Overture

by Mark Wandrey

  “Freeze,” he heard behind him, followed by the sound of a bolt slamming home. He sighed and stood up, dropping his beloved Sig to the ground, and raising his hands above his head before turning around. A pair of FBI agents were pointing MP5 carbines at his chest. “What’s your name?” one of them asked.

  “Fuck yourself.” The man raised the gun to get a better aim. “Mark Volant, Assistant Section Director, NSA.”

  “Thought he looked familiar,” the other said. “Cuff him,” he told his partner. The man came over and expertly cuffed Volant’s hands behind his back. Volant cooperated; he didn’t want them messing with his screwed-up wrist.

  “Cuffs won’t fit over the cast,” the one who held him said.

  “Use stripper, dip shit,” the other said. Volant managed to hide his smile. A few minutes later they escorted him into the portal dome where dozens of agents were on guard, examining equipment, or gawking at the portal. Clearly, none of them understood why they were there. The agent who’d first talked to Volant spoke to an agent by the door, and a moment later he was face to face with the head honcho. It wasn’t who he’d been expecting.

  “Volant, I’m surprised you’re still alive,” the man said. Assistant Director Addams was about the same rank in the FBI as Volant was in the NSA.

  “Addams,” Volant said, carefully flexing his bound hands, “I figured someone would be pulling your strings.”

  “I can tell which way the wind is blowing,” the other man said. “Intel has been spying on everything since this thing showed up,” he said and hooked a thumb at the portal. “Your letting us do the HRT gig gave us a lot of good intel, too. Then you pulled that diversion pretending the portal was broken and I saw my chance.” Volant stopped and looked at him closer.

  “So, you’re sure it’s a fake issue?”

  “Of course,” Addams said. “Some mysterious girl appears and manipulates an alien artifact?” He laughed out loud, shaking his head. “Come on, Volant, even you don’t believe that! I thought better of a sneaky spy cocksucker like you.” The sound of multiple helicopters interrupted them. The distant thundering booms of the tanks’ main guns had ceased a few minutes before. He had no idea who’d won, if anyone. “I see everyone is arriving,” Addams said, rubbing his hands together.

  “What is your plan, if you don’t mind my asking?”

  Addams regarded him like you would a bug that crawled unexpectedly onto your dinner plate. “We’re getting off this planet before it explodes, or whatever the eggheads say is going to happen.” He gestured vaguely up at the sky, though you couldn’t see it through the concrete. “That cosmic lawn dart looks way too much like a bullet.” He seemed to consider for a minute. “I do believe some bug-eyed monster planned to kill us, and another bug-eyed monster left the portals, so we can get away. It’s all very cosmic.”

  “Yeah,” Volant said, continuing to work his arm, “a cosmic joke.” He glanced at the portal dais and for the first time noticed a body lying on it. It was that redheaded astronomer chick. “You guys cap her? She just another egghead?” Addams turned around, seemingly noticing the body for the first time. He glanced at one of his henchmen who shook his head.

  “Go check her out,” he ordered. One of his team, presumably a medic, moved over to examine the body. He felt her neck, then rolled her over to further examine her before speaking.

  “She’s alive,” he said, “but only barely. She’s bleeding from her ears. If I had to guess, I’d say head trauma.” Addams gestured, and two men carried the unconscious woman off the dais, and out of sight. Volant heard the dull thud of a body hitting the floor. He wondered where Skinner and Osgood might be, and was surprised neither of them were there. In fact, he had thought they were involved in this setup. He finally asked.

  “Osgood was liquidated,” Addams said with a shrug, “he knew too much, and was too well connected in Washington.” Volant admitted to himself he was surprised how far the FBI man had gone. “We couldn’t find Skinner. He was probably off site when we struck.” Another pair of agents came in and spoke quietly to Addams who seemed pleased. “Now if you’ll excuse me,” he said to Volant and nodded to one of the guards.

  “Are you going to kill me now?” he asked the FBI man.

