The Unlikely Defenders

by Scott Haworth

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  The Unlikely Defenders

  By Scott Haworth

  This is a work of fiction. All characters in this book are fictional and any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

  THE UNLIKELY DEFENDERS

  All rights reserved.

  Copyright 2013 by Scott Haworth

  Cover art by Humblenations.com

  This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. Any reproduction or other unauthorized use of the material or artwork herein is prohibited without the express written permission of the author.

  First edition: January, 2013.

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  For my nephew and niece,

  Perry and Eliza

  Chapter One

  Anarcmy started to relax as the fleet entered the target solar system. He was still not completely at ease. He was technically in charge of more than three billion other Kessiams who felt quite similarly. None of them had the added burden of such a colossal responsibility. He was the leader of an entire civilization, which was a position that no other member of his species had even dreamed about in all of recorded history.

  The monitoring center where he stood was, to say the least, ugly. Seven consoles were arranged in no particular order inside the sizable room. The consoles were designated for the various functions of the ship such as navigation, weapons and astronomy. However, the crewmen who manned the consoles had no control over the corresponding ship functions. They could only relay reports and commands back and forth between Anarcmy and the different sections of the ships. The ship’s commander had not been taken into consideration when the center was designed. Anarcmy sat in a plain chair that had been unceremoniously brought up to the command center from another part of the ship once the oversight had been noticed.

  Anarcmy turned his neck sharply as Bolshak entered the monitoring center. Bolshak would have been the second in command if such a rank existed. Given the ambiguous Kessiam command structure, Anarcmy preferred to think of him merely as his closest friend. Anarcmy could tell by the rigidness of Bolshak’s antennae that there was a problem.

  Bolshak did not salute before speaking as the Kessiams did not have such a gesture. “We have confirmed that the radio signals are coming from New Mortair. They are definitely not a naturally occurring phenomenon.”

  “What radio signals?” Anarcmy sighed. “I wasn’t informed of this”.

  “I’m sorry, Anarcmy. I was under the impression that Murtane was going to inform you. Several days ago we began to pick up the signals. It was only recently that we were able to confirm that they were coming from New Mortair.”

  Anarcmy twitched in agitation. He knew there was no one to blame for the communication breakdown. Having to report to a single leader was a new concept in Kessiam society. “What’s your conclusion given this new data?” he asked, although he already knew the answer.

  “It appears there is an advanced civilization on the planet. It’s difficult to tell just how advanced they are. We’re just now beginning to investigate individual signals.”

  “Very well,” Anarcmy responded while turning his head towards the navigator. “Reduce to one-fiftieth speed. We’ll approach more cautiously while we investigate further.”

  “I’m telling you, Star Trek is racist!” announced Anthony Kern.

  Nick Wilcox, Anthony’s best friend, rolled his eyes. “All right this should be good. How is Star Trek racist?”

  “Haven’t you noticed how they treat Uhura?” Anthony questioned.

  “Yeah, she’s an officer and she gets to serve with the white guys. Most people would see that as a sign of how progressive the series was.”

  “But look what happens in the movies. Kirk becomes an admiral, Spock gets promoted to captain and even the Russian gets bumped up to commander. Now what’s Uhura’s function in the movies?” Anthony inquired.

  “Christ if I know,” Nick responded. “But I’m sure you’re going to tell me.”

  “She’s still the communications officer! Everyone else gets promoted, but she’s still stuck making phone calls. She’s a glorified space receptionist. There’s a glass ceiling in Starfleet for women of color!” Anthony responded while turning to face Nick on the couch. He raised his eyebrows and nodded emphatically as if he were daring Nick to disagree with him.

  “You know what I think?” Nick asked while turning towards his friend. “I think instead of going to class like I probably should have, I stayed here and got drawn into another series of ridiculous arguments.”

  “I assure you my theories on classic television are far more interesting than the French Revolution,” Anthony responded.

  Nick threw his head back on the couch. He knew his friend was right. With only two weeks left in the quarter he found it nearly impossible to get motivated about school. He had already skipped half his classes this week, which would mean a lot more studying once it came time for finals.

  Nick suddenly sat up straight and turned back towards Anthony. “Let’s go play tennis!”

  “Are you nuts? It’s hot as balls out there,” Anthony said.

  It was odd that Anthony was so determined to stay inside the apartment he shared with Nick. Like any apartment occupied by male college students, the place was disgusting. In addition to the couch they were sitting on, the living room contained three beat-up chairs, all of which were unusable due to the amount of papers and clothes stacked on top of them. The uneven coffee table in front of them was likewise littered with garbage including a four-day-old pizza box that was starting to develop a rather unpleasant smell. Nick often remarked that the apartment was proof that the stereotypes for people like Anthony did not always apply.

  “Come on, I need to get up and do something,” Nick begged, although he knew it was unnecessary. He had a great deal of power over Anthony. Anthony was going to come simply because he had asked. “Vicky gets out of class in a few hours so you’ll just be stuck in the apartment by yourself for the rest of the day anyway.”

