“Go ahead, Sergeant.”
“I got bad news. We’re losing the quadrant to the southwest.”
Avery sucked air through his teeth. “Pull back to the northwest. To Frontier HQ. That’s where we’ll make our stand.” He barely stopped himself from saying “last stand.”
This tasted sour. There were still plenty of civilians scattered throughout the city, who hadn’t made it to either a shuttle or a shelter. And Avery was abandoning them.
It also wouldn’t look good that the area he’d identified as most defensible also happened to be the one where Frontier HQ was situated. But it was true. The company tower was outfitted with defensive turrets on all sides, and it overlooked a broad square.
This is the call that needs to be made. The kind of call you agreed to make by accepting that promotion.
As rotten as it felt, he knew he was right. He also knew that, even falling back to Frontier HQ—even if Sunder marines really were on their way—their odds for beating back the Xanthic looked pretty bad.
Chapter Three
New Houston, Oasis Colony
Freedom System, Dupliss Region
Earth Year 2290
Hans Mittelman paced the living room of the fourth-floor apartment he’d broken into, occasionally peeking through the cheap ivory curtains at the fighting in the street outside.
He grimaced. Xanthic and marines were still slaughtering each other out there.
How did I allow myself to end up in this situation?
Most people wouldn’t have blamed themselves. They’d make the easy excuses: how could Mittelman have known the Xanthic would swarm up from underground here on Oasis? How could he have known that this had been the wrong day to take a solitary stroll through Starlight Gardens on the outskirts of the city?
But he wasn’t the type to let himself off the hook so easily. It wasn’t just his job to gather intel, but to deftly apply it to every situation he encountered. Everyone knew the Xanthic were capable of this. It wasn’t special knowledge. The only mental leap required would have been to consider that they could do it in the Dawn Cluster, too. And there was never any reason to think they couldn’t.
I should have considered this possibility. I should have stayed vigilant. Now I’m paying the price.
He kicked at the threadbare, maze-patterned rug that anchored the sparse room. He should have kicked himself instead.
Cut that out. You’re beginning to sound pathetic.
Indeed. It wasn’t the first time he’d made a mistake—even he wasn’t impervious to them. Yes, he taxed himself fiercely for them, but it didn’t mean he could afford to let it throw him off.
Another look through the curtains, just in time to watch a marine stiffen before hitting the ground like a piece of cordwood.
“Come on,” he muttered. This apartment’s occupants had long since fled to one of the many underground bunkers that Rand Survival, another member of the Oasis Protectorate, had been contracted to install all over the city. Whether they’d actually made it to the bunker was anyone’s guess. Their locations weren’t secret—not to citizens of the city, anyway. Hopefully, the Xanthic remained ignorant to their existence.
The marines were falling back, just as they’d been doing all day. Mittelman’s jaw clenched as he watched them. I’m out of time. This quadrant would belong to the Xanthic in a matter of minutes.
He sprinted out the apartment’s open door, barreled down the hall, passed the elevator, and began pounding down the stairs. When he reached the glass doors that let out onto the street, he hesitated only a second, even though a Xanthic stood nearby with its back turned to him.
As warm as New Houston’s day had been, its night was quickly turning cold. He turned up the collar of his jacket against the biting wind and pressed himself against the apartment building, sidling to his right while the Xanthic moved away from him to his left.
He’d almost made it to an alleyway when one of the beasts suddenly turned, its tendrils whipping its weapon toward him. Moonlight glimmered dimly off its papery yellow carapace, and gleaming blades projected from its arm, above its tendrils. Its head was insectile, with bulbous black orbs and more yellowy tendrils that might have looked like hair, if not for their thickness and constant movement.
Mittelman heaved himself backward into the alley, barely dodging the high-velocity spike the Xanthic had fired at him from a launcher. Before he could tear himself away to run down the alley, his gaze hitched on the part of the building his attacker had hit. The otherwise smooth marble surface now projected outward in complex geometric patterns—topography laid over topography, all with a hauntingly beautiful symmetry.
Mittelman shook himself and dashed down the alley. No parting shots were fired. He wasn’t sure the thing had even bothered to watch him go.
The next street over was empty of Xanthic or marines, and so was the next. True safety likely lay to the north, at Frontier HQ, but actually reaching it seemed doubtful. There was an entrance to a public shelter on the next street over, which offered a much better shot at survival.
He sprinted across a dirt-strewn parking lot to his destination street, then kept to the shadows as much as possible while he made his way toward the shelter entrance. Still no Xanthic. He didn’t deserve such good luck. Not after the morning’s oversight. But he would take it. I suppose I was shot at by an alien. Maybe that’s penance enough.
“Yes,” a voice said seconds after he activated the intercom outside the shelter’s entrance, which was nestled inside thick concrete walls, with a joining overhead segment to protect people from whatever disaster had befallen the city as they squeezed through.
Yes, Mittelman repeated in his head. A single syllable, but it carried volumes of meaning. He could tell from its intonation that the speaker was already determined not to help him. There was really only one reason that might be, but he needed to go through the motions regardless.
