Initiation Series: Series One Compilation (Terran Chronicles)

by James Jackson

  The newscaster looks at the teleprompter and wonders if anyone is actually receiving the transmission. He tries hard to be professional, to not look scared, as he continues.

  “The impacts around the globe are over. They seem to have been focused on military targets and various radio telescope facilities. Some exceptions to this include Manhattan, which was totally devastated by an impact earlier today. The loss of life from the Manhattan strike is in the hundreds, if not thousands, with the real number perhaps never to be known. We have an eye-witness account from the Stanton family, who were at the Statue of Liberty at the time of impact. The Russian city of St. Petersburg, once known as Leningrad, has also been struck, and from the information we have at hand, has suffered as devastating a blow as Manhattan. As a people….” The newscaster drones on, clearly numbed by the events unfolding around him.

  High above Earth, a variety of space-faring vessels take up orbit; some are geostationary, some are not. Two of these vessels are stupendous in size, while others are relatively smaller and more purpose built. One specialized spacecraft has a massive opening in its forequarters. It orbits, collecting the debris left over from the thousands of satellites that used to circle the planet below. The debris, as well as any still operational satellites, disappears into the craft for reasons yet unknown. A few of these spacecraft head toward the planet. Yet one more immense spacecraft trails behind this armada, it approaches slowly, cautiously. In all, twenty-three alien spacecraft now dominate the skies over Earth.

  Though almost all the satellites have been destroyed, the ground stations are, for the most part, unaffected. With a few exceptions, global communication is still possible to the delight and surprise of all. Satellite based systems, however, do not work at all.

  Surprisingly, television and radio stations around the globe start to receive an unusual signal. Within a short time, all media is affected, reducing all stations to one signal, no matter the channel or frequency.

  Static-filled television screens the world over come to life. It’s a picture, a banner really, showing a grotesque, off green face inside a multicolored circle. The face is long and profiled to show a six-inch snout full of teeth, in what may or may not pass as a smile. The face itself, has small horizontal slits where a nose would be, and tiny little ear flaps that droop down on each side of its head. The reptilian eyes hint at the genetic origins of this species. They are bright yellow with a vertical iris. The image even invokes pure terror in some, while others feel an innate unease.

  A sound accompanies the image now, almost like drum beats. Boom, Boom, Boom.

  “Be prepared to receive the words of Regent Voknor of the Gamin.” The voice sounds artificial, metallic, but is clearly understandable. People in various nations around the globe receive the message in their native language. As the seconds tick into minutes, more people stop what they are doing to find out what's happening.

  The image is replaced by what looks like a live feed of an alien seated on a throne of sorts. The alien looks just like the preceding image, but is even more frightening, as this creature is clearly alive. The creature is draped in multi colored garments. It has rings on the three, long clawed fingers that clasp the ends of the armrests on its raised chair. Gazing at the screen, the creature blinks. Its vertical eyelids close, then open, and the slits on its snout open and close with each breath. “I am Regent Voknor. In the name of the Gamin, I pronounce this planet a part of our hegemony. Welcome and rejoice in your new-found prosperity. The loss of life to your citizens has been unfortunate, and was completely avoidable.”

  The creature stands, and slowly moves with a strutting motion toward a large window. In the star filled background, Earth seems to float in space. Looking through the window at the planet below, Regent Voknor continues. The meaning is not missed by those watching; the message conveyed is that we are but one puny planet in the eyes of the alien. “I could easily order a global assault that would leave you little time to respond. To prevent loss of life, we gave your planet ample warning. Your rulers and governments have failed you, and worse yet, they have lied to you. We come to share our knowledge and wisdom and can do so in peace, if you so choose.”

  Regent Voknor points at the Earth before him, as he continues. “Two Landers will be arriving shortly at the locations you call St. Petersburg and New York. These facilities will start the rebuilding process to repair the damage caused by the unfortunate strikes. The intended targets were nearby military installations, however, the many missiles launched by your planet changed the trajectory of our pounders, causing the unnecessary loss of life.”

  Pausing while moving back to his throne, Regent Voknor sits down, then continues. “I am generous and have instructed my crews to clear the damaged areas, and to start rebuilding immediately. Your way of life can continue as it was before, with a few exceptions. All of your military will stand down. Your non-military units may continue to function as normal. Any action against us will be responded to harshly. We will provide educational facilities and work for those who desire it. We are neither here to enslave, nor destroy; we merely desire to acquire various resources. Instructions will follow as to how you will provide them.”

  Regent Voknor looks down his snout straight into the camera, leaning forward slightly he says with great confidence. “Your planet is but one of many we have visited. In time, you may come to see us as friends and look forward to our visitations. Your planet has many that call themselves leaders, both in government and religion. Shortly, my council and I shall receive them to pass on instructions for a peaceful transition. In the meantime, I insist that all of your various military units cease operations. All military air units are to land, and all military water units are to head to their homes. Ground units may continue to assist in preventing civil disorder. I look forward to meeting your leaders.”

