by J. F. Holmes
“Ma’am, thank you for the corn bread. We’ll be going now,” said Nick, and the two untied their horses and mounted. They didn’t look back as they headed north, and the three of them watched them go until they were out of sight.
“Hope they find another farm to work, Uncle,” said Jeremy. He looked like he wanted to go with them.
His uncle didn’t answer for a long minute, then said, “They weren’t farmers, J. Not by a long shot.”
The beard had prevented his implant from getting a file read on the man’s face, and the woman had refused to look him in the eye, and never allowed him to get a full profile. Did they know?
______________________________________
Around the bend, the two horses left the road and started moving cross country, going easily through the overgrown fields. They reached a ruined farm house, went around and into a rickety barn. A burly, bald headed man in a leather bikers’ vest slid the door shut behind them; it moved easily in its tracks, belying its weathered look.
He helped Nick down from his horse as Rachel slid off hers. The amputee walked over to a laptop, mated up a smaller unit, and the screen sprang to life, revealing a picture of David Warren, standing in the drive to his house, as they’d last seen him.
“Is that him, Colonel?” asked the Doc Hamilton, the team’s second in command. Rachel walked over to the laptop and looked for a long minute.
The Indian woman turned the screen to face him. On it was the first picture, and then another beside it, showing a much younger Warren, wearing a high-necked uniform decorated with five stars on the collar.
Colonel Rachel Singh, Commander, Confederated Earth Forces Scout Regiment, said bitterly, “Rob, that is General David Warren, boy genius of Project Brightstar, and the coward who screwed us all.”
Chapter 3
“Listen here, noob,” said Sergeant Isiah Jones, unrolling a blanket in front of a starved looking teenager. Night had fallen on the barn, and, rather than getting some shut eye, Jones was explaining their communications equipment to the teenager. “I want you to get to know this shit really well, understand?”
Private Abe Drummond was easing his feet out of his boots, still sore from yesterday’s march. He wasn’t yet used to the grueling pace that the scouts set. Twenty five miles between sunrise and sunrise, with full packs on their backs, for five days in a row. He was surprised he actually had any legs left.
“Can I ask a question first, Sergeant?” he said, wincing as Doc Hamilton lanced another blister.
“Only dumb question is the one you don’t ask,” answered Jones.
The younger man put on fresh socks, hoping his boots broke in soon. Growing up in an Invy town outside Scranton, he was used to salvaged sneakers. “How come we don’t normally use horses? I mean, I know we have some here, but seems to me they would come in real handy.”
“Two reasons. One, you ain’t gonna outrun an Invy patrol on a horse. Better to be unseen, let their drones think you’re just some poor traveler. Plus, moving at a faster pace, you more often get surprised by them, around a bend in the road or some shit. Then you’re getting searched with some military hardware on your ass. Nah, we can see ‘em coming easier on foot.”
Reaching into his pack, the NCO laid out some more equipment on the blanket. “Second,” he continued, “if you have a horse, you tend to pack a lot of shit onto said horse. More than you need, and if you get in a fight and have to dismount, well, all that shit you was countin on, is either skedaddled with the horse, or under a thousand pounds of dead meat. Nah, us scouts gotta carry what we need. Now pay attention.”
He held up a pistol shaped object, and walked over to a hole in the barn, consulted a map and compass, aimed in a certain direction, and pulled the trigger. A small diode glowed green, and then went out.
“Coms laser,” he told Drummond. “You enter the text on the key board here, and the computer converts it into Morse. Then you aim it at a receiver, in this case one located on an old cell tower here, and it flashes out the signal. Someone with the right set of NVG’s can see the scattering light off the receiver, which is really just a bunch of tinfoil or something.”
“So I’ve got to learn to read Morse code?”
“Yep. Is that a problem?” asked the older man.
Drummond blushed in the lamp light, and answered simply, “I don’t know how to read, not very much anyway. I learned some in school, before the invasion, but I’m not good at it.”
“Well, you gonna learn, then.” Jones had seen it often enough; the kids growing under Invy rule were falling further and further behind in their education. Another reason to hate.
