by Sean Robins
He spotted a lone, dark-green enemy vessel circling the base. The pilot was probably making sure nothing worth destroying was left. Maada looked around and recovered his sidearm. He used the railing to support his mangled body, tried to wipe blood and sweat from his eyes, aimed with his good arm and started shooting at the space fighter.
In her cockpit, Keiko, joy streaking through her in response to their decisive victory, saw the tiny laser bolts passing by her fighter. A few energy bolts hit the vessel without causing any damage. She looked around and saw an obviously injured man trying to shoot her Viper down with a sidearm. She thought about shooting back, but it was difficult not to admire the defeated man’s courage.
As Jim would say, David versus Goliath much? Let’s not kill the stupid bastard.
She flew her space fighter away.
With wide eyes, Maada watched her go and collapsed on the balcony, shivering. In what felt like a blink of an eye, their second-biggest fleet base was destroyed, more than a third of his fleet was annihilated, thousands of men and women under his command were slaughtered, and worst of all, the pilot of that damned green vessel had not even found him worthy of a warrior’s death.
Only ferocious willpower and a burning desire for revenge stopped him from eating his own gun.
Milan - 17.15 EST
Hiding behind the desk in Mushgaana’s office and shooting at the Xortaags massing in the corridor, Allen contemplated the ironies of life.
He’d been a soldier for nearly forty years, participating in three wars and countless black ops, and the second-in-command of the Resistance for two violent, bloody years, which brought him the reputation of a fierce warrior. He’d been in more tight situations than he cared to remember, and he’d survived all that just to die in the first encounter with an enemy who was notoriously inexperienced in ground warfare.
What a stupid way to die.
His comrades had fought hard, aided by their better weapons and body armor, but there were too many Xortaags. Of the thirty Commandos in the unit, only Allen and Tanaka were still breathing.
Allen shot a few rounds at the door and hit someone, but his STG 666 clicked empty. He drew his Glock 55 and said, “I’m almost out.”
“Me too,” said Tanaka. “I think they’re waiting for us to run out of bullets so they can rush us.”
The thought had occurred to Allen too. It couldn’t happen. If they were captured alive, there was a good chance the Xortaags could find the Winterfell’s location, which would spell the end for Lilly, Kurt, the other people in Winterfell, and all humanity. And there still was a minuscule chance he could get the information he’d found on Mushgaana’s desk to Kurt, but he could do it only in death, assuming that Kurt would find a way to take his body back to Winterfell for burial. Knowing Kurt, he probably would.
Allen thought about the decision he was about to make. What he had to do was clear. He had no regrets: He’d lived a good life, and to be honest, he had been on borrowed time the past few years, ever since Zheng assassinated Thomas.
He only wished he could see Lilly once more.
I hope Kurt kicks the Xortaags’ ass as soon as possible, so Lilly will get to have a normal life, get married, have kids, all that jazz.
Allen told Tanaka, “Sorry, buddy,” and shot him in the back of the head from two inches away. Tanaka’s blood spattered on Allen’s hand and clothes. The Japanese man collapsed with a surprised look on his face. Allen started to turn the gun on himself. His arm suddenly stopped moving.
Allen stared at his unmoving arm in unspeakable terror as his mind screamed commands. His arm was no more responsive than that of a corpse. His stomach rolled, and his fingers went cold. The memory of Tarq having control of his body rushed to him like a horde of zombies. Someone was controlling his arm. It must be that fucking Mushgaana. He pushed and pushed, but his arm, shaking uncontrollably, didn’t move an inch.
Several Xortaags poured into the room and ran toward him. Half-paralyzed, he could do nothing to defend himself.
The old man stopped struggling with his arm and made his mind blank. Then he said, “Fuck it,” bent forward in a sudden movement, put his head in front of the gun barrel and pulled the trigger. His brains sprayed the uniform of the nearest Xortaag soldier, who was already on top of him.