Pulling his coat tighter around him—in the event there was an active camera on him, the motion could help garner him some sympathy—he said, “Please. Let me in. The aliens are everywhere out here.”
“Can’t.” The voice stayed just as gruff, just as clipped. It made Mittelman picture a man in his early fifties, growing round in all the traditional places, his clothes struggling to contain him. A man used to authority. That means he’s used to obeying authority, too. Unless he’s clawed himself all the way up to King Shit of the Universe, which I tend to doubt.
It was time to drop the desperate act. King Shit clearly wasn’t biting. “Why not?”
“We’re full up. Past full. There’s another shelter five blocks to the north. Try there.”
Based on recent experience, those blocks swarmed with Xanthic. But playing on this asshole’s sympathy clearly wasn’t an approach likely to bear fruit.
Let’s try this. “You think you’re safe in there, but you’re not.”
“Excuse me?” King Shit’s voice had taken on a nasal quality, and Mittelman’s mental image of him shifted. Now he saw a reedy low-level office grunt. Maybe a city administrator, lording his piddling power over whoever his bosses had seen fit to place under him.
“These shelters were built to protect you from a tornado, or maybe an attack by a hostile corp. But that’s not what’s come to New Houston. The Xanthic are unlike anything we’ve ever encountered. There isn’t any infrastructure we can put in place to keep safe from them, because we’ve never experienced an attack like this.” In a past life, Mittelman had been a corporate defense lawyer, which had been about making the opponent look bad more than it was about making his client look good. The second one was often impossible, whereas digging up dirt on an adversary was only a matter of time and effort. The Xanthic were pure dirt, and if he could make them loom big and terrifying in this man’s mind…
“Why do you want to get in here, then?”
“What?”
“You said there’s nothing we can build to protect against them.”
�
��In there is still better than out here.”
“Well, we’re still full up.”
Mittelman smiled. “You’ll make room for me.”
“What makes you think that?”
“Because I’m a prominent executive with Frontier Security. Which means your chance of surviving today depends on my ability to coordinate with other company elements from a secure location. Like this shelter.”
That brought a silence of a few seconds, and Mittelman resisted the urge to glance over his shoulder to check for Xanthic.
“Got ID?”
His smile broadening, Mittelman fished in his pocket for his billfold, letting it tumble open to reveal his corporate ID card.
The card named him as Harold Wills, Logistics Specialist. Rose had been smart enough to supply him with a fake identity and role without having to be asked. It should be enough to convince King Shit.
The door clicked open, whispering across the track it rested on as it retracted into the wall. Mittelman stepped through to find a stocky, muscular man with spiked red hair.
That’ll teach me to make assumptions. He extended his hand.
The man shook it, too vigorously. The gruffness that had infused his voice was gone, now, replaced by a conciliatory smile that stretched his cheeks boyishly. “It’s a pleasure to have you with us, Mr. Wills. I’m Rodney Green. Sorry for keeping you out there, but you can’t be too careful.”
Mittelman allowed himself to chuckle sardonically. That wasn’t caution you showed me out there. No matter. He was inside, now.
Beyond King Shit sat a long room with two benches facing each other, filled with frightened-looking civilians. More people stood, mostly men and teenage boys, who’d left the seats for women and children.
A closed door adorned the far wall. Closed probably meant locked, otherwise these people would have opened it, if only for the extra space.
Mittelman nodded toward the door. “That’s the control room, I take it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You have the key?”
King Shit hesitated. “Well sir, I’ve been overseeing the lines myself…keeping city security updated on—”
“On these civilians’ moods? I’m sure you can understand the importance of allowing me exclusive use of the control room, yes, Mr. Green?”
“Of course.” With great reluctance, King Shit detached a key ring from his belt, and handed it over.
A cursory study showed it held only two keys, identical to each other. “Thanks.”
Mittelman smiled at the people lining the benches as he passed, winking at a young boy who stared at him like he was a walking miracle, descended from on high. No one spoke to him—only gawked. Then he was at the office door, unlocking it, stepping briskly through, and slamming it behind him.
He locked the deadbolt and turned to take in the furniture. A holoscreen, a data entry pad, a comm unit. More importantly: a desk and a plush chair. He strode around the cramped room, adjusted the chair as high as it would go, and deposited himself into it, kicking his feet up onto the desktop.
Within minutes, he was sound asleep.
Chapter Four
Aboard the New Jersey, Low Oasis Orbit
Freedom System, Dupliss Region
Earth Year 2290
“Guerrero, what’s the latest from the satellite uplink?”
Lines of tension creased the Ops officer’s forehead as she turned toward the captain’s chair. “Another group of Xanthic have emerged two miles east of the city.”
Commander Tad Thatcher nodded. “XO?”
“On it, sir.”
Thatcher didn’t have to spell out the order, since it was the same one he’d been giving for hours. Guerrero spotted and called the targets. Lieutenant Commander Billy Candle worked with Ortega, the chief tactical officer, to arrive at a firing solution as soon as possible. One that took into account the Xanthic’s trajectory and velocity, anticipating where the aliens would be when the Jersey’s shot struck the planet’s surface.
