by Unknown
On the Monday that the recruiters had first arrived, she remained hanging back along the outer edge of the crowd of kids checking things out. She noticed that the first thing that caught most everyone’s attention was the flashiness of the dress uniforms. Each branch had a unique design, and different forms of rank. That, though, failed to draw any appeal for her. A uniform, after all, was just that. There were more important things to consider.
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Minerva studied the posters on the walls behind each desk. Those, too, were mere glamour, though they did offer a tidbit of information. The Army, for example was clearly in the business of holding and defending real estate. Of operating supply routes, and providing domestic defense.
The Air Force, Space Navy, and Surface Navy were more technologically oriented, which cued some interest.
The Global Marines, though, for some reason pulled at her. Minerva returned to the recruiter’s desk often, listening to the sergeant answer the questions put to him by eager students. She learned that the Marines held themselves to the highest standards of fitness, discipline, and honor. They were traditionally the first in to a battlefield, the best of the best. Their enlistment bonus, surprisingly, was less than what the other branches were offering. When asked why this was, the sergeant’s reply was cool, and frank.
“Because, we want recruits who desire more than just the money. We want those who want to stand above the rest.”
That was what finally sold Minerva.
On Thursday evening, after supper, she announced her decision to her mother and father. There was a stunned silence at first. Her mother wept. Her dad held his opinion while she laid out her reasons for wanting to join up. After some time, he consented, seeing the logic in her words. By then, Minerva had proven herself a responsible girl. It was time to let her spread her wings, and fly. There was little sleep in the Carreno household that night. There were, instead, many tears shed. Phone calls made to relatives.
On Friday morning, Minerva left her home, and her parents, unsure of when she would see them again. If ever. War was, after all, looming on the proverbial horizon. She walked to school, and went straight to the gym. She shouldered her way through the usual gaggle of kids gathered about the recruitment desks, and looked the Marine sergeant
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in the eye.
“Sign me up.” She told him decisively.
There must have been something in her demeanor, or the tone of her voice. Some small thing set her apart from the other kids to that man. The sergeant blinked, seemed to look sad, and handed her the form and a pen.
She signed her name to bottom line, and rose her right hand to be sworn in while the other kids around her cheered her on. Minerva did not hear them, though. Her entire being was focused on the words being given to her to repeat. She swore to defend her nation against all enemies, foreign or domestic. She understood that she was surrendering her freedom, her very life, to the demands of her government. It was a solemn moment for her.
When that was done, the marine stamped a large, red A on her form, and placed it in a brown file folder before giving it to her.
“You will keep this with you at all times until you arrive at the recruit training center,” he told her.
Minerva regarded the stamp on her form, the first page of what would become her service file, “What’s the red A for?”
The sergeant gave a terse shake of the head, “That’s none of your concern. Now wait outside. A van will be along shortly to take you to the local airport.”
She thanked him, and went out as she was told, feeling a lightness to her step. In the signing of a paper, she had been graduated from school, and was now a member of the armed services. She was on her own, a young adult. It felt different, thrilling, terrifying. Most of all, there was a sense of adventure like nothing she’d experienced before. In only a few hours, she would be leaving the planet! What sights, and experiences awaited her out there?
As promised, an unmarked, white van arrived a short
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time later. She, and nearly twenty others from the senior class got on board, and were taken to the Winslow airport. Another sizable group was already waiting there, recruits gathered from the neighboring towns of Joseph City, and Holbrook. Minerva guessed that there might have been close to fifty kids gathered in the lobby.
Less than an hour later, a green U.S. Army bus pulled around from the motor pool situated behind the tent city, and parked just outside. The driver, an Army sergeant, got out, and strode into the waiting area.
“Marine recruits, load up!”
The kids filed outside, and got on the bus, rowdy, and boisterous. The sergeant did not appear to give a damn one way or another how they behaved. His job was to drive them to wherever they were going, and that was that. Minerva once again hung back, and was among the last to get on, which put her right up front, near the driver.
She refrained from taking part in the banter around her, instead gazing out the window, watching as they left town. She tried to engrave every building, tree, and house into her memory, to take it all with her for comfort should she get homesick.
The bus crossed town, and took the on-ramp for I-40 West. The scenery zipped past as they climbed toward Flagstaff, the landscape gradually changing from the ruddy reds, browns, and oranges of the plateau into scrubby juniper and green grasses dotted with patches of wild sunflowers. Just under an hour later, they were in the tall pines and broken cliffs of the college town. The long-dormant volcano, and the San Francisco Peaks dominated the view.
There was considerably more military traffic mixed in with the tourists, students, and residents that were hustling about in their daily routines. Mostly drab green Hummers, and the new Hummer-Jeeps that so resembled the models Minerva remembered from her history book. World War
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Two had been carried by the Willy’s Jeep, and like so many other of the antique fashions of the 1940’s being revived in popularity, even the military was getting on the bandwagon.
