Colony Lost

by Chris Philbrook

  A round of applause ushered Lima to her seat on the stage, and continued again after Margaret introduced a face from their unit’s recent past. Waren and Dustin sneered, unimpressed as Doctor Micah Balashov took the podium with his Argyle sweater and his affected Russian accent.

  “This fucking guy,” Waren said.

  Dustin’s mind danced back to the night of the shooting on Sota and their first meeting with Dr. Balashov.

  “I am Doctor Micah Balashov, chief biologist of Selva Expedition. I will be in charge of a team of five scientists who will focus on identifying fauna immediate to the site we establish on landing. We will work to identify any dangerous creatures and discover Selvan biology that could be unique. Our remote probes, when able to broadcast, have identified several plains-inhabiting species that are insectoid in appearance, elephant-sized or larger, as well as what appears to be herd-structured herbivores similar to gazelles. Possibly mammalian. Over time we will discover what species we can seed to the planet that will be sustainable alongside the local life, and help to build an agricultural industry to provide for long-term settlement.”

  Micah walked away from the podium with all the fanfare of a bored high school student walking away from a water fountain between class periods.

  On the stage, Margaret’s face registered a fleeting amount of frustration over the doctor’s departure, but she moved fast, trotting over to the podium, clapping. “Thank you, Doctor Balashov. We are excited by the possibilities of Selva’s wildlife.

  “I’d like to speak myself about the flora of Selva. Happily, I’ll be on the voyage and my team of six will be using one of the remaining colonial habitat-labs to bring in everything we can find to test for human consumption and use as well as its potential danger. We’re hoping to find plant life that will assist us in filling in the medical needs we’ve been unable to fill since Pioneer 3’s supplies ran out, and since some of our plant life has failed to take in the soils of our moons. We’ll be preparing with Doctor Rasima a plan to use Earth’s seed vault potentially to regrow the things that could thrive there.” She turned to the back of the stage and gestured with a small item in her hand. A bright, projected image appeared on the wall.

  “Satellite images of Selva,” Dustin said.

  The marines had seen the maps of the new planet a hundred times in the past two months. Distant orbital assessments coupled with incredibly detailed ground-level views of their projected landing sites. They could trek across any of the eleven continents on the planet with confidence if needed.

  “Man, I really do not want to do that. Marching across such a hot planet would suck ass.”

  “This is Selva during the last observation window.” She paused, as if realizing a forgotten thought. “Speaking of which, before I get ahead of the program and speak out of turn, let me get Phil Eckstein up here to talk about the weather,” Margaret backed up and gestured for a young, vibrant man sitting nearby to join her.

  “Weather guy!” Waren exclaimed, pointing.

  Phillip Eckstein stood and approached the podium with practiced grace. The assembled crowd lost their mind. An Ares native and former active-duty marine, Phillip Eckstein had left the service to learn meteorology locally at Scoville University. When he graduated, he moved into a career in the media. He gave the weather reports daily to the population of Ares and consulted with the government and military on weather-related issues.

  He stood just under six feet, had a lean body, and wore impeccably ironed slacks, topped by a pink button-down shirt, all with creases sharp enough to cut your fingers on. Phillip had a tan, teeth as white as summer clouds, and a smile as bright as the sun. The grunt that made it big, the no one who became someone, the fairytale ending that every marine hoped for. To the marines he was a god.

  Smiling like a lion with a fresh catch, he adjusted the microphone and waited for the applause to stop. When the energy and noise of the crowd abated, he spoke. “Greetings Ares, and greetings to the masses of Gharians watching at home as well. Do I have my marines out there?”

  Around one hundred marines were a part of the Selvan Expedition and all were present. The marines stood up and exploded with raucous applause and cheering.