  “Naw,” Addams said with a wink, “professional courtesy. You’re going to sit over there, out of the way, and watch while we evacuate. If you do as you’re told, Agent Coopersmith won’t put a 10mm round through your brain. Deal?” Volant didn’t need to consider his options. He walked over to where Addams indicated and sat on the crate. An agent, no doubt Coopersmith, walked over to stand next to him. Volant noted the man left his weapon holstered, and the thumb break in place over it. Addams watched until he was satisfied, then nodded.

  A short time later, dozens of men began arriving, and stacked hundreds of Pelican cases next to the portal. Volant felt a grin spread across his face. While he wasn’t sure what had happened to the portal, he’d seen the changes first hand. He did as he was told and watched, flexing his arms every few minutes.

  It took them an hour to get organized and ready, giving Volant time to admire the job they were doing. The buffoons had been planning this for weeks, and here they were wandering around bumping into each other like pigeons in a park. Once they were finally ready, the first agent walked onto the dais. It was completely dark on the other side of the portal, making the man pause. There was some discussion while he grabbed a flashlight, even though a half dozen LED light stands sat unused next to the portal. The man standing on the dais used the flashlight to examine the other side until, after 2 minutes, the portal shut down.

  Volant could pick out those who’d received the most intel; they were the ones with their jaws hanging open in surprise. It took another ten minutes for them to realize they needed to get off the dais before it would reset. All the while, Volant was mentally keeping track of how long it had been, and estimating travel time.

  When they finally sent the first person through, two hours had passed since the initial attack. Volant noted the man carried a rifle and a shoulder bag with unknown gear, nothing more. He was through a full 30 seconds before two men stumbled up the dais stairs with a pair of Pelican cases which they unceremoniously threw at the portal, only for them to rebound and crash to the ground. If anything, they were more surprised now than they’d been when the portal turned off prematurely.

  Several more minutes of loud arguments ensued. Volant watched carefully, keeping quiet, counting time’s passage. He knew it had to be soon.

  They reactivated the portal and saw the man who’d gone through standing on the other side with a confused look on his face. Volant guessed that the FBI either didn’t know about the laser communicator, or decided not to use it. They communicated for a minute with crude hand signals. Two minutes later, the second person went through, then a third, and a fourth. It wasn’t until the fourth passed through that they realized each person going through could do so carrying as many crates as they could handle. They lost more time trying to find some rope to rig slings, so they could carry even more crates.

  As the dog and pony show proceeded, Volant counted three helicopters landing. Clearly these clowns had planned on a rapid transition of hundreds through the portal, instead of the five they’d managed in two and a half hours.

  A team of men tied a dozen pelican cases together with rope so each man going through the portal could carry as many crates as he could stumble with. More time passed before they realized stacking these linked crates on the dais allowed each person to carry more, as they didn’t have to stumble up the steps with their load.

  It’s like watching monkeys trying to solve a puzzle, Volant thought.

  Forty men passed through the portal before Volant saw the first woman. He took a quick look around the crowded dome and saw five or six, out of the dozens there. Thinking back to the scientists’ discussion about colony viability, he shook his head slightly. If the NASA eggheads were lying and that was the same world, th
ey were dooming themselves by transitioning too few women and too many men.

  As another chopper landed, a huge explosion rocked the dome.

  Unlike their reactions to the surprises from the portal, the FBI agents instantly sprang into action. A combat team detached itself and raced outside. There was another explosion, and gunfire erupted.

  “Hurry up!” Addams barked at the groups moving through the portal. But, without the practice Osgood’s teams had, they kept getting in each other’s way. Progress inside slowed considerably, while the battle outside escalated rapidly. Addams became increasingly agitated at the lack of progress in moving people through, as well as the inability of his men outside to win the battle. Then, something went wrong.

  A runner arrived, holding a bloody wound dressing against his arm. A dozen women followed, all injured to one degree or another. The last three were practically carrying each other. Four men escorted the women, all of them wounded, as well.

  “That’s all?” Addams barked. None of the men would look him in the eye. Finally, one of the agents who’d caught Volant spoke up.

