 miles northeast. This skirmish near Raven Rock, after the battle, was something most considered unimportant, but if Meade had struck harder at Lee’s retreating forces, could the Civil War have ended then and not dragged on for two more years and hundreds of thousand more dead?
Who knew?
General Lucia Clark had been among the first female graduates of the Military Academy so many years ago. Now she was the first female Chief of Staff and it was beginning to look like she might be the last, male or female.
In the midst of World War III and impending alien doom, two people had managed to maintain some modicum of control, not just of themselves, but of the considerable forces they commanded. Given their respective, inherent distrust of their civilian bosses, Clark and the Russian Chief of the General Staff, Marshal Sergei Krasmav, had long ago established a personal hotline between them.
So far, with much difficulty, they had managed to keep their massive nuclear arsenals on a leash. Given they have fourteen thousand nuclear warheads between them, while France, number three had only three hundred, this was significant. Paring that large number down to ICBMs, the US has 1,650 operational and the Russians, 1,950. These were either land or submarine based. Most had multiple nuclear warheads. As so many had pointed out over the decades of the Cold War and then the not-Cold War, it was more than sufficient to destroy the world over and over and over again.
“You are the historian,” Krasmav said over the hot line. “Was it Sun Tzu who wrote that the enemy of my enemy is my friend?”
“I’ve never been your enemy, Sergei,” Clark re
plied. “The earliest written version of that is actually from a Sanskrit treatise on politics, dating to the 4th Century BC. Which is roughly the same time as Sun Tzu. It translates as ‘The king who is situated anywhere immediately on the circumference of the conqueror's territory is termed the enemy. The king who is likewise situated close to the enemy, but separated from the conqueror only by the enemy, is termed the friend of the conqueror’.”
Krasmav chuckled. “I knew you would have an answer. You always do.” His voice changed. “What do we do? My analysts and staff are worthless at the moment.”
Clark looked out over the Opcenter. Only half the stations were manned. More information was coming in than could be processed. Not that it mattered much.
“We fight the enemy king,” Clark said.
“How?”
THE FACILITY
The lights came on and Asha took a deep breath of relief. She didn’t open her eyes. Rather she began to recite a prayer:
“’Live your life that the fear of death can never enter your heart.
Trouble no one about his religion.
Respect others in their views and demand that they respect yours.
Love your life, perfect your life, beautify all things in your life.
Seek to make your life long and of service to your people.
Prepare a noble death song for the day when you go over the great divide’.”
The door opened behind her, but she continued. Leahy and Joseph entered, flanking her. Both picked up the prayer, in midstream:
“’Always give a word or sign of salute when meeting or passing a friend, or even a stranger, if in a lonely place.
Show respect to all people, but grovel to none.
When you rise in the morning, give thanks for the light, for your life, for your strength.
Give thanks for your food and for the joy of living.
If you see no reason to give thanks, the fault lies in yourself.
