Fever: The Aftermath

They all arrived within a day of each other and sleeping arrangements took care of themselves as the mentalists chose their bed partners and preferred quarters. Meals were pitch-in affairs, with everyone contributing as they could. Instead of an epic battle planning meeting, there was an air of a ribald Chatauqua meeting about the farm. Except in the planning sessions.

Anyone who was not familiar with the group would have thought they were all involved in some sort of group meditation exercise. All the communication was by telepathy. Besides the twelve resistance group leaders, there were Kirk, Lorenz, Ron (Kirk's second in command in his resistance group), Susie, T'sahn (Susie's link to the other telepaths), Rose, and Jasmine, the last two because of their recent interactions with the aliens, and a radiochemist from each of the two larger colliders.

Most of the first morning was taken up listing and specifying all the weaknesses members of the group had become aware of in the alien forces, from their inability to see danger physically underfoot, to the lack of fuel for their air forces and space ships.

The next three and a half days were an extended brainstorming session as each weakness which had been identified was examined and ways to exploit it considered and debated. The fifth day, strategies were chosen and assignments made. On the sixth day small groups were formed and methods chosen to carry out the strategies. New assignments were made and the battle site and date chosen. They had six weeks to get ready.

The collider engineers announced a procedural breakthrough. They were now able to produce approximately 25 grams of the fuel mixture each day, a rate which would allow the aliens to leave in mid-August. Fuel rods would be delivered weekly. To allow safe handling, the rods were to be encased in a lead alloy.

Other teams scouted the chosen battle site under the cover of darkness and reformed the landscape to conceal the 'booby traps' they had planned during the strategy sessions. In Missouri, northeast of Kansas City, there is a stretch of state highway 201 which runs pretty much east and west along the Missouri River. That was the chosen site.

They predicted the route the aliens would take, and constructed what looked like a comfortable place to stop for the night at the western edge of the battlefield. A series of unfortunate mishaps would help to lead them there.

When everything was in place, a narrowly focused radio beam was aimed at the space ship occupied by Central Command. It triggered a melt down of the lead alloy covering the rods in the fuel cells, resulting in a series of small explosions in the engineering deck, wiping out propulsion, navigational, and weapon systems. In short order, the other space ships reported similar occurrences.

As soon as radio reports confirming the explosions were received, all available resistance units in North America relocated to North Central Missouri, to a field along the Missouri River. The camp was large enough to be seen at night from space.

Shortly after they were assembled, Kirk and Lorenz called their special team together to start sending mental blasts toward the Central Command ship, nudging it out of orbit, toward the sun. Calls for immediate action were sent to the Commander of the troops at Ft Leavenworth.

This resulted in a bit of an argument about how best to attack a foe over a hundred miles away immediately. The result was that the alien troops were loaded onto a convoy of several trucks, which set out as soon as the last troop sat down in the back of the last truck, just before dawn.

As predicted, they followed the interstates toward KC. Along the way, they were subject to continuing sniper fire, not only from resistance fighters, but also from the men and women whose farms and businesses they had to pass.

Approaching one of the bridges crossing the Missouri at mid morning, the Commander, in the lead truck, was horrified to see it collapse in front of them. When he ordered the convoy to turn around, to return to the last exit, the driver in the last truck reported that the last three bridges they had passed over had also collapsed just as the convoy cleared them, isolating them. A quick glance at the median area between the interstate lanes showed it was not an option.

The Commander recognized a trap when he saw one. He contacted his superior at Central Command. Before he could say anything, the Admiral began shouting at him (roughly translated), "What the fuck are you doing. Do you realize those fucking Earthmen have just about knocked us out of our fucking orbit. If you don't get your fucking ass on the way right now, we'll be headed for their puny fucking Sun with no fucking way to stop ourselves. Do I have to fucking come down there and assume command or are you going to fucking do something?"

The Commander, as we said, was no fool. He realized at that point he was destined to die on this planet. That was of little consequence to him. He had no idea if there was any of his family still living on his home planet. The only memories of that far off place were adulterated by his time in the image-I-holds, room sized holograms which tapped into the user's memories to recreate scenes and experiences from their past.

