We’ve been standing by for three days. Josh paced irritably. “Delta still has more boots on the ground. If we don’t pick a few more off, we’re coming in third place. That means no extra leave.”
Alexa punched Josh’s arm. “Had a big weekend lined up? Hot date?”
Josh dodged a second punch and blushed. “No. I mean, that’s not what I’m saying. We shouldn’t settle for anything less than a total win.”
“I’m pretty sure Alpha’s already locked that up,” Dax said.
Alpha Company had sailed through the first few months of the Crucible with endless momentum, conducting blistering assaults against their opponents. Now, with a little more than a month left, they were relaxing in an easily defendable position at the North side of the training area. If they made it to the end without suffering more losses, they would win the event without lifting another finger.
Josh turned to Alexa. “Have you…been working on it?”
Her face brightened. “I thought you’d never ask.” She led them to the center of camp where a map rested on a large boulder. Her red hair had grown long during the half-year exercise, and she wore it in a tight ponytail. The armor across her right shoulder bore a long crack—earned during a tense struggle with a Delta sniper. “They definitely don’t have this hill covered. I’ve counted their patrols three times, and no one watches it.” She tapped the map. “I mean, it’s suicide to attack from here, but still.”
Josh rubbed his chin. “I’ll work that part out. Just keep a tab on their movements.”
“What is all this?” Dax asked.
“I asked Alexa to take her scouts and find out about Delta’s FOB. We’ve got a little more than five weeks before this all shuts down.” Josh tapped the map where a cluster of red dots had been drawn. “We can take Delta out before then. I just need to convince the XO. If he gives me two platoons, I can get Charlie into second place in a single night.”
Near Earth Orbit
The first invader slipped free of the swirling Blue portal and shot out into the Sol System. Forward rockets fired, slowing the heavy craft until it was nearly stationary. Its iridescent silver hull shimmered in the light of Sol, the system’s small yellow star. The engines cooled, venting puffs of green and white gas into space.
Seconds later, three more vessels joined the larger ship, popping into existence with flashes of blue light. Their numbers grew steadily as a variety of large and small craft entered human space. Finally, the Blue Space funnels shrank and faded, leaving behind an armada of silver and blue. The alien craft looked cobbled together in haste, with different colored panels and sloppily repaired hulls. They ranged from small saucers to enormous, cigar-shaped cruisers. Engines ignited, and the strange collection of ships advanced toward the human homeworld.
With all eyes watching the interlopers, few even noticed the second series of Blue exits opening just a hundred kilometers away.
October 13, 2236
Lunar Sector Patrol Center (SPC)
Luna
Cameron Davis and George Locklear sat at a table in the quiet mess hall, nursing steaming cups of coffee. A few other pilots ate their meals in silence, ignoring the overpowering smell of whiskey and beer wafting from the two men’s table. George sat with his head on the table, groaning. Cameron seemed unfazed by a night of poor decision-making, and barely suppressed his smirk every time his friend winced. Their flight uniforms were clean, if not fresh. They’d changed out of their dress blues a half hour before.
Like most members of Sector Patrol, their uniforms were recycled from Fleet. The tiger-stripe pattern in gray and blue had long ago changed to a hexagonal charcoal for the Active component. There was no malice in the decision; it made no fiscal sense to spend the money on brand new uniforms for the weekend warriors. Still, to members of SP, it felt like just another in a long list of slights by big brother Fleet.
Folks 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