  Anthony hated hearing that name. He had become quite good at hiding his hatred of Victoria Krieg whenever Nick mentioned her. If Nick wanted to marry that wretched whore it was his business. She made him happy and that was all that mattered to Anthony. Or at least that is what he kept telling himself.

  After Anthony finally agreed, the two left their apartment with tennis rackets in hand. Although it was still early in the month of June the temperature outside was over ninety degrees. The ten minute walk from their apartment just north of campus to the nearest tennis court left them both covered in sweat.

  “Wasn’t it, like, sixty a few days ago?” Anthony complained while taking position at the nearest half of the tennis court.

  “You’ve been in Ohio for three years now. How have you not gotten used to this weather?” Nick chided while walking to the far side. Once in position he grabbed one of the balls from his pocket and gently lobbed it to the other side of the court with his racket. “I don’t know how Vicky can stand to sit through her lectures on a day like this.”

  “Mmm,” Anthony grunted. He was not eager to have another conversation about Nick’s fiancée.

  “It’s like she’s so dedicated to her education. I’m just trying to get the degree, but she’s actually trying to learn,” Nick continued.

  Anthony snorted, which Nick could not hear from the other end of the court, at the awkward complim
enting of Victoria. “Yeah, well… we can’t all be such wonderful scholars like Victoria,” he shouted back. He had never once called her Vicky as he considered it to be a term of endearment.

  Nick returned Anthony’s serve before responding. He considered addressing Anthony’s comment but then changed his mind. Anthony’s obvious animosity towards his fiancée was better left alone. Despite Anthony’s best efforts, Nick was completely aware of his disdain for Vicky. Nick also knew that it had nothing to do with Vicky, who had never given Anthony any reason to hate her. It had never been explicitly stated, but he had known for several years that Anthony was in love with him.

  “It just makes me think about the future,” Nick said, diffusing the situation by changing the subject. “Next year I’ll graduate with a business degree and then what? Other than marrying Vicky I have no idea what I’m going to do. You must be thinking about life after college by now?”

  Irritated by another reminder of Nick’s imminent wedding, Anthony slammed a ball to the opposite side of the court. Nick did not move to intercept it as he was still warming up.

  “You already know what I’m doing after college: more college. A Masters of Education is at least another year here at Ohio State.”

  “Yeah but after that,” Nick responded. “Don’t you think about all the problems with becoming a teacher?”

  “I can think of one pretty big issue the parents might have a problem with,” Anthony responded slyly.

  Nick chuckled before responding, “Yeah, but they can’t deny you a job for that anymore. I don’t know, it seems like everyone has these big plans. You’re going to teach, Vicky is going to develop a grand unified theory of physics or whatever. I’m going to work nine to five crunching numbers. I guess I just always thought I’d do something more meaningful with my life.”

  “Just because you’ll be stuck in an office doesn’t mean— Ah! Shit!” Anthony yelled. He abruptly stopped talking and began violently swinging his racket back and forth in front of his face.

  “Everything okay over there?” Nick asked in amusement.

  “Yeah,” Anthony sighed. “Goddamn fly flew right into my head. I fucking hate bugs!”

  “So you just freaked out because of a bug in your hair? You know you’re gigantic gay stereotype right?”

  “Yeah, yeah,” muttered Anthony as he started to serve another ball.

  “I’d hate to be that bug,” Nick continued. “You’re a killer with that racket.”

  Jeffery Wenzel was dealing with similarly hot weather down in Houston, Texas. It was less humid than in Columbus, Ohio, but that came as little relief to Jeffery. He was twenty minutes into his commute from work which meant he had another twenty to go. He had been called in to cover part of a shift for another employee at the McDonald’s where he worked. This meant he did not even get a full day’s pay. It did not really matter. He was not wasting gas money as he could no longer afford a car. It was not a waste of his time either. He had no friends, and his family had disowned him long ago. His free time was always spent alone at home.

  He walked at a steady pace with his eyes fixed on the sidewalk and his hands stuffed in the pockets of his pants. He was rarely recognized or hassled so far away from his apartment, but it did happen occasionally. The problems usually came when he got back home. He told himself he could not move because his apartment was one of the few places he could both afford and be allowed to live. While these were both valid reasons, neither was the main factor that kept him from relocating. Jeffery stayed because he felt he deserved the abuse.

  The coast looked clear as Jeffery, dripping with sweat, finally made it to his front door. However, as he was turning the key he noticed a man running towards him.

  Jesus, even with an erratic schedule they manage to get me, he thought.

  He probably could have made it inside safely. At the very least he could have tried to avoid the attack. Jeffery decided, as he always did, not to bother trying. He did not flinch as the egg hit him in the back. It was a familiar sensation.

  “Get the fuck out of here, kiddy rapist!” the assailant yelled before turning and jogging off.