Mushgaana had probed Allen’s mind as soon as he shot his comrade, understood his intention and used all his mental power to stop him. He had a splitting headache, and a few drops of blood were trickling from his nose. When the human killed himself, Mushgaana’s rage pierced him to the core. He was aware of the heavy casualties they had suffered, and now he had lost the only lead he had. He telepathically boomed, “You incompetent losers!”
All the Xortaag soldiers in the area dropped dead, blood pouring out of their nose and ears. A few moments later, the Deathbringers crashed to the ground too. The pilots’ brains had melted in their skulls.
“Shit!” murmured Mushgaana. “Maada is going to kill me when he finds out.”
Chapter Eleven
When I landed in Winterfell and got out of my cockpit, a big crowd consisting of the ground crew and everyone else around gave me a near-hysterical welcome. Word of our victory had spread, and after months of doom and gloom, people were ecstatic. Everyone was squealing, hollering or whooping. I was greeted with fist bumps and high fives from every direction.
Liz, still in her flight suit, threw herself in my arms and shouted, “We did it! We did it! It was so cool!”
It really was. Even Keiko afforded a faint smile. “Bravo Zulu,” I told her.
She bowed politely. “Otsukaresama desu.”
I made an exaggerated bow. “Oklahoma desu to you too.”
Elizabeth hit my arm. “Aren’t you even slightly curious to know what that means?”
“I know what that means,” I said. “She’s inviting us to sushi.”
Keiko said, “Typical American cultural insensitivity,” and told Liz, “I honestly don’t know how you of all people put up with him.”
“You know I’m American, right?” Liz said with a tightness in her eyes. “And me of all people? What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You know, you’re black, and he’s obviously a racist,” answered Keiko as if explaining a simple fact.
I threw my hands up in frustration. “For the last freaking time, I am not a racist!”
The three of us went to the operation room. Before entering, Keiko told me, “Can I have a word?”
Liz gave me a questioning look and left us.
Keiko stepped closer to me, looked up into my eyes and said, “You do realize that the few seconds you wasted patting yourself in the back and quoting Gladiator nearly cost Elizabeth her life, right?”
My face burned up, but embarrassment quickly gave way to anger. “And where were you, Miss High-Horses?”
“Fighting two Deathbringers,” she answered. “And I’m not the commander of the fleet, you are. If she was killed, it would’ve been your fault. I respectfully suggest you take your head out of your fucking movies and focus on your responsibilities the next time, Sir.”
She turned and entered the Command Center, leaving me alone to fume for a few minutes. Then I followed her. I met Tarq and Barook, both beaming with almost childlike happiness. For the supposedly peace-loving people that they were, they’d enjoyed the carnage we’d inflicted on the Xortaags a bit too much. They updated me on everything that had been going on elsewhere.
Operation Free Earth was as comprehensive a victory as it gets. Everything had gone according to the plan Kurt had concocted with his typical German efficiency.
We managed to destroy the Xortaags’ second biggest fleet base, the under-construction city next to it, and most of their smaller military bases and settlements in one coordinated strike, eliminating nearly forty percent of their space fighters in the process. The whole of Winterfell was dizzy with euphoria, and our success finally counteracted the despair engendered by the fall of Earth.
“Have we suffered any casualties?” I asked Tarq.
He brought up a screen on a nearby monitor and pointed at it. We’d lost nine pilots: A handful of Deathbringers that had survived the initial attack killed eight, and one was a blue-on-blue loss. A cold hand grabbed my heart and made it skip a few beats. I slumped down into the seat in front of the monitor, ran a shaking hand through my hair and read the names. Five men and four women. I knew all of them, of course.
Liz held my hand. “I’m so sorry, Jim.”
I spent the rest of the evening obsessing over our plans, wondering if I could’ve done something differently to avoid those deaths. I tortured myself by watching the images of each death—recorded by the other fighters and the Akaki stealth ship on orbit—a thousand times, and by replaying them in my mind a thousand more, wishing I could go back in time and change what had happened. Liz kept trying to convince me it was in no way my fault, and Kurt repeatedly mentioned losing people was a part of being a leader, but it was the first time I’d lost pilots under my command, and I took it hard. The hurt wouldn’t go away, no matter how hard I tried. Regardless of what Liz and Kurt said, it was my responsibility, and I couldn’t shake the feeling I’d let down those pilots.