  “They hit all three Blackhawks,” the man said, “only one managed to land. All the passengers aboard the others were killed.” Volant realized the passengers in those helicopters were women. So, Addams was aware that he didn’t have enough women. He now had about twenty. The magnitude of the disaster was clear on his face.

  Two more men ran into the dome, and for the first time, bullets bounced off the concrete. Volant leaned forward slightly, watching. The men who ran in yelled that the perimeter had collapsed.

  “Everyone, let’s go!” Addams barked. “Grab as many cases as you can, and get through that damned thing!” He pointed at the stack of crates, and the portal in turn. “Go, go, go!” People started to move, the women going first. “Hold the door,” Addams added, snapping at several men close to it. The man standing next to Volant detached his M4 carbine from the strap around his neck and turned toward the door, which was exactly what Volant had been waiting for.

  With a grunt and a twist, he separated the stripper-cuff holding his wrists. He felt the skin tear on his right wrist, but ignored it. As he broke the cuff, he got to his feet, and brought the cast-covered arm up across the back of the FBI man’s head. Volant almost bit through his lip as pain exploded through his arm from the impact.

  The FBI man gave an almost comical grunt as he began to fall face first toward the ground, unconscious. Volant grabbed the carbine by the adjustable butt plate, jerking it free from the collapsing man, flipped it around and found the pistol grip. Bracing the front grip against the cast on his extremely painful left arm, he swung the weapon around. He trusted the FBI’s training to be as good as he’d heard, flipped the selector from safe, past single shot, and onto full auto before pulling the trigger.

  The 5.56-millimeter assault rifle was unbelievably loud in the enclosed space as he dumped the entire 30-round magazine in a long, sustained burst, working the weapon through the crowd of FBI agents trying to wrangle themselves, injured women, and crates through the portal. The magazine emptied, and he pulled his finger out of the trigger guard to pop the release, dropping to a knee and snatching another magazine from the fallen agent’s web gear. At over 800 rounds per minute, he’d burned through that magazine in just over two seconds. Ten people were screaming, falling, or dead in that two seconds.

  If Volant had been on his own, everything would have been over in another couple of seconds. The sudden gunfight in the dome distracted the guards, which gave Volant’s people the opening they needed to rush the entrance. Volant rolled, his injured left hand making the magazine swap clumsy and slow. It took twice as long to load the second magazine as it had to empty the first. By the time he did, it seemed like almost everyone in the dome was firing at him.

  Bullets whanged off the concrete wall, blew through computers, exploded equipment, and ricocheted everywhere. A squad of NSA agents rushed in, trying to dive for cover. Several were gunned down immediately. FBI agents were grabbing crates and diving through the portal. Volant shot two in the back as they tried to escape. Then a bullet found him, punching cleanly through the left-side of his chest, just below the nipple.

  “Oh,” he gasped, the impact causing him to stagger and knocking his breath out. He fell back onto his butt, and shook his head to clear it.

  The last dozen or so FBI agents were falling back toward the portal, Addams in their midst. Several were trying to take crates with them. Volant struggled to his feet and with a roar, he fired. Addams spotted him and yelled back, firing his Glock as quickly as he could pull the trigger. Volant felt a round hit him in the stomach, and another in the shoulder. He staggered, but kept his feet under him.

  “Fuck you, you prick!” he screamed at Addams, shifting his aim, and squeezing the trigger. Just then, a round from Addams’ Glock took the top off Volant’s head. Volant’s finger spasmed on the trigger, firing the remaining rounds in a long burst which stitched Addams from crotch to face. The gunfight went on.

  With no one in charge on either side, the FBI fell back through the portal. NSA agents arrived just in time to see the portal deactivate. As their boss was dead, they did the only thing they could think of. They raced up the dais, activated the portal, and ran after the fleeing FBI to continue the battle. Around the portal, the battle continued until there was no one left to fight.

  * * *

  SGT Lisa Simpson’s hands felt raw as she struggled to pull a log the last few yards through the mud. The rain hadn’t stopped for two days, and the ground was like a mud wrestling pit on late-night TV, only thicker and nastier.

