7
Washington, DC Sol III
2012 EDT August 16th, 2001 AD
The President stood behind the podium of the Speaker of the House, hands placed firmly to either side and swept his gaze from the members to the teleprompters and back. There had been none of the usual applause at his entry. The announcement of a speech to be delivered before the combined House and Senate was too sudden, too ominous, for any sign of pleasure. In the scant days between the announcement and the speech, the country and world had reached towards panic as rumors raged like wildfire. Units throughout the world had been placed on alert without any indication of what the emergency might be. Increasing numbers of scientists and technicians had disappeared, major projects shutting down right and left as key personnel disappeared into an informational black hole. Everyone knew, now, that there was a secret and that it had world-shattering implications, but the secret had held. Held until this fateful night.
“Members of Congress, Justices, my fellow Americans,” he began, expression as somber as any that the country had ever seen, “this is such a night as will live in history, such a night as will burn in the memory of mankind should we exist for a million years.” His gaze swept the room again and he could almost smell the unease rising from the assembled politicians. It was the first time he had ever seen the usually distracted group actually concentrating on someone else’s words; this was one speech they did not know the text of and were not going to be doing instant commentary on.
“There have been many rumors in the media about recent events, secret meetings, military movements and sudden changes in the budget. I am here tonight to lay to rest all the rumors and bring to you the truth of the matter, in all its wonder and all its terror.
“My fellow Terrans,” he continued, using a phrase that keyed many who were listening to the coming words, a phrase never used before in such a setting, “five months ago, I and other world leaders were contacted by emissaries of an extraterrestrial government.” He raised his hands to quell the buzz of conversation that erupted on the floor. “They brought greetings, a plea and a bitter warning. . . .”
Not bad, thought Mike as he watched the C-SPAN coverage in the cafeteria. He could have watched from his room but, somehow, after all the time the teams had spent together it just seemed natural to watch as a group. The GalTech teams were gathered in their groups, sipping whatever was their chosen potable. While they watched the most viewed speech in television history; unlike most they were able to take the terrible news in stride and even comment on the delivery. They waited as the President worked slowly through the description of the threat and the situation. Mike smiled at the ironies. In the first week after the disappearances began, a noted off-beat Internet columnist had looked at the list of missing personnel, realized that better than thirty percent were science fiction authors, and combat SF writers at that, with the remainder being military, and had come to the correct conclusion. He was generally and summarily dismissed by the majority of the media. “Martian Menace?” was the kindest headline. Mike could see the journalist in his mind’s eye, bottle of whiskey in hand, shouting a loud “yee haw!” at being right.
“ . . . The delay was agreed upon by all the contacted leaders to ensure the truth of the situation. What if, despite their apparent friendliness, they were lying to us?
“Validation arrived only three days ago. The team sent out with these emissaries included a multinational assortment of scientists, military officers, government officials and press. I will come back to that in a moment.
“In the meantime, in secret, teams of military and industrial personnel have worked round the clock with their Galactic counterparts to develop new weapons combining Earth, Terran, know-how with Galactic technology. In that time these teams, locked away on military bases, unable to see friends and family, unable even to tell them why they were separated, have made great breakthroughs. In spite of their many sacrifices, they have worked miracles.”
“Ah, it wasn’t a sacrifice,” quipped a fighter jock behind Mike. “The bastard was going to leave me anyway.”
Mike glanced at General Horner. The officer was staring at the screen, stone-faced, his expression suddenly lined and old. Only the day before the final determinations had been made on what forces were going to be equipped in what order and who was going to lead them. Despite his obvious qualifications for the slot of Commander Fleet Strike, the position was going to another and General Horner was to return to the “regular” forces, there being no other lieutenant general slots in the Fleet. If he had not been promoted to lieutenant general he might have been given command of one of the divisions, but as it was, his fate was up to the Army personnel placement program. Furthermore, since he was not going to Fleet, he had been placed on the regular roster for rejuvenation. With his relative youth it might be years or even decades before he would be up for therapy. All in all the news that day had not been good. The capper of receiving divorce papers had only been frosting on his cake.
“Designed and ready for evaluation and production are the fighters, dreadnoughts, carriers and missiles that will destroy the enemy in space. Also designed are new rifles, armor and tanks to protect our nation and world on the ground. . . .”
Mike shrugged almost unnoticeably and detached his AID from his wrist; he definitely knew the rest of this story. The teams had been working twenty hours a day for the past two months and there had been a lot more interaction with the international teams than expected at the beginning. There were still disagreements among the primary partners, the G-8, about tactical details, but with very few exceptions, the designs for everything from superdreadnoughts to the suits that were his particular baby had been finalized. It was a validation, production and fielding problem now, and he suspected that he was going to be on the sharp end of that, too.
He lifted the AID to his ear and whispered, “Home.” The AID, released only a moment before to contact outside lines, tapped into the regular telephone system, dialed Mike’s home phone and billed it to his phone card account. Around him, others did the same and a babble of relieved conversation filled the air.
“Hello?” said a wary female voice.
