by Mark Bordner
Strasburg regarded him with suspicion, “What do you have in mind?”
“I’d like to say a few things into the cameras during this ball,” Ford told him. “A few things directly to Grozet, who will surely be watching the telecast.”
The colonel chuckled, “Just watch your language. The kiddies will be watching, too.”
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Mark Bordner
Eight
Rising From the Ashes
Secure Presidential Bunker
September 19th
The term ‘bunker’ was a deceiving one, bringing images of a dank, dimly lit concrete facility buried under tons of earth to Minerva’s mind. She was completely taken by surprise once they were led beyond the initial entry theatres. This was a veritable city built into the base of a mountain, extending inward and down for an indeterminate number of levels, each more luxurious than the one before it.
There were several sections that served their own purpose; medical, C.I.C., engineering, food stuffs, power plant, and down into the residential areas--- a full-service mall complete with shops and restaurants. The living quarters were comparable to any decent apartment, and the formal conference suite was palatial, adorned in red and gold with intricate paneling and a marble floor.
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The reception area was lined with tables sporting every type of food and pastry a person could ask for. In the ballroom, a fancy-pants band was playing old swing music from the previous two centuries, and there were high-level politicians, military commanders, and wealthy tycoons mingling by the droves. There was also a healthy number of prominent Attayans in the mix. Attayan Prime Minister Ro was rubbing elbows with United Earth President Reyes and her chief military advisors.
The senior staff of the 1st Battalion remained clustered together in the buffet room, enjoying the rich foods and one another’s company, uncomfortable with the idea of interacting with the stately crowd. The kids appeared visibly stiff in their full-dress regalia.
Ford was filling his plate with a variety of elegant-looking horsdevours, and reached for the last remaining crab cake on one of the platters, taking it just before another man could get it. The other fellow was a sergeant major as well, his uniform that of the U.S. Army Rangers. He was a tall, muscular man of similar proportion to Ford, and fixed him with an icy, aggravated stare.
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“I wanted that crab cake,” The Army fellow stated, his voice sharp with a strong Austrian accent.
Ford nonchalantly popped it in his mouth and chewed, “Mmm, delicious!” He teased.
The other man frowned deeper, “I’ll be back.” He threatened, turning to walk away.
Ecu giggled, having been near enough to witness the exchange. She enjoyed it when he let his playful side show. Ford winked at her and spat the mouthful out into his napkin, making a face, “That was awful!”
Minerva took Mark’s plate and sat it down on the table, pulling him toward the ballroom, “I want to dance, Mister Corbin.”
Manny swooped up the plate, adding its load to his own, “I’ll watch your stuff,” he said, already eating it.
Dylan was hanging back near a wall, watching the activities, and Amell and Jovannah descended on him, pulling the boy toward the dance floor as well. “No wallflowers,” they told him.
The kids began to have a good time, remembering the
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carefree leave they had enjoyed at Minerva’s wedding back in Winslow. It was another period of healing that they dearly needed.
The festivities continued for several hours until a chime brought the band to silence and the head matron called for attention. Everyone gathered in the main ballroom as the President and PM Ro took the stage. Clapping resounded and she motioned her thanks and waited for quiet to resume. The GNN crews panned their cameras around the room and then focused on her.
“Ladies and Gentlemen of the Allied Frontier,” Reyes began. “This occasion tonight is in honor of a particular group of young adults who have dedicated themselves to defending our planet from what can be described as nothing less than an evil, insane dictator whom we all know as Grozet. It is my pleasure to present to all of you, the children of the Mighty First!”
The clapping and cheering echoed through the ballroom as the kids were ushered toward the stage. The senior NCO’s looked bashful as they lined up, then were called to attention by
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Captain Hannock. When the applause quieted down, Reyes continued.
“The First Infantry Battalion, Eighty-Third Marine Combat Regiment has seen more action to date than any other division in our arsenal,” she declared, “having been involved with every major engagement since D-Day on the Ohio Line. They have suffered a ninety-percent casualty rate, but have found it in themselves to push on, never giving up in their fight for our freedom!”
Another round of applause drowned her out, forcing her to wait.
“On behalf of the Allied Nations, I hereby award the entire unit the Galactic Citation for Gallantry, the highest honor that I can bestow. We thank you, and honor those of you have fallen along the way. We thank God for the Mighty First!”
The ovation was thunderous, followed by the popular chant mi-ghty first! Over and again. Captain Hannock ordered a salute and the kids did so. When order finally returned, Reyes motioned for Sergeant Major Ford to approach the stage.
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“I understand that you would like to direct a message into the cameras intended specifically for Grozet,” She stated.
Ford nodded, “Yes, Madam President, if I may.”
“Please, feel free.”
The room fell utterly silent as the cameras panned in to close-up on Ford.