Kurt called me the next morning. “Don’t tell me you’re still kicking yourself over the people we lost.”
“Nope. All good here,” I lied. “What’s up?”
Kurt laughed. “You aren’t a good liar, even over the PDD. Come to the Command Center. I have something here you should see.”
I came face to face with a freaking Xortaag when I entered the Command Center.
The alien was the Conan-the-Barbarian model. He was huge, at least five inches taller than I with bulging muscles and very wide shoulders. He moved towards me with such speed I didn’t have enough time to reach for the sidearm I carried after the attempted coup a few weeks ago. I didn’t even have time to get scared.
He took my hand, shook it up and down and with a huge smile that reminded me of a crocodile and said, “My name is Zaart. It is an honor to meet you!”
I stood on my toes and tried to look over his shoulders. Kurt and Tarq were there, both laughing. I asked, “Who the hell is this?”
The Xortaag helpfully answered, “I am Zaart.”
“Let me guess,” I told Kurt, “MICI?”
“Yep. We’ve captured a few of these guys and threw them in MICI, and now they’re nice and friendly, spilling their beans. Come on in. I’m sure you have many questions to ask our new friend.”
Did I ever!
We held a wake for Allen the next evening. Despite his sour personality, a lot of people showed up. I even spotted a few of the pilots whose asses he’d kicked in what now seemed like another lifetime in the crowd. We didn’t have a body, so we used an empty coffin with Allen’s photo on top. Kurt showed up wearing his favorite black trench coat and not the Commando uniform. I think it was his way of emphasizing the two of them went way back and reminding everyone of their days in the Resistance.
Kurt said a few words. He told us how, after his father’s assassination, Allen had taken him under his wing. Back then, Kurt was a young, idealistic politician dreaming of a peaceful and united Earth, and his whole world had been shattered all around him. Allen had thought him everything he knew about guerrilla warfare—Kurt’s euphemism for terrorism—including how to use a sniper rifle or his favorite machine pistols. Mr. Hard-As-Nails, Devil-May-Care Super-Assassin was speaking like he had a frog in his throat, and I could swear I saw a tear or two in his eyes. At the end of his speech, he saluted the coffin and said, “Allen, thank you for everything. I owe you my life several times over. I am, and forever shall be, your friend.”
Hell, even I felt my throat tightening. Just a little bit.
After the wake, Lilly asked Kurt to let her join the Commandos. Kurt denied her request. “We have plenty of soldiers but few people with your skills.”
“Plus, if he puts you in danger, Allen’s ghost will follow him for the rest of his life,” I added.
“Has anyone ever told you you’re a bit much?” Lilly asked me.
“All the time,” said Cordelia.
“It’s a small consolation, “Kurt told Lilly, “but I wanted to let you know I plan to bring your father’s body back here for a proper burial. When we started the Resistance, we made a pact that if one of us fell the other one wouldn’t leave him in enemy hands.”
Kurt and I got a few bottles of Allen’s favorite beer (Molson Canadian, what else?) and spent the night drinking and talking about old memories. The fact that Kurt agreed to drink Canadian beer instead of his own usual Paulaner told me how distraught he was. We mostly reminisced about happier times, when Kurt’s father was the President of United Earth and Allen was his head of security.
Kurt showed me an antic six-shooter. “Allen gave it to me for my last birthday. It was a present from my dad. He said I should have it.”
“Do you remember the time Allen tackled a man just because the poor fellow had ‘looked funny’ at the president?” I asked.
“You know, I never, ever heard him say ‘sorry’ in the famously cute Canadian way,” said Kurt. “Or apologize for anything, for that matter.”
