The First Protectors: A Novel

by Godinez Victor

  “Shit, they’re too small for the satellites. They don’t see them,” Nick said.

  “Can we take them out individually?” Eddie asked.

  “Take them out and hold off the other ships? I don’t know.” Nick shot back. “I think we have to fight fire with fire. Time to let old painless out of the bag.”

  Nick could sense Eddie’s fierce grin.

  “Mind if I do the honors?” he asked.

  “By all means,” Nick said. “I’ve got your six.”

  Eddie toggled open the missile bay on his ship, an addition that had not been part of the original brin specifications. He’d argued that they might need some brute force eventually, and the engineers had eventually worked out a way to make that happen. Inside the belly of his ship, a missile pod rotated out and Eddie fired off a modified, nuclear-tipped BGM-109A Tomahawk missile. The cruise missile’s solid-fuel rocket booster kicked in and the weapon streaked through the void toward the projectiles. Even moving at roughly 1,000 kilometers per hour, the missile seemed to be barely inching across the 200-kilometer gap between defenders and attackers. The mrill could see the slow-moving missile, and their attack ships and larger cruisers maneuvered into position to fire their energy weapons at it before it could reach their wall of nano bombs. Just as they unloaded, though, just as the cascade of antimatter and ion streams spread out across the heavens, Eddie activated the crude cut drive on the missile and said a silent prayer.

  His Saint Michael the Archangel pendant clinked softly as he banked hard to dodge the wayward mrill bolts. The medallion was nicked and scratched. It had been dragged over and through mountains, deserts, and oceans. It had been bloodied, dirtied, and banged up on almost every continent on Earth.

  The pendant had been a gift from Father Kowalski, the parish priest at St. Gabriel’s Church in Prairie du Chien, the small Wisconsin town nestled along the Mississippi River on the Iowa border where Eddie had grown up. He’d been an altar boy at the old limestone and stained-glass church, which dated to 1839. “Almost as old as I am,” the priest liked to say with a cackle to every first-time parishioner.

  The tour of duty as altar boy definitely hadn’t been Eddie’s idea. His parents had “volunteered” him to the crusty padre his senior year after a schoolyard fight over a winking girl named Maria. The other boy, Frank Mintner, ended up spitting out a cracked, bloody tooth and Eddie was packed off to find God. Eddie had shown up on a Saturday in late September at the doorway of the double-towered church. It was unseasonably hot, and the face that greeted him when the door opened had been equally grumpy, if considerably more wrinkled. The first thing Father Kowalski had made the kid do was mop the church floor. It was cool and dark inside the building, the illuminated windows and exposed ceiling trusses giving an air not of gloom, but of serenity. Eddie hadn’t really grasped those concepts at the time. It was just a quiet, soothing place, and his anger started to seep away.

  When he had finished nearly two hours after he started, had cleaned and emptied his bucket and stowed his mop in the closet in the small sacristy behind the altar, Eddie had found the priest looking down on him quietly from the choir loft at the back of the church. The old man disappeared, and Eddie heard his heavy feet clumping down the stairs.

  “Got another job for you,” he growled when he emerged from the small stairway.

  Before Eddie could fire off a retort, the priest tossed a silver key to the boy.

  “You want me to wash your car?” Eddie said.

  “Not quite.”

  Eddie followed the priest out to a small garage behind the rectory. Father Kowalski lifted up the rusty, squeaking door, and Eddie expected to see a small, drab hatchback. Instead, a gleaming blue convertible ’67 Mustang crouched in the space. It was so clean and polished it almost glowed.

  “I wash it myself,” the priest said, watching Eddie closely. “What I need, according to my eye doctor, is a driver. Think you can handle that?”

  Thirty minutes later they were doing 75 down Highway 18, heading west, crossing the river, wind whipping Eddie’s thick mop of hair and the priest’s gray fringe, both of them laughing and cackling.

  Several months later, the day after his high school graduation, Eddie came to see the old man for the last time, not sure what to say even as he knocked on the door of his small rectory. He shuffled his feet as he heard the heavy footsteps approaching the door. Kowalski opened the door and looked Eddie over. Eddie didn’t know what to say, but the old man seemed to have been preparing for this moment.

