The Cresperian Alliance

by Stephanie Osborn

  But to his surprise, she reached out and tugged his boxers down, exposing his excitement over their upcoming joining. His boxers slid to the floor and he stepped out of them, as unexpectedly, Piki gently and affectionately patted his aroused manhood.

  "You are handsome like this, Bang-bang,” she declared. “Not like the Prime Minister. He was fat and flabby and...” she shook her head. “It would have taken me a long time to fix that, for he loved to eat and drink, and was continually undoing all we had done. He was not appealing. Not like you. Come here.” Piki held out her arms, and Bang went into them.

  To Bang's surprise, Piki quickly located all his most erotic points and proceeded to stroke and kiss them. “How... how are you doing that?” he panted, breathless.

  "Silly,” she raised up and smiled down at him. “How did I ‘fix’ you?"

  "Oh,” he said. “Perception?"

  "Yes."

  This went on for some time before Bang called a halt. “Piki, you need to stop."

  "I don't want to stop. You like it. I like it."

  "Yes, but if you keep this up, I might lose control. I don't want to do that."

  "Oh.” Her metallic eyes seemed to defocus for a brief moment. “Oh. I understand. Yes, I am ready, too."

  "Do you want me to, or do you want...?” Bang wondered.

  "I want you to show me first,” she said softly. “I trust you, Bang-bang. You will never hurt me if you can avoid it."

  So Bang eased his bride to the mattress, moving atop her.

  Half an hour later, the joyful scream of a female voice echoed through the apartment, followed closely by a male roar of pleasure.

  They had three days in a honeymoon paradise before hell arrived at Earth.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Chapter 16

  The call to battle stations sounded as Piki and Bang snuggled close in sleep. Both awakened with a start. “That's not good,” Bang muttered, jumping out of bed and scrambling to don his active camo suit.

  "No,” Piki agreed. “I sense deep concern.” She, too, scrambled to get dressed: since she'd become Bang's “platoon Crispy mascot,” as he affectionately put it, she was required to respond to the battle call as well. Bang grabbed his personal shield and invisibility device, and they both grabbed their hand held weapons, then ran for the White Horse assembly area.

  When they exited their apartment, they found the Enclave swarming like an angry beehive. Upon arriving at the assembly area, a grim Hand was waiting for them. So was a high speed hovercart; Jan Wersky, Peggy Nunez, David McAllister, and Shane Taylor were already aboard. “Get on,” he ordered Bang and Piki. “Snapper fleet coming in over the solar pole. Oort cloud constellation completely missed ‘em. The orbits of the material we hid the sensors in left us with a hole we didn't know about. We didn't snag the damn bastards until they reached the sphere of the asteroid belt. They'll be here in less than an hour. You're being scrambled to the starships so we can get them off the ground before the Snappers are in range to take ‘em out."

  Bang and Piki clambered aboard, and they were off.

  They were assigned to the USSS Columbia, stationed in southeastern Colorado, and hastened there with all speed. A quick drive to one of the landing strips close by, and a short puddle jump took the entire platoon out of the mountains and into the rolling hills of middle Tennessee.

  There, a new type of craft awaited them. It was a pod outfitted with Earth AND Cresperian technology, in the form of fighter jet engines and enhanced hover capability. Several hundred sat in rows awaiting their passengers, many of whom were now boarding. Bang, Piki, and the others climbed in and seconds later shot into the air, headed for southeastern Colorado and the starship port.

  Ten minutes later they were there. Out of the pod and up the ramp, where each person's assignment was given by the officer standing at the hatch with a clipboard. Bang didn't recognize the officer, but he recognized the dark blue Space Force uniform and the rank of a commander.

  "Corporal Jan Werksy here."

  "Wersky—port gunnery section. Laser number three."

  "Sergeant Peggy Nunez."

  "Nunez—port gunnery section, MASH room."

  "Sergeant David McAllister."

  "McAllister—staging room. Be prepared to head up a landing unit for ground defense."

  "Yes sir."

  "Corporal Shane Taylor, sir."

  "Taylor, follow your unit lead to the staging room."

  "Sir."

  "Gunny Sergeant Ed Bangler and Crispy liaison Piki Burroughs Bangler,” Bang announced.