Yeah, including that time the two of you sent half a squadron of my people to the hospital.
“Did you know he collected stamps?” Kurt asked me.
Surprised, I said, “Seriously? Who collects stamps in this day and age? I honestly don’t remember having seen one in my life.”
We both had a little laugh when we remembered how furious Allen was when Tarq made him quit smoking.
Kurt raised his bottle and said, “To Allen. You’ll be missed.”
We started phase two of Operation Free Earth as soon as phase one finished. Kurt, Tarq and I began going over the plans, and the Commandos commenced their deployment.
For three happy days, most people in Winterfell were in a celebratory mood, and with good reason. Whoever said “While seeking revenge, dig two graves, one for yourself” was dead wrong. Personally, I was with Shakespeare on this one. Even Liz confessed the biblical “Love your enemies” motto didn’t apply to an alien invasion.
In our first meeting after phase one of the operation, Tarq started by saying, “I am afraid I have bad news.”
He didn’t try to soften the blow or anything. Stupid alien.
“Faced with their obvious inexperience in ground battles, Maada has decided to use Earth’s military and security forces for protection,” continued Tarq. “The Xortaags have placed thousands of human soldiers around SH-1, supported by armored vehicles, helicopters, and fighter jets. Our trick of using their uniforms will not work anymore either. They are issuing identity cards for all Xortaags and setting up voice and fingerprint scanners everywhere. Even the fleet base is now crawling with human security forces.”
His words were like a bucket of ice cubes spilled over my head. With Tarq’s announcement, all our plans and preparations for phase two went right out the window. I even thought I could hear Maada laughing at us through the same window.
At that point, despite the heavy losses the Xortaags had suffered, they still had more than twenty thousand space fighters to our ten. Kurt—and Matias, who had come up with the idea—had planned a World-War-II-style blitzkrieg: They wanted to use heavy tank battalions to attack SH-1 and hit the enemy fleet on the ground, hoping to destroy enough Deathbringers that my pilots could deal with the rest. The Xortaags didn’t have any anti-armor weapons, so this could work, but not with human soldiers defending SF-1 now.
“Why couldn’t Maada just die during our attack?” I said, rubbing my forehead.
“If it is any consolation, he appears to be rather seriously injured, so you guys got very close,” answered Barook.
Tarq continued, “The Xortaags also have used OMC-BOWS to ask people if anyone has any information about us or has witnessed anything suspicious, which is how they heard about the prison escape and the few times yo
u defeated Zheng’s people using Vipers.”
“I guess we got lucky they didn’t find out about this before Operation Free Earth,” I said.
“There was no real chance of that because there was basically no contact between the quote, unquote gods and the humans, other than using them as construction workers,” answered Tarq. “But with all humanity on the lookout for us, our jobs are going to get harder from this point on.”
“So what’re we going to do now?” asked Liz.
Her question was directed at Tarq, but Kurt answered it. “We still have three months before the Xortaag colonists arrive. For now, we’re going to keep observing the enemy and collecting information. Hopefully, we’ll come up with a plan in time.”
“And if not?” I asked, ever the optimist.
“We’ll have two options,” answered Kurt. “We could attack SH-1 with all our forces, or we could stay here and keep trying to hurt the Xortaags even after the colonists arrive. Both will probably end in our defeat.”
This was a sobering thought. We couldn’t possibly defeat the Xortaags in a full-frontal attack, and we had always known we’d be done when the colonists got here. We were screwed either way.
“There is a third option,” said Tarq. “We could leave. Instead of dying pointlessly here, we could go to Kanoor and join our forces. Together we might have a chance. The Fireflies are capable of carrying all our fifty thousand people.”
I stared at him, astonished. Liz said, “And leave ten billion people to die?”
“Nine billion three hundred million,” I corrected her. She hit me in the arm.
Tarq pointed out, “We are not helping them by sacrificing ourselves.”
“Dude, have you learned nothing yet?” I asked. “Do you remember the choppers attacking the Xortaag fleet?”