  “Don’t go applying to the seminary. They’ll kick your trouble-making keister out before you’ve had time to unpack your underwear. Anyway, I believe the Lord has a different purpose for you. I don’t know what that is, but I have something to help guide you on the journey.”

  The priest handed him a small black cardboard box. Eddie opened it, spotted the chain, and assumed it was a pendant of Saint Gabriel the Archangel, the namesake of the parish. God’s messenger. He flipped the medallion over and was surprised to see Saint Michael the Archangel. God’s warrior.

  “Probably the closest thing to sacrilege an old coot like me can get up to,” said Father Kowalski, his eyes gleaming beneath his bushy brows. “But this fellow seemed more appropriate for a boisterous soul like yours. Go do something useful with all that energy. Okay, get out of here, and don’t forget your rosary, you hooligan. I’ll be seeing your parents here on Sunday.”

  Years later, sweating through his SEAL training, Eddie realized Father Kowalski must have seen deeper into Eddie’s soul than he ever had. He’d recognized an unusual spirit who needed both rigid structure and wild freedom to thrive. The old man, who had passed away before Eddie enlisted, probably wouldn’t have been surprised at all by the young man’s career.

  Although I’d bet 50 bucks he didn’t see this chapter coming. An enemy energy beam sizzled past his cockpit.

  Eddie wondered briefly if the mrill or the brin had any kind of religion; if any of the creatures out there were flying with their own pendants tucked next to their skin, beseeching their gods for victory.

  Pray harder. The command floated through Eddie’s mind, a message from Nick, who had sensed Eddie’s memories as if they were his own. And ask Him to keep an eye on that missile.

  Bert Goldberg, the rotund engineer with the perpetually sweaty brow, had made it clear that the missile was going to be far from a precision machine. He and his team had rigged up what they were pretty sure was a functional equivalent of the star drives the mrill and brin used to jump across interstellar distances without being shackled by the propulsion constraints of traditional physics.

  “The problem with traveling at speeds higher than five or six percent of the speed of light,” Goldberg had said, ignoring Eddie’s befuddled look, “is that your mass starts to increase to an unmanageable level.”

  He cupped his hands together and then pulled them apart slowly, like a balloon being inflated.

  “And the more force you apply to try to continue accelerating, the greater your mass becomes, requiring more force, and eventually you get stuck in this loop. Then, before you know it, you’re using more energy than is contained in the entire galaxy just to accelerate by the smallest amount. And even if you could somehow get a ship moving at the speed of light, that doesn’t do you much good in a universe where stars are dozens or hundreds of light years away. Then you’ve got the relativistic effects of time dilation, where events for the lightspeed traveler would seem to occur at normal rates, but much more time would have passed for everyone else.”

  Eddie had made a “hurry up” spinning motion with his index finger.

  “Okay, look, never mind. Just remember that lightspeed travel is bunk for anything but visible light and radio waves. If you’re going to be traveling long distances, you need something else. That’s what the cut drive does. Even our best eggheads aren’t sure how it works, but it probably opens some type of artificial wormhole . . . a tunnel between two different points in
space.” Goldberg made two circles with the thumb and index finger on each of his hands, holding them a foot apart and then bringing them together. “And you pass through instantly from your point of origin to your destination. It’s really cool. Captain Kirk never had something this bad-ass. Unfortunately, we don’t have a very good handle yet on how to pinpoint the arrival location.”

  Goldberg had sighed and looked at the circle he’d formed with his right hand, still suspended in the air. “We can get within shouting distance. But if you fire off this missile with a programmed arrival portal . . . well, you’re looking at about a 75 percent confidence level that it will pop out within 50 miles of your intended target. Probably good enough for government work.”

