Harvest Moon

“If it’s not, I’m gonna get me a charlie-kilo,” Harley said and grinned fiercely. “Hey, Alvin, how many confirmed kills you got?”

"Don't worry about it. Just do your job and try not to be someone else’s," Kray said and contemplated the remaining half-eaten loaf in his hand with a disgusted look. “An unsupported drop into a hot LZ is a mad twenty minutes, I’ll tell you that. Our T-A fighters are gonna chew them up once the planetary defenses get done. Meat on the table."

“How can you be so sure?” Harley said and took his enchilada pack out of his own chemical heater. There was a plastic spoon vacuum-sealed to the bio-degradable napkin.

“I read the manual.” Kray said and wolfed down another large bite. The processed cheese was already beginning to cool. What he left out was that the drop onto Octavia had been the day they paid the butcher.

"So why haven’t they attacked yet?" Harley said as Kray dropped the uneaten loaf and opened his brownie. The cheese in the scrapple loaf congealed before he could finish it. At least he knew what the brownie was.

"Maybe they had some trouble with their transports getting dispersed,” Kray said. Planetary assaults required the utmost coordination. “What’s your hurry?"

Harley looked out over the flatlands to the south and said, "And this is where they’ll land?"

"They have to,” Kray said and bit into the brownie. “It’s the only flat ground they can land assault units in place. It’s where we came down sixty years ago.”

"So when are they coming?"

"Soon enough." Kray said and looked over his shoulder. A large figure, the First Sergeant, had emerged from the commo-shelter and was heading their way.

“You better make tracks,” Kray said as Harley gorged the remains in his ration pack. “Top’s on his way.”

He turned to where his assistant squad leader had been resting, only to find the space empty. Harley, rifle in hand, was beating feet for parts unnamed.

“Kray!” An angry shout drew his attention.

“Of an evening, First Sergeant.”

“Have you seen Harley?” Top’s usually round, placid face was clouded by dark anger.

“He went down to the armorer to replace a part on his weapon,” Kray said, covering Harley’s rapid departure with an impromptu alibi. “I don’t know when he’s coming back… probably not for a half-hour at least.”

“Tell him to come see me.” Top said and turned on his heel, muttering something about ideas being put into the heads of zapped privates.

***

"Have there been any other contacts with Ninth Command?" Planetary governor Alexander Haderson said, a question asked 20 times in 20 hours.

“Nothing… nothing but the jump flares from ships that have already left.” Phillip Greeley, Director of Avalon Intelligence, said as he sat back in his chair and scratched thoughtfully at the stubble on his jaw.

“Could it really be the EuroCon? Again?” Florence, the Minister of Agriculture, asked from her seat across the council table. "After the Neo-Colonial War they swore that we would finally have peace."

She stared at Greeley, who shrugged and drained the cold dregs of coffee from his chipped cup. He examined the “Galaxy’s Best Dad” lettered across the side and briefly thought back to his birthday seven years before. The mug had been a gift his daughter had picked out. He ran fingers across the enameled letters, tracing gently each one, smiling a bit. She thought it was perfect when she found it in the onboard mall of the Andromeda, the luxury liner that carried them to the frontier.

“I suppose it’s possible. Avalon belonged to them first, but the NorthCom fleet is the largest on the frontier," Greeley said and set the cup down. "The last time we've had a news courier come through, they said that the EuroCons were starting open up their markets to outside investment."

"That's fine for Earth," Florence said, her temper flaring. "But if they now intend otherwise it would take a decade for those fools on Earth to realize what happened and send help."

"Our analysis is that they're trying to generate currency for TransTerran, which brings me to my next point," Greeley said calmly. "The EuroCon is bankrupt… we've been living in economic detante."

"He's right," Haderson said, verbally interjecting himself between his ministers of agriculture and intelligence. "It cost billions of credits a day to fight a combined arms conflict on an intergalactic scale."

"Right," Greeley said and interlaced his fingers on the table. "So how are they going to pay for it? Borrow from TransTerran? I don’t think so. Besides, the intercepts that Task Group Romeo picked up aren't in any code we can identify as EuroCon."

"Then what happened?" Florence said, or rather, demanded. "Zebra Station didn’t destroy itself. The garrison fleet there didn't commit mass suicide."

