Prologue
Thunder. It rumbles over and over again. It is the percussion of the very Earth. Pop, pop, pop. Then a staccato rolls, consisting of prattling cries.
It isn’t an orchestra, though. It has no rhythm. It has no tale to be told. It is a mixture of noise. It is chaos.
Eyes open, and a picture appears. Asphalt stretches out ahead. Heat waves slowly dance with the air. A concrete sidewalk is a little further. A hand is lying closer. It is a left hand, clothed in white leather of some kind. Black burn marks stain the forearm.
Memories are present, but they seem… blurry. It takes a lot to draw anything out of them. Human. That makes sense. The hand is human in shape. Does it…? Yes. It moves on command. The hand definitely belongs to this human.
What else? Hearing works. The staccato is still prattling away. It sounds familiar, but like the other memories, is blurry.
Looking around reveals a city street. Buildings are all around. A sudden boom follows a rapid orange bloom ahead. Instinct pulls the arm up to shield. The blast is pretty far away, but seemed startlingly close.
Something is still being forgotten, though. But, another blast occurs.
Something changes. Humans flee around the corner ahead. There are many of them, flocking like a herd of animals in a panic. They run in the opposite direction of the human watching them. Streaks rain horizontally to the left, and several of the humans fall. Several more blasts occur.
Name! I have to remember…! What’s my name!? Think! C-… C-Something. C-…
Another blast is much closer, causing disorientation.
NO! Think! What is it!?
The screams are audible, while the staccato continues. Booms resound all around. Fires burn in every direction.
Name! What is my name!? WHO AM I!?
A blast hits almost straight ahead, causing a ring.
What’s going on…? Wait! No! I was so close! What… is THAT!?
A large figure storms out into the street ahead, following the humans. This thing is distinctly not human. It has the awkward gait of an upright dog, but it has no fur. Its skin is oily, and has a rather leathery texture. It wears metal armor painted a dark red, and its head looks faintly like a short-muzzled dog, protected by a helmet.
The creature has the staccato instrument, firing a volley of purplish-red streaks up the street at the fleeing humans. It must not be alone, as similar sounds are echoing from every direction.
It glances down the street, and its gaze matches that of another nameless human. It pivots in curiosity, stalking forward.
********
~ Journal Entry: SB-1606:
This will be this journal’s final entry. I have completed what it is I needed to complete. It seems so long ago that this story started. I didn’t even have a name at the time, and now this fledgling alliance is establishing real roots.
It’s ironic in a sense. It’s been several hundred years in actuality, but 23 have passed for me. Thanks to this alien device, I don’t age. As my journey here comes to a close, I can’t help but wonder if I am doomed to eternity, or if I will finally be free of the curse bestowed upon me.
Of course, I know the truth now. I remember what I had forgotten. It’s hard to say goodbye to this world; to the friends I’ve made here. I will carry these adventures with my new companions through eternity.
May our paths cross on another line.~
********
Chapter 1
The year is 2031. Human-kind has achieved a goal only dreams devised just two decades ago. The orbital mining operation has been established. A space barge convoy has been put into motion, continuously ferrying whole asteroids back to Earth’s orbit from the Main Belt, a hailstorm of asteroids orbiting between Mars and Jupiter’s orbital paths.
Scientists and General Space’s planning division both expected there to be iron, nickel, palladium, and various other useful minerals in high abundance. However, what Spacepal’s orbital mining super-satellite found as they ground down the first asteroid astonished them. They found gold-flecked diamonds, which lit a frenzy in the rare-gem market, more than paying for rapid growth. Now, three fully operational superstructures exist with a fourth on the way.
G.S. Incorporated was founded by an eccentric billionaire afforded great initial wealth by a digital banking system he created. While his business endeavors include many terrestrial businesses, his most successful has been laying claim to the abundant resources in the stars. Luxury flights into space aren’t just dreams anymore. It is one more destination for those with adventure in their hearts.
With successful manned missions to Mars, G.S. will be establishing real colonization efforts within the next decade. Ships known as ‘Swans’ to everyone at large are being built in the first ever orbital shipyard, while a ‘space pier’ is being constructed near the moon. Early ideas for launching objects at the moon using a sort of magnetic cannon were functional, but limited. The high g-forces established excluded even the hardest shuttle riders from the vastly more efficient launcher, and the system could only be fired at the moon during specific windows of time.