  “Hurry up!” one of the men yelled, his plea punctuated by a .50 caliber round going down range. Despite the pain in her hands, she hurried. Every time the gun went off meant there was one less round left. That afternoon, she’d carried the last two full cans of .50 caliber ammo to the construction site.

  “I hate to whine here, but the bloody Kloth are pitchin’ a fair wobbly out there!”

  Despite the pain in her hands, back, and legs, Lisa laughed at Edwin’s turn of phrase. Roughly translated in her mind, he’d said; “I don’t want to complain, but the fucking Kloth are really freaking out!” As she stumbled the last few feet through the downpour and gloom, she could see LTC Wilson and another man bodily wrestling an already cut and trimmed tree trunk into its hole. Next to them, another pair of men were using excavation tools to dig another hole.

  The private who’d helped her drag the tree from the cutting area leaned against the completed palisade and breathed heavily. Lisa dropped on her butt in the mud and tried not to puke. They were all dead on their feet, except Private Lipstitch, of course, who was just plain dead. He’d been torn to pieces by a pair of Kloth three days ago during the first failed attempt to build the palisade along the edge of the plateau.

  “How’s it going?” Wilson asked Lisa. He was peering through the rain back toward the tree line. They could just barely hear the axes thudding over the pervasive droning of the rain.

  “The last battery pack for the chainsaws gave out just before we started hauling this one,” she told him. “So, they’re down to axes.” He half nodded, half shook his head, and that spoke volumes about their situation. The British man, Abbot, limped over and offered her a bottle of water. It was native, but filtered several ways. They were still getting over the flu-like illness that they’d all had. Edwin guessed it was a local bug, luckily not fatal. “How’s the leg?” she asked.

  “Hurts like a bastard,” he admitted as he went back to trimming branches on the newly delivered tree. Two days earlier, a tree fell the wrong way and pinned him. It was a miracle the tree hadn’t crushed or broken the leg. It was also lucky, because Private Lipstitch, their medic, was the one killed by the Kloth. Now the explorer wielded a hatchet, trimming branches from the trees.

  While Lisa rested, she observed the work thus far. On his last exploration, Edwin finally figured out how the Kloth were getting onto
the plateau. A narrow trail zig-zagged its way up the plateau’s nearly vertical side. As far as they could tell, it was the only way up or down the plateau. Unfortunately, the Kloth also knew about it. They’d been climbing up, a couple each day.

  They decided the best way to stop the incursion was to build a wall and block the path. In the early stages of building that wall, they made several discoveries. One, the Kloth could be somewhat stealthy. And two, the beasts could mount a short wall. The Kloth ended Private Lipstitch’s life when he was doing a routine inspection of the prior barricade, a half dozen logs, stacked horizontally across the trail, and secured with rope.

  The second attempt at a barricade involved cutting trees, digging holes, and creating an old-world style palisade. Because the ground was solid rock at the edge of the plateau, they had to back away from the edge a hundred feet, which meant the palisade needed to be a semi-circle with stacked barriers at either end. That required a lot more trees, and a lot of holes.

  During construction, a couple lizards came up each day. They shot them and let them fall to the ground. That proved to be another mistake, because as the rains came, so did hundreds of Kloth attracted by their dead brethren. The one or two a day was a fond memory as it increased to 10 two days ago, and 15 yesterday.

  The builders increased their defenses by planting long, sharpened poles in the ground around their work area. The lances made decent deterrents, and several Kloth impaled themselves on them. One managed to ram a lance through an eye, killing it instantly. There were a dozen rotting Kloth just outside their three-quarters completed palisade, and the monsters were starting to come in force. A drone flight during a brief break in the rain, just before the sun went down the previous night, showed at least 50 of the beasts working their way methodically up the trail.

  Using electric chainsaws, the workers managed to put dozens of poles in place and lash them together. All they needed to finish was a ten-foot section in the middle. It already bristled with many sharpened lances, but dozens of Kloth were up on the plateau assaulting their defenses. Just another 10 to 12 trees, and they would have a complete barricade.