Within weeks, there would be the graduation ceremony, and another few dozen Rangers would don their uniforms and get to work. It was one of her favorite times of year; the promise of greatness lingered in the air along with one of renewal and rededication to the ideals of mankind. It amazed her that it was nearly a millennium since her ancestors left Earth and started afresh. Despite unexpected adversity and a harsher than anticipated environment, they have grown strong. It fell to
her, as Prime Commander, to keep them strong and the planet well defended.
Since assuming the office sixteen years earlier, almost every waking hour had been spent focused on making the planet battle ready, prepared, and wary. The last Ursa attack was back in the 880s so she felt another assault was coming over the next few decades. By now they were expected like the hundred-year weather events, and just like they had to construct buildings with storms and earthquakes in mind, so, too, did they have to ensure there were shelters for the growing population and that the satellite warning system was constantly maintained and enhanced. Defensive satellites had been deployed since the last attack, so the hope was to winnow the number of Skrel that dared come near Nova Prime. Such preparations were in disarray when she took the post from Nathan Kincaid, who never should have accepted the promotion in the first place. His five-year tenure was a mess, and when she was given the top job she made preparation her priority. It took time and effort, and more than a little cajoling of the Savant’s comptroller general, but they managed.
When she took the job, becoming another in the long line of Raiges to hold the post, she wanted to prioritize the Rangers and her life. Knowing how all consuming the job was, she quickly arranged to have a child, never publicly disclosing who the father might be, so she would also know motherhood. Brom was born a healthy boy and grew up surrounded by the extended family, which helped raise him. Once that was ticked off her list, she made certain the Rangers would be her priority. This often meant Brom was brought to visit her after classes since she didn’t frequently make time to return home. He’d do homework while she conducted meetings or as they toured the troops around the spreading number of communities. Now a teen, he was already eyeing his own application to the Rangers.
Raige focused on the plans for the anchorages, the safety valves that were finally constructed over the last
century on inhabitable worlds found in the Carina–Sagittarius arm of the Milky Way Galaxy. Heliopolis was opened for use four years earlier, and she was scheduled to make an inspection tour later in the year. She had managed to visit Lycia and Iphitos but needed to arrange a grand tour of all six. Brom would learn much by seeing them all, she noted. Any one of the anchorages promised to offer refuge to the nearly five million inhabitants of Nova Prime, but the one thing they still lacked were enough ships to ferry them all, let alone the wildlife.
With Heliopolis now ticked off her endless list, she needed to meet with Savant Burch and with Tähtiin Industries’ president Nelson Ben-Greiner. Plans for stockpiling the material and for rapid construction had to be the next priority. With the anchorage program at an end, for now, there should be plenty of manpower and resources available for the task. She paused in the shade of the seating area on the grand plaza and tapped in the note on her naviband.
Her last stop before entering Rangers headquarters was at her favorite street vendor, where she would enjoy a hot tea and the latest street gossip. Talking to Raj always made her feel a little more connected with what was on the minds of the people she was sworn to protect. In uniform, she so rarely had a chance to hear the unvarnished truth from the citizenry so she soaked up what she could from reliable sources, beginning most mornings with Raj.
“Here you go,” he said, leaning over his teapot, which was simmering with something cinnamon-like. “It’s just come in from the tea fermentators’ guild, something new.”
“I want my usual oolong,” Raige complained, accepting the cup anyway.
“Try something new,” he instructed. “Live a little.”
“At least it smells good,” she said, letting the aroma waft around her. “So, what’s new?”
“That tea, for one,” Raj said with a grin. He was
nearly seventy and had grown and sold tea his entire life, starting at a colony upriver but moving to the city when his children were adults. He’d been selling tea to Raige long before she was named PC and therefore was a trusted companion.
“The new performance of
Let Me Help
is supposed to be good. Mouly is said to be superb in the lead.”
Raige grunted at that, not one for the arts, but if it was revived, she was glad to know a respected work from the last century was at least well done.