  “Well, ooh rah,” Phillip said, as the marines took their seats, and order returned. “I’m happy to be a part of the Selvan expedition with you all, and I’m happy to share some news on the Selvan weather.” The weatherman turned to the now-animated Selvan satellite image letting the white and gray images of clouds roll over the static ground picture. “I’ve been studying the patterns for six months and we’ve got a pretty tight grip on how things work. Well . . . as tight as we can ever predict the weather. As you can see, we’ve chosen this rough area just north of a peninsula as our landing site and if our weather modeling holds, we have a clear window to approach. Weather once we’re down will be mostly clear for several days, though we will probably get light rain every day. Our selection of a 40th parallel settlement means weather will be a bit stormier on a regular basis–think Pacifican autumn–but the equatorial temperatures were pretty darn unpleasant. Thirty degrees Celsius at night and forty during the day, for example. That’s not accounting for humidity. We’ll be five-degrees cooler without risking dramatically different weather where we’re headed. No matter where we pick, it’ll be warm, but we can make it comfortable.”

  Phillip used a laser pointer to point out mountain ranges, rivers, plains and valleys that would affect the local weather. The planet looked ideal from orbit. The marines in Dustin’s team knew most of what Phillip explained, but his presentation made it far more digestible. Facts were one thing. Facts backed up by charismatic explanation were another. Phillip held court on stage and in front of the cameras for twice as long as the other speakers before thanking the crowd for their time and for the opportunity to explore the first new planet on the Pioneer 3 journey in over 160 years. He returned to his seat with the marines in the crowd going wild a second time.

  “Thanks, Phillip. Now, I’d like to welcome our final speaker, Doctor Herbert Maine to the podium,” Margaret said into the microphone.

  An aged man who walked with a stiff upper lip and obvious lower-back pain came to her and she welcomed him with a two-handed handshake and a warm, inviting smile. Dustin felt a familiarity between the two scientists as she greeted him more personally, yet he didn’t return the gesture.

  “There’s some drama there, man,” Dustin said.

  “Yeah,” his lieutenant replied. “She’s all into him, and he dismissed her hard. Something to keep an eye on.”

  “Even nerds have drama. Who knew?” Waren said.

  “Good afternoon,” the doctor began, his voice conveying little excitement. “My name is Herbert Maine and I am the physics authority assigned to the Selvan expedition. Most of what I have been tasked with doing is monitoring the upper atmosphere, the magnetosphere, and calculating the related blackout times.”

  The crowd’s energy dimmed.

  “Many of you are aware that Selva has a profoundly powerful magnetosphere and that the field is influenced by the sun and Ghara. In layman’s terms, Selva puts a considerable amount of energy into its upper atmosphere and proximal space. Each moon and planetary body–Ghara included–does the same, but our new planet is on a wholly different level, and adjustments must be made when Selva’s field interacts with Ghara’s.”

  The crowd remained silent.

  “The magnetosphere of Selva interferes with high-end electronic devices in a fashion similar to an electromagnetic pulse. By that, I mean radio transmissions are garbled, avionics are scrambled, navigation equipment will falter, and the assumption is that any technology will be negatively affected.

  “Imagine, for example, if the effects of an EMP were long-lasting, rather than only momentary. On Selva, electronics may not function as expected.

  “The largest impact of this is that surface-to-orbit, and planet-to-moon communication and travel are impossible during the worst times of the
magnetosphere’s effect. It is likely that atmospheric air travel during surges will be unsafe as well.

  A cough interrupted the otherwise silence that had fallen. Herbert didn’t seem to notice, and he continued unabated.

  “Fortunately, we have discovered that Selva’s energy field fluctuates relative to its position to Ghara.”

  Without looking over his shoulder, Herbert gestured at the wall behind him, which flickered into an orbital computer rendering of Selva, complete with a strange-shaped incandescent belt rotating around the equator.

  “Looks like a fluffy bowtie,” Dustin said.

  Herbert adjusted his stance to relieve some kind of pain in his back or legs and a lock of gray hair fell from his brow across his glasses. He didn’t seem to notice. “The bowtie shape you see here is the charted boundary of the field. The luminescent gray areas are dead zones for electrical devices. The open spaces in the coloration are the voids where communication and travel are safe. These voids are created and sustained when Ghara’s own larger magnetic field blends with Selva’s. Imagine if you will what happens to a candle when a larger flame eats up the air in a room. The candle dims.”