  "Ah. Bang, port gunnery section. You're heading up the section. Mrs. Bangler, please go with him, but whenever possible, stay in the MASH room with Medic Nunez."

  "Yes, sir."

  "Thank you, sir."

  They ran up the ramp and through the ship, headed for their respective stations.

  Bang gave Piki a quick, if intense, kiss at the door of the MASH room, then moved to the main gun, a honking big disintegrator cannon surrounded by video screens of what Bang decided was every possible angle of the port side of the ship. Meanwhile John Tomlinson and the rest of unit Hope had arrived. Bang sat down at the port gunny station of the USSS Columbia and strapped himself in. “All guns, power up!” he ordered.

  "Aye, Gunny! Powering up!” The answers came in order down the line, as one by one the various armaments emitted soft whines as they were switched on. Bang checked his readouts, then turned to Tomlinson.

  "All units powered and online, sir,” he declared. “We're ready to fight."

  "Good,” Tomlinson replied. “Here we go."

  And mere moments later, they all felt that odd, floating sensation that sometimes indicated the beginning of ascent.

  Sixty seconds after, all Bang's screens showed low Earth orbit.

  President Waterman sat in the Oval Office in his pajamas, robe, and slippers, while someone fetched a pot of coffee and some sort of pastries. The special phone was glued to his ear, multiple callers on the other end, and several televisions were on in the corner. His eyes darted from one TV image to another as he carried on an international conversation.

  "Yes, that's right. The Pentagon is ordering all ships scrambled. Yes, Admiral Terhune himself. Yes, they found a hole through our outer sensor system, but the second system caught them. No, maybe an hour. Maybe less. Yes, go NOW."

  A mildly disheveled but impeccably dressed Sandra Fellowes burst into the room, Secret Service agents trying to stop her. “Mr. President! What are you DOING?! This is the perfect chance!"

  Waterman covered the phone's receiver with the palm of his hand. “Sandra, I am damn busy right now and I do NOT have time for your nonsense."

  "But you're going to attack!"

  "NO, we are NOT—unless fired upon first. But the first rule when your radar sees potential enemy incoming is get your aircraft—or in this case, spacecraft—off the ground where they'll be of use, instead of getting blown to bits sitting on the airstrip. THAT is what we are doing. All U. S. spacecraft are already headed for orbit; all networks are broadcasting warning announcements,” he gestured at the televisions, “all cities have gone into defensive mode, and all infantry are positioned to help defend rural areas. And I am TRYING,” he added pointedly, “to help coordinate the same with our allies—and even a few nations that aren't."

  He paused, uncovering the phone and holding up a warning finger to Fellowes. “Yes, what's that? Sorry, one of my Cabinet members just came in and I was filling ‘em in. Oh, good. Yes, Admiral Terhune will be in the flagship Lady Liberty. Have your captains coordinate defensive formation with him. Yes, I assume he'll be following the predetermined plan, at least initially. Excellent. Yes, by all means. I'll be here for the duration, or else in the bunker. Either way I'll be available unless something drastic happens. Yes. Godspeed to you all.” He hung up and looked back at Fellowes. “Yes?” he drawled, tired and not a little sarcastic.

  "Tom, this is the perfect chance!” Sa
ndra insisted. “You have to do it!"

  "I'm sleepy enough as it is, Sandra. In case you hadn't noticed, it's three in the morning. What part of my brain that's awake is focused on coordinating national leaders, and it isn't up to interpreting you. Stop babbling and make some sense, please."

  "Diplomacy!” Sandra exploded. “Now is the perfect opportunity! All we have to do to stop all of the hostility is to TALK to them the way it SHOULD have been done in the FIRST place!"

  "Oh for—Sandra, you're not gonna start that shit again?” Waterman dragged a weary hand over his unshaven face. Dear God, and my political opponents claimed my bachelorhood was a liability. If she's any example of how women think—even a few of ‘em—I'd rather be celibate the rest of my life than take a chance like that. I bet her exes do, too, now.

  Sandra suddenly became Secretary of State Fellowes and drew herself up to her full height, aided by four inch heels. How she'd even managed to get into a suit and over here so quickly, Waterman couldn't figure out, let alone how she was managing to navigate in those shoes. God only knows I'm stumbling over my bathrobe, he thought.