"Perhaps, Sir, it would be better if you came down and assumed command," he replied.

There was a stunned silence at the other end. "Do you realize what you are saying, Kmar-2?" came the Admiral's reply after several seconds."

"Yes, Sir."

"Who is your second in command?"

"I am the only officer remaining in this command, Sir. My two remaining officers were killed by sniper fire this morning. My next, currently, is a Staff Sergeant, with three campaigns experience. He's a bit young, and rash; not really officer quality, but there was no one else of rank. Still, he will be useful moving the troops around this highway bridge which has collapsed."

"Where is Crag-3?"

"I fear he is lost, Sir. He did not report in when the troops were ordered to this place, Leavenworth. According to some of the officers from the inland Seas contingent, he moved toward the salt water, to a place not far from the easternmost Inland Sea.

"They said he planned to wait for the leader of the resistance there, to trap him. That was two moon periods ago. He has not responded to any radio or view screen hails." There was a grumbling noise from the Admiral as he assimilated this information.

"Can you establish a receiving shell?"

"No, Sir. We had to leave the post without most of our supplemental equipment. You will have to target our position using this radio link. It should be safe enough," the Commander answered, the last comment a dig at the Admiral's well known 'caution.'

"Very well, Kmar-2." the Admiral responded, the hard tone in his voice conveying the message that he didn't appreciate his subordinate's remark about safety. "Get the troops ready to proceed on foot. Send out scouts to find a way across the divide the bridge collapse created.

"We have located the source of the energy forcing us out of orbit. It is about 65 magetermes (approximately 40 miles) east of your current position, on the North side of the river you seem to be following. I'll be down to assume command directly."

It was nearly forty-five minutes before the Admiral was down in a transportation pod, a specialized container which could move an individual through space using a special form of radio wave. Ideally, the target location would have a shell matched to the ship's radio frequency in which the individual, or object, would materialize upon arrival. He seemed to simply appear next to the lead truck, dressed in full battle gear, like the troops.

Kirk had chosen his battle site well. A major characteristic of the American Interstate system is an almost total lack of trees shading the highways, or, indeed, the entire right of way. In Kansas, in August, it is not unheard of for daytime temperatures, in the heat of the day, to exceed 95 degrees Fahrenheit. Dhogian battle dress was flat black, reflecting zero light, or heat. The 40-mile forced march would challenge even their strongest troops.

The Admiral had barely finished formally assuming command when a frantic signal was received from the space ship he had just left.

If you have studied basic physics, you may remember the definition of a dyne, the basic unit of energy, as the force imparted by a mosquito's fart. You may also remember Newton's Third Law of Motion: For each action, there is an equal and opposite reaction.

In transporting the Admiral across the fifty miles from his space ship to Earth, the transporter exerted the minuscule force of three hundred dynes, normally not enough to be considered. Given the constant bombardment of the ship by Kirk and his crew, however, it was enough to nudge the ship on its way to the Sun, and to oblivion.

The alien officers bade their comrades farewell.

Over the past two years, Kirk had spent enough time in the Kansas and Nebraska area to learn to hate one of its denizens, an obnoxious insect identified to him simply as the corn bug. About an inch long, and a quarter of that in diameter, it seemed to be constantly expelling its waste, a thick syrupy liquid which tended to raise blisters or welts when it came in contact with human skin.

They seemed to land on any thing which moved, and would seek any opening to crawl into and explore: gloves, breathing apertures, eye holes, ear holes, rips, ventilation openings. And they bit; and when they bit, they shit. The resulting blisters, in a few minutes began to itch. It was a sensation unlike anything the Doghians had ever previously encountered.

The more you scratched, the harder or faster you scratched, the more /harder/faster scratching the itch seemed to require. Before they had gone a thousand yards, the entire troop of 1300 was in severe disorder because of the bug.

The only saving grace was that, physically, the discomfort passed in about an hour, if left alone; otherwise, it could take from two to four hours of agonized scratching before the pain was reduced to a tolerable level.