  “Selva orbits our sun once every one hundred eighty-two days. Twice for every Gharian year. These calm periods of time occur twice as well, and last for approximately forty days each. Travel and communication should be unimpeded during that time. As the transit time to and from Selva should average about twenty-four days based on which moon any vessel departs from, planning will be paramount, as will emergency management.”

  “Almost six months of blackout? Shit,” Waren said. He looked over to Dustin and Lionel.

  “Yeah,” Dustin said.

  “What happens if the shit hits the fan on day one of the travel and comms storms?” Waren asked.

  “Someone will figure it out,” Dustin said as Herbert Maine droned on.

  “No,” the lieutenant said. “We will figure it out. That’s our job. We’re the First Expeditionary Marines.”

  Chapter Four

  Scoville Marine base First Expeditionary Marine ready room

  19 March 163 GA

  Most of the world slept. The marines were already at it.

  Dustin carried a hard plastic tray the color of sun-dried mud down a hallway deep inside the base complex. On the tray were two silver carafes filled with coffee a darker color than the tray and likely with a flavor and consistency that would wake the dead. It also held glass jars of cool milk and sugar to soften the blow of the hot beverage. Fluorescent bulbs recessed into the cobwebbed ceiling cast an irritating light that made the hall feel alien, old and frigid. He walked toward a pair of red fire doors guarded by two uniformed marines with side arms on their hips.

  He knew the two guards, and the guard on the right grabbed the door handle nearest to him and pulled the door open. “Sergeant Cline.” He spoke with familiarity colored with special respect that went beyond the rank.

  “Corporal Dunham, Corporal Zane,” Dustin said in return with a congenial smile. He walked past them with a nod and entered the cramped ready room for his unit. After setting the coffee on a long wooden table at the rear of the dingy conference room, he searched for his unit members in the rows of seats and joined them on their folding metal chairs. Dustin scanned the room and took in the familiar faces, as well as the strange. Near the front, where the majority of the officers sat, he could see the back of his fiancé’s head.

  “Ping-Pong, Stash,” Dustin said to the marines sitting beside Waren.

  Remy Lemieux’s face lit up. He had pristine skin the color of fresh milk and a mustache so wispy it looked as if someone had dragged a soot covered finger across his upper lip. The research needed to discover how he got the nickname “Stash” didn’t take long.

  “Hey,” he said back.

  The man sitting next to Remy faked insult at being called Ping-Pong. Steve Ziu prided himself on his family’s pure Chinese heritage, and his lengthy time playing professional ping pong before joining the Marines. To be proud of anything invited insults by your friends in the Marines, and no subject matter was ever off-limits. In fact, he loved his nickname, racist as it was.

  “Fuck you, Dusty,” Ping-Pong replied conversationally. “How’s that rash?”

  “Itchy as fuck. Tell your mom I’m still pissed at her about that,” Dustin said, as he shook Steve’s hand.

  “You’ll see her before I do,” he said with a wink. “Tell her I say hi, and to send me some watercress soup.”

  “You got it,” Dustin said. Stash and Ping-Pong were fellow FEM marines. They were two-thirds of the second fire team that would be traveling to Selva. Their team leader, Lieutenant Theo Wendell, stood on the opposite side of the room

  “When’s the wedding?” Steve asked

  “Ten days,” Dustin said, grinning. “I’m nervous as shit.”

  Ping-Pong grinned and clapped Dustin on the back. “Listen to Uncle Steve; Melody is the shit. You’ve got nothing to worry about. Not to mention we’ll be there to support you with an exfil plan and artillery support.”

  “I wish,” Dustin quipped. “Very uh . . . limited guest list. Only a few Marines allowed. Best behavior required. Her father is trying to avoid a drunken brawl involving my friends.”

  “Oooh. That’s a good idea. We would totally get drunk and start fighting each other. I guess, in that case, good luck, and you have my deepest condolences on the loss of your sex life. See you after the shackles go on,” Steve patted him on the back with sympathy.

  “I still have your mom,” Dustin said. “Let us not forget that.”