  "Mr. President, as Secretary of State, I really must insist on diplomatic negotiations,” she declared formally. “I propose peace talks."

  Waterman sighed. “What the hell. Who knows, it might just work. All right, Sandra, IF we can get them to talk to us at all, you'll get your wish. You can head up a diplomatic team to negotiate a peace treaty. But remember, it isn't just for Earth. It has to be for the Cresperian system, too."

  Fellowes nodded. “I promise you, you won't be sorry, Tom,” she said, and left to go rout members of her team out of their beds and get them into her office.

  Smith came in as soon as she'd left. “Sorry, sir,” he apologized. “We tried to keep her out, but you know how she gets."

  "Oh damn, do I ever,” Waterman grumbled. “Listen, Smith, could you get me a suit and a shaving kit? I need to at least look presidential if I have to give a speech or some such shit."

  "Right away, sir.” And his efficient aide was off.

  Waterman sighed again, and turned his attention back to the television screens, most of which were now showing the downlink video from the sensor constellation, as thousands of Snapper ships invaded the Sol system.

  But the Snapper fleet was watching, too. As soon as they saw evidence of orbital activity, they accelerated into the system, coming to within lunar orbit of Earth before the united Earth fleet could completely form up its defensive perimeter. Judging by their hasty maneuvers, Bang decided they were as surprised to find Earth ready and waiting as Earth had been to be caught slightly off guard.

  Abruptly one of his screens showed a Snapper battleship dart forward. A faint beam, glowing green as it passed through atmosphere, lanced downward at... Bang studied the Earth view carefully, deciding rapidly that it was some city in the Middle East. “Shit!” he exclaimed, as the targeted area fairly erupted.

  Tomlinson put his hand to the earpiece he wore. “All stations, open fire on that ship!” he ordered.

  Immediately the hum of electronics increased to a loud whine as every cannon the Columbia possessed opened up at once.

  Waterman was in the midst of using an electric razor on his face when Smith burst in. “SIR!” he cried, pointing at the televisions.

  Waterman looked up in time to see the replay of the attack. “Holy hell on earth,” he whispered. “We didn't get the perimeter established in time?"

  "No sir."

  "Which city?"

  "Tehran, sir."

  "How bad?"

  "...Bad."

  "Destroyed bad, or...?"

  "Yes sir."

  "Any survivors?"

  "Too soon to tell, but satellite imagery indicates unlikely, sir."

  "Is the military on top of it?"

  "General Salter said to tell you ‘Abso-bloody-lutely,'” Smith said grimly.

  "GET THOSE SHIPS INTO POSITION!” Terhune barked from his command chair aboard the USSS Lady Liberty. “I WANT DEFENSIVE PERIMETER COMPLETED IN THE NEXT FIVE SECONDS! WE JUST LOST A DAMN CITY, PEOPLE! WE CAN'T AFFORD TO LOSE ANY MORE! Pilot—what's your name again?"

  "Bain, sir. Douglas Bain."

  "Bain. We in position yet?"

  "About ten seconds out sir. And... mark."

  "Good! WHERE THE HELL IS EVERYONE ELSE?!"

  Officers scrambled to obey orders, and the coordinated Earth fleet darted about with purpose, forming what looked to inexperienced eyes like a giant bucky ball around the planet.

  Bang and his team of gunners targeted the attacking battleship and opened fire. Holes large and small from disintegrators and teleforce beams developed in it almost instantly, while lasers sliced it into sections. Gases vented from every opening, and liquids spewed from cut lines, vaporizing almost instantaneously. The rapid decompression of the ship blew Snapper bodies into open space as well.

  The nearest two Snapper fighter craft carriers launched their small ships. Bang watched in momentary slack jawed amazement as the two carriers disgorged literally thousands of the tiny vessels in moments. Approximately a third of the smaller craft were of the troop carrier variety, and they headed straight for Earth's surface in the vicinity of the recent attack. The rest were fighter craft, which swarmed over and around the Earth fleet, lasers and pulsed energy projectiles wide open.

  And the battle was joined.