Just one year ago, G.S. Inc. commissioned the world’s first orbital elevator. It used the properties of superconductors to create a ghostly “highway” into the sky. Hundreds of rings cooled by liquid nitrogen contain gold coils at obscenely low temperatures. This cold reduced the resistance so low, that the coils become superconductors, and they magically lock into place in a gravity field, held there by counterforces perfectly equaling any small forces applied to the rings. From there, a steady magnetic pull could be established, and similar superconducting ‘cars’ maintain a fixed speed by the same magnetic locking phenomena that suspends the rings. The highway itself forms a loop, and the cars continuously follow the loop without stopping. The stations both in orbit and on the ground are specially designed with moving platforms to load and unload the cars.
Specially designed habitable cars can be modularly loaded onto the lift car, allowing human beings all of the luxuries they could need to ride in comfort into the once-inaccessible void. The trip takes about a week, of course, but the orbital elevator has drastically reduced operational costs of space mining, as well as transporting workers and tourists alike.
Of course, this leaves a juicy target vulnerable to terrorist attack, and a regiment of marines is stationed to guard the orbital elevator night and day. It’s a rather sought-after posting because of the opportunities to ride the luxury cars up to the station built into the inside of an asteroid, as well as the notorious G.S. Inc. founder, Russell Right. The eccentric that he is, he is reported to have given out golden ice, as his fairly unique stones are called, as well as throwing parties on the spot which marines have to ‘guard’.
Senior billets are filled to bursting with legendary names in the Corps, while junior billets tend to be split between sons and daughters of wealthy and influential parents and the recruits with outstanding marks during training.
Private Rex Hancock is neither of those things. He raised his right hand at the right time, cascading to a billet opening the day his orders were processing in boot camp. Luck of the draw found him at Fort Tacoma at the base of one of humanity’s pinnacle technological achievements. The city is a ten minute bus ride from base, where he and his fellow marines have been hanging out at restaurants and sporting centers. It’s not necessarily the marines he expected when he joined, but he’s certainly not going to complain. Life is good in the greatest country in the world.
Today, he is with a group of his friends at a local sports bar, waiting for the championships to start. Sergeant Alexander Grey is with his girlfriend, Tanya Heindel. Corporal Leo Fisher and Corporal Henry Dumas are already arguing about stats on players, while Lance Corporal Luis Fredericks balances his log book in preparation for bets. A few other groups of marines are mingled into the bar, and even Chief Master Sergeant John Clements is sitting at a booth, sipping a drink with his signature scowl. Many marines fear his presence in the same bar, but the seasoned members assure everyone else that the biggest mistake a marine could make is talking to him about work. They insist that Chief is a teddy bear, but Hancock isn’t about to find out.
Hancock watches the news indifferently as he awaits his order of wings. He’s on the quieter, more mild-mannered side than most of his compatriots, so he lets Fisher and Dumas argue away.
The news should seem amazing as it describes G.S. Inc., often called ‘G-sink’ for short, and their ambitious ‘Star Angel’ class of ‘World Liner’ ships they have been boasting. The massive ships are a step toward G-sink’s longer term goal of mobile colonization platforms. A sister ship being built alongside the five massive space cruise ships is a mobile dry-dock capable of handling starship construction and repair, drop-base construction, and temporary orbital elevator substitution. While the fleet looks tiny when backdropped by the moon as the news crew is showing now, Hancock has seen the fleet up close. Each ship is over 3 times larger than a modern aircraft carrier, with a pair of specially designed nuclear reactors. They are even being armed with a complement of artillery batteries intended for emergency incoming object destruction, which is why the news crews aren’t allowed anywhere near the ships.
Hancock believes their purpose is exactly as advertised. Russell Right is a very devout opponent of the Second Amendment and firearm manufacture in general, dedicating sizable portions of his insane wealth to eradicating firearms from the United States public entirely. He and his allies have made major regulatory steps already, including removal of all semi-automatic weapons –including double-action revolvers- from public hands, and pressing hard on ‘large caliber rifles’, which envelops just about everything that remains. Even with all of the political clout behind the movement, some diehard politicians loyal to the Constitution have held out against the pressure.
Hancock isn’t sure what to think. He’s fresh out of high school, shot a gun a few dozen times, and is guarding one of the most heavily protected private installations on Earth, next to the Federal Reserve buildings.