“Now, this here is a heliograph. We use it to signal direct to each other when the sun is out. It’s good, because it’s directional. There’s a book of shorthand codes; you’ll start learning right away how to read, because information is a scouts’ lifeblood.”
The NCO went on to describe various arrangements of rocks, branches, and other objects that indicated an information drop was nearby. “Though we don’t often leave written stuff just lying in a drop. Mostly it’s up here,” he said, tapping his dreadlocks.
“You keep messages in your hair?” asked the incredulous Drummond.
Jones scowled and turned to the blonde Corporal who was cleaning her pistols. “Grif, where the hell did you get this kid?”
“A-Team picked him out, sent him to the Scranton recruiter, and he sent him to us. Boy’s just pulling your leg, Jay. He ain’t as dumb as he looks, and you know we need another man after we lost Carstairs.” She flipped blew a stray lock of hair out of her face and said, “He can track, and he can shoot. Plus, he ain’t too bad to look at.”
“Cradle robber,” muttered Jones.
Drummond, to change the embarrassing subject, asked Griffin, “Do I get to go to a base or something, see more cool shit? What’s Main Force? Will I go there? Get more training?”
Master Sergeant Agostine said clearly, from where he sat on guard duty above them, “Once you’re in the scouts, you’re in the scouts till we win, or you die, Drummond. If you desert because you can’t take it, two of us will hunt you down and kill you. I’ve only had to do it to three people, and please don’t, we have much more important shit to do.”
The young private looked around at the soldiers who were his team mates, trying to decide if it were a joke. They suddenly seemed, well, a bit less friendly and a lot more threatening. He started to wonder what he had gotten himself into.
“I’m good, Master Sergeant. It’s just, well, I’m kind of pumped up to know that there really is some fight left, that the CEF still exists. I saw those people in the Invy towns, they seemed so dead.” He paused for a second, trying hard to not choke up. “Plus, well, they killed my parents for breaking their stupid rule of three, just stopped to talk to some neighbors they met on the road, and a patrol shot them down, left their bodies to rot in the dirt.”
“We all got our sob story, Drummond,” came the answer from above. “Just pay attention to Sergeant Jones and make yourself useful.”
It was a long night for the young man.
Chapter 4
Master Sergeant Nicholas Agostine stood and stretched, then kicked the blanket next to him, where some black hair peeked out. “Up and at ‘em, boss!” Singh groaned, growled a curse, and burrowed deeper into the blankets laid out on the old hay.
At the front of the barn, Sergeant Jones lay full length, watching the northern approach. At the other end, high up in the rafters, PVT Drummond watched to the south. Agostine nodded in satisfaction and woke the rest of the team. When everyone had done their shit, shower and shave, Colonel Singh called the team together. The guards stayed in place, leaving MSG Agostine, SFC Rob “Doc” Hamilton, Staff Sergeant Mike Boyd and Corporal Jen Griffin. They would communicate by heliograph with the sniper team watching the Warren house, Private First Class Tiffany Reynolds and Sergeant Sasha Zivcovic.
“OK, here’s the deal. That’s him, General Wa
rren. Grif, I want you and Drummond to head back to Scranton, use the Main Force carrier birds to give a heads up to Raven Rock.”
“Isn’t this important enough to risk a radio?” asked Boyd.
Corporal Griffin, their techie, snorted, a lock of blonde hair falling free. “Even a burst transmission off the ionosphere will get a tungsten bar dropped on your head in less than thirty seconds. You know that, you ignorant barbarian.”
“I will kill you in your sleep tonight, princess,” answered Boyd, with a grin. She gave him the finger in return.
“Can it, you two,” said MSG Agostine. He knew that they both owed each other their lives, and neither meant it.
Singh ignored the banter, and gestured for Agostine, the actual team leader, to continue with the tactical decisions. He hunched down and laid out a map. “Ok, you all know that the summer heat messes with the Invy sensors. So we hit them right after the sun goes down, before the heat dissipates. Chameleon suits for the approach. PFC Reynolds and Sergeant Zivcovic will move from overwatch on the house to this highpoint,” and he indicated a place on the map, overlooking I-81, “and surveil for Invy patrols.”