"We're still running models." Greeley said and filled his cup with soy-caff from the silver coffee service at the center of the table. His experts had been going through the sensor logs from TG Romeo meticulously. He’d found the results troubling.

"But there has been an attack on Zebra Station," Stewart, the Minister of Defense stated firmly. “I thought we already confirmed that?”

"Yes." Greeley said as he spooned in synthetic sugar. "And if you want to tell the public that it was EuroCons that did it, fine… my directorate will back you up one hundred percent. We’ll back you up, but there’s no evidence that says it was them.”

The council digested Greeley's words in silence.

"Well, who else would it be?" Peterson, Minister of Finance erupted. Greeley fixed him with an exasperated stare and lifted his mug.

"We're running models," Greeley said slowly, tired, sounding too much like a broken record, but all of his logical explanations had been exhausted. “But nothing we’ve modeled so far makes any sense. We’ve detected no fleet action around New Haven. It couldn’t have been Five Kreigsmarine, we’d have seen it.”

“For the time being, we must assume that it is." The Governor said. "What’s the status of our garrison? Will we be able to repel an attack?”

He turned to Stewart, a balding, fifty-something widower who considered the Avalon Defense Force “his boys.” The defense minister rummaged through his briefing folder for estimates.

“It depends on what they hit us with. My boys will give them a rough time if they stage a landing. There’re four divisions of regular army troops garrisoned here, plus another three of our own militia. Throw in the two wings of aerospace fighters at Base Harding, we could give them a very rough time. Task Group Romeo is dropping some new equipment, so we’ll have a better edge. I told my boys to make getting everything assembled and deployed their top priority. ”

“How’s the public taking all this now?” Haderson postulated to anyone who could answer him. Greeley took the question.

“They’re getting nervous. A few have already left, but for the most part the public is watching our moves. They want to see some action from the administration though, something to let them know that the government is calm about the situation.”

Haderson nodded and said, “So they want some action, fine then. I’ll announce that a warning will be issued to any ships coming out of the Zebra Station corridor to remain in the outer system unless they declare an emergency. Avalon is hereby closed. Get a courier out as well, the NorCom has to be made aware of our position. We don’t know what Task Group Romeo has run into since it went into transit.”

“We’re not budgeted for that, and whatever is going to happen will be over by the time the courier gets to Earth,” Peterson said, the minister of finance always with an eye toward the ledgers. “Couriers are expensive to send out, even the drones.”

“Send it to Pax then, there’s a naval base there. That should show them that we’re committed to their defense." Haderson said, sounding pleased with his decision.

“If we give the order to start evacuating now, then we might have a chance of getting some people out before we're attacked.” Florence groused in her high, nasal voice. Greeley notices several eyes around the table perk at the mention of that option. Everyone was scared but noone wanted to be the first to place the evacuation issue on the table.

“We don’t even know if there’s going to be an attack, and if there is, the only people ‘getting out’, as you say, would be the wealthy who own their own transports and the administrators with access to government vessels," Greeley shot back, fighting to keep his anger restrained. "If the workers and academics see the bureaucracy abandoning them, there’ll be riots for space out on whatever's left."

The governor nodded thoughtfully and rose from his chair, walking to the large window admitting the yellow light of 47 Ursae Majoris into the council chamber.

"Director Greeley is right," Haderson said and stroked his chin as he looked out over the settlement. "We must see this one through to the point where diplomacy is no longer an issue, then we will concern ourselves with evacuation.”

Greeley swiveled in his chair and looks to see what held the Governor’s attention. On the horizon were massive shapes above the low-hanging clouds, but fewer than there were before. The number of ships in orbit has dwindled from twenty down to the half dozen still unloading their cargo, all in the span of twelve hours.

"This meeting is in recess," Haderson announced and turned away from the window. "Everyone get some food, some sleep. Keep your com-badges on."

Greeley remained seated while the other council members stood and stretched, bantering quietly with one another as they filed out the door. The Governor and his aide were the last ones out, leaving Greeley to his reflection. He removed his comm-unit from his belt and dialed in a three-digit code as the defense minister returned, wiping his hands on his elaborate work uniform.

“Happy Founder's Day, sweetie," His wife said, smiling back at him through the phone-camera in their home. "I've got a special surprise for you when you get home.”

It looked as if she was cooking him dinner instead of just programming a course into the auto-chef, a rare treat because her specialty, soy-chops with spinach rice, was his favorite.