The news changes to another story. They’re talking about ‘the Burp’ as the discovering scientists have unceremoniously called it. Apparently, the scientists have picked up a major deep space radio signal that, when the burst is played audibly, sounds unimpressively like a short burp. Hancock would think people would be tired of all of the deep space signals that make the news every few months. Radio antennas have gotten better as scientists try to clear up the picture of the universe around Earth, and in direct proportion, more anomalous radio bursts have been picked up. So far, all of them have been either coronas and flares from stars, massive electrical discharges on planets with semiconductor atmospheres –which act like a laser-, or magnetic bursts or ‘splashes’ from two supermassive iron-heavy bodies colliding. Each one takes months to investigate, simulate, and ultimately just turn out to be a metaphorical boxing match between celestial bodies.
The young marine is a little surprised how boring space is. If those are the only events in the whole of space, betting on the game has a much better payout.
Granted, Hancock also doesn’t own a space mining company that can afford to build its own star fleet from just the accidental byproduct discovered in its target resource. And, since his company is still the biggest thing happening on Earth –or, rather, OFF of Earth-, Mr. Right pretty much dominates the news in one way or another.
And, presently, speculations are running wild about ‘the Burp’. It’s ‘not quite consistent with past signals’, and ‘seems like it originated closer than anything on its path’, and ‘might be intentionally created’. Hancock smirks. Just like all the others, it’ll fizzle out in a couple days, and if it’s mentioned again, will be to say how it was some ‘gravimetric radio wave from black holes colliding’ or something obscure like that. Aliens have been coming for as long as he can remember. First, it was some cigar-shaped asteroid. Then, it was radio signals. Then, it was ‘the Twinkling Eclipse’ when an asteroid of nearly pure diamond passed in front of the sun. Some scientist who happened to be staring at the sun through a telescope just happened to see it. And, just as quickly, everyone was certain it was the windows of a ship glistening.
Hancock sips his soda. He doesn’t envy those scientists at all. They have to chase their tails with national attention only to try to stave off global embarrassment when they try to explain how ‘this is still so exciting because it’s never before seen’. As if stars burping and farting like space is a regular low-brow dive bar for the millionth time is still exciting. Hancock just has to muster every day, practice drills, and guard space gold.
Nevertheless, the reporter asks, “Some of our viewers have been chiming in with questions. Do you believe this could be some sort of sonar pulse? General Space has been quiet on whether this phenomena was created by another sentient race.”
Mr. Right smiles and replies warmly, “My science viewers may be perturbed if I don’t point out that it can’t be ‘sonar’ by definition because sound can’t travel in space. This would equate to more of a radar pulse, but on a larger scale. With that said, we’re not officially ruling anything out yet. Occam’s Razor states that ‘entities should not be multiplied without necessity’. We are operating on the basic hypothesis that our ‘Burp’, as everyone’s calling it, has a source. We are employing testing methods to identify that source. My scientists work with open minds. They do not create ad hoc hypotheses to cling to any one working theory. They use the scientific method to prove our basic hypothesis; there is a source; and expand on it by identifying that source. Because there are so many celestial events that are possible, not to mention quantum and temporal events we can barely comprehend -all of which we have only scratched the surface of observing-, we must be looking for anything. The popular public theory is that aliens radar-pulsed the Milky Way. This may be true, but it could be as simple as a star popping like a balloon due to circumstances we’ve yet to predict, or our own astronauts inadvertently sent backward in time sending some form of S.O.S.. Maybe some sort of interdimensional portal was opened, spewing demons into our dimension. Until it is PROVEN, it is all of these things as well as none of them.”
“I see. So, we shouldn’t pack up our aluminum hats just yet?”
Mr. Right chuckles. He replies warmly, “Many organizations are watching the sky. NASA, Roscosmos, CNSA, SETI; all of these entities have the most well-funded ears in the world. If there is something to know, I’ll be the first, and everyone else will be the second.”
Sergeant Grey scoffs. He states sarcastically, “Aliens. Pfft! People really think that, not only are ‘they’ out there, but after flying a trillion miles for eighty thousand years, they’d want this overpopulated turd ball?”
Tanya giggles, and Fisher jokes, “Maybe that’s the plan. Trash this world, and aliens won’t want it.”