“Thank God we use the lamp instead of the radio, I can’t understand Zivcovic’s frigging accent. ‘I am from Serbia, I am gangster, and I kill you all in my track suit!’” said Boyd.
“Going to sweat our balls off,” called Jones, who never took his attention off the approach.
“Why don’t we just snipe him?” asked Doc Hamilton, never one for subtly.
“That’s not our mission,” answered Singh. “I’m going to talk to him. He’s the last survivor of Project Brightstar, and we can use him.”
“He’s a goddamned traitor, is what he is,” said Hamilton, spitting out some tobacco juice. The medic was the only one there, besides Agostine and Singh, who had been in the service when the war ended.
“Be that as it may, he could be useful if the time ever comes to take action. Better to have him come willingly, but there’s no reason to kill him. He’s got to live with what he did.” Agostine continued drawing the approaches to the house in the dirt. They wargamed it for a while, until he was satisfied that everyone understood their roles.
“We move out at twenty hundr-” he was interrupted by a whistle from PVT Drummond, and the team sprang into action. Griffin ran to the horses, and whipped a heavy cloth over them as she spoke a word. They instantly melted into the background, holding stock still. Then she activated the pants she wore, with the same effect, finally pulling a green hoodie over her head, causing the rest of her to disappear.
Another low whistle sounded, and followed by a rattle of bolts being racked back and forward. “Wolverines!” came quietly from where Drummond had disappeared. There was a hissing sound as someone sprayed a scent neutralizer, and then all went quiet.
Outside, the Invy patrol moved down the hill, a standard quad of Wolverines, each moving low to the ground, one tracking, one looking low, another high, the last constantly glancing to the rear.
Rachel Singh watched them closely, amazed at how evolution had paralleled earth. The Wolverines stood about five feet tall, but were heavily muscled under a thick, shaggy coat of fur. They did resemble a cross between the earth creature of the same name, and an actual wolf, though they walked upright and had opposable thumbs. They were obviously the apex predator of their world, and the Dragon’s genetic tampering had given them speech and a human level intelligence. Each Wolverine wore body armor similar to human military, but no helmets. They lived for the hunt, and had no desire to rule, which made them great shock troops for the Dragons. She hoped that they died of heat stroke.
Between them, clad in golden metallic half armor, moved a Dragon. She wondered, sometimes, if the Invy rulers had visited Earth long ago, and created the myth of those legendary creatures. It resembled, more than anything else, one of those long, wispy Chinese serpents, with leathery red skin, but there it stopped. The four true legs walked like a conventional lizard, but there were two more arms that were used to manipulate tools, and vestigial wings. The Invy leader wore gold armor along its torso, which was both ceremonial and incredibly difficult to penetrate with kinetic weapons. It showed their arrogance that they walked through the countryside in highly polished metal that gleamed in the morning sun.
Though the scouts called them by the names of the earth creatures they resembled, they, and their other slave races, were truly alien, and in the tradition of soldiers since the beginning of time, the word “Invaders” had been shortened to “Invy”.
“Think they’ll get our scent?” asked Singh, who had crawled close to the scout team leader.
“No, probably not,” answered Agostine. “The kid,” meaning Drummond, “was out with Boyd last night, running our back trail with neutralizer and erasing tracks.”
“Thank God for the eggheads in R & D,” she said, then fell silent. The patrol was going to come close, but they seemed to be more intent on checking the house than the barn, which is why the team was there, and not in the house.
Then next ten minutes passed in sweltering heat, as they waited for the patrol to pass. The Master Sergeant felt another person crawl up next to him and tug at his sleeve. “Chief,” whispered Sergeant Boyd, “we can take them.”
“No point. I know you just joined the teams, Mike, but we stay silent and quiet. No fight if we can avoid it.”
“They ate your leg, you must hate them even more than I do.”
