Invasion

by L. E. Thomas

  In their place came Zahlian immigrants and contract workers from across the Empire who slowly transitioned the urban city now known as "Molah" into something unrecognizable.

  Alien signs in flashy neon colors appeared over the streets. Holograms, brighter and more prominent than anything Nat had ever seen, dominated the skyline. Buildings were reconstructed, renovated and remodeled into an unfamiliar architecture. Air traffic, once sporadic and rare, now rushed to and from the city in a constant stream. Above it all, hovering like a persistent reminder of Zahlian domination, was the orbiting Justice and the blue light of Atheron in the distance.

  "At ease, Cadet," Tox said, gazing out at the windows and the holograms of the city coming alive in the late afternoon. "I thought you would like to know you're at the top of the class. Congratulations."

  "Thank you, sir."

  Tox turned around, placing his hand behind his back. "You have come a long way. You've been under fire from the insurgents, suffered brief but traumatic captivity, and managed to keep your grades up over the past four semesters. As long as you don't screw it up, you'll be graduating with honors from the inaugural class of Yesro Vraun."

  "Thank you, sir."

  Tox took a step toward Nat. "I'd like to know how you would like to serve the Empire, Cadet Hodges."

  Nat blinked. Was this some sort of test? "I ... don't understand, sir."

  "A cadet with such a record deserves recognition," Tox said, pacing in front of the window. "In the short term, your performance today has earned you a three-day pass this weekend."

  A three-day pass in a city he no longer recognized didn't sound like a reward. He wouldn't even know where to go once he left the Academy. He'd heard his neighborhood in the suburbs had been leveled for new administrative buildings, and the city itself was now off limits to natives unless they carried a permit.

  He wanted to say all this to Tox, but instead, he said, "That sounds wonderful, sir."

  "You deserve it," he said, pausing and eyeing Nat. "I'm more interested in talking about the long term, however. I have spoken with your counselors."

  Nat fought the urge to sigh. In his infinite wisdom, Tox had ordered Nat into what he called "therapy" shortly after the incident on The Beast. The sessions had started innocently enough, but Nat soon questioned the real reasons for the meetings with the counselors. When the questions about his emotions morphed into probing inquiries about his past, it became apparent there was more to the counseling than improving his wellbeing. He wondered if they were trying to unlock secrets from his past to entrap Kad, who Jet said had worked with the rebels.

  "They have said you continue to maintain dogged determination about your goals," Tox continued. "You need to be more flexible if you are going to serve as an officer in the Zahlian Navy. You won't always get to do exactly what you want."

  Nat lifted his chin. "Being an Interceptor pilot is all I've wanted since my first day at the Academy."

  Tox snorted. "But you have to be realistic."

  "I am being realistic," Nat snapped, the anger in his voice rising and surprising him. He paused, regaining his composure. "My apologies, sir, but you've seen my scores in my flight courses and my performance in the simulators. You said yourself there is a major pilot shortage within the Imperial Navy. I'm ready."

  "But one does not simply graduate to getting behind the stick of an Interceptor," Tox said in nearly a whisper. "You have to understand that. And given your background, it'll be even tougher to gain a seat in an Interceptor. At least, for a while."

  Nat looked at him. "What do you mean? What's wrong with my background?"

  "You know true-borns always get first dibs on assignments. With the Empire making a push for pilots, every son and daughter of a sector regent or council member is vying for the prestigious positions. I'm just trying to say politics could play a part in your first assignment. It might not—and probably won't be—an Interceptor, and you'll have to serve with honor and dignity no matter what the position."

  "Put me in a simulator against any fortunate offspring and you know I'll take them down." He bit his lip. "I shouldn't be treated differently or held back because the Zahl invaded ... liberated my planet."

  Tox's eyes narrowed. "Careful, Cadet Hodges. I'm only trying to encourage you to widen your scope. There are other craft that need talented pilots."