Fredericks chimes in as he keeps writing, “Good thing the Russian spy blocked the G.N.D.”
Sergeant Grey growls, “Don’t bring your liberal shit to my bar table, Fredericks.”
Tanya backhands his chest, retorting, “It’s not ‘liberal shit’, Alex.”
The Sergeant cocks back in his chair defensively, “Hey now, easy there. Fredericks can be a tax-wasting, big-government liberal all he wants. But, the only politics at THIS table will be jokes. He’s talking about a former Commander in Chief. And, if I can handle being under one of his Presidents and show respect, he DAMN well gonna show respect to mine.”
“‘Your president’,” retorts Fredericks, “Was a felon and got impeached for it. Too bad your crooked Senate…”
“What did I just tell you, Lance Corporal!? NO politics. We both win. We both lose. Whatever. Because, I did NOT come here to get started. We’re here to relax. Right, Rookie?” Sergeant Grey looks at Hancock.
Hancock smiles as his wings are delivered. The waitress smiles cutely back at him. Hancock replies warmly, “I’m a marine, Sarge. My job is to agree with the highest ranking person in the room.”
The group chuckles, and the waitress teases softly, “Do civilians outrank marines?”
Hancock smiles and whispers, “In your case; absolutely, Ma’am.”
She giggles again, walking off to maintain her other tables. Grey adds boisterously, “See that? A marine who knows what’s what. I’d give my left arm for ten of him.”
Fisher jokes, “But, what would you jerk off with then, Sarge?”
Just before the sergeant can bellow a fiery retort, Tanya strokes his chest, teasing, “He has me. He’d be fine.”
The marines all cheer in astonishment at her boldness. Hancock knows that boldness is often a strong trait in significant others tolerating their marine counterparts. Sergeant Grey smiles, affectionately taking Tanya’s hand as she sips her drink.
Normally, the TV doesn’t steal Hancock’s attention from goings on around his friends, but this particular “This just in” hooks him for some reason.
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The reporter on screen states, “We’ve received preliminary reports of a SECOND ‘Burp’, the interstellar phenomenon describing a mysterious signal detected by several research facilities.” Mr. Right, who is still on set, turns pale as his own assistant whispers something to him.
The reporter asks eagerly, “Mr. Right, what do you make of this sudden and exciting development?”
Mr. Right stands up grimly. He says nothing as he blankly walks off set. The reporter calls out, “Mr. Right! Mr. Right, wait!”
Hancock’s phone rings sharply. But, as he starts to look at it, he notices many cell phones ringing or buzzing as surprised marines withdraw them to look. Every marine, including the Chief Master Sergeant, is checking their phone.
Tanya asks cautiously, “What is it?”
“We’ve all been recalled.”
The marines dig cash out of their pockets, tossing it haphazardly on the tables. Hancock quickly eats one of his wings as he pays his own tab. He follows the group, but the waitress catches his sleeve, sheepishly asking, “Do you have to go?”
Hancock nods. She shyly hands him a slip of paper, whispering, “For afterwards?”
He smiles, “Count on it.”
She smiles as Fisher barks, “Let’s go, Rookie! Duty van’s here!”
The waitress steals one moment to kiss his cheek, surprising him. He knows her name –Kenzie-, and there was a spark for sure, but he didn’t think she was smitten with him, too. He states, “I’ll see you soon, Kenzie.”
“Be careful, Rookie.” She winks at him, and he smirks, following his comrades.
Everything seems normal. There are no fleeing mobs. There are no fires billowing smoke into the sky. The traffic lights operate normally. Police cars are parked or driving casually on the streets. It’s eerie to witness. Something is happening with this second signal that has both the military AND Russell Right concerned.
Dumas jokes as the van creeps in line toward the security gate, “Uh oh, Sarge. Looks like the aliens were listening in.”
Chief Master Sergeant Clements growls in a disinterested, gravelly voice from the rear, “It’s a peace-keeping recall. They’re expecting people to panic.”
Fisher replies respectfully, “You think so, Chief? Over imaginary aliens?”
The senior enlisted man snorts, still staring out the window. “One word. Coronavirus.”
The marines all hand their IDs forward as the van reaches the checkpoint. The MPs on guard check the passengers briefly, returning the IDs and allowing them through.
Hancock whispers to Sergeant Grey, “Sergeant, what does this mean?”