“I am now speaking directly to Emperor Grozet and his army of Storian misfits,” Ford taunted. “You did your best to destroy my battalion, obviously because you’re such a coward that you felt it necessary to commit your efforts to murdering children. Well, Grozet, look behind me, at these Marines. We are alive and well, and if you believe anything, believe this. The Mighty First is coming for you!”
The applause reached from the ballroom to all points in the galaxy, where every citizen watched. People spilled into the streets in every city, defiant, exhilarated, and reborn.
The chants were repeated in every language, echoing into the night.
Mighty First!
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Dayton, Ohio
Storian 1st Army Forward Command
September 20th
The Murlin Heights district was a neighborhood of middle to high income homes tucked into an area surrounded by upscale malls and the interchange of South I-75 and West I-70. There were scores of centuries-old trees that lined the streets, standing watch over the rows of houses and their large, grassy lawns.
This area was where many of the American doctors, engineers, and anyone that the Storian command deemed of high-value were relocated to and allowed to live their lives in relative normalcy. The local stores were always stocked with hard-to-find items, and the grocery allotments to those living there were consistently generous. The military patrols rarely entered the neighborhoods, instead skirting the edges, and the notorious middle-of-the-night round-ups conducted by the Secret Police never haunted them.
It was a privilege that ten-year-old Andy Holden was
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blissfully unaware of as he played in the streets, enjoying the summer weather. His perception of the entire alien invasion had been one of an exciting adventure. The air raid sirens, the disruption of power, and then those cool spaceships cruising over the city! The arrival of the alien ground forces looked like something out of the movies, with their big vehicles and rows of soldiers marching down the streets.
In the first few days, there had bee
n exhilarating air battles fought between the aliens and the Air Force, but the space ships had been far more agile than the antiquated jets that were in the current planetary arsenal, and the resistance had not lasted very long at all.
The next best thing was that there was no more school. He was free to stay at home and play, and when the electricity was restored, the TV was filled with constant news-feeds from GNN. That, and the propaganda videos that the Storians felt compelled to counter them with.
There weren’t many other kids on the block for Andy to play with, so he spent much of his time exploring his new
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surroundings. It was by chance that one day in the spring he had ventured further than before, all the way to the edge of the Heights, and caught a glimpse of the Storians closely. The patrols that were so vigilantly conducted on the perimeter of the neighborhood separated the privileged from the masses. Soldiers kept large groups of poorly-fed and over-worked citizens out of the secure zones with brutal force.
A foot patrol of six soldiers happened by the gate where Andy was peering through and paused there to take a smoke break. One of the lizard-like men looked at him with amusement and said something to his comrades in a funny language that Andy did not recognize. The others regarded him with a mix of either half-interest or none at all. He was just another Terran child, this one who happened to be on the right side of the fence.
The first soldier who had noticed him approached Andy and held out his lit cigarette, “Want a drag?”
Andy shook his head no, cigarettes smelled stinky, and his mom would spank him if she smelled it on his clothes. He felt very special, though, that this grown-up soldier had actually talked
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to him like a man and offered him a smoke. He did not know that they were laughing at him. The lizard-like man shrugged and placed the cigarette between his thin lips and inhaled. Andy was fascinated by his eyes, they blinked sideways! His attire was impressive, too, all grey and layered with pouches and hand grenade bandoliers strapped over a cloth-like armor. The black jack-boots were high on the calf, where the trousers were bloused over them.
“Can I be a soldier, too?” He asked.
The man exchanged a surprised look with his friends and they all chuckled, saying more things in that funny lingo. The soldier opened the gate and stepped in front of Andy, towering over him, grinning. He had rows of sharp, black fangs. He was wearing a steel helmet on his head. The man reached into one of his many pockets and withdrew a crumpled field cap with a symbol of the Storian Infantry on its front. He slapped it against his thigh to open it up, then handed it to Andy.
“You can be our scout,” the man told him. “Your job is to stay in your area and patrol it every day. Listen to the things that
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people say. If anyone ever says bad things about us or Lord Grozet, you tell me. I’ll be here every day about this time.”
Andy was elated. With a big smile, he reverently place the cap on his head and saluted the way that he had seen them do before. The soldier grinned even wider and saluted him back. It cemented the little boy’s belief that these weren’t such bad people after all. He ran all the way home to tell his mother about it. She seemed very shocked by his story, and even a little afraid. His father said nothing about it, only giving him an odd look that was hard to figure out.
The spring had turned to summer, and Andy faithfully patrolled his neighborhood every day, always watching and listening for bad things, but he never really heard anything that deserved attention. People tended to fall quiet at his approach, waiting until he passed on before talking again. He heard one man mutter something about him being a ‘little traitor’ once, but he did not know what that meant, and assumed it to be referring to his patriotism.