  With that, the screen fades back to the banner. Shortly thereafter, text appears, providing instructions for a video conference. All who witness the message are stunned. Many had been waiting for the alien ships to appear and begin destroying cities and killing people. The minutes tick by and still nothing else happens. People around the world look to the skies and wonder what will happen next. The use of the word peace after such a massive orbital bombardment perplexes many.

  Various media groups quickly put together news clips about humanity’s “first contact,” but find they are unable to transmit their stories. Some cell phones seem to work, but others do not, and internet connectivity is also very sporadic. Fortunately, most land-lines do work, although intermittently, further frustrating people around the planet. Thus, we find newscasters from around the world having to sit on the biggest story ever and wait.

  With a far more newsworthy event than a daring survival story, George and his family are quickly thanked for their time, and shooed out of the newsroom. With nowhere to go, George leads his wife Lisa and their son Johnny toward a cafeteria, where they load up on bottles of water and sandwiches.

  On the flagship of the fleet, Regent Voknor looks around at his dozen or so bridge crew, then at the planet below, and states, “They have what we need, and they will provide it. Monitor for transgressions and report.” Tapping the edge of his command chair with his claw-like fingers, the Regent continues his review on a host of information about Earth’s economics and political structure. “Inform the Primes to ready themselves for assignment.”

  Looking around the bridge again, Regent Voknor considers each crew member’s strengths and weaknesses, “Sharz, you shall be my advisor for landing site one. Glarth, your style is much more suited for landing site two. Inform the Primes on both craft that you shall be joining them immediately.”

  “Regent.” Both Sharz and Glarth intone as they bow, then leave the bridge. Sharz keeps an even expression as he leaves the bridge. He ponders his fate. Being assigned as a direct advisor to the Regent is a great honor, that also carries with it great responsibility. Success is well rewarded; failure however, is not an opti
on.

  Location:

  KGB Headquarters

  Minsk, Russia

  The Russian President looks around the table at his comrades, his hand toying with an old Matryoshka doll. He takes a smaller doll out from the larger, and so on, until he is left with one tiny wooden doll in his hand. The room is silent, save for the ticking of a large old clock against one of the walls. Various screens around the room display the aliens’ banner.

  Without even looking up, he speaks, but it’s hardly the voice of a defeated leader that emerges from his mouth. “Order all Aircraft to land, all surface vessels to head to port at best possible speed. Get ground forces to St. Petersburg and assess the damage.” Pausing now, he looks up, smiling as he adds. “Activate ‘Archangel’ and get those submarines under the arctic ice. Send a message to the Americans informing them of our intentions.”

  The men in the room start making calls, and as is the way with Russia, commands are followed quickly and without question. Some orders take longer than others, due to the unreliable communications network, but with unheard-of determination they succeed. Even Igor is subdued as he issues his orders to subordinates. His quietness is more disconcerting to some, than the alien banners on the screens. Igor looks over at Pavel and they exchange a nod. Now is the time to work together, and they both know it.

  Looking at the many dolls, the President wonders what plans-within-plans these attackers have. He has trouble believing that a ‘shoot first’ policy is that of a peaceful race. Pondering the events of the day, he has to smile. He knows that both his government and the Americans have many first strike plans, and all in the name of creating a long-term peace. However, he concedes that the aliens’ tactics do have some merit. Without a single invader being harmed we have been forced to our knees. Russia has been there before and will bend like a reed in the wind. He smiles again as he puts the dolls back one at a time. Let them show their plans within plans; Mother Russia will be ready to act when the time comes.

  Within hours, Russia appears to have fully complied with the alien demands. Ships of the Russian navy are sailing back toward Russian ports. There are no aircraft in the skies, and, though the army is fully prepared, they remain on standby. An exception to this, is a massive convoy of army engineers with supportive troops that head toward a devastated St. Petersburg. Vast amounts of food, water, tents, and medical supplies follow this convoy. Russia does its best to assist the beleaguered city and its residents. Other regions inside Russia's borders that suffered damage either from ground strikes, or as a back-lash from the many nuclear detonations, also receive assistance.

  Location:

  North American Aerospace Defense Command (NORAD)

  Cheyenne Mountain, Colorado Springs, Colorado

  “Mr. President, Mr. President.” The aide is reluctant to wake the sleeping man. He nervously looks at the nearby people, not knowing what to do. A Secret Service agent walks up to the President, who is asleep in his chair, and gives him one firm shake. As the President wakes, the agent stands perfectly still beside him, as though nothing transpired.

  The aide’s jaw drops a little in disbelief. Finding his voice, he reports. “Mr. President, the Russians are complying with the alien request, as it would seem are all the major powers around the world. This is unprecedented. What are your orders, Sir?”

  “We will comply.” The President replies, adding, “Order all military aircraft to stand down; order all surface ships to port. Let's try to get some of our people home if we can. How many spacecraft are there? Does anyone know?”

  The aide shakes his head slowly from side to side as he involuntarily shrugs his shoulders.

  The President ponders. All countries are complying. Now that is unusual, if not downright improbable. Without satellites, he is blind with regards to what the world is really doing. He orders, “Contact NATO and inform them of our decision. Also, get me a secure line to the Kremlin.”