  "Get those troop carriers!” Terhune ordered. “If we stop ‘em before they get planetside, the guys downstairs don't have to duke it out one on one! No, never mind the fighters—they can't hurt us! Focus all firepower on those small carriers! Bain, no translational maneuvers, just pitch, yaw and roll. I want to maintain position but let our gunners get the best possible angles. Coordinate, please. And notify the other pilots."

  "Coordinating, sir."

  The nearest ships, including the Columbia, began picking off Snapper troop ships.

  But the Snapper pilots were wily. Although some half of the troop carriers were eliminated by the Earth ships, the other half plotted courses that took them close into their enemies’ ships, or directly between, where the risk of friendly fire taking out allied ships was too great.

  "Call in the clipper ships!” Admiral Terhune ordered. “What they don't get, the ground troops will have to take out! Call down and tell the Pentagon to get ground troops in the field, prepared to meet the Snappers!"

  "Aye aye, Admiral!” a dozen voices came back.

  "Sir, shall we begin swatting flies?” his first officer and the actual captain of the Lady Liberty, one Henry Renfield, asked.

  "By all means,” Terhune grinned wolfishly, “ladies and gentlemen, let us swat some flies."

  The large starships began taking out Snapper fighter craft even as the ten clipper ships darted about just above atmosphere, striking at troop carriers.

  Secretary of State Fellowes hurried into the Oval Office, where Waterman was now dressed and groomed. A contingent of diplomats waited just outside the door.

  "We're fighting,” she noted.

  "They started it,” Waterman retorted.

  "I know. I saw.” She gazed directly at the president. “It seems the Crispies have developed a kind of—I think the science fiction nerds call it a universal translator. Well, it really isn't universal. It works on Earth languages, Cresperian, and what little of the Snapper speak they managed to pick up. They think it may help to communicate with the Snappers."

  Waterman nodded. “Very good. Is your team ready?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "You realize this could go badly?"

  "Highly unlikely, sir."

  Waterman mentally shook his head. Arrogant to the hilt, he thought. “All right. I'll contact Admiral Terhune and ask him to put you on general broadcast to request a cease fire for diplomatic negotiations."

  Since troops had already been strategically positioned near vulnerable areas, including non-allied countries, they were ready. The Big Red One, outfitted with the latest wea
ponry and joined by troops from Great Britain and Australia, spread out through Iran, evacuating as they went, and assumed defensive formations, then went invisible, whether by neck torc or active camo.

  Moments after the allied troops were in position, the Snapper troop ships moved in. They landed in the terrain surrounding what was left of Tehran and seemed to fairly vomit armed aliens over the landscape. Beaks snapping and clicking loudly, they promptly began tearing into any structures or vegetation they saw with their lasers.

  "NOW!” a voice shouted, and suddenly the Snappers began to do one of four things. They either disappeared entirely; literally fell into pieces; developed multiple smouldering holes in their bodies, entrails falling out through the openings; or dropped to the ground with the strange orange fluid that passed for Snapper blood oozing from every orifice.

  The troop ships converted to tanks instantly, laser turrets spinning about, firing randomly, trying to locate the source of the attack. A few disembodied screams sounded, but for the most part, Snappers just kept dying. The laser turret of a Snapper tank disappeared, along with about half its crew—the top half. The bottom halves merely sat where they'd been, spilling orange blood and green guts over the floor of the tank. The stench was somewhere between dog shit and rotting fish.

  "Target the turrets!” someone shouted, and the Snapper tanks came under a barrage of fire. Invisible disintegrator rays, red and green lasers, concussion cannon, and teleforce rifles all converged on the tops of the tanks. If Snapper infantry happened to get in the way, they were mowed down unceremoniously.

  The smarter tank commanders used the direction of laser fire to target Earth troop emplacements, and took out a few that way. But the other weapons were essentially invisible, and quickly the laser emplacements wised up, firing in short bursts rather than continuous sweeps.

  In short order the first wave of Snappers had been reduced to a remnant, scrambling for cover and attempting to fire from behind rocks and scrub. Even those were soon eliminated, as soldiers outfitted with invisibility devices crept up behind them and either shot them, or simply knifed them.