However, they had to keep any opening in their uniforms closed, allowing the heat of the day to elevate the heat in their uniforms to nearly unbearable temperatures. By noon, the troop could barely move they were so exhausted. The Admiral called for a halt to rest, but there was no shade, and no one was inclined to take advantage of the coolly beckoning river.

They made a little over four miles in that hour, and lost nearly a hundred fighting drones, and five troopers, all unranked, first campaigners, to heat stroke.

Around two in the afternoon, the Admiral confessed to himself that he no longer had the stamina he had possessed as a young man, and gave up battling the heat. He had Kmar-2 order one of the non-coms to take another trooper and confiscate a vehicle of some sort for him to ride in.

With a baleful look at their revered leader, the non-com and one of the unranked troopers set off to find a vehicle. They had hardly cleared the expressway when they came to a fueling station with several of the short bedded trucks the natives referred to as pick-ups parked nearby.

Brandishing their weapons, they inspected the pick-ups and found one with a key in the ignition. As soon as they determined that the engine started, both of the aliens piled into the cab and returned to their column. The Admiral was pleased and appointed the non-com as his driver.

The radio, which had been salvaged from the troop truck, was mounted in the bed of the truck, improving both the broadcast and receiving capabilities. When the troop was finally able to move on, the Admiral was talking to the space ships which had been flanking his flag ship when it commenced its final, fatal, journey.

Both ships reported seeing the flag ship 'tumble' out of orbit and begin its trip to the Sun. It was probably about half way to the lunar orbit by now. They also reported they were still under attack, and that the severity of the attacks had increased since the flag ship had succumbed.

The Admiral was about to choose one as his new flagship when, first one, then the other, calmly reported their orbits had failed, and they were following the flagship, on their final voyages. The Admiral switched to visual mode and saluted his long time companions, wished them well and promised to meet them in whatever version of Paradise they might find in this 'Godforsaken corner of the Universe.'

He had barely finished when calls from the remaining ships came in, reporting their orbits also were failing. Only one ship remained in stable orbit, but without fuel or control.

He climbed into the pick-up's cab and ordered the driver to catch up with the troops. It only took them about five minutes to reach the head of the column. They passed it and went on a hundred yards or so to assume the lead. When the non-com pulled into line, he felt the steering freeze and seize up. He was unable to straighten the front wheels, and drove over the bank and down the bankside toward the river.

A little more than halfway down, the truck struck a large, man sized boulder, throwing the Admiral clear. The truck began tumbling end over end, landing upside down in the river shoals.

The Commander, feeling more and more like they were walking into a massive trap, quickly ordered a half dozen troopers to grab some ropes and run ahead to effect whatever rescue they could, not expecting anyone to have survived.

By the time he got to the crash site, two of the troopers had reached the Admiral and were assisting him up over the bank, to the road surface. Badly shaken, he had suffered no physical injury. He looked at the Commander.

"What kind of enemy are we dealing with? When my great great grandfather retired from the Army, he used to tell us folk tales of fighting invisible spirits who seemed to ride the wind; they could coax boulders and trees out of the ground to fly at their enemy and seemed to be immune to injury. Have we found their home?"

The Commander, nodding his head slowly, replied, "That may be. About two lunar cycles past, there was a cryptic report from a patrol in the Southern Mountain region that they had captured one of the native guerillas. When they didn't return within the expected time, another patrol was sent to find them.

"It was plain they were lying where they had fallen, each with a dozen fatal wounds. Their weapons and all the supplemental gear was taken. Only their transport remained, drained of fuel. There was no sign any of their attackers had even been injured."

"I am beginning to think we are being led into an elaborate ambush, Kmar. Is that why you called me down here?"

The Dhogian Commander's face displayed as much of a smile as it could. "I thought you would rather die facing your enemy, than tumbling through space to be consumed by a star with no way to retaliate. This way, we have the possibility of helping them relieve their over-population problem."

