by Chris Hechtl
Phase I, the landing and pacification of the planet's population center was complete. Now came Phase II going out to the farmsteads and letting them know they were under new management while also rounding up the aliens and Neos for processing and termination.
That would take time considering they made up half of the total population. The general had his people working on retrofitting more efficient methods of termination. Pablo had given him a list, though he hadn't been certain as to why they bothered. If they wanted to conserve ammunition, a knife did the job just as easily and could be reused as long as it was kept sharp.
His always was he thought, fingering the dagger he had on his belt.
Once Phase II was underway, Phase III would then begin, which would mean more propaganda, indoctrination of the humans, especially those under twenty who were male, and changes to their infrastructure and industrial plant to meet the needs of the empire. He'd heard the broadcasts. They were broad spectrum, some heavy, others light and gently pushing the natives into the proper thought patterns the conquers desired. He also knew subsonics, repetitive conditioning, and the usual carrot and stick methods were all being employed.
After the planet was declared cleansed would be Phase 4, which would be the rounding up of any goods for booty to be transported back home while the Horathians trained natives to take their place and handed the control of the planet to him as General Drier's deputy. They would need a strong economy, which meant better industry and farming than they currently had. Destria wouldn't be much of a supply node, but it needed to generate a positive balance of trade.
He was looking particularly forward to that part. It wouldn't be finalized though until the transports returned to pick the troops up for their next assignment or return to the empire proper though.
He had some scores to settle; he had a black book filled with people who had slighted him over the years. He intended to grind each of them down and kill quite a few of them and their families. If he got his chance, he would do so during some of the earlier phases. Technically, the human population was supposed to be off-limits unless they were resisting. But he knew the troops needed to get their jollies while off duty, and hell, he might as well give them the addresses of people who hated their guts and were conspiring to kill them, right? He grinned maliciously at the thought and then whistled to himself as he went on his way. Tomorrow he thought or the day after. They would keep until then, but eventually he would start working his way through his list. Those who hadn't already gotten themselves killed would soon briefly learn to never cross him. Jarold though, he would be the first to feel his righteous wrath.
<)>^<)>/
Wade Oberon did what came naturally in the situation, duck and cover. He was a marked man; he knew it. He was living on borrowed time, both because he was a chimera and because he was a former town mayor and sheriff.
Most of the planetary leadership had been killed as an example or cowed into submission. One or two had turned into quislings, either to save their own neck or because they had been sent to the planet from Horath to help take it over. That bothered a lot of their former friends and neighbors.
Traitors traded up, emptying and then taking over some of the massive farmhouses or mansions in the capital or towns. It was the nature of the beast, Wade thought grimly. The local militias hadn't stood a chance. A few had immediately gone over to the damned invaders, some without a show of force.
Thing were grim and getting grimmer, Wade thought. He should have taken up his brother's offer and traveled with him in the player's caravan. His brother had fallen in love with it; it was his lifelong dream but not Wade's. He was okay as a stand-in and could handle stuff around the sets, but he just didn't have it in him to be a showman. Not anymore.
He was bluff, an honest cop who was stubborn but even tempered. He'd gotten his town so cleaned up the local drunks had reported to his jail rather than get rousted out. He rarely ever had to go around Bixby armed.
No, active resistance was out; he knew as he hung around the bar. He had taken a job on as a bouncer in Mayfellow, but he wouldn't be there long. He was already getting looks due to his odd skin color and eyes. He was a chimera, the descendant of genies, but apparently that didn't matter to the bastards in charge.
Those who resisted passively had set up an underground railroad when news spread of the roundups. He'd had to use it once. The railroad was not an easy thing to set up, let alone run; the Horathians had control of the air and orbitals and anyone caught harboring a fugitive was subject to torture, rape, and death.
Not that the bastards didn't do all three, plus rob someone of everything they had when they got bored anyway, Wade thought darkly. He knew his brother had ideas of being a smuggler on the side, but since he moved around so much, his caravan was a natural target for the invaders.
Wade knew that the invaders were rounding up weapons too, which was why the natives were hiding and hoarding hunting weapons and their ammunition. They were even going back to simple bows, spears, or crossbows in some places … or so he'd heard. Some people, especially Neos went bush in the planet's forests, mountains, and valleys far away from prying eyes. Wade was concerned about Neos going primal but couldn't help them.
His fists tightened briefly as he saw a robotic patrol pass by. He wondered if he was in anyone's database. It might be best to move along soon he thought.
<)>^<)>/
Jon Smith came down from their bedroom and kissed his wife on the cheek. She smiled as he toyed with her apron string, but before she could smack his hands away with her own small wet ones, he went over to the table. “Something smells good,” he murmured.
“Good morning to you too,” she teased as she worked at the farmhouse sink. It was something of a rarity, an old sink, yes, but one with indoor plumbing. The boys had to prime the hand pump every morning as part of their chores and fill the cistern on the tower near the house, but it built muscle and character in them.
