3.24.

The Rosantean Captain in charge of destroying the Mars space station growled in frustration. The Triumverant ships remained encircling it, a protective shield completely encapsulating the target. Each ship was actively transmitting broadcasts declaring that official delegates sent by the triumverant, both collectively and individually, were aboard this station and that assaulting their persons would be considered an act of war.

He could force the matter, he knew, but that had the possibility of backfiring. The empire wasn’t presently at war with the Rosanteans, and they preferred to keep it that way. Killing one of the ambassadors probably wouldn’t matter, but if he bombarded the station and killed all three, the triumverant, individually and collectively, would undoubtedly have no choice but to declare war.

“I am he whom the Earthlings call Unos. I am aboard this quaint space station and I have no intents to be the first who leaves,” a male voice broadcast. “As this station currently has diplomats from the Triumverant aboard it, it is currently considered Triumverant property until such time as the full delegation has left its premises according to statute…”

“I am Dos. I like that name. It simplifies things. I don’t know why my mother thought that my name needed sixteen syllables to it. I’m not moving. Blow me up if you dare!”

“This is Tres. I’d leave … but then you’d just blow up this space station and I have friends here. Not Unos and Dos, those wankers – wankers is such a nice insult, isn’t it – can go wank each other and die. But I like the soldiers who live here. They introduced me to the concept of ‘body shots.’ have you ever heard of body shots? I suggest that you try them out. On your MOM!”

The captain’s eyebrow twitched, but the de-sensitivity training kicked in and he allowed the insult to his sacred mother to pass over him without affecting his judgment. He tried once more to appeal to their reason.

“Gentlemen,” the captain began, “We’re all intelligent beings here. You must understand that this space station is a legitimate target, and that your presence on board--”

“I’m a lady you asshole,” Dos shouted. In a masculine voice. The captain’s eyebrow twitched.

He continued to appeal to reason. The triumverant representatives continued to shout insults at him.

Frustratingly, he couldn’t abandon his mission and join the battle or the defenders of the station would be free to engage. He couldn’t destroy the station and he couldn’t leave. All he could do was try to argue with the triumverant and convince them to do something which they didn’t want to do.

His eyebrow twitched.

He knew from his political history classes just how pointless that endeavor would be.

~~~~~~

Turnball sat in the situation room, sitting in contemplation as he reviewed the situation across the globe. The battle in space was outside of his control, but with the arrival of the Yonohoans, the ESF had more than space assets to throw into this battle.

Thousands of infantry trained by Eolai, with heavy assault armors and the ability to craft weapons on the fly using on board nanites. The ESF recruited from everywhere, and many of those soldiers had been sent to their home nations via fast assault aircraft to defend against the invaders.

It wasn’t enough.

The native weaponry of Earth wasn’t enough.

Perhaps in twenty years, after they’d had time to reverse engineer the alien technology and create their own versions of the weaponry, they’d be able to resist this sort of invasion. But bringing firearms to bear against a Rosantean infantryman was like bringing a knife to a gunfight.

The natives were outclassed.

There were pockets of resistance.

One city in Washington had shot down every landing pod that had come close to it thanks to the actions of John Doe, who had littered the area with anti-aircraft and anti-vehicle weaponry for the citizens to utilize.

That same situation was occurring all over the globe as the scouts revealed themselves. From capital cities like Moscow, London, and Tokyo, to the depths of the wilderness in areas like the Amazon and Madagascar, the scouts were arming the locals and the locals were fighting back.

But still the enemy was finding locations to dig in.

He pursed his lips in frustration. If only he could communicate with them, tell them where the points of resistance were, perhaps they would be able to turn the tide and force the enemy from the planet.

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“Computer breech detected!” one of the technicians suddenly announced. “Something is pulling all of our tactical data.”

Turnball turned, about to shout orders, when his PHDA abruptly connected.

“Please do not attempt to disconnect us from your servers, general,” the voice said. Turnball frowned, turning back to the hologram.

“Who are you?” he demanded

“My name is Trewali. I am the commander of the scouts of Taskforce Ragnarok. I am attempting to interlock with your forces. If you wish us to fight at maximum effectiveness for your people and the children of this world, I suggest you accept our aid.”

Turnball frowned, but nodded.

“When this is over, Trewali, you don’t need to keep hiding. We understand your situation and--”

“You know nothing, John Snow,” the figure said. He laughed. “I like your culture. I will fight for it. But I am a soldier for Taskforce Ragnarok. An Einherjar! I will not be part of your ESF. I will do my duty in my own way.”

Turnball nodded again. “So long as you do not pose a threat to the people of Earth, perhaps we can be convinced to overlook your presence,” he admitted.

“We shall protect Earth from the shadows, hidden in plain sight, General,” Trewali promised. “Whether you want us to or not.”

The hologram clicked off, and Turnball ordered the tactical data breech to remain open. Later, in the aftermath, he would investigate exactly how it occurred and seek to prevent such a security oversight from happening again. But for now, they needed the scouts to be kept in the loop.

~~~~~~

John stood on the skyscraper, weapon in hand. The weapon, a plasma lance capable of shooting down one of the landing pods from orbit, was trained on a soldier miles away. John waited patiently while the systems of the weapon and his suit and his wetware worked together to obtain the firing solution.

Target lock.

Fire.

The beam of light connected the two soldiers for just an instant, and the Rosantean was burnt away into ash.

“Twenty-three,” John said, counting the number of men and women he had killed that day.

He felt no attachment to the number. No guilt or remorse. No shame. But he felt no pride, either.

They were the enemy. They had invaded his world, his home. They threatened the people he cared about. But he was not proud of his actions this day.

He kept count of the number of men he killed because it felt like something he should do, that was all.

He scanned the horizon, searching for another of the survivors who had bailed out of their landing pods when they had realized that the city they had selected as a target had the capacity to shoot them down.

He waited for his weapon to cool down.

He was calm. He was sure of himself. He understood his place in the world.

He touched his cheek, where Emily had kissed him.

He had something to fight for.

Emily. Olivia. Earth.

He loved the people of Earth, who had made him welcome despite their initial misunderstandings. He would break his body in their defense, if that’s what it came to.

A ping from his wetware, through the atrophied connection from the scout’s communication network. The same nerves which had reactivated him when the other scouts had arrived on the planet.

“Hello Eodar,” Trewali’s voice said. “Having fun?”

“My name is John now,” John said. “What do you want Trewali?”

“I knew that you would not be idle. Your efforts have made a significant impact in your region. I commend you. There is a landing site sixty miles to the southeast of your city. Destroy it,” Trewali instructed.

John considered for a moment. “I do not accept that you are my commanding officer, Trewali. I was decommissioned. I have no commanding officer. I am an independent operative.”

“Confirmed. Allow me to rephrase. There is a landing site sixty miles to the southeast of your location. Do with this information as you will,” Trewali said.

John grunted. “The enemy will be destroyed.”

“I like Earth, John.”

“So do I, Trewali,” John said.

The connection cut out. John jumped from the roof of the skyscraper and landed in the street. People pointed at him and shouted, some of them taking out their phones to record his actions.

He waved his hand and flexed a muscle that wasn’t a muscle. A nearby car was ripped apart by nanites and transformed into a hoverbike. John straddled it, then shot off to the southeast.

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