called the military the “fourth pillar” of the government. It broke down into five functional areas. There was the Army, designed to defend planets and moons. Marines were trained in similar tactics, but they only served aboard ships or stations, a fact that disturbed anyone with even a passing knowledge of the branch’s history. The Navy had long before been rebranded as Fleet. It covered everything from pilots to commanders.
Finally there was SP, the reserve forces that acted as jacks of all trades. That included Cameron and George.
Cameron leaned his long frame back in the plastic chair. He fit the uniform just right, creating a striking figure. His wingman George, on the other hand, seemed extra frumpish in his too-large jumpsuit. A few coffee stains on the sleeves didn’t improve the look.
“I told you that last shot was a mistake,” Cameron said.
George looked up with red eyes. “No, you said the second-to-last shot was a mistake. You didn’t see the one after.” He hiccuped, choking back a sudden surge of bile. “Or the two after that.”
“Are you okay to fly?”
He grinned, tapping a subdued black badge on his chest. “I’m an ace, son. A hangover is just part of the job.” His stomach gurgled, and George fought to hold down his meager breakfast. “Anything on the board today?”
Cameron turned toward the massive briefing screen, looking for the flight list. Strangely, the board was empty. Not even the runs from the previous night. Normally, the names and routes for dozens of wings would be laid out for the day. He was about to say as much to George when the panel suddenly flashed white.
An alert bell rang out in a sudden shotgun blast of white noise. They clapped hands over their ears in defense. Red strobes activated, washing over the room. The entire hall leapt to attention, accompanied by a cacophony of shouting voices. They glanced around, completely disoriented by the ready alarm. Then, one by one, they registered the meaning of the noise. Cameron nearly knocked over the table as he bolted toward a comm terminal and activated the line to OpCenter. George joined him quickly, massaging his temples as he walked up. He’d brought his coffee over and sipped from the steaming mug.
“What the hell? We’re off this weekend. It’s supposed to be a holiday.”
“That’s next weekend. It’s Thursday.” Cameron raised an eyebrow. “What holiday happens on October thirteenth?”
“Leave George The Hell Alone Day.” He yawned, limbs splayed out like a cat. “What do you think?”
Cameron shrugged. “Could be another passenger liner lost thrusters.” It was the most likely possibility. Ever since the recession hit, interstellar cruisers were going longer and longer between repairs and refits. They’d handle a call like that once a week at least. SP advertised as the reserve component of Fleet, but it was more like being a space cop.
The crowd around the station grew, and Cameron felt dozens of eyes on him as he waited for the operation center to connect. Someone finally silenced the alarm, but the startled pilots still huddled and shivered like wet dogs.
When the monitor lit up, they found themselves staring at General Burnside, the elderly post commander. Cameron immediately went to attention, while George merely stepped out of the camera’s view. After a moment, they both realized it was a recorded message.
“What the hell?” Cameron stammered. “This is new.” He looked over his shoulder at the remaining crowd, shrugging.
Burnside was old but tough. A former infantry officer, the three-star general ruled the base with a firm hand. SP personnel often found their passes revoked for minor infractions. It didn’t stop the civilians from acting like imbeciles, but anyone in uniform behaved as professionally as a West Point graduate. George had nearly exploded the first week. Cameron found the transition smoother.
Burnside spoke, his voice tired and full of gravel. “Attention. This is General Lawrence Burnside, commander of Federate Reserve Post Yonkers. Earth and her moon are facing an imminent threat. All pilots report to your hangars and you will receive full briefings. Godspeed.” The feed cut out.
George looked at Cameron, bewildered. “Imminent what?”
Cameron took off out of the mess hall and down the corridor, with George struggling to keep up.
Fort Yonkers
Luna
Fort Yonkers hadn’t been built for Fleet. That much Commodore Hiro Osaka knew. Grown from the skeleton of the first lunar colony, the sprawling base lacked the facilities and equipment to properly care for anything larger than a six-man Griffin. The complexities of a Terran carrier seemed to baffle the gaggle of civilian engineers that pored over the flagship like ants on a picnic. Two weeks into the refit and they were already a month behind schedule. The fifty-year-old officer had walked the halls of his ship only hours before and had been horrified by the disastrous mess left behind. Cables hung down from the overhead panels and entire sections of the walls were missing, exposing the innards of the vessel.
As the commander of Carrier Battle Group Sol, Hiro oversaw a flotilla of the most advanced ships in the Terran Fleet. But even without the support craft, Hiro had the Alpha vessel.
Midway, the Terran flagship, was unlike any carrier before it.
Designed during the final days of the Emigration War, she replaced the fallen TFC Shiloh. Three times as large, and holding eighty more fighting craft than her predecessor, Midway had become the unquestioned symbol of the Federate’s supremacy in the dark skies. It wasn’t hard to see why; unless someone saw her in person, they never believed the stories of her size.
In recent years, even as newer ships of the line flew out from the various yards over Titan and Phobos, Midway had remained a sentinel in Terran space. Her crew could populate a small town or conquer a small moon. Though armed only with standard weaponry, the carrier was a match for any fighting vessel in the known universe. Hiro’s weapons officer lamented that they never installed some of the latest and greatest tools of destruction, but a forty-inch gun still packed a hell of a punch. Which made it all the more frustrating to have it under repair, collecting moon dust.
Alarms sounded throughout the base, muted now that the initial alert had gone out. The commodore seethed at the idea of sitting idly by while Mars launched an attack. Hiro looked out the small glass window next to him, imagining he could see the red planet. It was such an unimaginable distance away—but unbearably close for a military man. He took a final look at his prone and gutted berth before heading back down the hall. The civilians and soldiers he passed stared at him as he walked by. With his closely cut gray hair and piercing blue eyes, Hiro was as recognizable a face on a military post as the high chancellor himself.
He pinched the bridge of his nose, his other hand holding a small clear phone to his ear. He didn’t like the new model—the synthetic material wore too quickly and felt tacky against his cheek. His jaw clenched and relaxed, and he tried to slow his racing pulse.
“I don’t care about the old plates,” he said. His voice was calm, but he felt acid rise in his stomach. “I can’t fly until you replace the port hangar’s armor shielding.” Hiro paced back and forth in the hall, his eyes locked on a distant point of the Earth’s surface. “You have until I reach the OpCenter to give me a better answer. When the fighting starts, I’d better be up there.” He hung up, lingering in place to soak in the spectacle. For a moment he considered calling his daughter, maybe asking to speak to his grandson, but it was already
