YonkersLuna
“I don’t care what your status is, goddammit. I want Midway cleared to launch in fifteen minutes.”
Hiro rarely swore, but the engineers on this post infuriated him. He glanced at a nearby radar screen, watching red dots populate the black monitor. The newcomers had yet to fire a single shot, but Hiro wasn’t about to wait for an olive branch; they had dropped an armada directly into Terran space. That called for a firm answer from Midway.
Unfortunately Hiro was grounded, thanks to the chief engineer, a civilian.
“Commodore, we have personnel on board completing the refit,” he said, looking sleepy. “Half your plumbing is still ripped out, and most of the lights are on emergency power. I’ve got doors chocked open and entire sections of hull removed so we can access the wiring. A week ago you asked for my estimate, and I said one month. That still stands.”
Hiro’s head throbbed, but he forced his voice to steady. “I don’t need my men in the latrine, chief. And the crew is trained to operate in pitch black if necessary.” He leaned in close, smelling mustard on the man’s breath. “Listen carefully. I’m ordering my team aboard, and any man you have left is going to be conscripted onto the crew for the duration of this incident. And if you don’t have those docking clamps deactivated by the time our engines fire, I will personally guarantee you end up in front of a firing squad.”
Hiro left him whimpering in place and stormed away. Outside the OpCenter, Hiro took out his phone and dialed his executive officer, Captain Earl MacReady. The two longtime friends had served with each other for twenty-five years, back when Hiro was a fighter pilot and Earl a radar operator. The commodore knew he could trust the XO to get things ready while he contacted Fleet and developed the situation from the ground.
Earl picked up on the second ring. “Hiro? Jesus, it’s four in the morning. What’s going on?” Hiro filled him in on the invasion. “Christ. I’ll have the master chief get the crews up to speed. Most are going to be racked out. When do you want to ship out?”
Hiro thought for a moment. “Thirty minutes.”
“We’ll be at battle stations in half that.”
“Thank you.”
“Shit, I can’t even try to go back to sleep now. Have I ever mentioned you’re a prick of a boss?”
Hiro chuckled. “I’ll see you aboard.” He disconnected and immediately placed a call to Admiral Gilroy at Fleet Command. He waited while the line was redirected through the relays down to Earth. Despite the incredible distance between them, the field-grade officer sounded as though he were only a few feet away.
“Admiral Gilroy speaking.”
“This is Commodore Osaka, sir. We have a situation developing over Luna.”
“That’s putting it fucking mildly.”
Hiro could hear the two-star admiral shuffling around at his desk. He tried to remember the time difference and figured it was around noon in Vienna. There were other voices in the background. Aides more than likely, from the condescending tone the admiral used with them. Gilroy was a career soldier, battle-hardened and brutish. He never could grasp the political side of the military, which was why he was still searching for his vice admiral slot.
“Commodore, I’m looking at some disturbing readings from a TSI observatory and a panicked transmission from a Sky Guard captain. What can you tell me?”
“A few minutes ago, a battle group jumped into quadrant four-five-two-one. They aren’t responding to any method of contact, though thus far they haven’t shown hostile intent. I have SP completely mobilized, and I’m working to get Midway in the fight.”
“Whoever this is, they made an illegal jump into Earth territory with a group of warships. I want the welcome party to get them the hell off the front porch. Are they Martian? Raiders?”
Hiro pondered the idea. “I don’t believe so, sir. Mars doesn’t have the tech to pull a maneuver like this. Can’t be raiders, either. These are…different, sir.” Not of this world? Not human?
Gilroy shouted something to an aide. “All right, Hiro. Get your group in the skies and form a block. Fleet is mobilizing as we speak, and I’ll have Valley Forge out to join you in two hours.”
“What about Sidney?” Hiro asked.
“I’m bringing her in personally. TFC Normandy and Stalingrad are already in sector with CBG Solus, but they’re at half strength,” Gilroy said, referring to a Carrier Battle Group. “We’re gonna outnumber them by a hair.” He dropped off the line as one of his aides shouted something in the background. Hiro waited patiently. “Commodore, what were those coordinates again?”
“Right on top of us. Q-four-five-two-one, off the Luna map.”
Admiral Gilroy didn’t speak for a minute. “Describe the craft you’re seeing.”
Hiro pulled out his crystal tablet and scanned through the images. “Silver vessels, varied shapes. Looks to be cruisers, destroyers, and fighters. Green or blue lights coming from their engines, we think.”
“Then who the hell are the black and red ships coming from the other side of the goddamn moon?”
Hiro took off toward Midway, his heart pounding in his ears.
Toronto, Canada
The soldier sat in a darkened den, smoking and watching. His throne was a worn leather couch, his fiefdom a chilly speakeasy in Toronto. A ribbon of smoke coiled from his cigarette. Piercing blue eyes stared at a television screen. A news anchor reported on the situation over Earth.
“Terra Node has initiated the Clear Skies Protocol, so we are urging all viewers to set down immediately and seek out shelter. No word on if this is in fact a Martian invasion, but speculation is high.”
“Giving me credit already?” the man said. He drew the words out with a faint southern drawl. “Appreciated, but this ain’t my style.” A young woman approached from the back, offering a bottle of beer. The man took it with a grin, handing the pretty girl a folded credit note. She tucked the bill into her bra, winked, and went to serve more drinks. “Hell of a Reformation Day.” The man turned to share his little joke, but no one paid him any attention.
Around the room, groups of men busied themselves with various tasks, mindful to keep their noise down while their leader watched the TV. Some cleaned rifles, others played cards. Mostly, they sat and thought about the week to come. The mission had taken almost four years of planning, months of preparation, and now could crumble with the smallest slip. Not that they worried. They were never to concern themselves with failure, or the possibility thereof. Only the mission.
The soldier smiled. If a younger version of himself walked in the room, he wouldn’t even recognize what he’d become. There wasn’t a proper word for him. Rebel? Terrorist? Monster? Hell, he was fine with “disillusioned soldier,” but the media loved to portray him as some kind of anti-establishment nutjob. No matter. The hour of judgment was approaching so rapidly that he rarely slept anymore, lest he miss it.
From inside one of his many hideaways, the soldier known as Jonah Blightman waited for his moment of triumph. Soldiers
