Magestic 3

by Geoff Wolak

  A message was then broadcast towards the Zim mother ships, repeated on many frequencies: Move to a higher orbit, cease all activities, and we will negotiate the return of your people. We are in control of the world they travelled to. Jimmy Silo, federation of linked worlds.

  Lobster had idled away six months before excitedly spotting the first small Zim craft overhead – the craft not in stealth mode. It was not interfered with. The Zim took their time, several weeks to look around Wyoming, craft glimpsed most every day. The Zim were observed engaging with local ranchers, and they even chatted in English to some of Lobster’s men when they came across them, enquiries made about exchanges of food and raw materials for technology or precious metals – medical care offered. It was all very good-natured and polite.

  Three months later, a tense three months, and around thirty thousand Zim citizens had landed, a few dozen of Lobster’s men now employed as labourers to build houses and facilities – offered food and board. Many of Lobster’s men told the story that they had been illegal aliens held in US jails prior to the war, and had broken out together. It amused the Zim, and many a joke about ‘we more alien than you’ was heard.

  Medium ships could be seen on the ground every day, the Zim organising labourers to gather metals. Those gangs also collected abandoned cars and trucks for the Zim, certain metals removed or cut out, the Zim specifying what they wanted.

  On queue, a portal opened from Clayton’s world, at a dusty and abandoned USAF base in central Nevada - its former staff having high-tailed it away after the war, and the time line continued without a paradox. The USAF team drove around Nevada and northern Arizona chatting to survivors – those that did not shoot first, and some of those survivors directed the USAF team towards the polite “humans from another world” in Wyoming.

  The USAF team were obviously astonished by the stories of strange craft and strange people, and used abandoned military vehicles to journey northeast. In Wyoming, they stopped to grab fuel from abandoned vehicles, and came across a few of Lobster’s men, who falsely begged for food – after indicating where the strange ships could be seen around Yellowstone.

  The USAF team journeyed on, being informed by those they met that the human-aliens were friendly, and the team spotted their first UFO a few days later. They excitedly followed in the general direction of where the craft was heading - the place that Lobster’s men had directed them to, and came across a well-run Zim camp, soon being welcomed inside without question. The Zim explained just who they were, quite openly, the USAF teams reporting back straight away. Senior officers arrived a few days later, in Hueys that had been abandoned in Nevada, the helicopters having been carefully checked first.

  Lobster’s men tried to avoid the various USAF teams at first – save too many probing questions of origins and nationality, the Rifles now very familiar with both the land and the local inhabitants, all now wearing suitable civilian clothes, suitably tatty and stinking clothes. When asked about their African accents, some of the Rifles suggested that they had been merchant seaman - and that their ship had been stuck in port in America when the war started, and … they wandered about, ending up here. Some claimed to have arrived in American a few months before the war, some claimed to have come up from the Caribbean.

  They did, however, all point towards their cover story, the story that those of dark skin had banded together for safety, hence the concentration of blacks in one spot.

  The weeks turned into months, and the months rolled by, history repeating itself, a portal opening just a few miles from the main Zim camp in southern Wyoming. American servicemen appeared from Clayton’s world, tented bases established – and infiltrated, many a cook or day-labourer actually a member of the Rifles. Parts and equipment were brought through the portal, driven in trucks to the various Zim areas, the work observed without interference. In his command bunker, an old mine located well away from either the Zim or the USAF staff, Lobster made accurate maps of the Zim bases, and of the locations used by the USAF here.

  The USAF from Clayton’s world rounded up former soldiers and airmen in the area – the men having gone native - and press-ganged them into service in return for the copious amounts of tinned food being brought through; paper money and hollow promises were no good as currency. Tents were brought through and bases made, although there were plenty of abandoned houses around.

  Quite a small town grew up around the main USAF camp, a few dozen of Lobster’s men gainfully employed. Some of the cover stories were quite outlandish, one of Lobster’s sergeants telling US enlisted men from Clayton’s world that he had been the Deputy Kenyan Ambassador to Canada before the war – as he served them their meals. A few of those enlisted men fell ill from mild radiation poisoning, and had to be sent back, the local black labourers seemingly unaffected.

