Fire on the Frontline

by Trevor Wyatt

  Fear has always been a powerful catalyst for behavior.

  A frightened wolf is more dangerous than a pack. A pack follows rules and exhibits expected behaviors. A wolf afraid for itself becomes aggressive, unpredictable and dangerous.

  We advanced our weapons to match with the enemy and yet, despite this evolution we are still just as susceptible to fear.

  Fear of the alien, fear of change, fear of being replaced, fear of losing...

  Humans do not do well living under the weight of fear. We do not simply accept things, or hope that things improve or that they will change on their own.

  Rarely is there a person who does not at least consider doing something to take away their fear.

  Fear leads to helplessness and in that feeling a desire for control. Coupled with this need for control is the anger inspired by the fear. Who do we get angry at when we are scared? The person or people responsible, or often more, the closet target for us to attack.

  I watch Lucien Parker shout at his followers inciting them into a frenzy. I have such hatred for the man, but also a grudging respect for his ability to use this cocktail of fear, anger and helplessness to work in his favor. In a way he has taken these lost and frightened souls with him and formed a "pack" of sorts with himself as the alpha. Desperate and emotional, the protestors listen to him as he directs them to take out their frustrations on the closest target; the security team. It is a match made in hell. It will not end well for either side, something I'm sure Lucien knows.

  I rewind the exchange between the Tyreesian delegate and my wife in my head, focusing on his casual suggestion of the "dispatching of this stumbling block". Yes, to the Tyreesian our tolerance of a figure like Lucien Parker makes no sense.

  What angers me is that a part of me wishes Lucien was out of the picture as well. Not "dispatched", but removed from the situation instead of getting a free pass to stroke the fires of anti-alien dissent while I struggle to keep the delegates calm.

  I consider the irony of how much fighting can occur when one is seeking peace.

  Ashley

  Jeryl looks like a man watching the world come to an end. That may be more accurate than I'd like to admit. He's watching his world end. The world he's been building for the last three years.

  I was onboard the Seeker the day we made first contact with the Sonali; he was the captain back then.

  As captain, the consequences of the choices made that day rest heavily on his shoulders. He tries to hide it, but I know he wrestles with the guilt of being the reason the war began. Every life lost, every settlement destroyed cuts deep into his soul. I see the doubt and recrimination in his eyes.

  I recall a dinner conversation we had months ago when he got back from an extended stay on Sonali Prime...

  "Jeryl, you need to stop holding on to this guilt. You made the best decision in a situation with limited facts. I know no one on The Seeker who would feel differently," I told him as we sat in a New Washington restaurant, 275 stories above the ground, viewing the city at sunset.

  I remember how his lips twisted even as he nodded agreeing with what I said. It's not pride messing with him. He just can't help wondering if things could have gone differently. Jeryl is not a glory hound or a warmonger. I doubt we'd still be married if he had either of those traits. He's just a guy trying to do the right thing—then and now.

  "Jeryl," I took his hand across the table, trying to reassure him, "You're a good man. If you weren't you wouldn't care so much. Don't think about the lives lost in the war. Think about the lives you'll save by establishing the Galactic Council." I remember the glimmer of hope I saw in his eyes when I said that to him.

  Today that hope has vanished—replaced by fear and horror at a situation that is destroying his dream of peaceful coexistence and replacing it with a nightmare.

  He has been working so hard to change our relations with the most powerful of alien beings. It has been a tough road fraught with stumbling block after stumbling block. I can only imagine his frustration and sense of loss.

  We have to find a way to salvage things.

  We can’t let it end like this.

  "We can't let this continue," I say keeping my voice low, "The media is covering everything." I don't need to explain further. Every bit of the violence happening below is being filmed and recorded by media bots. Every time someone in the crowd is wounded or worse, the bots capture that moment in time. Too much bad press and we can kiss this home stretch of negotiations goodbye.

  As I consider what we can do about our public relations, Jensen's voice comes over the comm unit. He’s addressing the crowd:

  “By order of Terran Union immediately cease and desist all actions and vacate the area. This is your final warning. By order of Terran Union—" he repeats.

  Instead of calming the crowd, his words enrage them further. And if that wasn't bad enough the crowd has swelled in size. Instead of 500 there are closer to a 1,000 angry protestors surrounding the diplomatic building, refusing to quiet their protests or to leave.

  The security crew stands head-to-head with the protestors. The few people on either side that have been felled by disruptor fire are lying in the crowd, twitching. None of the security forces have their wounded lying on the ground—they made sure to remove them from view.

  I feel like I'm watching two cowboys squaring off in preparation for a duel. Duels end in death, sometimes for both combatants.

  I worry that is the destiny of the two factions below us. I won't be able to cheer "our side" if we slice into the crowd. Sure, I'll be glad if Jensen can get things under control. Making the delegation feel safe and keeping them safe are of paramount importance. But if that cost the lives of innocent, albeit misguided civilians, then can we really call that a "win" for peace?

  Suddenly the crowd charges the main entrance. The fighting swells becoming a maelstrom of noise and violence. Punches are thrown as are bricks, sticks and other debris. A security crew member is pulled down and kicked. He is quickly rescued by other security crew members who in turn start beating up the protestors responsible.