And it allowed the household and barn to have fresh running water. Something they hadn't appreciated until they'd stayed at a friend's house and had to do washup and do their business by lugging pales of water in or going out to the troughs.
“Cows are milked,” Jon rumbled as he dried his hands on a hand towel his wife had draped over her shoulder. “And before you ask, yes, I washed my hands. I did it outside since you've got the sink here,” he said.
“Good man,” his wife teased him. She leaned over and gave him another peck as a reward. “You heard about Pete?” Vanessa asked as Jon sat down at the table, practically straddling his seat at the head of the table. There was no coffee or tea, but there was a small glass of juice with his porridge. No sugar for it so it was pretty bland, but Vanessa had fried up a rasher of bacon, crushed it, and cut up an apple into thin slices to put on top of the steaming concoction. He appreciated her efforts as he blew on it to cool it. After being out milking the cows, he was hungry and a bit cold. The porridge would warm him up and stick to his innards as he got on to the rest of the morning chores.
“Pete?” Jon asked, looking at his wife as he picked his spoon up and stirred the porridge.
“Pete, the chimp kid who worked at Al's market. He's married to Flo; they just had their second son. He was at the Bolin's barn raising last spring. The tall chimp in plaid with Flo. He went out after curfew and ran into a robot patrol. They killed him.” Vanessa explained quietly.
Jon sucked in a breath, porridge momentarily forgotten. “Damn. Where did you hear this?” he asked, looking up from his seat at the dinner table.
“I heard at Al's yesterday of course. Rudy told them when she came in just before I did with the delivery. She had more money than she should; she'd come in begging the day before and tried to buy stuff on credit. She claimed she was going to share some of the food she bought with Flo. I hope so. I feel for them,” Vanessa said with a shake of her head. She bit her lip for a moment, looking troubled before she forced herself to go back to the cleaning.
Kevin was young enough to stick to his mother and bide what she said. He'd better mind, Jon thought darkly or the boy would feel his strap. The boy was her muscle and little more, though he was sixteen and in full puberty.
They'd had a couple close calls at checkpoints but apparently the invaders didn't want to starve everyone. They had learned after the first two trips to bring enough to pay the tolls and to hide valuables that they got in trade on the way back, not that money was of much use to them.
He had agreed with Vanessa to keep their daughters at home. It wasn't just a father's desire to protect his daughters. He knew Gretchen was old enough to have been flirting with the boys and would get herself into trouble, surer than shit. And if she did, she'd likely get herself raped, and if one of the family was around, they might end up killed too.
“I know,” Vanessa murmured softly, as if reading his thoughts.
“Someone should do something. But …,” Jon inhaled and then exhaled slowly.
Vanessa shot him a concerned look and then shook her head. Jon had a temper. He was a passionate hard working, stubborn man; that was why she loved him. But he was also smart and most of the time level headed enough to keep him out of trouble. He'd only had a couple brushes with the law when they'd been young; one of them had been defending her honor. “No use sticking your neck out to get it shot off. Best to keep low and survive,” she cautioned.
“I know. But damn it …,” Jon growled; fingers gripping his spoon until his knuckles turned white in his rage.
“Eat your porridge before it gets cool,” his wife urged him as she went back to work washing the laundry.
“I wish we didn't have to hang the clothes out. Putting it up to dry in the laundry makes them all musty,” Gretchen said as she came into the room.
“Good morning to you too, sleepy head,” Vanessa said as their daughter went to the pot and scooped out a ladleful of porridge. “Only one,” Vanessa warned.
“One?” Gretchen asked, clearly aggrieved as she paused to look accusingly at her mother. It wasn't that she ate a lot at breakfast; she didn't normally. But she didn't like being shorted.
“Yes. Your brothers have to eat too. We've got to ration it,” Jon warned. “We're not getting a new harvest in for a couple more months. And we have to tithe part of that to the town and part of it to the invaders,” Jon explained. “Plus, have some for the winter and for trade.”
“Okay,” Gretchen said, sounding disappointed. She appreciated her father explaining it to her, but it still nettled that he had a bigger portion than she did.
Jon didn't say anything as he picked at his own dish. His wife had let him have two, most likely because he was the head of the household and needed his strength to run the farm. It didn't seem right to short his kids though.
Just something else he could lay at the feet of the invading bastards he thought grimly.
<)>^<)>/
Jean Claude Debois noted the self-important and rather smug head quisling Pablo as the short man led a group of militia and invaders to Jarold's home. Jarold had tangled with Pablo years ago. He realized the little vindictive bastard was going to target anyone who hadn't helped him or had refused to join his side. He watched as impassively as he could as the bastards dragged Jarold out of his home and then shot him. He could hear the screams and whimpers from Jarold's wife, sisters, and daughters but could only turn away from the evil.