The Admiral laughed, a frightful sound, similar to the braying of a mule. "Right you were, Kmar! Well, if we are to suffer a warrior's death, then let us go forth to the battle. If my calculations are correct, we are about 15 magetremes from the camp we saw from the flagship last night.

"Judging from the sun, even if we double time, it will be too late to engage in battle. And I sense the troops are in no shape to attempt that speed. Change to hiking mode, Kmar; have them walk at their own pace. Let them relax their armor. I do not think our enemy plans to attack us in force tonight. But I hate to think what our troops might face tomorrow."

The road they were following paralleled the river. With all its twists and turns, Kirk was closer to 20 magetremes away. It took the column, moving at its relaxed pace, close to six hours to reach the swale the resistance had prepared for them.

Between the highway and the river, there was an open grassy area, covering about five acres. There were several large oaks scattered through the field, enough so the lea was littered with acorns. There was not a square foot without at least a half dozen of the pebble-like fruits.

A clear, babbling brook ran through the center, from the highway to the river, terminating in a picturesque ribbon waterfall. The long march in the hot sun overcame the fear of running water for the first arrivals.

Hearing and seeing the clear water, they ran to the brook, discarding their helmets, to drink deeply of what turned out to be brackish water. They had barely swallowed their first mouthfuls when the swampy water was forcibly rejected by their bodies.

Immediately, the Commander and the Admiral suspected some sort of trickery or sabotage, but those fears were quickly put to rest when the first scouting party crossed the highway, along the north end of the meadow, and walked into a quicksand bog.

Kmar-2, uncharacteristically, lost his temper when he heard that a breeder and three fighting drones had mistaken some grassy islands near the highway as solid ground and fallen into the dreaded sucking waters. He released a string of epithets similar in character to the tirade the Admiral had unleashed on him the day before, ending with the Dhog equivalent of 'this fucking hell hole of an asteroid.'

When he finished, he turned around to see several troopers looking at him, a combination of fear and concern in their eyes, as well as the Admiral, who was doing his best not to laugh.

"Are you okay, Kmar-2? Do you need anything? A drink? A furlough?" he asked, his eyes laughing and wary at the same time.

From a family which prided itself on not showing emotion, Kmar-2 was viewed as a paragon. Where we might say cool as a cucumber, on the Dhog's home planet, they said cool as Kmar.

Struggling to regain control of himself, Kmar-2 replied. "I'm fine, Sir. Forgive my outburst; it shan't happen again. It's just those... those...those cursed sucking waters, as the troops refer to them. We must have lost the equivalent of a company of men to them. Many by carelessness, some by accident, but most either by trickery or..or...or the guerillas forcing or dropping prisoners into the ponds. It's as if the planet itself is fighting us."

Just then, one of the troopers who had been out scouting the area approached them. "Sirs?"

"What is it, corporal?" asked the Admiral.

"Sirs, there is a camp, about two magetremes ahead, with a few hundred Earthmen. Two of them intercepted me and escorted me to the one they call Kirk, whom we believe to be their general." The Admiral looked to Kmar, who nodded.

"We've been hearing his name for several months, being talked about by the humans in the cities and towns. He is the one Crag-3 hoped to trap. Go on, Corporal. I assume there is a message."

"Yessir, I mean, Yes, Sir. He suggested you and the Admiral meet him near the twin boulders on the highway. He suggested in an hour, himself and you two, no aides or guards. He promised safe conduct for you to and from the meeting site."

"Weapons?" asked the Admiral.

"He didn't mention them," answered the non-com.

"Don't even think about treachery, Sir. These pre-battle discussions on the field are under the flag of truce. To violate that is to invite wholesale slaughter."

"Just a thought, Kmar, just a thought."

As the Dhogian officers approached the twin boulders resting on the north side of the roadway, a single figure rose from sitting on the guardrail to wait for them.

The Dhogs saw a tall man, a few centimetres short of two metres, with black curly hair beginning to fade from being in the sun for the past two years. His dark skin attested to that. His bright blue eyes conveyed a sense of openness and frankness. Both officers immediately felt a sense of kinship, of shared professionalism.