  With a new portal being constructed, a large portal, Lobster became very interested, his men spying on the work as it progressed. It took more than a year to build that portal, and sixty of Lobster’s men – those with the best English, worked on its construction, those with poor English engaged as cooks or day labourers in the surrounding tented camps.

  When the portal was finally ready, powered by the hydroelectric turbines of a nearby dam – the nearby houses having been left with no electricity since the war, and still not getting any - a Zim craft flew through the portal. It was piloted by Slumber. Lobster ticked a box, and checked his time line.

  A few months later, additional craft were seen going through, these craft now appearing to have components fixed to their surfaces. A dozen craft passed through the portal, and most were seen to return.

  A full eight months later, and a batch of twelve craft passed through in sequence after some hurried activity at the base, a base that had grown considerably.

  Two additional medium Zim craft had landed, and were being used as habitats by the Zim, some of whom were glimpsed in their native form – flattened noses. Skin colour varied from pale blue to grey, and some were quite short, despite being adults. No children had been seen, and no one could say that they had actually seen a female. Materials were carried through from Clayton’s world most every day, driven to the Zim by Lobster’s men, who acted dumb. A build-up then led to six craft easing through the portal with attachments bolted on.

  Three years after Lobster had arrived in Montana, and two years after the Zim had arrived, trucks and buses were requested. Buses ran day and night – fuel an issue now and being supplied by the USAF via its portal. Newly arrived Zim were seen being transported on the backs of trucks to the main Zim bases, areas that few humans were allowed into – except Lobster’s men.

  The Zim liked Lobster’s men because the Africans were strong, had great endurance, and seemed to be a little dumb. The Africans were also from this world, and not Clayton’s people. Trust seemed to be an issue. Those of Lobster’s men that had been employed since before Clayton opened a portal were trusted well, and allowed into sensitive areas. USAF personnel had not been granted access to those areas.

  With the Zim now appearing in large numbers, Lobster sent runners to signal all of his men, and the trusted trustees in the Zim areas suddenly disappeared. Buses had to be driven by USAF staff or local men, and large numbers of Zim hung around near the portals in Nevada, waiting a ride.

  Two days later, and Lobster’s men were hidden, but now in uniform – and armed, as several medium Zim ships landed, thousand of Zim citizens being disgorged before the ships took off again. The place was starting to look busy, the camps filling up, and Lobster made ready for the culmination of twenty years hard work and planning, his men stretching muscles and limbering up ready.

  The gathering

  The Zim orbiting Clayton’s world did indeed move to a higher orbit, and for a few hours just sat there. No stealth craft approached the atmosphere, and no orbital bombardment was unleashed. Meanwhile, on the ground, US citizens - and Army units alike - were stunned to find over-sized US Marines appearing in many places, each c
arrying a large and strange weapon. Introductions were made.

  In Nevada and Wyoming, the portals dispatching Zim across to the other world were being left alone for now, being carefully observed by our own stealth craft. In Wyoming, frantic activity was witnessed as USAF staff tried to return to this world, whilst in Nevada there was frantic activity as the Zim rushed through to that world, assuming it to be safe.

  When the last Zim kicked up dust and disappeared into the portal room, we hit its main power relays. All EM activity ceased. In Wyoming, we left the portal alone, hoping that as many USAF staff as possible might return. There was the obvious danger of Zim infiltrators coming across disguised as returning airmen, but we were not too worried about that. When the portal was powered down by the USAF themselves, we hit its power relays, assuming that the stragglers must have returned.

  Now we were in what Jimmy called ‘The Middle Time’, a period where brinkmanship and bluffs would be played out, a period during which the Zim may consider striking cities. We waited, in relative terms, many people biting nails on many worlds. More than fifty thousand Marines had so far moved across to Clayton’s America, many designated to fight the Zim craft, others to protect those fighting the Zim, yet more to police the areas they occupied and to calm the surprised and shocked locals – civilians and federal authorities alike.