  Just when it seems like things can't get much worse, I notice something that makes my blood run cold.

  Horrified, I point out to Jeryl the contingent of Armada Marines that have just exited the entrance to the building. They have personal energy shields up and weapons at the ready. "They're locked and loaded," I whisper to Jeryl. He nods.

  "What the hell is going on?" asks Jeryl, directing this question to Colonel Masters, "Why do we have Marines on the ground?"

  "The only thing keeping that crowd out of this building is the Marine unit. They have the first floors of this building covered as well." He looks at Jeryl with grim resolve, "I've ordered them not to let the crowd through."

  I know Jeryl is thinking the same thing I am; this whole situation is a bloodbath just waiting to happen. My husband is trapped in another no-win situation. If the protestors get inside, we lose, if the Marines shoot at the protestors, we still lose.

  This is his project, his dream to change things for the better.

  I also know that the successful creation of this delegation means something more to Jeryl, even if he hasn't said it.

  This is his ticket to redemption.

  And right now I'm worried that the chance for its success has already passed. The delegation does not seem to grasp how much of this is out of our hands or why they need to work with us. The irony is the conflict outside is exactly why a Galactic Council of this sort needs to exist.

  “A place where races can talk out their grievances instead of going to war,” I remember Jeryl saying when he first began this mission.

  I shake my head wondering if political self-interest is trait all sentient life forms share.

  I find myself thinking: Jeryl was staring at my ass earlier and now he has a whole room full of asses staring at him. Thank God I'm not prone to giggles.

  I can't help it, my response to tension is bad humor.

 
Hell, I think it's part of the glue that holds Jeryl's and my marriage together. Sometimes when the shit is hitting the fan you have to crack a joke, admit it's really wrong to say and then move on. I promise myself I'll share my joke with him later, when we can both freely laugh at it.

  Suddenly I have a horrible thought—what if one of the delegates sees me laughing?

  I quickly scan the delegates. The nine species here by our invitation show a range of responses to the current crisis. Some are visibly shaken, cowering, while others are infuriated. I can't say I blame them for either response. The Tyreesian delegate wears an expression I can't read. It seems akin to smugness, but in truth I should be careful thinking that I can successfully read any of the aliens.

  We are just beginning to learn more about these species. I don't know if any of them possess telepathy. Out of all of them, the Sonali are probably the most versed in human emotions. Lucky for me the Sonali delegate seems focused on the situation paying little to no attention to me. If he does look my way it is only to cast sympathetic glances at Jeryl.

  Jeryl and I watch as the crowd seems to be prepping for a second run at the entrance. Colonel Masters switches open the comm so we can hear the Marine Commander: "Switch weapons to hot. Settings free. If anyone attempts to get inside this building, then they are risking their own lives."

  "You can't fire on those protestors!" exclaims Jeryl to Colonel Masters urgently.

  "Captain Montgomery, with all due respect, there is nothing else we can do."

  He pleads with Masters. "If we retaliate to the protestors at this delicate time we will lose three years of progress. Done. Kaput. We need to evacuate the delegates. And we need to do it now." I can see that while Masters is listening he is not pleased with this solution.

  "You want us to run?" he asks. Jeryl nods. One of the things I love about him is his lack of ego when it comes to doing the right thing. Some men might want to look like badasses no matter what the situation. These fools would lead their people, men and women that trust them, to their deaths. There is no glory in saying goodbye forever to family, friends and life. Jeryl refuses to sacrifice anyone simply to save face.

  "Colonel, if we choose to stand and fight in the present—we will lose the future."

  "Prepare Terran shuttles for the delegates’ departure," says Masters over the comm.

  "No, the delegates need their own shuttles,” Jeryl says. “They won't trust us to protect them. Not right now."

  "Very well," says Masters, then he gets on the comm with the the Marine leader, "Please get the delegates private shuttles ready for departure ASAP."

  I sense a fraction of the tension Jeryl’s feeling leave his body. Unfortunately, as we both turn back to the window staring at the situation below, I feel his stress ramp back up.

  Again, things are about to get even uglier.

  Jeryl

  “We have to leave immediately,” I say to Colonel Masters, who isn’t at all pleased with my planned decision. We’re off to the corner with Ashley, where the delegation can’t hear our strained speech.

  “If we run away,” Masters says, “we show these delegates that we are weak and that we have no control of what happens on our planets. And we give those pricks out there more reasons to attack us again and again. We have to make a stand here.”

  Ashley looks in my direction. I can tell she’s tense. Her eyebrows are creased with worry. Sweat trickles down her cheek and she stands firm, ready to pounce.

  “He’s right,” Ashley says. “We can’t show weakness. You taught me that.”

  “Yes, but I also taught you to be wise,” I snap.

  Ashley recoils. I can tell she’s shocked, but she barely shows it. And few seconds later I feel terrible for snapping at her. I can hear the yells and screams and disruptor fire outside. I’m on the verge of panic if I don’t get ahold of myself, and I know it.