Grey sighs, retorting, “Means we’re not getting laid tonight, Rookie. Your waitress will have to wait.”
Hancock smirks, but he remains respectful. “Understood, Sergeant. But, what…?”
Fisher retorts dryly, “We’re doing a battle drill. Simple as that. Command always decides that anomalies in the world are the best time to double-check readiness. 20 bucks says this is nothing more than a drill.”
Dumas retorts warmly, “I’ll take that action. My money’s on Mr. Right having an all hands call. They did the same thing when the Prez showed up.”
The two chuckle and shake hands, but Sergeant Grey growls, “We’re on duty now, jack-trees. No gambling.”
There’s a disappointed pause.
Suddenly, the Chief Master Sergeant gruffly growls, “Twenty on drill.”
The whole van looks at him, surprised. He growls more defensively, “I got something in my moustache, marines?”
They whirl, barking, “No sir, Chief!”
Fisher adds, “Chief’s got 20 on drill. 2 to one. Any other takers?”
Sergeant Grey sighs, “Drill.”
Fisher cheers, “Uh oh! 3 to one! Not looking good, Dumas! Freddy, whatcha for?”
Fredericks retorts, “I’ll take VIP visit. Better split two ways than three.”
Fisher looks at Hancock, who is staring at the waitress’s number written on the slip. He’s never had that kind of connection as he did with Kenzie. Fisher asks, “Yo, Rookie. You in? Going with the bosses, or those two?”
Hancock looks up. He replies respectfully, “If I pick aliens, I’d get the pot, right?”
The marines scoff and laugh. Fisher taunts, “You wanna buy my drinks with your 20, be my guest.”
Hancock smirks, replying, “Then it’s a sure-fire investment, Corporal.”
Corporal Fisher scoffs more approvingly this time. “Alright. Rookie for aliens.”
The duty van parks, and the squad mates rush to their respective barracks locations to change into their uniforms. Surprisingly, the base is in stark contrast to the city, with vehicles rushing in all directions, platoons quickly forming up, and fighter jets being stationed at Ready 15, which means they’re standing by to launch.
Those marines Hancock passes seem to know no more than he does as they make their way to their own muster stations.
Hancock gets dressed and jogs back down to the assembly area for his squad near the east station access for the orbital elevator. The armory personnel are already handing out rifles as marines file past them to form ranks. It’s a little nerve-wracking for Hancock, but more senior marines have been joking nonstop. “I bet Lieutenant Colonel Brondson got in a bar fight again.” “Nah. They want us to help offload a Gi-mungous load of Gold Ice.” “In your dreams. Us filthy green shirts ain’t touchin’ that stuff. We’ll be lucky if we see it.”
Hancock joins ranks. He spots Fisher and Dumas in a line nearby his.
It’s a long wait, with marines all around him speculating and making jokes. It puts him a little more at ease. So far, his military career has been getting yelled at for training, looking nice for inspections, and marching in formation.
There’s a simple calmness that comes from routine, ESPECIALLY military routine. As long as a person does what the rest of his comrades are doing, he stands the best chance of staying alive and not getting yelled at. And, given that Sergeant Grey is joking at the front of the ranks, it adds even more comfort to the situation.
So, Hancock finds his heart racing in nervousness when the officers and Master Sergeants finally grimly approach. All jovial and humorous warmth dissolves from the marines standing in ranks. They all sense the same thing.
Sergeant Grey barks, “Attention!”
The marines snap to crisp attention, but Lieutenant Hornady quickly says, “At ease, marines. Chief Master Sergeant, would you…?”
The grizzled senior enlisted man nods. Clements is many things, but even the jaded and weathered marine that was in the van with Hancock’s squad is more grim and serious –somehow-.
Chief Master Sergeant Clements calls out, “Listen up, marines! Word’s going to get out fast, so it’s our job to try to keep the facts straight and citizens safe; from themselves most of all. Here are the facts. Fact one; the second interstellar magneto-rad-ion pulse, or ‘Burp’ as everyone knows it, was much more potent than the first. This means that whatever is causing them is either intensifying or…” The Chief pauses.
“Moving closer,” adds Lieutenant Colonel Hitch, the senior officer of Hancock’s whole platoon, standing in ranks next to him. The marines shift in surprise, glancing at each other.