“Hey gorgeous. Whatever it is you’re making looks pretty good from here.” Greeley said. She laughed at him and blew a kiss at the transmitter on her end. Their daughter looked up and waved then dropped her eyes back to her studies. Both of them were good girls.

“Honey, I need you to do something for me… and we need it done now," He said with a firm, serious tone. "Call the spaceport and book passage for both of you on the next transport out of here, don’t worry about the price, even if you have to go today I want you two to leave until we can get a hold of the situation around here."

"What do you mean?" She said.

"Go see your aunt on Pax,” Greeley said. “Tell our friends that you’re taking Nicolette on a little holiday.”

Keeping his voice from quivering takes superhuman effort. She put down the knife she was using to chop spinach and he saw tears appear in her eyes. Her voice dropped to a hoarse whisper.

“My God, why?” She said. In his mind he saw fire coming down from the sky. The Neo-Colonial War had seen the introduction of large-scale orbital bombardments, which rained chaos and destruction on colony worlds throughout the frontier.

“There’s something coming out of the Big Deep, Zebra Station is… gone… and the way it looks is that we’re going to be having visitors here real soon.”

“I feel sick.” She said but he cut the connection before she could say more. He did as well.

“Sir, we’ve got a signal from DEWS command.” The aide-de-camp to the defense minister reported. Stewart nodded and pointed at the large vid-screen on the wall.

“Put it on.”

Overhead speakers crackle as the signal was put through. It was the duty officer for DEWS, a subbranch of the Avalon TOC (Trans-Orbital Command), monitoring the Distant Early Warning buoys guarding the outer orbits of 47 Ursae Majoris.

“Commander Ferguson here, sir. We’ve just picked up a single inbound bogey approaching from the Zebra Station corridor… a jump flare. It appeared six minutes ago at eight hundred A.U.’s, coming in at full transit velocity. It’s one of ours. At the speed they’re closing, the communication window will last for about thirty seconds if they don’t drop out of transit.”

“How soon until we can talk to them?” Stewart demanded.

“Anytime, sir. I’ve just been informed that they’re in range for two- way traffic. I’m logging into the NorCom command net to see if I can raise them.”

Greeley waited on needles and pins for the connection to go through. The audio was set too high and he jumped, startled, as a link with the contact was established, a grainy audio/video transmission that broke through at mid-sentence.

A haggard unshaved face appeared on the big screen as an agitated voice boomed from the speakers hidden around the room.

“…On approach. USS Pickett to Avalon approach. We don’t have much time so listen up if you can hear me. Zebra Station is gone. Ninth Fleet is gone.”

“Pickett, this is Defense Minister Stewart. Can you tell us more about what happened? Are you being pursued?”

“Quiet! Just shut up and listen! I just told you we don’t have time. We didn’t stand a chance, we didn’t stand a feking chance, their technology is decades ahead of ours. We might as well have been using clubs and stones."

"What happened, damn you!" Stewart bellowed.

"My ship is depressurized to the command module and my people are in life pods along our approach path starting four light-hours back," The captain of USS Pickett said and leaned away from the camera, shouting at his helmsman before reappearing. “And we had a clear jump to Pax (61 Virginis) when command ordered us to tell you all they were coming."

They heard another voice coming through the bridge speakers of the far-off destroyer.

“George, it’s Roy. I got as far into the rescue deck as I could… it’s totally empty and everything forward of bulkhead nine’s been spaced. We sent them out two in a pod and we got the rest packed into the ship’s boat. I just sealed the main hatch. We’ve got all the severely wounded loaded and the medics have got them stabilized for now but they need proper treatment. We have to this, George, we can keep their conditions from degrading but we can’t save them… this is the only way.”

They watched the Captain waver for a moment, then he shook his head sadly and said, “Take care, Roy. You keep those men in proper order, you hear me?”

“I will, George. Don’t you forget about us.”

“The drinks will be on me when this is over, Roy. Detach life-boat," Captain, USS Pickett, ordered with panache. "What’s the status of the transit drive?”

A voice in the background reported 30 until full charge. The Captain turned to face them again.

“What do you want me to tell them when we get to Pax?”

Stewart leaned back in his seat and ran his fingers through his thinning hair. He looked up and said, “Tell them that we’ll hold out as long as we can. I guess that’s all.”