  As dusk came down over America on Clayton’s world, no word had come back from the Zim, but their response was not a friendly one. Missiles shot out from those mother ships and medium ships positioned closest to Earth, and as those missiles entered the upper atmosphere they detonated, a brilliant light show laid on for the puzzled and frightened citizens of America, and a clear warning. The light show continued for an hour, spectacular blasts witnessed from below by those countries in the shade of night. Many on the ground considered it a nuclear attack, and panic spread.

  When the bombardment eased, a message was sent by our stealth craft. Zim leaders, pull back and we will talk, or you will fight a war with us, your citizens lost. Jimmy Silo.

  PS. Look behind you.

  The Zim received the message, and did look behind, suddenly finding the EM signatures of a hundred craft approaching from the Moon. Twenty of those craft were of the same design as Dark Star, the rest baby versions – and a few were simply automated missiles and probes. It was a bluff, but we had no idea what Dark Star could do to the Mother Ships - and they didn’t know either. We guessed about the weapons capabilities of the Zim mother ships, but they knew ours; they had lost enough ships to us.

  Around those Mother Ships, a cloak of some nine hundred small craft emerged, many of the craft now forming squadrons and moving out towards our craft. When in range, they would realise our bluff.

  The Ye Olde historic Battle of Zim

  On 1938-world, Jimmy and I travelled across to the Trophy Space Centre in Canada, our wives not apprised of what we were about to do – of the foolish and dangerous stunt we were about to pull. The captured Seethan ship from the future was sat waiting, a crew of just three for this mission – room for us. The pilot and crew stood waiting for us near their craft, a sleek metallic purple beast, floodlights rigged up as we landed by helicopter. Clear of the helicopter, we approached the Seethan crew.

  ‘So, all ready?’ Jimmy asked with a confident smile.

  ‘This mission seems … reckless, sir,’ the pilot broached.

  ‘I said that earlier,’ I quipped.

  Jimmy shot me a look. ‘War … is always a gamble, unless you’ve stacked the deck.’

  ‘Have you … stacked the deck, sir?’ the pilot nudged.

  ‘Yeah, have you?’ I nudged, getting another look.

  ‘I hope so, but the fact is … I won’t know till we get there.’ Jimmy took off his jacket and I followed the move, blue flight-coveralls placed on. ‘Communications kit ready?’ Jimmy asked as he gestured the Seethan crew towards their craft.

  ‘As specified, sir, power boosted,’ the Seethan pilot responded. ‘Any more power to the comm’s system … and they’ll hear us on Saturn.’

  Smiling, Jimmy clambered up the steps and ducked his head inside the darkened interior. There was room to stand up on this Seethan ship, but for normal people, not for Jimmy. He bent double, and grabbed a seat at the rear of the dimly lit flight deck, and I settled next to him, the Seethans soon firing up the craft. Jimmy strapped in, and adjusted his straps, so I followed suit, finding straps for my legs - and even my upper arms.

  With just the slightest of bumps we lifted off, an odd holographic view of the world outside us displayed, just outlines of buildings and people – no detail or colour portrayed. The portal we would utilise, an enlarged portal, was being displayed as a large white circle whose edges sparkled, continuous readings displayed about EM power emissions.

  As I sat there in the subdued light, staring at the backs of heads, the Seethans went about their checklists, soon happy that everything was ‘nominal’.

  ‘Portal control, this Seethan craft, we are now approaching,’ the pilot transmitted. He grabbed the pine cone air freshener off his console, and tossed it over his shoulder to me. I picked it and began fiddling with it, my nerves apparent.

  ‘Seethan craft, track is good, portal power is steady - all in the green.’

  ‘Portal control, we are moving through now. Thank you and … hope to see you soon.’

  ‘Good luck,’ came back.

  I could see the image of the portal as we moved toward it, and that image expanded until it could not be seen, a new image appearing after a few seconds of flickering screens. We were now on Clayton’s world, and in a war zone as I fiddled with the fragrant pine cone-shaped cardboard.

  ‘Fish Tank to Ground One,’ Jimmy said towards a data-pad he carried, and I frowned at our designation.

  ‘Fish tank,’ I mouthed towards Jimmy.