  It takes a long time to make another connection, but they finally succeed. The chat between presidents is fairly brief, as both concur with each other's assessment of the situation and agree quickly on a course of action. The plan is for peaceful compliance with additional border security. Both leaders also wonder what the aliens really plan to do with the damaged cities. A major concern for them is the loss of most of their respective nuclear arsenals. The loss of all the satellites makes both leaders very nervous. With little to no intelligence on old adversaries, and virtually no nuclear weapons as a deterrent, neither country is hardly in a position to defend themselves, let alone help allies. As the two presidents put their respective phones down, they realize that these aliens have done one good thing. The two super powers are going to have to work together like never before, for this is just the beginning.

  Location:

  FS Charles De Gaulle (R91)

  Western Mediterranean Sea

  The nuclear-powered carrier, the flagship of the French navy, sails home with her escorts. The commander’s orders are to return to port at 'best possible speed'. Pushing her reactors to one hundred percent raises the crew to a new level of anxiousness, as radiation alarms start to go off below decks. The bridge is a tense place, as the crew replays the alien message in their minds.

  “Sir, sonar contact bearing 187, range, seventeen kilometers and constant.” Junior Officer Timmons’ voice is tinged with surprise as he confirms the readings.

  The captain’s response is as automatic, as it is impassive. “Fleet to action stations, launch alert fighters, investigate, and report. How the hell did that contact get inside our defense screen?”

  A few seconds later, two fighters streak away from the carrier and head for the contact at maximum speed.

  “Alert fighters away. E.T.A. to contact under one minute, Sir.” Senior Officer Joseph keeps his voice on an even keel as he directs a glare in Timmons’ direction. These junior officers need to keep their emotions in check, or they shouldn’t be here, he considers sternly.

  The old foxtrot submarine is no match for a carrier group under normal circumstances, but these are far from normal circumstances. The old submarine captain has watched his country suffer under attacks, sanctions, and harsh conditions and now he has an unheard-of opportunity. He will make the westerners pay for all they have done. This whole day, his crew was hovering almost silently in a thermocline layer, effectively masking the submarine.

  “Sir, we have tracks reported, two, no six tracks inbound. Torpedoes in the water sir, twelve minutes out.” Timmons goes from overexcited to neutral, as he catches a scowl from Joseph.

  “Set reactors to one hundred five percent; get some distance between us and those torpedoes. Twelve minutes? What is that submarine captain thinking? They won't hit us.” Philippe, another senior officer, feels a bead of sweat building on his brow. Pushing the reactors causes him some concern about potential radiation leakage.

  High above the seas, others are watching events below with curiosity.

  “Sir, new contact on the radar,” Timmons blurts out loudly. “Distance, oh my, it's from high orbit Sir, and coming in fast. It’s a pair of objects, uh, asteroids about five meters in diameter.” His voice switches from sudden excitement to dread in mid-sentence. “One is on a collision course with us, just under two minutes out.”

  The captain’s voice is firm and professional. “Hard to port, engine room, I need one hundred ten percent on those reactors, and I need it now. Broadcast, all channels. We are defending ourselves and are not initiating hostilities. We will comply with the orders as set.” He suddenly realizes with dismay that the launch of the aircraft is a violation of the alien’s demands.

  The old submarine turns and heads for home, submerging to her maximum depth of eight hundred feet. As the sub descends, she never makes it to her maximum submerged speed of fifteen knots. One of the asteroids strikes the waters directly above the retreating submarine with astounding force. Seconds later, the shock wave alone fractures the hull of the tired old sub just befo
re the asteroid itself almost slices it in two. Barely even slowing down, the asteroid continues on its trajectory to the bottom of the sea. The broken submarine sinks to Davy Jones' locker, leaving the water's surface a mix of oil, fuel, and debris. There are no survivors from the old submarine to speak of the day's events.

  The second asteroid strikes mere feet from the carrier’s hull, vaporizing tons of water instantly. Initially, the Charles De Gaulle is pulled into the impact vortex, listing a full six degrees before righting herself. The ship was never designed for such sudden lateral moves. Her hull groans and screams as supports within buckle and fail. Seconds later, she is flung back as the impact creates a massive wave. Inside the carrier, people are tossed against bulkheads, planes above and below decks break their holding chains and slide free. The carrier starts to list with the wave, seven degrees, then eight, bulkheads buckle and groan again. At nine degrees, large impacts can be heard all over the carrier, as objects fall against sloping walls, adding more weight, pushing the ship over even more. Six aircraft lashed to the top deck, break free, and one after the other, slide off the sloping deck and splash into the sea. Still she keels over, more and more, an impossible angle for any ship, let alone a carrier.

  “Sir, the engine room reports that a propeller is clear of the water. She is rolling.” It is Philippe's turn to falter; his voice is tinged with fear.

  With the command crew holding on, all they can do is wait and pray. Deep inside the ship the sounds of bulkheads failing can be heard as objects that were never meant to move, slide into walls.

  “Reactor scram, reactor one scram, sir, reactor two scram. Sir, both reactors!” Philippe almost shouts the information, fear clearly evident in his voice.