More words came from the crewmen at the bridge stations in the periphery. Ten seconds to full charge.

“Helm, conn… stand-by to initiate transit!” The captain said and fixed them with a determined stare. “You take care of my boys. Do you hear me?”

Stewart picked his head up as the image lost vertical hold and then all cohesion. “Full alert… all commands. I want search-and-rescue (SAR) off the ground within five minutes. Do we have anything that will handle a ship’s-boat of that size?”

“No, sir.” His aide said.

“Then I want a constant data-link established. Find out if they’ve been damaged. If they have, find out what they need. Inform me when they’ve found the first lifepod. Get me Base Harding.”

The aide entered a number into his datapad. The surprised face of Vice Admiral Orville McVeath, commander of the small ADF (Avalon Defense Force) fleet, appeared on the big screen.

“Ronald, what’s going on? Why is my base on alert? Why are all of my SAR boats making full-power burns for the Zebra Station jump point?”

“No time to explain, Orville. I want our system defense boats loaded and underway within the hour. All of them. I want our Pathfinders with the Mark Seven arrays to go with them. Anything detected coming in from the Zebra Station corridor is to be reported immediately. Do you understand?"

“Yes, sir.” Admiral McVeath said as he nodded and signed off, instantly comprehending the significance of his orders. The Pathfinders were patrol ships manufactured in Avalon orbit. They were fast and had great endurance. The Mark Seven arrays were the most deep-ranging sensors that Avalon heavy industry had produced. If something was out there, the Pathfinders would give them plenty of notice. Stewart leaned away from the tele-com and pulled his aide closer with a fistful of shirt-collar.

"Issue a full mobilization warning and start getting the planetary defenses heated up. They want a fight? Well then, by God, we'll give 'em a fight!”

Greeley found his own data-pad and dialed in his office. He and his team would go over the data-dump from Pickett bit-by-electronic-bit.

"Get me Governor Haderson," Greeley said. His hands were shaking so badly that he could barely hold the data-pad steady. “We waited too long, we all waited too long.”

Haderson shifted as a new message arrived from the Avalon Academy of Science… the surface of their sun, 47 Ursae Majoris, was becoming unsettled. They were watching it expectantly for signs of an impending flare.

***

SOL-3/Earth

The mood in the security office, Leda judged after careful analysis of the looks on others faces, was overwhelmingly pensive. Cutter sat at the head of the conference table, tapping his fingers absently against the white laminate covering the tabletop, others shuffled through stacks of hardcopy, still more lined the walls of the meeting room and just stared out at the lights of the city at night. The hum of the air circulation system was the only noise breaking the tangible silence.

“He’s coming.” One of the window-watchers said as the anti-collision lights of a VTOL approached and passed out of sight as the aircraft made for the rooftop landing pad. The CEO of TIL was due in for a security briefing on the new threat. Cutter had met him more than once… Leda, like most of the others in the room, never had. She felt eyes on her and turned back toward the table. Cutter lowered his head to the table when she looked at him.

Preparations for the executive visit had been ongoing for days… fresh plants had been brought in and arranged around the room, a silver coffee service was the centerpiece on the expansive table, new wallpaper and carpeting had been installed, the professional attire of everyone present was pressed and spotless. Despite the comfortable chairs, no one was at ease, Leda’s impression of the mindsets of those around her was, “Please God, don’t let him single me out.” Everyone stiffened as the door facing Cutter began to open. An impeccably dressed man with gray streaked hair stepped through. A coil of insulated wire dropped from the input behind his ear and disappeared beneath the collar of the pinstripe tunic draped over his shoulders. The man smiled as Cutter stood and moved around to the front of the table. Cairn Wallace, CEO, had arrived.

“Artie! So good to see you!” Wallace called as Cutter took up position at the head of the table. “How’s New York treating you?” He was shorter than the TIL security chief by several inches but radiated authority despite his jovial greeting. Cutter was rigid as stone as Wallace clapped him on the shoulder. “The same as always?”

“I wish I could say that, sir,” Cutter said and fell into a position beside him as Wallace started an informal review of his security staff as he made his way around the room, gladhanding the people lined up along the wall with the same smile. “But recent events may prove otherwise. Business as usual… well… is not quite right to describe the situation.”