Clements shouts, “Quiet! Fact Two;” He takes a deep breath, saying gruffly, “General Space has lost contact with one of their heavy Inhalers”
Lieutenant Hornady corrects, “That’s ‘Heavy Exhumation Barge’, Chief Master Sergeant.” Clements shoots him a brief silent glare.
It didn’t sink in right away for any marine. Not until Hornady corrected Clements’s terminology. Every marine knows G-sink’s humongous asteroid extraction ships –mobile mining platforms- as ‘Inhalers’. But, they’ve held up under unexpected asteroid showers, solar flares, and ‘Nebula bolts’ -ionic discharges of electricity from remnant nebula clouds drifting through space-. They’re almost undetectable until the hull of a ship starts to glow purple. Then, the next nearby object, planet, or asteroid causes the hull to discharge. The most powerful nebula bolt on record ripped a freight-train-tunnel sized hole into the hull of one of the inhalers as its lost hull plating was electroplated to an asteroid… ten kilometers away across space. The ship lost six crew members, but survived as a whole.
The phenomena of space continue to multiply the further humankind reaches, but none of them ever caused the hairs on Hancock’s neck to stand on end. At least, not until now.
Clements quickly adds in a fiery tone, “We are NOT speculating anything yet, marines! General Space is investigating whether the two events are related or not.”
Lt. Col. Hitch adds, “Until we KNOW what’s going on, we’re to guard the fort vaults and the orbital elevator from panic. General Space is preparing a press release. Our responsibility as marines is to keep what you’re all thinking, which is what they’re all likely to think, from destroying this base.”
Clements adds, “As of now, we are at FPCON Red. No one comes or goes until this is sorted. Squads Alpha through India, you have first patrol. Report to duty stations after muster. Squads India through Romeo, you relieve at Zero-Two-Hundred. Understood?”
“Sir, yes sir!” shout the marines shakily. There are no more jokes to be made now.
Hancock makes his way through the crowd to catch up with Fisher and Dumas. They are Squad Romeo, which means they’ll be relieving patrol at two in the morning. But, they’ll be far from relaxing in the meantime. They have to stay in uniform with their rifles slung across their chests.
Sergeant Grey regroups them a few yards away, saying coldly, “Any questions, marines?”
The squad is silent for a moment. Finally, Fredericks asks cautiously, “Are we… really expected to guard against… civilians?”
Grey growls a little angrily, “This is a military base, Fredericks. Everything on it is a military asset. Our jobs are to protect that. Is that clear?”
“Yes sir, but…”
“But WHAT, Lance Corporal!?”
Fredericks flinches for a second. He asks cautiously, “Why do they think… civilians will attack us?”
Sergeant Grey softens a little. His gaze cools and goes distant. He says somewhat quietly as he stares blankly at the horizon, speaking an instinctive, pre-programmed response, “That’s not our problem. We follow orders.”
The marines are silent for a long while.
Hancock has always been an attentive young man. He has never been the strongest, fastest, or smartest. But, he has always had eagle eyes for subtleties; his mother hiding her drinking while encouraging him to study and strive for success of ANY kind; an extension cord that didn’t look quite right, discovering its insulation melted through before it burned down their home; and dozens of limousines, expensive SUVs, and hauling trucks arriving at a military base, granted access during the highest security protocol possible, and making no delay to the orbital elevator over the hours that pass before and during their patrol.
However, these are not the stock market rush selling golden ice in an economic panic. In his silent observations, Hancock watches the ore haulers suddenly making unscheduled hauls between the vault fort and the orbital elevator station. And, Hancock knows that none of the inhalers are arriving until the next evening.
Private Rex Hancock is a good marine. He knows when to ask questions and when to just say ‘Yes sir’. But, never is his mind complicitly idle, waiting for the next order to mindlessly follow. He sees things and he thinks about them. And, he has watched a LOT of movies and read a LOT of books, with which he fuels his own imagination. And, it doesn’t take a fantasy leap to deduce what the reason is for command to fear the civilian populace.
The 1% are the ones rushing out of the limousines and SUVs into the orbital elevator station. Hancock recognizes several high up political party members, as well as several prominent billionaires. These are not technical experts nor are they astro- or quantum-physicists. They are insurance, pharmaceutical, and media moguls. And, they don’t have work tools. They have their families and children.
Hancock thinks on all of the possibilities he can muster as to why this would be happening. Only one springs into his brain immediately, but it’s ludicrous. There must be another explanation. After all, he placed his bet specifically in humor.