In the recent years, there had been a near-religious fervor for the styles of the early 1900’s. Clothing from the era had made a dramatic come-back, with men wearing suits and hats, and women raving over the summer dresses, and having their hair done. The auto industry was making money hand-over-fist with hot sales of cars and trucks in demand for the models of the same years. Old-style car bodies over modern plasma-gasoline fusion engines. Even many of the 18-wheelers were beginning to appear with those old designs, chugging along with their plasma-diesel power plants.
Minerva had often wondered why people were so thirsty for the ‘Good ol’ Days,’ but part of her already knew the answer to that. Technology in every field had progressed with ever-increasing speed for as long as she could remember, and with all of the conveniences that such breakthroughs delivered, there was still that minute fear in the back of one’s mind. It was impossible to keep up, to fully understand many things. There was a feeling of reassurance by reverting to the days of old, when time seemed to move so much slower, and a body could actually connect with the environment.
The bus veered toward the I-10 South interchange, and Minerva knew then that they were on their way to Phoenix. She recalled the recruiter mentioning that the training center was located on Attaya, which meant for sure that they were going to Sky Harbor Airport. She had no idea how things would transpire from there. Of how they would actually get all the way to the Attayan System, or long it took. A thrill ran through her at that thought. This would be her first off-world journey, and to an alien planet at that!
The Attayans had been close acquaintances with Earth since their discovery over eighty years prior. With the
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ironing-out of the Anderson Drive systems, the space program had been able to leap unimagined distances without the time distortions of light-speed travel, turning what would normally take light-years to cross from one star to another into hours, days, or weeks.
Manned probes had been promptly
sent out to as many points as possible to begin charting what was now a reachable ocean of darkness, and by chance, a patrol happened across errant radio transmissions. They followed them into a seven-planet system orbiting a yellow star, and found what would be later known as Attaya.
The world was inhabited by natives that were astonishingly similar to humans. Bi-pedal, intelligent, and just ahead of Earth in technological advances. They averaged six feet in height, and were covered head-to-toe in fine, silky fur.
The first-contact went surprisingly well, considering the fact that the Attayans had been long aware of Earth to begin with, and had been studying several of the major dialects. The envoy that greeted the explorers spoke fluent Spanish, Japanese, and English. They had been patiently waiting for Earth to make the first gesture.
A sharing of intelligence and the establishment of the Trade World Agreement brought wealth to both societies. Unfortunately, because of the distance involved, and the shortage of privately owned vessels capable of making the journey kept travel between worlds prohibitively expensive for all but the filthy rich. Only corporate, government, and military officials were privy to actually seeing an Attayan in-person. Once Attaya had established embassies on Earth, one in each of the super-power districts, they turned into tourist attractions.
To the shock of all, medical analysis revealed that the Attayans shared an identical DNA sequence as the humans of Earth. The feline-like race was actually as human as we.
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They had all the same pestilences, immunities, and the like. Their evolution had taken a slightly different turn over time, for reasons no one knew, but they were our galactic brothers and sisters.
Studies of their culture revealed many similar religions as well, with some so odd that even after eight decades, no one understood them. The astounding match that caught the most attention was their large sect of Christianity.
They had bibles that mirrored our own, and had staunch beliefs in Christ, with references to all of the same regions surrounding Israel. For the Attayans, Israel had long been a place of mysterious antiquity, a place somewhere in the Heavens. Once they discovered that the area was an actual place on earth, shockwaves reverberated throughout their communities.
Minerva had been raised a Catholic, but her family had not been what most would call ‘practicing.’ The religious similarities of the two races of human were amazing, yes, but carried no real significance for her. The excitement that she felt had to do with being on an alien world, and seeing for the first time, the Attayans with her own eyes, and not just on TV, or in a book. Of the adventures that she would experience, and be able to tell her friends and family about down the road.
Her memory touched on other things that her history teacher had lectured about.
Unfortunately, with the good, came the not so good.
The Attayans informed the then-president of United Earth that there was yet another race of humans residing out there. Nearer the galactic core, an active, and somewhat aggressive breed that called themselves Storians.
The Storian race was made up of better than a hundred different sects, but the predominant one-the oldest, was the largest, and most violent. The Prime Minister and the senate regularly dispensed cruelty to those deemed lesser.
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They already had a tentative relationship with the Attayans with trade agreements, and certain economic arrangements, but there were always long-standing limits. Storians were suspicious by nature, and easily resorted to violence among themselves for reasons no one truly comprehended.
When Earth came into the picture, the newcomer Terrans were regarded with open distrust, and borderline hostility. It took better than ten years to gain even minute cooperation with them. Finally, after two decades, the Trade Alliance included the three superpowers, seated side-by-side in the circle of the United Nations. A single embassy was permitted to be established in the Storian capital, and fiercely monitored immigration of diplomats and their families permitted.
Over the years, there had been countless mysterious encounters along the trade routes, where freighters simply vanished where the furthest regions of the Terran frontier bordered the Storian. While there had been no overt accusations of Storian piracy, both Earth and Attaya suspected as such, but there was never any real solid evidence. Several incidents of corporate espionage committed by Storian rival companies brought about a long-standing, undeclared cold war of spy versus spy. The tensions steadily grew by the day.