“There’s been some talk that people want to permanently settle on Olympus,” Raj said. “It’s that Safe Movement talk all over again.”
She nodded at the memory of the moment the first anchorage opened: There were requests by many to relocate and colonize. Right now, the anchorages were exploratory outposts and emergency evacuation points. The next spiral arm over was a more difficult move than hopping to the next continent. The proposal had bubbled up now and then, but the triumvirate leadership quickly shut down the discussion. Hope (or was it fear) springs eternal.
As a reward, she took a deep drink of the new tea, which had cooled enough. It had a nice, spicy taste, maybe too sweet for regular consumption but not bad at all.
“This is nice, thanks, Raj, but I’ll be sticking with my usual,” Raige told him and headed directly for the Rangers’ base of operations. She hadn’t gone more than three meters when her naviband buzzed and vibrated. A quick glance showed all red. Something major was happening.
She rushed inside, handing off the unfinished cup of tea to the security guard at the entrance, who snapped to attention the moment he spotted her.
Heading up to her office, wishing she could just be teleported there, the PC studied the incoming alert. The satellite system had detected Skrel ships approaching. They were early; she wasn’t expecting them for some
time. That in itself concerned her at the same time she was pleased the upgraded surveillance system actually worked and they now had some time to prepare.
Skipping her office, she went to the tactical command center where all the feeds were received and analyzed. As she entered, the lighting was already dim and there was an undercurrent of voices communicating with others. Holographic screens showed a map of the solar system with red lights denoting the satellites. Huge purple lights at the system’s edge marked the Skrel. She counted at least six ships, maybe more.
“Situation?” she called.
Only then did the majority of the staff notice the PC was among them. Her adjutant, Lieutenant Strongbow, approached with a tablet gripped in both hands.
“They appeared on the screen ten minutes ago and are estimated to reach Nova Prime in three days, six hours, fourteen minutes.”
“They’re in a hurry,” Raige said to the tall, trim brunette. Strongbow knew better than to try bantering and kept it to just the facts.
“The lead Skrel ship appears to be targeting and taking out any satellites in its path.”
“Have we fired?”
“First one’s coming into range shortly,” Strongbow reported.
“Make it the main image,” she snapped. Suddenly, a tactical map of the solar system flicked into existence, looming large over the room. Enough sensor data had come in to render a silhouette of the Skrel ship, resembling the ones that arrived almost seven hundred years earlier. Large, bulbous shapes up front, spikey tail sections with cables running loosely under the carriage. Without a Skrel corpse for reference, no one could estimate the scale or determine how many might be flying each ship. What worried Raige and the others was their firepower. How much had that improved since the Skrel’s last attack?
“Fire at will,” she ordered. Several voices acknowledged and then the waiting began.
Long minutes passed until the first F.E.N.I.X. missile was launched … and obliterated before it hit its target.
“That screws with our intelligence. Damn, I knew we needed warships,” she said, not for the first time. While the last century saw a new generation of starships with upgraded Lightstream engines, they were designed for deep space and for the wormhole to the next spiral arm. All the resources went to them, and the anchorages, when her predecessors recognized they needed a fleet of fighters to keep the battle in space. Had the Varuna Squadron been supplied with such ships, the last iteration of Ursa would have been sucking vacuum. But resources, even after nearly a thousand years, remained carefully apportioned. The system had its share of asteroids to mine, but unlike the ones placidly orbiting Sol, they were tougher to tame and access. As a result, every scrap of ore had to be allocated.
“I have the Savant and Primus calling in,” Strongbow said.
“I’ll give a briefing once I have something to say,” Khantun snapped. Any vestiges of her personable character were gone. She was now a focused warrior, readying for battle. The Prime Commander never asked her parents why they chose Khantun, meaning “Iron Queen,” but she was determined to live up to the name.