  Nat sighed. "I don't want to fly a cargo shuttle."

  "There are bombers, missile boats, and others."

  "But the Interceptors are the best, sir."

  "They are."

  He nodded. "Then anything else will feel like a failure."

  Taking a deep breath, Tox looked down at the floor. "Life never cares about your plans. It will not transpire the way you think. How we deal with the outcomes and the repercussions of our choices—" He pointed at Nat's chest. “—that's what makes us worthy of wearing the uniform. You remember that."

  He pursed his lips. "I will, sir. Thank you for trying to teach me."

  Tox held his gaze for a moment before pulling a pass from his satchel on the desk. "This will get you off-base for the weekend. Keep it on you, visible, and stay in the city. Enjoy it. Stay safe. Make sure you're back here by 1700 three days from now."

  Nat saluted, spun on his heel, and marched out of the simulator room.

  The Marine glared at the pass as if it held the secrets of life, wetting her full lips as she brought the lanyard closer to her face. Nat waited patiently, watching as a Gladius tank rumbled down the street toward the former stadium of the Overlords where he'd been for his twelfth birthday. Most of the structure had been disassembled for scrap. Enormous machines carried away concrete and steel, part of the ongoing transformation of the city under the watchful eye of the heavily armed garrison.

  "You better keep this on you at all times," the beautiful Marine said, chewing on the side of her cheek as she peered at the pass. "Natives aren't allowed on the streets without a work visa. I wouldn't want you detained."

  She smiled, and Nat returned the gesture. He could tell from her rigid accent she hailed from a planet far away from Yesro Vraun. She wasn't much older than him, probably two years at the most. In a different place and time, he might have enjoyed taking her to dinner ...

  "I appreciate it," he said, taking the pass and placing it around his neck. "Means a lot."

  "It shouldn't be much longer."

  "What's that?"

  "Commander Radman said the resistance hasn't been active in a year," she said with a smile, her shoulders rising with the statement as if she'd crushed the resistance single-handedly. "Either the rebel leaders have been captured, or they have given up. Once order has been restored, the need for passes like this will be over."

  He nodded. "Of course."

  The energy gate fizzled out, and she waved him through. It promptly buzzed back to life as he walked away.

  He shook his head. Lies.

  She said the reason for the treatment of the native population was blamed on the resistance, but he knew better. Somehow, he believed the plans of the Zahlian occupation and conquest of his world had proceeded exactly as planned.

  He continued forward, strolling through the center of a town he no longer recognized. Patrons visited lavish restaurants playing foreign music under dim, multicolored lighting. He watched couples holding hands and making out in corners, some taking a long glance at his cadet uniform with a few nodding in approval at his passing. Where had all these people come from? Was it a world like his, conquered and oppressed under the boot of the Zahl? Or did they hail from the Prime Worlds, living a life of opportunity and opulence they did not even appreciate because it was the only way they had ever known?

  Thrusting his hands into his pockets, he walked for hours, looking more than once to the heavens as patrolling Interceptors and shuttles flew past, wondering about his ultimate fate. The words of Jet Gretson kept coming back to him as they always had after he was executed on the riverbanks.

  You're just a co
g in the machine.

  He had been right—Tox didn't seem to have any hope Nat would see the inside of an Interceptor. Worse, his family had been decimated by the Zahlian occupation. Tressa had been shipped to Atheron, and his father had disappeared along with his mother. The resistance had apparently been crushed, and the Zahl Empire was starting to look beyond his world as the threat of armed rebellion subsided with each passing day.

  But he saw signs, cracks in the Zahlian facade.

  He saw it in the alleys as he strolled, spray-painted images crudely depicting the Oshua spear or crossing out Zahlian propaganda posters. The words "Deliverance" and "Exodus," written in the outlawed Oshua script, appeared scratched into Zahlian curfew warning signs. His gaze lingered on his native language, banned along with the translators following the end of his first year at the Academy. Underneath the signs and in the alleys, shadows moved in the dark, speaking and parting swiftly. Marines marched in pairs, standing at intersections with repeating MC-17 laser rifles across their chests and casting wary glances down the corridors. Others rumbled by in Hatchet Patrol Vehicles with activated dual-turrets sweeping over the windows as if anticipating an ambush.