There was one thing he could and did immediately do; he passed on a quiet warning to others in passing as he walked home from his store. It was all he could do to let those Pablo might go after next to get out of town like Harambe and Bordou had done when they'd started to hear the propaganda broadcasts on the radio network.
Some of it had been long droning speeches that people naturally tuned out. Some of the radio channels had skits; others had music that made the Horathians sound like heroes with bits from seductive women in-between to get the young men salivating.
Too many of the young or desperate would fall for it he knew. The women narrators told stories about how it was great to be a pirate; how they swooned when swashbuckling men came. How righteous their cause was … it was enough to make him gag.
They weren't just on the planet to conquer it. They didn't want their food and valuables; they wanted something far more valuable, their future. The future of their children. The bright light that spoke of better times to come. Now they wanted to twist that, maim it, turn it into a shadow of themselves.
Something had to be done he vowed. Something … someone had to fight. Somehow, someway, they had to find a way to resist he thought as he rounded a corner. His home was in sight.
Being a martyr was out. You couldn't protect your family if you were dead, Jean Claude realized as he looked on at his wife and small children as they stood in the doorway. He would have to find passive ways to resist, ones that didn't draw attention to him and all he held dear he thought as his anger cooled.
<)>^<)>/
“The future is yours to seize if you just step up! Roust out the hated animals that had brought about our race's downfall and raise up a new banner! One where you will get what you deserve!” a rousing voice said from the speaker.
Harambe brushed past the Neoborder collie Bordou. “Shut that crap off,” the silverback growled. The tones in it grated on his ears more than the content. There was something there, something that tickled at the back of his memory. Things about the subsonics in the broadcasts that made his fur stand on end almost as much as what they had to say.
Bordou and others with keener ears had reported that there were voices barely audible whispering in the background, telling people to obey. It was just one more thing to hate and fear the bastards for.
Bordou looked up from where he had been taking notes. He grimaced but then shut the radio off.
“Kiki has brought word that the enemy has started a new phase. You all know about the propaganda crap on the radio,” Harambe said to their collection of refugee families and so-called resistance members. “Now they have started to pen people up like sheep. They are leading them to their deaths and turning on their own,” he said.
Kiki was a small domestic Neocat who was their go-between to the nearby towns. She could slip in and out of the towns and villages and did so on a regular basis. She brought them word and helped to guide refugees to safety when she could. It was risky business; they knew her life would be snuffed out if she was caught.
But they also knew that they needed her. They needed more like her.
“We need to hit back,” Bordou growled from his seat on a stump. “Hit them where it hurts,” he said just as his ears twitched. He looked up to the evening sky.
“Incoming! Everyone to ground now!” Harambe barked, pointing to the shelter of the caves. A mass exodus from the clearing happened almost instantly. Gear and children were gathered up; some left in their haste to get under cover from the airborne drone intruder.
Harambe watched from the shelter of the cave until Bordou gave the all clear. He was the first to slowly step out into the night. He looked up with hating eyes to the cloudless skies above.
Chapter 11
Jethro met with the other Marines once he settled into his cramped quarters with Letanga. The Navy hadn't scrimped on them; the Marines were in troop bays about three meters across, four meters deep, and three meters high. Some of the bays were occupied by some of the lower enlisted squids. Any noncom squids or officers h
ad their own or a shared room.
Jethro and Letanga had a noncom bay due to Jethro's seniority and Bast's antics in the ship's database. He didn't ask questions nor complain. He rather liked having the room half to himself. Well, a third including Bast. And at least he only had to smell wet dog, fox, or bear in the hallway.
The standard troop bays had nine personnel racking out in them. He and Letanga practically had a stateroom, though they did have to watch their heads and toes in certain areas due to the pipes and ducting in the room. The accordion door was also a pain in the ass since it kept sticking.
Traveling was something he should be used to but still took time to settle in each time. Most of the Neos did not like to be cooped up so they roamed as much as possible. The foxes and wolves tended to lope through the ship, either standing or on all four legs. He'd had to crack down on the group after they'd been cracked on by the XO for their chases.
It was odd that there were so many RECON members in their party. He introduced the usual hide and seek game to keep their skills sharp … and to keep them busy and relatively out of the crew's way. They were strictly forbidden to go into off-limit areas like the bridge, engineering country, or personal quarters, but he knew that stipulation would be and was ignored. The foxes and wolves tended to hone in on their target by smell like bloodhounds. To throw them off their prey would leave a false scent trail—usually by getting their scent on some unwitting crew member while they masked their own. Since Jethro had no smell, they instantly complained about it after the second round had gone his way.
Speculation among the group was rampant as they sailed through hyperspace. Jethro tended to stay out of the bullshit sessions, though he hoped and prayed that some of the ideas weren't true. He'd heard that a mission to the neighboring sectors was in the works but didn't want to go to Sigma or Pi sector. It was bad enough being so far from Shanti and the kittens for so long as it was.