Dad and George listen with grave faces. Gracie and Gordie appear disturbed in their own way when they hear stuff new to them. We continue taking turns talking until there’s little more to be said besides commiseration.
“Oh, but don’t worry, Cadets are on standby,” Gracie concludes with a nervous laugh. “We’re in the third and last wave of deployment, with all the other Earth Cadets, the shìrén. I’m pretty sure it’ll never come to it.”
“Dear God . . .” my father says, breathing slowly and with some difficulty as he digests all this.
“What the hell?” George mutters, holding his cheek. “This absolutely sucks! What kind of a crap solution is this for everyone back on Earth? Are these Goldilocks crazy? To rip us from our homes and bring us across the universe, for what—to fight their stupid battles for them?”
I notice, George has reverted to using the derogatory term for Atlanteans.
“Yeah, I’m guessing that’s probably a big part of it,” Gordie says, scratching the side of his head.
“If we wanted to die in a fiery apocalypse, we could’ve just stayed on Earth for the local barbecue via asteroid. And all of it, just to close some purported dimensional rift in the effing Bermuda Triangle?” George winces angrily every time he moves his mouth and aggravates his facial injuries. “What a stupid, pointless rescue! No, let me amend—not a rescue but an acquisition. A very advantageous one for the Goldilocks. I can see how. We’re the ones getting the raw deal, while they’re getting a huge, talented, young immigrant workforce, a fresh genetic influx into their population—people power! Possibly even foot soldiers for the coming alien war—because you know that’s coming! Oh, and all those Earth treasures and resources, mustn’t forget the resources—”
“So, the Imperator, your father-in-law, admitted to sending that asteroid to strike Earth?” Dad speaks slowly, thoughtfully, with a quiet, horrified expression.
“Yeah, he did,” I say. “But he never properly explained why that rift needs to be closed now, all of a sudden, after all these thousands of years. And I don’t think even he knows for sure whether the asteroid strike would even work to accomplish the job.”
“Great!” George says with sarcasm. “Very comforting to know the Atlanteans have absolutely no clue. They know crap; the Earthlings know even less than crap. Meanwhile, the asteroid will obliterate billions at the whim of my sister’s new in-law, and there’s a shiny invasion army of killer light bulbs hanging out in space all over this system and—I wouldn’t be surprised if there’s a similar invasion force gathering around Earth and we don’t even know it. No clue! Nobody has any damn clue! And, seriously—Bermuda Triangle?”
Gracie sighs. “Don’t hold back, Gee One, tell us how you really feel.”
“Not light bulbs, light balls,” Gordie corrects. “Spheres.”
“Yes, all right, some big alien balls, got it, thanks Gee Three.” George shakes his head. “I think my pain meds are kicking in.”
“Ok, I am going to find Aeson now and see what’s really happening,” I interrupt, getting up.
I make my way to the workroom, hoping Aeson is there. The room is full of people—which is never a good sign—both the astra daimon normally on duty and several additional others. Aeson is standing with one arm raised, wrist com activated as he speaks urgently with someone, at the same time watching the various screens around the room, while Anu and Gennio are manipulating a stream of data on three lesser displays. Erita, Keruvat, and Xelio work their wrist holo-feeds also. Three unfamiliar astra daimon are seated at various screens around the main desk.
“. . . standard capacity vessel loads are not fast enough, and you lost precious time, especially during the initial firing of primary weapons, which cut into your evacuation efforts,” Aeson is saying. “You were told to proceed at the 104% overload capacity, which falls within weight tolerance levels, and now you are rushing to compensate. . . .”
Off to the side, dark and lean Nergal Duha, Quoni Enutat, and the olive-skinned and grey-eyed Culuar Efrebu are talking quietly to someone else on a smaller screen—a middle aged man with a leathery, wrinkle-lined face, light bronze skin, short dark hair that’s grey at the temples and barely gilded on top. The man wears a grey Fleet uniform with SPC insignia and some other emblems that I don’t recognize. The others address him as Nomarch Evandros, so he must be the man in charge of the Atlantis Station in orbit.