But, none of the other reasons seem good enough. Billionaires and politicians have been hated for over a decade now. There were promises to make everyone equal and fair, but then loopholes started appearing. And then terms started getting extended. And, before long, everyone seems to be sitting close to a quiet simmer on the edge of revolution. It was a kind of tension in the air, floating there. However, the elites have always had protection of some kind, and that has been the way of things. There is no reason to believe, if the Burps are to cause revolution, that they would be any safer in the unknowns of space instead of the luxuries of their secret communities hidden in far away countries.
So, the working suspicion in Hancock’s mind circles back once more. What he begins to fear, though, is where the line is drawn. How many marines stationed at Fort Tacoma will be allowed on as well? Is there really an expectation of needing to flee? Are the marines really expected to slow down whatever is coming?
His suspicions start to become confirmed when two things start happening. A loud hum fills the air, announcing the increase in speed of the orbital elevator. Emergency ‘Ridictacular’ speed, as Mr. Right called it in humor, is a high speed version of the elevator’s trip, allowing the cars to travel from one station to another in about a day. It’s dangerous at every stage, but it allows medical emergencies that can’t be handled in orbit to be sent groundside for the advanced hospitals. Hancock is pretty sure no one is coming down the elevator, though.
The second thing is a bright sparkling shimmer from the elevator before its entire length becomes highly transparent, almost fully invisible. They’ve activated the elevator’s refractive camouflage field. This allows the elevator to be almost impossible to suicide bomb with airplanes via line of sight alone. It makes the ride up like riding in a pitch-black tunnel illuminated only by the car’s onboard lights, but it is extremely effective.
Hancock doubts interdimensional demons or time-travelers from the future caused the Burps with every passing second. What he doesn’t doubt so much is the other possibility.
The young rookie lies awake in his bunk when they finally get time to sleep. He knows what’s going on. What he doesn’t know is what that means for him. What does it mean for Kenzie? Does she know anything? Mr. Right promised to keep the civilians informed, but not even the marines guarding the trickling convoy of party favorites have been told what’s going on for sure.
Hancock asks softly, “Dumas? You awake?”
There’s a pause from below Hancock. A voice comes back, “Yeah, Rookie.”
“What… What do you think’s going to happen?”
He can hear Dumas roll uncomfortably in the bottom bunk. The corporal replies, “I don’t know…”
“They’re telling everyone, though, right? I mean, if everyone bands together…”
“This isn’t a movie, Rookie. Just… try to sleep.”
“But… if all of the militaries of the world worked together…”
Sergeant Grey suddenly snaps from across the aisle in his bunk, “Did you ever stop to think it could just be a frickin’ space manatee cruising by, Rookie? People flock to see the regular stupid sea cows. They’re probably paying millions to go see nothing more than a lumbering herd of space cheeseburgers.”
There’s a few chuckles from marines trying to laugh, but Hancock realizes what’s now apparent. He and Dumas weren’t the only ones failing to sleep. Hancock knows they were whispering quietly enough. Sergeant Grey was already lying awake as well.
Hancock replies respectfully, “Yes sir. Apologies, sir.”
Grey grunts noncommittally, refraining from further directing frustration at the nervous junior marine.
The next few days progress similarly, with droves of significantly wealthy or influential people pouring in with entire entourages of people to include spouses and children, by all appearances. Of course, this number is still somewhere below three thousand or so, and Hancock knows the Swan starliners are rated at over 10,000 guests, plus a full complement of 5000 crew. He also knows, though, that there are many more people incoming.
He has yet to see any civilians come back down.
Not only that; there haven’t been any rumors of ‘Space Cheeseburgers’ since Sergeant Grey’s outburst.
The rumors that ARE circling around are in line with the suspicions Hancock has tried to keep buried. He knows now for certain the lost Inhaler is directly related to the second Burp, and he knows none of that has been released to the public at large. The only reason he knows that is from his silent observations. No news coverage on ANY of the political figures suddenly, in spite of the election for Congress where the conservative party was expected to lose its last few major seats. Instead, the coverage of the second Burp is almost identical to the first, saying a lot of nothing.