“Lieutenant Bragg reports the next tungsten rod has been loaded into the launcher, sir.” Guerrero brought a hand halfway to her face while she spoke, then dropped it to her lap. “They’re ready to fire on your command.”
“Very good.” Thatcher was impressed by how well Guerrero was holding up. The Ops officer was tense under the best of circumstances, and anything that put Oasis in danger tended to amplify her natural twitchiness. She had family down there. A husband and two young children.
Today should have been even worse. Xanthic swarmed the city, killing marine and civilian alike. Their numbers and their strange new weapons were carrying the day, and Thatcher wondered whether he’d have any marines by the end of it, let alone a colony to protect. There’d been no time for anyone in the CIC to check in with loved ones on the planet’s surface, to figure out whether they were safe. Even if we had the time, I doubt they’d have much luck contacting anyone, with all the chaos down there.
But instead of making Guerrero fall apart, it appeared to have hardened her. Made her more determined to make each shot count. That’s how I know I have a good officer. He’d had his reservations about Guerrero since taking command of the New Jersey, but now he felt the last of them evaporating. She was a spacer, and when the chips were down, she delivered.
Everyone was delivering, today. Totally focused on their work. They were facing an attack with no analog in all of human history, and it seemed no one wanted to look themselves in the mirror later with the knowledge they hadn’t done everything within their power to minimize the damage. The loss of innocent life.
Candle looked up from the console he and Ortega sat hunched over. “Firing solution ready, Captain.”
Thatcher didn’t hesitate. “Fire the tungsten rod.”
A few seconds later, Guerrero’s fist clenched atop her station. “Rod is away, sir.”
Unlike most of the light cruiser’s weapons, this one sent no tremor through the ship upon firing. It had taken a few shots for Thatcher to get used to that, but he mostly accepted it now. He just reminded himself that, when fired from orbit, a projectile needed very little initial velocity to wreak considerable damage on the planet’s surface. Unofficially known as “rods from God,” by the time the tungsten rod reached Oasis, gravity would accelerate it to startling speeds. When it struck, the energy release would be immense. If he’d wanted to, he could have directly accessed a lower satellite’s visual feed and watched the mushroom cloud from space.
Indeed, if they fired the rods with too much force, they would risk endangering the city. That was why they launched it with just enough force to ensure it entered the atmosphere at the proper position and angle to strike the target.
Thatcher found himself gazing at the holotank, which sat empty at the front of the CIC. With nothing inside it, the large sophisticated display looked hollow to him. Desolate. It felt odd to conduct operations with nothing there to analyze. Yes, if he wanted he could supplement his impression of the battle below with satellite imagery, but he feared that would impair his effectiveness, not enhance it. If he let himself see how close to the city his orbital strikes were coming, would he be able to bring himself to keep ordering them?
I took this job to protect Americans. To protect humanity. Now, I endanger them with my own ship’s weapons.
He did it with the goal of saving as many lives as he could. Still…with their surprise invasion, the Xanthic had forced his hand in a way that would steal his sleep for many nights to come.
I can’t believe Veronica Rose is down there. They’d been on Helio Base 5 when they learned of the Xanthic attack. Rose could easily have remained on the Jersey and conducted operations from there. Instead, she’d chosen to take a shuttle to the planet’s surface at once, despite Thatcher’s objections.
“My father didn’t just teach me how to run the admin side of things, you know,” she told him. “He didn’t want me to be a glorified secretary. He trained me to be able to fight alongside my sold
iers, if the need arose. But whether I ended up in battle or not, he wanted me to have a deep understanding of what my people go through every time I send them out to lay their lives on the line.”
He’d resisted the urge to massage his temples. “You don’t actually plan to fight the Xanthic yourself, do you?”
A coy smile stretched one corner of her mouth. “I mean, I don’t plan to seek them out.”
The look on his face must have convinced her to take some mercy on him, then, because she softened her tone. “I can coordinate things better planetside, Thatcher. That’s all.”
He’d nodded, and she’d climbed into the shuttle. Now, he sat in the captain’s chair, almost wishing she were here in the CIC, interfering with his ops like she had a few times before. Every time he thought of her somewhere down there—who knew where?—the queasy sensation in his stomach grew worse.
Frontier would be finished without her. I can’t think of a single person worthy of replacing her.
But that wasn’t the only source of his unease. He worried for her safety on a personal level, too.
He shook himself, returning his attention to the task at hand, casting his gaze across the various stations inside his CIC. Everyone was intent on their tasks, zeroed in on the data their consoles showed them.
“Sir.” Lucy Guerrero’s voice came out sounding strangled. “A large group of Xanthic just emerged from the ground right next to the city, to the southwest.”
Thatcher clenched his fists atop the armrests. “Forward me the latest satellite image.”
“We don’t have much time, sir.”
“Forward me the image,” he said, sterner than he’d intended.
It flashed on his holoscreen—a 2D image, well short of what the display was capable of. It gave him what he needed, though. A yellow mass advancing toward New Houston, already within three miles of it and closing fast.
They must have tunneled to that location. The city had some caves around it, where colonists liked to picnic on warm summer days. But it didn’t have enough to accommodate a horde this large.
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