Meanwhile, the biggest display screen is showing a space view of a sizeable planet with pale grey, reddish-mauve, and brown surface features—colors that remind me slightly of Pluto’s topography—except this thing is quite large, Atlantis or Earth-sized, according to the scale indicator icons on the graph overlay. The planet takes up most of the screen, but off to the side is an eerily familiar sight—a diamond-shaped grid of golden lights, mathematically elegant in its exact spacing, forming gradually in orbit.
The grid seems nearly complete, as new light spheres wink into existence then take up positions in the grid formation. Of course, I might be wrong about its state of completion, because the growth happens along the edges, following the line of the perimeter: each additional light object is added as it circles the formation. . . .
Occasionally I notice long, hair-thin trails of laser bursts, originating from somewhere off-screen. They streak like meteors across space, some of them striking the individual spheres in the formation.
Is someone firing at this thing?
“War-9 reports the grid is now at eighty percent,” Erita announces, looking up from her wrist holo-feed. “Twenty percent to go until it reaches the size of Rah’s grid.”
I step forward and ask, “What happens when it’s at one hundred percent?”
“Gwen!” Aeson sees me and pauses his conversation on the wrist comm. His expression warms at once but he still looks grim.
“Oh, sorry, sorry—didn’t mean to interrupt,” I hurry to say, waving to him with my hand in silly fashion that seems so out of place for the tense workroom.
“I’ll call you back,” Aeson says to whomever is on the line with him, and taps out the call. Then he turns to me gently. “No problem, im amrevu. Please feel free to watch, but we’re in a somewhat precarious situation right now so it might be best for you to take a seat. . . .”
I nod without another word, and step off to the side next to Anu and Gennio’s desk. Gennio pulls up a chair for me and I perch awkwardly, then continue watching.
On the big screen, the slowly floating image of the planet and the diamond grid orbiting it, is suddenly replaced by a different angle of view. And at once I see a huge metallic object silhouetted against the mauve-grey planet. It’s vaguely X-shaped, but with an additional pair of platform-spokes protruding in perpendicular fashion to the other platforms, all rotating around a central hub filled with tiny habitat lights. I recall Rah Station’s shape, and this one is very similar, but considerably larger.
“Is that Septu Station?” I whisper to Gennio.
He nods.
“So, another light grid has formed here, but not at that other station—” I pause in mid-question because suddenly I see the curvature of yet another immense metallic object slip into view.
And when I say immense, I mean the thing is big enough to swallow Septu Station three times over. Its monster hull shines with the combination of reflected Hel light and its own surface plasma iridescence. The moment it starts growing in the viewscreen, it takes over, obscuring everything in just a few heartbeats.
“Flipping to another buoy view, 20 mag-heitar out, zoom at 100%,” says one of the seated daimon.
And immediately we get a clear view from a slightly different angle, which encompasses all objects—on one side, the diamond light grid; in the center of the frame, the planet Septu; on the other side, the Septu Station and the huge, shining, elongated oval or cigar-shaped monster ship that coasts in orbit near the rotating station.
“Is that—” I begin to ask.
“That’s War-9,” Gennio responds
in a low voice.
“Wow,” I whisper. “It’s huge. . . . Also, beautiful.”
“Oh yeah,” Anu whispers loudly. I notice, he has a wistful expression of awe as he looks at the gargantuan battle barge.
And then I notice something else. Superimposed against the black background of space, there are things that could be tiny points of static, as seen from their relative size in perspective to the battle barge. They are roiling like a metallic hive around the great battleship. “What are those little things that look like dots all around it?”
“Emergency evacuation,” Anu says.
“Those are various station ships, ferrying all station personnel and cargo to the battle barge,” Gennio says. “Really behind schedule. They have to hurry, before the grid formation reaches 100%.”