  “At this point, it is better to live to fight another day,” I say, “because history doesn’t remember who won the battles. It only remembers and reckons with who won the war.”

  I pause to collect my thoughts.

  “If we kill every one of those protesters, our negotiations for a Galactic Council doesn’t stand a chance,” I say. “If humans are seen killing each other in such an evil display of force, then how do we expect the Tyreesians to believe us when we say we want to peacefully coexist with them? And the Reznak, the Sonali?”

  I can see Ashley look at me as if she’s considering, even though I’m talking to Colonel Masters. “The universe already has a bad opinion of us, especially after our destructive war with the Sonali. We don’t need to fuel that opinion with infighting.”

  Ashely nods in agreement, but Colonel Masters is not convinced. I don’t expect him to be.

  Armada Marines are trained to be brutish and to solve every problem with the application of force. They aren’t utilized for their expertise in strategic thinking. They are utilized for their deadly precision and incredible military power on the battle field.

  Thankfully, I outrank Colonel Masters. He’ll have to take my orders.

  “My mind is made up, Colonel,” I say, adding a little force to my words. “Call off those Marines. We’re transporting everyone here to their respective shuttles and make it such that everyone sees we’re leaving.”

  Turning to address Ashley, I say, “Captain, inform everyone in The Seeker. Let them remain vigilant. Let them be on alert for any possible disruptions.”

  Ashely nods and taps her comm, which broadcasts to the communications officer on the ship in orbit. She asks to be patched to her First Officer, to whom she issues a series of orders.

  Colonel Masters is also on his comms, coordinating the evacuation plans.

  I glance at the delegates. Most of them are looking down at the fire fight. I can see that they are scared beyond their wits.

  The Child of Zorm is, however, not fazed by what’s going on. He’s sitting, cool, on his seat and looking at me. I wonder what he thinks of me.

  I admire the Children of Zorm for their calmness in the face of adversity. They rarely show fear. They rarely demonstrate emotions, and they’re very logical and reasonable.

  Oddly, they share a lot of things with us, including our physiology. They have a beating heart. They have reproductive organs for male and female that are similar to ours.

  I hear Colonel Masters order that all shuttles be parked on the main landing pad on the top floor. This calls my attention back to him.

  “No, Colonel,” I say. “Belay that order.”

  He speaks into his comm and says, “Hold off on that last order, sergeant.” Then he turns to me for answers.

  “These people may suspect we are evacuating,” I say. “We can’t be predictable. They may have brought in surface to air weapons. They want to kill off these delegates one way or another, so we have to be one step ahead of them.”

  “We scan the grounds every three hours, sir,” Colonel Masters replies. “The last scan says there’s no mobile incendiary discharge device.”

  “We both know there are a lot of ways to take down a shuttle.”

  Colonel Masters, again, doesn’t look convinced by my line of thought. I begin to wonder what they teach these Marines at the Academy.

  “Give the order to take all the delegates up together but to have them leave in small groups of staggered times,” I say in an authoritative tone. “We’ll head up to The Seeker.”

  “Yes, sir,” he replies and gives the order.

  Ashely returns to my side.

  “The Seeker is ready for us, sir,” she says. “I want to go on ahead and prepare.”

  “Are you sure you want to do that?” I say, worry entering my heart.

  I don’t want to be separated from her at this volatile point. For all I care, there may be sleeper agents in the building as we speak.

  Lucian is a master strategist. He may have planted agents in the building who are going to open fire when they see the aliens or government o
fficials who are working with the aliens. I sound paranoid. But I don’t want my wife wandering through the vast hallways and floors of this building without me being there to protect her.

  “It’s sweet of you to worry about me,” she says. “But I’ll be fine, I promise.”

  “Honey, now isn’t the time to play the hero,” I say. “They could have infiltrated the building. You aren’t a soldier. You’re a sailor.”

  Her smile disappears and I know I’ve hurt her. But I don’t care so much about how she feels right now. I do it for her safety.

  “Take a detachment of Marines,” I say.

  She’s about to protest, but I turn to speak to Colonel Masters.

  “Colonel,” I say, “I want a detachment of Marines to ensure that Captain Ashley Gavin makes it safely to The Seeker!”

  “Yes, sir,” he says and leads her outside.

  A minute later he returns and says, “We are ready to move. A forward team has gone ahead to secure our path to the landing pad. We are using the one on the one hundred and twentieth floor.”

  “Good,” I say.

  I turn to the delegates and call their attention.

  “We need to move out of here immediately,” I say. “Your shuttle pilots have been briefed and prepped. We have a compliment of Armada Marines outside those doors who are going to lead us to the floor where we will lift off to space. Please, in the case of a shootout, remain calm. The marines are a professional military outfit. They will get us safe to where we need to go to, and I assure you, no harm can come to you while within this building.”

  I wait for any question.

  When there is none, I order in the authoritative voice that seems to come back naturally, “Okay. Let’s proceed.”

  Colonel Masters guides the delegates in rows of two, with me, Leader Greer and the Vozelian bring up the rear. Outside in the wide hallway, there are about twenty Marines, with guns pointing up and out. They form a protective shell around us.