  Jeffrey waited until the man was out of range before entering his apartment. In a way he considered himself lucky. It was Texas after all, and the projectiles used in the attacks could easily escalate from eggs to bullets. He gingerly removed his uniform shirt, careful not to drip too much on the carpet. He set it down on the floor stain side up. Most of his clothes had stains. Jeffery had quickly found that frequent trips to the laundromat were pointless. They led to more attacks which led to more stained clothing. He did not bother fetching a new shirt since it felt like a sauna in his apartment anyway. It was too expensive to run the air conditioning. He plopped down into the raggedy recliner he had bought at a garage sale a few months earlier. The bottom of the chair snapped, leaving him sitting far lower in the seat than he had expected.

  Jeffery sighed and closed his eyes. How can life get any worse? he thought.

  On board the U.S.S. Russell in the Bay of Bengal it was, not surprisingly, quite hot. Unlike the others who he would meet in the not too distant future, Lieutenant Commander Marcus Schwarz had nowhere to walk. The navy destroyer was in the middle of the ocean 200 miles east of India. It was taking part in a massive joint training exercise with the Indian navy. The exercises had little practical use. However, they were quite good at illustrating that the United States was concerned about the rapid expansion of the Chinese military.

  The Russell’s bridge was much prettier than the monitoring center of its alien counterpart. Marcus could pace comfortably in the aisle that bordered a long row of equipment and personnel stations. He could even enjoy the scenery outside the row of windows in front of him. The view was only that of the ocean and the bow of the ship. Marcus was far too tense to enjoy the limited scenery anyway. He was on his first deployment in a long time.

  “I’m going to run to the head,” Commander Morris said. He had leaned close to Marcus’s face so that only the executive officer could hear him. “Hold down the fort.”

  “Aye, Captain,” Marcus responded despite the fact that Morris’s rank was less than Captain. Naval tradition dictated that the commander of a vessel was referred to as Captain regardless of rank.

  Morris had chosen a rather boring time to leave Marcus in command, for which the latter man was thankful. The current exercise was exploring a scenario of a major fire onboard the flagship of the fleet, the U.S.S. Harry Truman. While two of the other destroyers were tasked with aiding the crippled aircraft carrier, the Russell was ordered to patrol for hypothetical enemy submarines. While the sonar room was busy pretending to search for Chinese attack subs, the bridge was relatively quiet.

  “Sir,” started a young lieutenant to Marcus’s right. “The Indian cruiser to starboard is reporting an intermittent sonar contact. They’re requesting we confirm the contact.”

  “That’s not supposed to be part of the exercise,” Marcus responded.

  “I don’t think it is, sir. They seem to think they really have a contact.”

  “Their equipment must be malfunctioning,” Marcus said as though that settled the matter.

  After a moment the helmsman reluctantly spoke up, “Sir, should I alter course to investigate?”

  “No just tell them to check… well, maybe we should. It’s possible that…” Marcus trailed off. He looked desperately towards the hatch through which Morris had exited. “Let’s stand by. The captain will be back shortly.”

  “Aye, sir,” responded the helmsman. He shot a concerned look to another member of the bridge crew.

  Commander Morris returned a few minutes later, much to the relief of everyone on the bridge. He took the ship to investigate the Indian cruiser’s report. They were able to quickly determine that it had been a malfunction of the Indian vessel’s equipment. The exercise continued for two hours before the crew shift occurred.

  The helmsman grabbed another man by the shoulder as he e
xited the bridge. “What the hell was that about? Why is the old man so jittery?”

  “For the same reason he’s still only a lieutenant commander at his age,” responded the crewman. “Didn’t you hear the story before you transferred over here?”

  “No,” responded the helmsman. “What he do?”

  “Commander Schwarz had his own command a few years back. The Porter was running drills off Oahu when it ran through a civilian yacht. Killed a whole family.”

  “Shit, I remember hearing about that,” responded the helmsman. “I had no idea it was him. He fucked up that badly and they didn’t discharge him?”

  “From what I hear it might not have been his fault. It was night time and that yacht was a lot farther out than it should have been. The seas were rough so they didn’t pick up the little boat on radar until they were almost on top of it.”

  “Sounds like he’s got friends in high places to me,” the helmsman angrily replied.

  “Nah, he’s just a little jittery. He got the green light from a board of inquiry. They seem to think he’s competent enough to return to duty.”

  “Well they seem to be wrong,” the helmsman continued. “I sure as hell wouldn’t want to go into a shooting war with that guy. Would you?”

  The other crewman shrugged his shoulders, which did not answer the question one way or the other.

  Stuck in the southernmost part of the southern hemisphere, Shawn Humphrey was not in the least bit hot. In fact, he had not felt warm in months. It had been bad in the summer, but now winter had fallen upon the Amundsen-Scott South Pole Station. Shawn had compiled a list of things he missed back in civilization, not the least of which was sunlight. However, the lack of sunlight would have been bearable if not for a much bigger problem. There were only a dozen other human beings at the facility and not one of them was a woman. Given what had happened back at the United States Geological Survey, he knew the lack of women was not an accident.