“What happens then?” I ask again.
Gennio bites his lip.
“Grid formation has accelerated, now at 89%, and War-9 still has only 73% of the Septu Station personnel on-board,” Keruvat announces.
“Tell them to expedite, human priority. Personnel only, abandon cargo,” Aeson says in a dark tone. “Accounting for acceleration, how much time do they have?”
Xelio examines code results. “Seven daydreams, thirty heartbeats, at best—before grid completion.”
“We cannot be sure what happened at Rah will repeat here within the same time sequence,” Nergal says, approaching Aeson.
Aeson makes another call. “Nomarch Asclep, your status,” he says in a hard voice, apparently addressing Septu Station. “You have six daydreams. How much time do you need? No, you don’t have ten daydreams. You have less than six. Make it work.”
“Bashtooh,” Xelio says. “Grid formation is accelerating even more, 93% now.”
Aeson taps his wrist comm again. “Evacuation status, Command Pilot Zhar. Get them out of there. You now have less than four daydreams. Recall all ships now. Yes, that’s an order.”
“Grid formation at 97%, hitting critical range,” Erita exclaims.
My pulse racing with stress and a kind of sickening, slow horror, I watch the large view and the tiny flitting ships moving between the station and the battle barge. As they continue, War-9 starts slowly pulling away from the proximity of the station. The little ships follow, racing toward it, even as War-9 starts to accelerate.
Meanwhile, the golden grid diamond shape continues growing, and then, suddenly it stops.
“Now at 100%,” Keruvat says. “It is identical to the Rah formation.”
There is a beat of silence.
“Command Pilot Zhar, begin Quantum Stream sequence now!” Aeson speaks into this wrist comm. And then he switches lines. “Nomarch Asclep—if you can hear me, abandon station, or brace for impact.”
In that moment the diamond grid flares blinding white, like a small star. . . . And then it breaks apart into fiery chaos, as individual light spheres abandon the formation and eject blasts of white plasma in the direction of Septu Station, the planet surface, and the last of the tiny fleeing ships. . . .
We watch, stilled in horror, as the X-shape of Septu Station becomes a fireball of white, yellow, gold, and orange debris. . . .
The spheres continue firing. They streak like meteors toward the planet surface and alongside the desperate, escaping ships.
As the buoys in the path of the plasma get destroyed, their cameras go out, so the view program switches constantly to other remaining active units in the vicinity.
One of these views captures the now distant oval of War-9, as it accelerates into the QS space . . . but apparently not fast enough. Several enemy spheres catch up to it and its brood of ships, and white vectors of plasma strike across the distances hitting the hull of the battle barge.
“No . . .” Aeson speaks harshly into his wrist comm, “Command Pilot Zhar, your status! Respond now! Saramana Zhar!”
But now the viewscreen goes nova with homogeneous brightness. In a single blinding moment War-9 is the source of that brightness as it breaks apart. In the next split second, there are two distinct pieces of the long hull, and then there are only fiery flames and infinite debris, spinning out into space.
War-9 and the Septu Station are gone.
Chapter 71
The workroom is completely quiet. Faces are fixed in shock as the astra daimon officers watch the fire-engulfed debris spin out, plummet, float, and dissipate in every direction to fill the orbit around Septu.
The golden spheres of the alien enemy remain in hive motion, continuing to fire around them. But soon enough it’s clear they are returning to their original diamond-shaped grid formation.
Aeson stands silent, straight-backed, with an unreadable face. He watches the screen.
And then he raises his arm with the wrist comm and taps it, making another connection. “This is SPC Commander Aeson Kassiopei. Nomarch Cretheo, what is the current status of Tammuz Station?”
The next hours are a blur of remote communications, running people, and raised emotional voices. Aeson is talking to everyone, it seems, and he gets no respite. And all I can do is watch from the sidelines in awful, stunned silence.