  The marines in the row laughed, until someone called for the room to quiet down. At the front of the room stood the officer leading the entire marine force heading to Selva. His height put his head just below the tacky ceiling tiles, and his hips and shoulders were no wider than a stalk of corn. The officer had thick leathery skin and a perpetual squint from decades in the sun. He wore a gray camouflage cover with a new unit patch front and center. The hat’s emblem had five olive branches set in a radial pattern with a green orb meant to be Ghara as its hub. In gold thread below it read: MEU Epsilon.

  He smiled like a father at a Little League game, revealing bright white but ill-set teeth.

  “Ladies and gentlemen welcome to this briefing. I’d like to thank the FEM boys for lending us their space for this. For those of you who don’t know me, I’m Major Robert Duncan, now of Marine Expeditionary Unit Epsilon, formerly of Phoenix-Alpha. My radio call sign will be Epsilon Actual. We will be the first new MEU stood up since MEU Delta formed for Sota. These are very exciting times to be a marine. I’d like to thank you all for coming and I’d like to get started with some basics.”

  Dustin smiled over at the hulking Lieutenant Wendell as he approached and took his seat. The lieutenant smiled and nodded, and Dustin returned the gesture.

  Everyone applauded. This truly was an exciting time to be a marine. Dustin couldn’t help but smile. Waren’s leg bounced as if it belonged to a kid riding a supreme sugar high.

  ADHD like a mothertrucker, Dustin thought as he watched his friend vibrate with manic excitement.

  “MEU Epsilon is a smaller MEU as compared to its four sisters. We will have a single infantry platoon rather than two, but we’ll still have our mechanized platoon. Environmental conditions indicate atmosphere and local conditions will be fine for breathing, but I fought hard to get extra ground vehicles in the event we need to bottle up.”

  This statement brought appreciative responses from the marines. They liked being taken care of by their officers.

  He continued. “We have an aviation arm of five transorbital vessels and two freighters. Captain Leah Kingsman–captain of the Titan freighter–will head the aviation group.” Duncan motioned to a woman wearing a green, one-piece flight suit leaning against the wall to his extreme right. Her long, ruby-colored hair was pinned up in a messy bun, revealing the dark olive skin of her face. The group gave her a short round of
applause, and she forced a smile like she’d been gently prodded by an electric shock.

  Major Duncan gestured to a woman sitting in the front row. Head medical officer of the group is Captain Anna Castellano,”

  She stood. The captain had blonde hair nearly the color and brightness of platinum, and clear blue eyes; traits that had faded from the genetic pool over the six hundred year journey of Pioneer 3. The preponderance of brown-haired, brown-eyed colonists resulted from the regimented breeding system aboard the vessel, so to see blonde hair and blue eyes in the same person was uncommon. Now that people could choose whom they wanted to have children with, the variety had begun to come back. After waving to her comrades and tolerating several seconds of gentle clapping, Captain Castellano sat.

  Duncan moved on. “Commander of the infantry platoon is Lieutenant Sherman Pastilli and commander of the mechanized platoon is Lieutenant Carlo Broderick. Call signs Crimson Actual and Bulwark Actual.“

  Two men sitting beside one another stood. Pastilli only came to Carlo’s shoulder, and both men sported entirely shaved heads. They immediately sat back down. I bet those two are maybe a year or two older than me, and they look grizzled up, Dustin thought. Shriveled like a date left in the sun.

  “I’d like to introduce the leader of our Expeditionary Marines, Lieutenant Lionel Hauptman, call sign Vigilant One,” the major gestured to the back of the room where Waren, Dustin, and Lionel sat.

  As Hauptman stood, Dustin realized he had hair the color of autumn straw and bright blue eyes just like the medical officer, Castellano. Hauptman waved at the group and sat back down.

  “Now,” the major started, “the FEM boys will do the worst of it for us. They’ll blaze and mark the landing sites after survey, and do the initial reconnaissance of the surrounding areas. Once they give us intel, the infantry and mechanized platoons will move in to fill the void and provide security during construction.”