  Out in space, Eddie held his breath as the missile disappeared and prayed again that 50 miles was close enough. For the briefest of moments, the missile’s electronic signature disappeared from Eddie’s internal sensors. What the hell is actually inside that wormhole—

  The thought wasn’t even fully formed before the missile reappeared on his scanners, barely two miles from the oncoming cluster of nano warheads. The proximity detectors on the mrill bombs sensed the missile and dispersed their cargo to consume it, but it was already too late. Eddie gave the mental command to detonate, and the encrypted signal traveled across the gap in an instant. The missile became a star. A perfectly symmetrical sphere of light bloomed outward, completely unlike the mushroom cloud Eddie associated with nuclear explosions from every video they’d ever seen, as the lack of gravity and ground resistance sent the fury of light and energy in every direction at once. The nano devices were consumed in fire, obliterated before the mrill had time to attempt any kind of evasion. The mrill fighters and drop ships frantically accelerated away from the growing fireball, but almost half were incinerated.

  “Yeah, welcome to the barbecue,” Nick said. “Hope you bastards like your meat well done.”

  The remaining mrill pulled back, waiting, widely dispersed against a second such attack. Nick and Eddie waited too, not sure what to expect next. The mrill were out of range of all their weapons but the cut-equipped nukes.

  Nick prepared to fire his nuke—he and Eddie only had one each—but Eddie stopped him with a mental request. They’d lost the element of surprise, and the mrill were spread far enough apart that a single nuke couldn’t take them all out. If they fired another barrage of nano warheads, Eddie wasn’t sure they could take them all out individually. They might need that last nuke. And the mrill weren’t retreating. They seemed to be regrouping, preparing . . . but for what? Nick thought.

  Something else. Something we haven’t seen yet, Eddie replied.

  Then a cut portal opened—a portal that seemed as big as the moon, directly behind the remnants of the mrill fleet. It seemed to be full of all colors and none, a brilliant darkness spinning in every direction. At the other end of this vortex, at the other end of the galaxy, they could see a planet and a ship. The planet was a dusty green. The ship was immense and soon blotted out the planet as it moved through the opening. The ship was far larger than all the other mrill vessels combined, easily a kilometer tall and just as wide. The main structure was rectangular and at the stern, four massive arms branched out perpendicularly—forming a cross. Jagged structures pointed forward from each arm of the cross, running parallel to the ship. The furious dance of color and darkness undulated across its surface briefly. Then it was through. The doorway closed and the ship opened up, vomiting thousands of mrill attack ships that streamed toward the two men and their depleted forces.

  Well, crap.

  28

  Ben planted the last of his claymore mines in a jumble of rubble in the middle of the street and covered them with loose dirt and crumbled concrete. The chatter of machine-gun fire echoed everywhere, and tracers seemed to tap out endless Morse code across the sky. It was still night, but the air was filled with a dirty orange hue from the fires and explosions. Missiles and rockets from the human defenders streaked out from between burning buildings, few of which found their targets. The mrill were organized, thorough, and merciless. Here on the ground, shoulder to shoulder, their lack of electronic communication was less of a hurdle, as they could turn and talk to each other or simply point to targets. Every tank and helicopter that got too close was destroyed.

  The US military was now trying to engage the enemy from farther off, but the thick cluster of buildings made it difficult to target the mrill, and most of their ordnance was crashing into apartments, offices, and parking lots. The only battle mankind was winning right now was against its own creations.

  Ben arrived at the northeast corner of Logan Circle, barely a kilometer from the White House lawn. Two separate mrill detachments were moving southwest down Vermont Avenue and Rhode Island Avenue, inadvertently converging on his location.

  He was safe for the moment, though, and ordered his ragged squad to take cover behind a white duplex along the southwest edge of the Circle. They were alive. Many others weren’t. Ben estimated military and civilian dead and wounded numbered somewhere close to 10,000, with the tally ticking up like digits on a gas pump. Most of those casualties were fatalities. The mrill didn’t leave many wounded.

  Thousands of civilians were hunkered down all around him. He could sense them, even if he couldn’t see them. They were frantically trying to make calls and send texts on the overloaded network. And the body heat generated by their fear stood out clearly through the walls of their apartments and homes. The mrill knew they were there. They didn’t target the civilians specifically, but they bulldozed any building in their way, cutting jagged tunnels through concrete and steel. Dead bodies and screaming people tumbled out of the wreckage.