It came to Andy one day that he should look the part, but
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was disappointed to find that he had nothing in his wardrobe that even resembled a Storian uniform. He waited by the gate for a long time until his friend and his patrol came by. By then he knew the man as Sergeant Ara. Ara greeted him with his customary casual salute, coming over to talk while the others smoked.
“Can I have a uniform?” Andy asked. “I don’t think anyone believes me when I say that I’m a soldier, too.”
Ara grinned in his usual way, tapping a cigarette on his sleeve before lighting it. “They don’t believe you, eh? The cap isn’t official enough?”
Andy shook his head, “Not everyone. One man says I’m a traitor, so I think he believes me, but no one else seems to. Is traitor the same thing as a scout? ”
Ara paused, his lighter nearly to the tip of his smoke, and he let the fire click out. His eyes had become serious and the smile faltered, “Someone called you a traitor?”
The little boy nodded, “Mister Colchester, the dentist.”
Sergeant Ara replaced the lighter to its pocket and took out a little notebook with a pen in its spiral, then jotted the name down.
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He said nothing more of it, instead shifting the conversation back to the topic of Andy’s uniform.
“I think that I can arrange for the appropriate attire that a loyal scout deserves.”
Andy wasn’t sure what a few of those big words had meant, but he took it that Ara was going to find him his own official clothing.
The next day, a dark sedan and two Hummer-jeeps entered the quiet neighborhood in the first hour of dawn and parked before the house of one Doctor Colchester, DDS. A squad of soldiers got out and went to the front door, not even bothering to knock. They kicked it in and entered, rifles out and ready. A serious-looking officer waited outside with another squad of soldiers. This man was tall, and his uniform very different, being all black with colorful ribbons on his chest, and the Storian emblem on his sleeves. He wore a high-brim cap with a shiny lip. Unlike those of the field soldiers, his jack-boots were shined to a mirrored finish.
There was some crashing about from within the house, and
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Mrs. Colchester began screaming. Soon, the soldiers emerged with the doctor, dragging him by the arms, still bare-foot and in his pajamas. He was bellowing and pleading, struggling against their grip. Andy had come out onto his porch to watch with the other gaggles of neighbors, and Mr. Colchester happened to meet his gaze just before being stuffed into the sedan.
“You little traitor!” He yelled, “You sell-out! You’ll burn in hell!”
Andy had no idea what those words meant, but he looked around at the other people, and saw the same trepidation in their eyes that had been in his mother’s. They shook their heads and went back indoors. Andy felt shunned and did not know why. He was just doing his duty.
After the cars drove away, Andy’s parents began arguing in hushed tones. He could tell that it was about him, but he was uncertain as to why. It was all very confusing. Dejected, he went to his room and dressed, then went out on his daily walk. He made his usual stops to pet the dog at the end of the block, to say hello to the old man who always watered his lawn early in the
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morning--- trying to get back into a good mood. It was hard to do, though, as so many people were now avoiding his gaze, pretending not to hear him when he said good morning. By the time he reached the gate, Andy was feeling quite blue, and in need of seeing his friend, Sergeant Ara.
At their usual time, the foot patrol came by, and Ara was sporting a big grin, carrying a cloth package under one arm, tied with a black sash like a gift.
“How is my faithful scout, today?” Ara asked cheerfully.
Andy shrugged, his expression dogged, “Nobody likes me anymore. Some soldiers came and took away Mister Colchester this morning, and now no one will talk to me. They think it’s my fault or something.”
Andy thought about that and agreed that it must be true. Ara would not lie to him, he was nice.
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“Here,” Ara said, opening the gate and handing the bundle to Andy. “This was made especially for you as a reward for your good work. Go home and try it on.”
Andy beamed, delighted and flattered. He gave Ara a big hug and ran home as fast as his feet could carry him. He dashed up the stairs to his room and untied the bundle, gasping at what he saw. The grey pants and shirt had been tailored to fit his small frame, and the shirt was adorned with the insignia of the Storian Empire on the sleeves; the rank of a Private--- and the emblem of a scout on the front. His name, Andy, was even stenciled over one of the pockets. He put it all on, squared his cap, and marched proudly downstairs to show his parents.
His father looked as if someone had punched him in the stomach, but managed a forced smile. His mother was obviously the prouder of the two. She broke into tears and began to cry.
Xxxxx
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Now, Andy stood at the end of his lawn, uniform neatly pressed, and remained on the sidewalk near his mailbox as a convoy of big, armored trucks slowly lumbered down his street. They were towing trailers with big cannons on them, unhitching them at intervals up and down the neighborhood. The artillery pieces were wrestled into place in people’s front lawns, all facing east with their big barrels angled upward. Then soldiers clambered over them, spreading out camouflage netting to hide them, forming big tent-like spaces underneath each cannon.
More armored trucks came, these with cargo boxes on the back, and parked before each cannon. Soldiers began off-loading crates of green, metal shells stamped 120-MM PLASMA, and stacked them in neat piles on each side of the netting.