  Nat wondered—if all was well on Yesro Vraun, why the police state?

  Near midnight, he found himself in front of a bar on the waterfront not far from where he, Soola, and Kad had entered the occupied city shortly after the invasion. The sign flickered and wavered, but he could read the red letters emblazoned on the front: Perry's Place. He glanced at two Marines smoking at the closest intersection before entering the bar.

  Perry's Place was a real throwback to times Nat had nearly forgotten. Under bright signs advertising products that no longer existed, thick, burly men huddled around hightop tables, staring into drinks dark like honey. They were all shore men, probably had worked the docks since the time before. A few glared in his direction, and he was quickly reminded of his academy fatigues.

  He didn't care.

  Music played softly from old speakers, tunes he had heard in the days before the invasion. The current song, "Clouds of Darkness," had played at the reception the spring before the occupation. He had danced with ... what was her name? He could still see her orange flowing hair spotted with fluorescent flowers. Then, she had placed her arms over his shoulders for the first slow dance of his life. It seemed so long ago.

  His boots scuffed the floor as he walked to the bar and sat on a rusty metal stool.

  "What do you want?" the bartender asked, waddling in front of Nat. "I got all my current permits and—"

  "A drink."

  The bartender stared at him with a blank expression as if Nat had forced his brain to reboot. "That's it?"

  Nat nodded. "That's all."

  "Beer?"

  "Local if you've got it."

  The bartender stuffed his fat hands into a cooler and produced a beer bottle. "Thought your kind didn't like our stuff."

  Nat sighed. "It grew on me."

  Placing the bottle in front of him, the bartender muttered something inaudible and disappeared behind the bar. Nat took a long drink, savoring the moment, and the song ended. He'd first tasted Oshua beer from his Da at an Overlords game. It had been terrible. Even as he ascended through public school and alcohol appeared at various parties, he'd never grown to like the drink. Da said it was an acquired taste, but Nat remembered wondering how something so foul could ever taste good.

  He understood now. It tasted like home.

  He spent most of the first beer staring at the bottle, thinking back to times from before. Did the same with the second bottle. As he ordered a third, a man reeking of fish and petrol entered the bar. He collapsed onto a nearby stool, not turning to look at anything but the bar covered in ancient scratches.

  Nat raised his bottle to say hello and started on his third drink. He felt the tingle in his fingertips, the slight spin of the room, and reveled in the weight of his situation easing, if only a little.

  "Didn't know traitorous bastards enjoyed a beer."

  The voice, speaking the outlawed Oshua language Nat hadn't heard in years, was so low he wasn't sure it had been the man next to him. For the first time, he faced the other patron.

  "Pardon?"

  The man swiveled on the stool, raising his stiff drink of whiskey neat and taking a gentle sip. "I think you heard me just fine. Coward."

  Fueled by his beer, Nat felt the blood rush to his face. "What did you—"

  "You heard me."

  Nat cocked his head, the fury welling inside fading away. That voice ...

  He stared at the grizzled and scared features. A rough stubble covered his cheeks. His head was shaved to the scalp. As he took another sip, Nat saw he held the whiskey glass with three fingers—his bottom two were missing in a twist of melted flesh.

  "Do I know you?" Nat asked, his jaw dropping as he stared at the stranger.

  "You left your sis and me in the woods to fend for ourselves." He spat on Nat's fatigues, the drool running down his pants. "I'm glad Tress is in prison. I don't think she could bear to see her brother like this."

  The whiskey drinker's appearance suddenly became clear, Nat’s mind racing to catch up with the sight directly in front of him. The electric blue eyes and the orange hair was gone, but the torn and ripped hyperbike leather jacket remained.