Hancock wonders about Kenzie, and his mother, and his older sister. He imagines them living blissfully unaware of what seems to be bearing down on them. They’ll go on worrying about tomorrow’s dinner, and the month’s electric bill, and the tips –in Kenzie’s case- that she receives. And then, the moment will abruptly come where all of that ends.
The young marine quickly pushes those thoughts away. Sergeant Grey’s point wasn’t that it could be space cows. His point was that dwelling on it will only cause the marines to panic themselves. If Hancock fears unkillable aliens before the entity ever arrives –if it arrives-, he’ll talk himself out of pulling the trigger when he needs it most.
The marines form up in ranks on the sixth day since recall, mustering for the morning update. It’s not likely they’ll get anything new, but he knows the civilian count sent up the elevator has reached around 5,000; about half of one starliner. The others aren’t finished, but Hancock suspects they’re operational enough. After all, the engines and artillery were the first components sent up back when construction began.
Chief Master Sergeant Clements begins, “Day six, marines. The rumors are growing. I’m getting tired of reminding you to stop. If any of these rumors leak, we’re looking at mass hysteria.”
Lt. Col. Hitch adds, “We know a lot of questions are being asked, and not a lot of answers are coming back. We get it. We know as much as you know. Right now, we’re still being told that the trajectory of the signal’s origination is being monitored and nothing’s been detected yet.”
Hancock believes that Lt. Col. Hitch is telling the truth as he was told it to be, but he’s fairly confident, given the people going up, that the ‘truth’ they’re being told is a lie. Russell Right’s custom Italian supercar arrived and went straight into the station, followed closely by his custom electric SUV.
Hancock isn’t sure whether he should be surprised or not. But, he has been wondering more and more if any thought has been given to the fifteen thousand marines stationed at Fort Tacoma. Especially after the presidential cabinet arrived just a day ago.
The morning muster ends with very little new information, leaving Hancock’s questions unanswered. The squad meets up not far away, and Sergeant Grey asks calmly, “Any real questions, marines?”
The squad shakes their heads. Grey pulls out a cigar, asking, “Any of you got a light?”
Dumas, the resident electronics ‘expert’ pulls out a small butane torch used for fast solder jobs.
Sergeant Grey looks at it in disgust. He retorts coldly, “Seriously?”
Dumas replies half-heartedly defensively, “What? It’s what I got!”
Grey growls. He puts the cigar back in his chest pocket, grumbling, “I ain’t committing no atrocities today.”
Dumas shrugs, replying, “It’s just a cigar, Sarge.”
Grey growls, almost jokingly, “I am disgusted to know you, Corporal. Let’s just shotgun a hundred year whiskey while we’re at it!”
Fisher grunts, “Doesn’t sound so bad to me.”
Fredericks adds, trying to continue the lightening of the mood, “I could go for some special brownies.”
The squad looks at him, and he retorts, “Tanya’s special brownies! Duh! The ones she makes with honey!” He shudders warmly.
Grey growls, “Don’t talk about my lady’s brownies, Fredericks. I’ll rip your spine out and use it to scratch my nuts.”
“I’m serious, though! Sarge, you gotta ask her to make us some.”
A glimmer in the sky to the west catches Hancock’s attention. It’s fairly directly above the city, for all he can tell, but extremely high up, like a star. But, it’s brighter than a star, given that it’s visible against the morning sunrise.
It quickly grows a little in size. But then, more appear. Eight such strange stars glow in the morning sky, flickering strangely. They fade for a brief moment.
Hancock doesn’t have to suppress his suspicions much longer. New glows appear in the form of hot, fiery objects growing from pinpoint sizes to become ever more apparent.
Just as the bickering between Fredericks and Grey is about to really take off, Hancock asks, “What is that?”
The other squad members look at him and follow his gaze. By all appearances, the entities appear to be objects entering the atmosphere at incredible speed. Fisher pulls up his binoculars, studying the objects for a moment. Grey and Fredericks attempt to use their rifle scopes.
Fisher says distantly, “It’s something on re-entry ionization. Can’t tell for certain, but it looks metallic.”
Grey urges, “Lemme see.” Fisher hands over the binoculars, and Dumas speculates curiously, “Maybe the Inhaler exploded on return, and the debris finally reached us?”
Grey studies for a moment before replying, “Mm… maybe… if they weren’t holding formation.”
“Come again?” urges Fisher.
Grey hands the binoculars back, saying, “THAT, Corporal, is a formation.”
***