We learn that Septu Station was the only place attacked. Tammuz Station continues to report that they are in the clear—there’s no sign of the alien enemy anywhere in the vicinity of the planet. No golden light grid, no energy fluctuations in the deep space perimeter, nothing. Tammuz Station is on trigger alert, and War-8 is ready to fight or flee on command.
“. . . an outrage! No, no, they must remain to fight! If those things appear, order them not to run without engaging them!” an IEC Council Member’s agitated face glares on a video call, yelling at Aeson from a small hovering screen.
“Your opinion is duly noted, Council Member Amasis,” Aeson says coldly. “I remind you that the use of force was attempted today, and it was unsuccessful. War-9 fired immediately, then dispatched vessels to bombard the partial grid during its early stages of formation, to no effect. All of this was happening in tandem with the evacuation efforts. . . . We did not just run—we fired while we ferried personnel. But our resonance weapons had no effect. Lasers were useless. Our plasma weapons did not penetrate. And our drone torpedoes passed through the spheres, then experienced the refraction bending phenomenon that returned them right back at us at odd angles, while there was no return fire from the enemy spheres. They disdained our use of force against them or simply ignored us completely and continued to build the grid. Evacuation was the only viable option.”
While Aeson speaks to IEC Member Amasis, an adjacent hovering screen shows the face of a foreign official who interrupts the conversation in a thick accent, frequently switching to an unfamiliar language which I can only guess is the language of Qurartu. “Commander, regardless of the tactics used, the loss of our people is not to be measured,” he says. “War-9 contained the best of our Fleet pilots and officers, and Qurartu cannot begin to mourn so many lives, unavenged. I must now face the Hetmet, and convey the tragic details, and I don’t know how to even begin—”
“You have my profound expression of grief on behalf of the fallen and their families,” Aeson says. “Please convey to Hetmet Qedeh Adamer that I will be calling him personally.”
The Qurartu official disconnects, and another call comes in on the display, this time from one of the Command Pilots in the outer system. Command Pilot Saiva Neidos wants to know if she should remain near Olympos Station or bring War-4 closer to Atlantis or one of the inner outposts.
“Please stand by, Command Pilot Neidos,” Aeson replies. “I will inform you of any change in orders. Yes, we are still working on it.”
And then the Imperator calls.
Aeson takes the call on his wrist comm and moves off to the side of the room for privacy. I watch his mask of composure crumble for one instant and then reform as he talks to his Father. His tone of voice remains constant, and I can still hear snatches of “. . . New Deshret will learn to wait . . .” and “. . . Niktos Fleet Commander must make the
choice that’s best for Bastet . . .” and then “. . . will make another attempt to reach the ark-ship lower levels. . . .”
“Imperial Lady Gwen,” Erita nears me for a moment. “You probably should get some rest. This is an ongoing situation that will not resolve tonight. You might end up waiting for him very late.” And she motions with her head in Aeson’s direction.
I nod with resignation. “I understand. Of course, I’ll go. I’m in everybody’s way here anyway.”
“Oh no, not at all.” Erita hurries to reassure with a brief, stressed smile.
But I know better. I quietly exit the workroom while Aeson has his back turned and doesn’t notice.
Of course, I have to tell my family what happened. Not the graphic horror, just the basic gist. We’re definitely under attack by a relentless, inexplicable, technologically more advanced alien force that does not seem to have any vulnerabilities. And there’s very little I can do to sugarcoat it.
My family reacts as expected, quiet and grim. We spend the rest of the night speculating, watching the TV feeds where, so far, the news has not hit, or possibly has been suppressed. It’s almost perverse, seeing happy commentators and flippant features, celebrity gossip, and even bawdy chatter about the current “preoccupations” of the Imperial Newlywed Couple, and glimpses of the aftereffects of our Wedding celebrations upon the City of Poseidon. . . .
“What will happen now?” Gordie asks, with a permanent frown on his face.
“I guess we die,” George says flatly, too tired and too medicated to vent more creative sarcasm.
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