  It drove Ben nearly insane not to leap to their defense, but he couldn’t risk it. Couldn’t stand it. A block and a half away, dozens of refugees were packed in the Hotel Helix, too terrified to make a run. The building was directly in the path of the advancing mrill. It was as good a spot as any for the next ambush. One claymore and seven marines wouldn’t be enough to stop the mrill, but maybe it would slow them down long enough for a nearby squad to clear the hotel. The old weight was compressing his chest. It felt harder to breathe. He knew he wasn’t choking. Still felt like it, though, the invisible weight of the dead and soon-to-die lying across his throat.

  He was running back to take cover with the marines when his sensors detected the incoming B-2s. He smiled, and the invisible vise eased just a bit. Maybe this would be enough.

  Ben opened a secure voice channel with the B-2 squadron.

  “This is Lieutenant Shepherd. Nice of you boys to show up.”

  “It ain’t just the boys, Lieutenant,” a voice drawled back over his internal radio. “Major Stephanie Williams, 509th Bomb Wing, reporting for ass-kicking duty. We’ll review your gender sensitivity training materials later.”

  Ben laughed despite himself.

  “Yes, ma’am. Looking forward to it. In the meantime, I’ve accessed your targeting systems and you should see markers indicated on your screens. If you would ever so kindly be disposed to bomb the ever-loving shit out of those positions, us leathernecks and frogmen would be much obliged.”

  “I’m not going to ask how you just bypassed a dozen security systems to hack into our targeting and comms systems. You can explain that one after you’ve been socially enlightened. In the meantime, ETA is two minutes. Activate your transponders so we can see your team and avoid friendly fire.”

  “Negative on that front, I’m afraid,” Ben said. “The mrill might see those signals and would be on us in two seconds. This channel is secure, but the transponders are not. I’m jamming most of their comms, but just barely. You do what you have to do, and we’ll make sure to not be in the way.”

  “I hope so, Lieutenant. We brought the big iron, and I’d damn sure regret it if we couldn’t bring you home in one piece for your political reeducation.”

  “That makes two of us, Major. Good luck.”

 
“You too, caveman. See you on the other side.”

  Ben looked up at Sergeant Daniels and the seven marines huddled with him. Beyond the duplex loomed another building.

  “Change of plans,” he said. “We’ve got a flight of B-2s inbound, ETA one minute forty-five seconds. We’ve got about sixty mrill foot soldiers and combat robots headed our way, one claymore planted in the circle. No partridge in a pear tree, but improvise, adapt, and overcome, oorah?”

  “Oorah.”

  Most of the exhausted, grimy foot soldiers managed to smile, slightly refreshed at hearing their traditional battle cry. They were on the edge of exhaustion but still in one piece. Still in the fight.

  “We have to give those bombers as much cover as we can before they strike,” Ben said. “The mrill haven’t detected them yet, and I suspect that’s because their air cover has been blown to hell and I’m still able to keep most of their sensors jammed. Once those bombers are within line of sight, I wouldn’t be surprised if the mrill ground units spot them, stealth or no stealth. So we’re going to take positions on the rooftops overlooking the circle. Now here’s the tricky part.”

  “Shit,” one of the marines let slip out.

  “Yeah, I know. We can’t fire and give away our positions too soon. I’ll be passively monitoring their comms channels, and if I get a hint that they’ve detected the bombers you’ll get my signal. Gotta be Johnny on the spot. Engage for no more than 10 seconds, fast-rope off your building, and regroup at Thomas Circle two blocks southwest down Vermont. Nobody plays hero. We might need to do this a couple times. Got it? Go.”

  Four marines darted in through the back of the building they were taking cover against on the west side of Vermont and headed up the stairs. Daniels and the other three sprinted across the street to the east side and kicked in the door of an office. Ben reactivated his cloaking technology and waited. He wasn’t sure why the mrill weren’t using their own cloaking tech. He suspected the robots were seen as expendable and didn’t have the capability, while the mrill soldiers simply didn’t see the need. While Ben had done some damage, their force was still largely intact, and the human weapons they’d encountered thus far posed almost no threat. The hulks of smoking tanks scattered across the streets behind them were testament enough to that.