  ‘Ground One to Fish Tank, you’re clear of the portal,’ came a new voice.

  ‘Fish Tank to Ground One, status report.’

  ‘Firework display ended ten minutes ago, sir.’

  ‘Understood,’ Jimmy offered. ‘Wish us luck. Out.’ Jimmy tapped the pilot on the shoulder. ‘Let’s see if you can fly this thing … as well as we’d like to think you can.’

  ‘I sometimes get air-sick,’ I volunteered, being ignored.

  The pilot exchanged a look with his crew, lifted the nose and powered up. I was pinned into my seat, the holographic view changing to show our rate of climb, and our speed.’

  ‘Mach 3,’ Jimmy commented, studying his data-pad. ‘Mach 4 … 5.’

  ‘Other ships closing in,’ a Seethan reported.

  ‘Dark Star 9 to Mister Silo.’

  ‘I’m here,’ Jimmy responded in a strained voice. ‘Report.’

  ‘Twenty two of our craft now stand ready in the atmosphere, sir.’

  ‘And the Zim?’ Jimmy asked.

  ‘Upwards of nine hundred craft, sir,’ Dark Star 9 reported, our Seethan crew exchanging looks.

  The pilot turned his head to Jimmy. ‘Nine … hundred, sir? And mother ships?’

  ‘Do you wish to carve your name into legend, or grow old slowly?’ Jimmy asked the man without looking up. ‘And just what would you be prepared to do to prevent your species from being wiped out?’ Now he looked up and faced the man.

  ‘I would hope, sir, that I would make the ultimate sacrifice,’ the pilot offered. ‘But … this seems like suicide.’

  ‘Do you have confidence in me?’ Jimmy posed as we rapidly climbed higher.

  ‘Yes, Great Prophet.’

  ‘And … would it trouble you to die alongside me?’

  The pilot took a moment. ‘It would be an honour, sir.’

  ‘Well then, let’s try not to make you die with honour today.’ Jimmy tapped his data-pad. ‘Zim leaders, this is Jimmy Silo. Do you wish to negotiate?’

  We waited for a reply as we left the Earth’s atmosphere. None came as I fiddled with the air freshener, pulling pieces of it.

  �
�Dark Star 9 to Mister Silo. I am detecting a large number of craft turning towards our projected path out of the gravity well, perhaps three hundred.’

  ‘Time to intercept?’ Jimmy asked.

  ‘Eleven minutes, sir,’ Dark Star 9 reported.

  Jimmy tapped his data-pad. ‘Baby Dark Star 1, if you’re in position, you have a go.’

  ‘Baby Dark Star 1, firing on mother ship now.’

  ‘Where is it?’ I asked, studying the forward view.

  The crew enlarged the images of the Zim mother ships. ‘We’re not detecting it,’ they reported.

  ‘Wait,’ a crewman called. ‘What’s that?’

  A Zim mother ship was zoomed in on, what looked like debris seen to be floating near it.

  ‘Baby Dark Star 1 to Mister Silo. The mother ship was hit, I have not been detected or fired upon, but the ship seems to be well equipped to plug holes and prevent the loss of atmosphere. I would surmise that the outer shell of the mother ship is a covering for a lattice arrangement of inner compartments and dead space. A critical area would need to be found and hit, sir.’

  ‘Baby Dark Star 1, this is Silo; go play with the smaller craft for now. Silo for Zim leadership, do you wish to negotiate?’

  No reply came.

  Jimmy exchanged a look with me.

  ‘They do … speak English, I assume,’ I quipped.

  ‘Nine minutes to intercept, sir,’ a Seethan crewman reminded us, an irate glance at floating bits of pine-scented cardboard.

  We were weightless. I realised that as the mess I had created started to float around the cabin, earning me a look from Jimmy. ‘Do we have really good insurance?’ I asked no one in particular.

  Jimmy instructed, ‘Send the signal, full power.’

  ‘Sending signal,’ they confirmed. ‘But, sir, we’re now lit up brighter than the Sun.’

  ‘Additional Zim ships vectoring towards us,’ a crewman said.