“Hi, honey, guess who.” He found it hard to choke the words out and his eyes misted over at the familiar tone. His mouth tasted of salt.
“Mike? Cally, it’s daddy! Come here. I guess that was you?” asked Sharon.
“Yeah, me and about a hundred fifty others in the States. Thanks for not up and leaving me.” He winced as he realized what he said, but General Horner seemed to be on another plane.
“You mean throwing your clothes out the door? I’ve got most of the grass stains out.” The throaty chuckle held a note of tears.
“Well, everybody wasn’t so lucky,” he said quietly, glancing at the general.
“That’s the way the President made it sound.”
“ . . . I must, unfortunately, report that the loss of human life has already begun . . .”
“What? Sorry, honey, I’ll call you back.” He squeezed the AID, breaking the connection, and slapped it back around his wrist. He hoped Sharon would understand.
“ . . . in the press pool was the internationally famous reporter, Shari Mahasti. She, her cameraman Marc Renard, soundman Jean Carron and producer Sharon Levy, along with Marshals Sergey Levorst of Russia and Chu Feng of China, Generals Erton of France, Trayner of the United States and a French paratrooper security detail were all lost on Barwhon 5 . . .”
“Good God,” said the fighter jock. “How the hell did that happen?” The various personnel in the room, one and all cleared for any information related to the coming war, reacted with shock to the surprise announcement. The buzzing got loud enough that a senior officer finally had to shout for quiet.
“ . . . explain what happened and show you the face of the enemy in my office, the senior editors at CNN and the DOD press office have prepared the following tape. It serves as the final work of that fine journalist and shows, as no words can, the true face of the devil. This transmission was the last set picked up by the supporting Federation stealth ships. Parents should ask small children to leave the room.”
“General Trayner, I’d like to thank you for this opportunity . . .” The dark-haired female reporter speaking had serious eyes, deeply troubled. She was in a clearing in apparently unbroken forests of looming purple. Twisty blue and green edifices could be seen on the edge of the camera view, thin and sinuous; they seemed too delicate to withstand normal gravity. A low crab shape scuttled across the background, a Tchpth on some unknown errand, forever impressed into immortality. “What is your impression so far of the Posleen forces and the security of our position here? We seem to be more or less surrounded by fighting.” There was a distant crackling, like a thousand lightnings and the sky in the background lit in actinic fire.
The general smiled confidently. “Well, Shari, as you know, the Posleen are generally unable to cross rivers and mountains if they are under fire. Although the Galactics have a lot of problems fighting the Posleen effectively, they are holding this area with a fair degree of confidence. The region is bounded on two sides by large rivers that stretch for some distance away from the primary Posleen infestation. As long as the enemy doesn’t flank the rivers upstream, and with the support of our Legionnaire forces,” he gestured at the French Legionnaires on security, “we should be fine.”
“General Erton,” she swung the microphone to the American’s counterpart, “do you agree?”
“Oh, oui.” The tall aristocratic Frenchman wore dark gray camouflage that somehow blended well with the overall purples of the background. He also gave the reporter a blinding smile as the Chinese and Russian marshals waited for their opportunity to reassure the nervous reporter. What none of them considered was that the reporter had more time in combat zones than all of them combined, and had developed a certain nose for trouble. “The Posleen so far have shown no ability to force a crossing of these rivers. In addition, according to the intelligence we have been given, they do not seem to use their landing craft after the initial invasion as would humans for ‘airmobile’ purposes—”
“Mon Général!” shouted a voice in the background, “Le ciel!”
The camera swung wildly then settled down with a wonderful view of the soaring Tchpth towers against a setting violet sun. Looming over the purple forest giants and the towers of the town was a monolithic block of darkness, silver lightnings stabbing downward at the defiant Darhel and human defenders. In response to a lazy lift of tracers toward the distant Posleen lander, a silver bar of steel lightning slammed down, picked up the camera on a shock wave of air exploding away from the beam of plasma and tossed it into the air like a child’s toy.
Now, the camera view was sideways. Something, a button or a scrap of cloth from the body it leaned against, blocked the lower part of the screen. An American jump boot was propped limply on a gray set of rags, the torn body of a former enemy. The single living human in view, a French paratrooper, removed his empty magazine and stared at the feed in stupefaction. Tossing it over his shoulder he reached down to his belt and drew his bayonet. Fixing it he leapt out of view with a cry of “Camerone!”
Moments later leprous yellow-scaled legs with eaglelike talons entered the view. The camera tumbled for a moment, losing focus, and the screen exploded in a cloud of red. There had never been a clear view of the enemy.
“My fellow Americans,” said the President as the view returned to the podium, “we face a storm unlike any in our history. But, like the majestic oaks of our land, our roots are deep, our Union strong. Before this storm we will lose leaves, we will lose branches. But this Union under God will weather the storm and in the spring we shall bloom anew.” There was a moment of silence, a hush, then a single member began to clap. The applause spread and caught until there was a thunderous roar, an affirmation. For one brief moment the nominal leaders of the strongest republic on earth were joined in a single vision, a vision of survival and a future beyond the darkness. For that one brief moment there was unity against the storm.