Agostine didn’t answer, and the rest of the wait passed in silence, until Drummond gave the all clear. They peeled off their chameleon suits with muttered curses and groans, and sucked down water to replenish the fluids they had lost.
“I would KILL for a shower!” said Griffin.
“As nasty as your cooch is after three weeks in the field, I’m surprised you didn’t bring every Wolverine in Upstate New York running!”
“Suck it, Jonesy,” she answered.
“No thanks, your booty ain’t big enough.”
Agostine smiled to himself. Team morale was good. He hummed an old Keith Richards tune under his breath, singing softly about having silver and gold, and returned to his planning. “Regular shifts until nineteen hundred, make sure you sleep, shit and eat. Pre-combat checks and inspections then,” said Agostine.
Griffin and Drummond saddled the horses, handing their long guns to other members of the team. Singh passed the submachine gun to Griffin, and the two headed south over the fields.
Chapter 5
Dinner that night at the Warren farm was quiet; the strangers coming by had brought an intrusion into their world. Jeremy sat eating quietly, but seemed restless. Finally, he spoke up.
“Uncle, what did you mean that those travelers weren’t farmers? What else is there left to be? Were they traders?” The questions burst out of him, teenage energy running rampant.
His mother spoke first, saying, “Jeremy, the Invy control our world, so you’re never going to see more than three people on the road together, but there are some very cruel people out there, even in ones and twos.”
“They didn’t seem cruel, or bad. Just … different.”
She looked over at her brother, but he looked away, deep in thought. Finally, he spoke. “I think we’re going to have to be more careful dealing with the outside world. Yes, the Invy are dangerous, but there are many other dangers.”
“Were they bandits?” his nephew asked.
“No, I don’t think so.” His face was grave and troubled. “They were soldiers. I think they were looking for me.”
Victoria’s knife dropped on the plate, and the color drained from her face. “David, there ARE no soldiers anymore!”
Jeremy looked back and forth between them, confusion on his face. “I don’t understand. The war is over, isn’t it? Are we still fighting?”
His uncle slammed his hand down on the table, making the plates jump. “NO!” he exclaimed. “The war is OVER! We LOST!”
“David …” his sister
started to say, alarmed by his outburst. He seemed to grow angrier by the second.
“Victoria, he needs to hear it!”
“Hear what?” asked Jeremy. His uncle was usually a very laid back man; he had rarely seen him even get irritated.
“What I did in the war.” He held up his hand when his sister began to object, and she fell silent.
“I was Commander of the Combined Earth Forces.” It came out flat, dropping like a bomb on the room.
Jeremy’s mouth fell open, and then he laughed. “Yeah, right! You were a private working on computers out in Colorado.”
Then he saw the look his mother exchanged, a pleading look that begged him to stop. A growing realization dawned on him when he saw his uncle’s answering, hard look.
“Jeremy, it’s true.”
“But you’re like, you were just a teenager then.”
David sat back in his chair, and said, “I was part of something called Project Brightstar. The best and the brightest. When that first Invy scout ship took out the International Space Station, it was three years before the actual invasion. Pure accident that they had a reactor failure and we found out about the incoming fleet. If that hadn’t happened, we would have been truly fucked.”
“DAVID!” said his sister.
“Sorry. Anyway, I was fourteen, and apparently I tested out as the best potential military commander in the United States. There were twelve of us, and I was seventeen when the invaders came. They put me in charge of our defensive fleet, and my friends were our fleet commanders.”
“But we lost!” his nephew exclaimed.
“Yes, we did. We lost. I lost.” He buried his head in his hands, and Jeremy realized that he was silently sobbing.
“Mom?” he asked, looking at her, astonished to see tears streaming down her own cheeks.
“Jeremy, you don’t know what we lost. We lost the world.”
A full minute passed in silence, then finally David spoke. “I loved someone, and she was in command of the carrier Lexington. The battle was reaching a key point, and maybe I should have ordered her into action, but I couldn’t. I knew that it would mean her death. And, well, I could see that we had lost already.”