While Minerva had never seen an Attayan in person, she had once seen a Storian. It had been by sheer chance while her class was on an educational tour of the state capital in Phoenix. The Storian was an ambassador, and had walked within a few feet of her while passing from one hall to another.
The man had been short, barely over five feet, and had a stocky build. Bald as a cucumber, without even eyebrows, and most noticeably, a lack of exterior ears. His skin was dark-olive, and very dry-looking, nearly scaled. He
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had glanced in her direction, and her heart nearly stopped when he blinked. His eyelids had closed from the side, instead of up and down.
Slang for the two races varied, but the more popular were the terms of 'cat' for the Attayans, and ‘lizard’ for the Storians. Both were considered highly offensive by the respective races. Minerva was sure that they must have monikers of their own for the people of Earth, but she had yet to hear any of them.
Visions of what Attaya might look like filled Minerva’s head, and the bright future suddenly before her. The opportunities. She was toying with thoughts of perhaps remaining in the Corps beyond her obligatory six years, and going career. Maybe even going for officer’s rank. The possibilities, which had been so limited only hours before, were now seemingly endless.
The smile that parted her lips lit her face.
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Three
The Tyrant Approaches
The Pentagon
Wing 5, Department of Combined Navies
Space Command
Fleet Admiral Green pushed himself away from his desk, and checked his watch. His growling stomach was telling him that he was overdue for lunch, but at the rate things had been going that morning, he doubted if it would be possible to break away for even a quick bite.
Communiques were piled high on one side of his expansive desk, alongside reports gathered from intelligence agents in the field. Every one of them bode certain ill. Events near the galactic frontier were spinning very rapidly out of control. His head spun trying to keep up with it all, and what stood above the entire mess was the sick, and frightening actions of one self-declared Emperor Grozet.
In the three weeks that his forces had been on the surface of the Pala Colony, Grozet’s 1st Army had carved a substantial chunk from the outlying cities and industrial complexes, laying waste to every structure not deemed valuable to the war machine. Civilian homes, towns, and highways were being ground down to rubble. Worse, the civilians themselves were being slaughtered right along with the meager standing defense forces. Even domestic animals were being killed. It was clear that the Palan sect of the Storian bloodline was facing certain genocide.
The powers-that-be in the Trade Alliance were frantic in trying to decide what kind of response, if any, was going
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to be appropriate to the goings-on behind the Storian frontier.
Green rubbed at his eyes with the palms of his hands, and gazed out of the window at the expanse of autumn foliage beyond the parking lot. It was a beautiful day out there, the air crisp, sky clear. There was no hint in that scene that told of the troubles brewing. No one could have guessed.
One of the phones on his desk buzzed for attention. There were two of them, one a standard 8-line job that was attached to a scrambler to secure the line. The other was a proverbial ‘Red Phone.’ A private line where only other command-level staff, or the President, could reach him, or vise-versa.
Naturally, it was the damned red line that was
buzzing.
He toyed with the thought of not answering it, of just getting up, and walking out to the cafeteria. That, he knew, would be a poor decision, though, considering the growing dynamo of turmoil.
With some apprehension, he touched the reply button.
The viewer clicked on, revealing General Parks, who was seated at his own desk in the opposite wing.
“Doug, it’s Lance.”
Admiral Green had to grin at the statement of the obvious, “No kidding.”
Parks, who was normally quite jovial, appeared to be in an uncharacteristic mood. His face was serious.
“Doug, do you have your newsfeed on?”
Green shook his head, “TV’s off. I’m up to my eyeballs in paperwork.”
“Turn on your set,” Parks urged him. “Quickly.”
All hints at humor erased, Green touched a control built into the side of his desk. On the wall across from him, a flat screen came to life, already tuned to GNN. It was the only channel he had time for, and that network had an
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uncanny ability to get their hands on to footage and information before his own intel operatives could. They were an unlikely, and surprising source of data for the Pentagon.
The image leapt out at him sharp and clear. It was bouncy photography of a city street in shambles, being filmed from a vantage point up higher, perhaps three stories or so from a rooftop.
Below, dust and smoke swirled together as the flash and snap of plasma rounds danced back and forth between different factions of soldiers. Palan defense forces were pinned down, scrambling for cover, or for better fields of fire while Storian regular army troops pounded them. Parked cars were burning, the streets littered with rubble. Bodies were scattered everywhere, both military and Storian civilian. Storefronts were shattered, and many windows belched smoke from fires burning within.
Emerging from the haze came a massively constructed tank, trundling effortlessly forward over the layers of brick and flesh. Infantry shadowed it, laying down a withering storm of rifle fire. Tri-barreled side guns mounted on either side of the turret swiveled, delivering horrific streams of plasma into the fray. Roofs of automobiles flipped into the air, shredded. Chunks of asphalt flew outward, peppering the retreating defenders. Many were torn asunder, the gore spraying their squad mates.