  It was Tom "Viper" Skaggs.

  Chapter Fourteen

  "Viper?" Nat asked, his mouth hanging open as he struggled with the native tongue. "Is that really you?"

  Covering his left hand over his mouth, Viper seemed to study Nat with a smirk on his face.

  "What do you care?" he asked. "You never came back for us. And now Tressa's gone."

  Nat balled his hands into fists. "And how exactly is that my fault?"

  Viper gestured down at Nat's fatigues. "Look at you, all dolled up like a Zahlian poster boy. You're lucky we didn't kill you the moment you came into this bar."

  Peering over his shoulder, he was suddenly acutely aware of the inquisitive eyes staring in their direction. Rather than defend himself, he took another drink as an idle thought triggered that it might be his last.

  "Like I had a choice," Nat muttered, staring at his reflection in the dirty mirror behind the bar. “I was stuck in the basement of that place when the Marines came. I—"

  "I know the story."

  Nat blinked. "You do?"

  "I've heard it from Kad and Jet a thousand times." He sighed, leaning on the bar as if it would hold him up. "Got tired of hearing it. The story always ended with delusions you were still alive. Kad said he was going to find you like he did your Ma."

  He swung around on the stool to face Viper. "My Ma's still alive?"

  The question seemed to slap Viper across the face as he winced. "No," he said flatly. "Kad found her in a relocation center on the Tarzad Plain. We saved quite a few during the raid. Lost a few, too. That was back when we thought trading one life for another was worth it."

  Nat gazed into his beer. He had heard stories of the relocation centers, the re-education camps for troublemakers and the reservations being set up for natives away from the cities. Camp wardens utilized all manner of torture to achieve their results of cranking out obedient citizens, from physical beatings to withholding food and water. But he had never thought of his Ma living in one of them.

  "How did she die?" he whispered, his chin quivering.

  Viper took a drink and exhaled. "Like all the rest. Don't know why you care anyhow. You're a Zipper now."

  They sat in silence, another old song starting on the speakers.

  "We had to wait to make sure you were alone before we approached you," Viper said, sliding his finger around the lip of his glass. "I couldn't believe it when they told me who you were. I thought it had to be a mistake. At first, I thought you might be a NARC or something. You got diddly following you and no visible support. What are you doing way out here?"

  Nat opened his mouth to answer, but no explanation came. "I ... don't
know."

  He snorted. "Come to join the resistance? Cause if that's the case, you're a little late. Ain't nothing left of us."

  "I'm on leave. I'm not here for anyone. I was rewarded."

  Viper cast him a sideways glance. "For what?"

  "Being at the head of my class," he said, as he slid his fingers on the scratched bar top. "Can you believe that?"

  Viper took a sip of beer. "Tress always said you were smart."

  He winced. "Not nearly as smart as her. Have you heard from her?"

  "No," he said, his voice wavering. "Not since we smuggled that tape out for you. Jet wanted to show it to you, couldn't wait to get you on our side to join the fight. That was before ..."

  Nat looked at him as Viper traced the scar down his face. "How did that happen?"

  "The night we took you," he said. "Your new friends laid down a blanket of fire, and I was caught in it."

  The memories of the vicious firefight in the darkness came back to him. The laser bolts crossing, the sparks, and explosions of fire illuminating the blackness.

  "You were there?"

  Viper nodded, taking another sip. "Lost a lot of good people that night, including Jet. But he believed in you, Nat. He and Tress always did. That operation cost one of them their life, the other their freedom."

  "What do you mean?"

  Viper sighed and rubbed his brimming eyes. "She was caught trying to hack into the Academy database. She had a hunch you might have been taken once we heard about the prisoners and the re-education camps for people your age. We tried to help her. Got the information you were there in Greeva at the Academy, but she was captured getting it. Jet proceeded with the mission to try and get you, and you know how that turned out."