For the next several minutes, with her eyes barely wavering from the purple dots—now confirmed as eight identical ships—the Prime Commander was briefed on speed, point of entry into the solar system, estimated angle of orbit, and speculation as to whether they brought the deadly beasts with them. Ruth Strongbow took notes and convened the command staff in the adjacent room. Meantime, leaves of absence had been canceled and every Ranger in uniform was put on alert. Following a well-practiced series of protocols over the last fifteen years, the Rangers were now checking all
supplies, power packs, medical field kits, and, of course, their cutlasses. Tomorrow, the squadron would take to the air and begin around-the-clock patrols. The shelter alert would not sound until the Skrel were one day away, time enough to prepare but not long enough to panic and cause additional headaches.
Raige was pleased with the intelligence coming through as well as the projections. “Have these confirmed by the Savant,” she instructed her adjutant. “I’ll meet with the Savant and Primus in two hours. Have someone bring Brom to Mama Sam.”
Strongbow acknowledged the orders and began by having the nearest Ranger collect the PC’s son and deliver him to Samantha Raige, Khantun’s mother. Once the teen was secured, Strongbow knew Raige’s total focus could remain with the Rangers. Her father, Mark, was once the PC, but had been injured in the line of duty and was largely paralyzed. Brom was a strapping teen and could help with her father’s care while Samantha could ensure the boy didn’t do anything foolish.
The preparations were now under way, but the waiting for the Skrel to arrive would make everyone skittish. All except the Iron Queen. She would show them how it was done.
Primus Jon Anderson was the perfect image for a pious man. He was tall, with a wizened face, and dark, bushy eyebrows that helped animate his expression. His salt-and-pepper beard extended nearly to his breastbone. Anderson carried a staff that had become synonymous with his office but hid a slight limp. His robes of office remained immaculate, and his hat gleamed in the sunlight.
Today, he looked like hell.
He hadn’t slept in days nor, it appeared, had he
changed his robes or washed. The beard was a wild tangle, making him appear more savage than sage. There was a faint aroma of sweat rising from the heavy fabric that only added to the stale air in the council room. A plate of food sat uneaten before him and the cup of wine untouched. Had he not blinked now and then, Raige would have thought he had gone catatonic. He was getting pretty damned close.
Their counterpart, Savant Erich Burch, at least had put on a fresh lab coat and violet gloves. At least it looked like he had an hour or more of sleep.
The three leaders of Nova Prime sat in silence as around them holo screens displayed details of the devastation that began three days earlier. When it was clear the Skrel were on the attack, they departed their vulnerable council room and settled into a makeshift operation in a conference room near the Rangers’ hangar bay, low enough in the cliff to be a hard target. It was close quarters, adding to the foul air, and bare of decoration, which matched her mood.
Khantun felt she had failed them all. She prepared the Rangers and the people for a fresh batch of Ursa, but was stunned when the eight ships entered the atmosphere and began blasting away with energy beams that packed explosive force.
It had taken over a day to realize there was a method to the constant back-and-forth flying being done by the Skrel. They were dropping incendiary devices all across the continent. The devices burrowed beneath the surface and were programmed to detonate when weight was placed on them. At first they thought animals were being shot from the sky, but it then became clear the animals were triggering the devices themselves. Savant Burch reported all it took was a few pounds of weight to be detected, and the device would explode with enough force to kill any living thing in a half-meter radius, which was deadly enough.
The dead were an unfathomable number.
“This defies everything we’ve experienced in centuries,” Burch said.
“What do you mean?” Anderson asked.
“The Savant is referring to the fact that in 243 the Skrel were very selective about where they fired. Their targeting systems were incredibly, impossibly precise. It was always things we constructed. Or people. Or livestock. Never the planet itself.”
“And did that happen the second time?” Anderson inquired.
“Yes,” Burch answered, finally reengaging with the conversation. “In 350, they returned and took more shots at
us
. Not the planet. Your predecessor wrote a treatise speculating about why the planet was left unharmed. You should read it sometime.”
“Ever since then, the Skrel have seen fit to come here, deposit the Ursa, avoid our cannon fire, and leave the atmosphere as quickly as possible,” Khantun said. “This defies everything we have trained and prepared for.”