Trifect

Turbulence jolts Nooz from an uncomfortable but much-needed nap. He turns to the window to see a field of impact craters among a sea of bones and twisted metal. Near the center of this graveyard lies the rusted, charred carcass of a gigantic space laser with a faded American flag etched into its base. The words ‘KISS OUR ASS!’ was painted in large letters above it. However, someone has since spray painted the black letters CK over the letters SS in KISS.

The military transport approaches one of three enormous Lorian megacities that most Terrans locally refer to as the Trifect. Hundreds of drones crisscross the skies over all three alien cities, controlled by one of only nine Lorian patrol ships on duty. Nooz looks up at rooftops that appear to touch the stars. He looks down and observes one rooftop with Lorian youths enthusiastically performing a strange ritual that resembles a group dance craze. Looking up at the military transport, the young aliens enthusiastically wave obscene gestures.

The military transport weaves through the city’s tall megastructures before landing on the pad of a two-hundred-and-fifteen-story megascraper. The two tribunal officers escort Nooz off the military transport and toward the rooftop lift. The female tribunal officer keeps her sidearm trained on a shackled Nooz while the male officer carries Nooz’s drone pack and personal case. They lead Nooz on to the lift, which descends a few dozen levels.

The tribunal officers escort their prisoner off the lift and down a long hall, stopping in front of a large condo door. The condo door opens to a large residence that includes a hubble, a few random trinkets on a long table, and various indiscernible items affixed to the condo walls. Nooz’s six oculars scan every inch of the room while the male tribunal officer sets Nooz’s drone pack and personal case on the floor near a wall.

“This is our brief sanctuary,” Nooz growls.

Ignoring him, both tribunal officers quickly exit the condo and the door shuts behind them. Nooz walks over to a large window when a couple of his oculars spot another door a few yards away. He walks over to the door, which opens. Nooz peeks into the room and sees a female Lorian staring out another large window overlooking the Trifect skyline peeking above the clouds.

The female Lorian known as Hyfor turns to Nooz.

“It is fortunate to see you again,” Hyfor says. “My mate.”

“It is fortunate I am unharmed,” Nooz replies in a high-pitched tone as he enters the room. “My mate.”

The two four-armed aliens embrace, gently probing each other.

“Agreed,” Hyfor says.

Nooz and Hyfor turn toward the large window, staring out at balconies that appear to float in the sky. A giant beam of light shoots up from each alien city, converging into one larger beam that shoots up at the stars. Lorian city lights are so bright, they can be seen for hundreds of miles in some parts of the world.

“Only death and destruction flourishes on this desolate rock,” Nooz says.

“Colonization and endless conflicts have depleted far more resources than anticipated,” Hyfor says. “Interstellar travel is heavily restricted. The Homeworlds are rationing.”

“We are overextended,” Nooz responds.

“Most unfortunate,” Hyfor says.

“This rampant consumption is unsustainable.”

Nooz walks over to his drone pack and personal case and observes them.

“Have no fear, Nooz. The mere threat of tampering prevented Supervisor Minto from inspecting them before confiscation.”

Nooz gently pats his drone pack.

“Excellent.”

Hyfor remotely activates a wall panel that slides open, revealing a variety of cubes and liquids. All six of Nooz’s oculars widen.

“I took the liberty of requesting your favorite delicacies,” Hyfor says.

Nooz approaches the panel and proceeds to sample the food items.

“How did you know my desire for sapien meat has diminished?”

“When your empathy nearly jeopardized the mission,” Hyfor chides.

“Apologies, Hy-fer. Overexposure to those atrocities compelled me to release some of-”

“Nonetheless,” Hyfor interrupts, “your conversion may inspire others.”

“How long until the preserve is operational?” Nooz asks.

“No more than two revolutions.”

Hyfor also samples the unappealing (by human standards) alien food and drink.

“General Meh-jah capitulated to his daughter so easily,” Nooz laments.

“He perceives a minor distraction,” Hyfor responds.

Nooz and Hyfor embrace.

“Reh-ee’s gift of persuasion makes her effective,” Nooz says. “Do you really believe we can prevent their extinction?”

“We must try,” Hyfor responds. “For Loria.”

“For Loria,” Nooz concurs.

Above, a Lorian starcruiser zips toward the Lorian mothership resting on the moon surface.

The No-So-Great Escape: Part 2

A shivering Jino wakes from yet another involuntary slumber. This time, he looks around to find himself in the middle of a wooded area.

Jino reaches for the small canteen and metal box beside him. He opens the box to find dried insect bars and two pieces of dried rat jerky. Jino takes a few bites of rat jerky and washes it down with some water from the canteen. Standing, he spots a grey-haired prisoner unconscious on the ground beside a canteen and metal box. He walks over to the sleeping stranger.

“Hey, you okay?” Jino whispers. “If you’re awake, I mean no harm.”

Jino hears a faint moan. He bends down and rolls the prisoner over to see a female hybreed with bumpy, viridian skin. Her eyes pop open, and she tosses him to the ground. The viridian hybreed jumps on top of Jino and sniffs him.

“Who are you?” she asks.

“A friend,” he replies.

She carefully gets off of him, stands, and scans their surroundings.

“Where are we?” she asks.

Jino rises.

“I don’t know. But my name’s Jino.”

The viridian hybreed turns to Jino, who extends his hand. However, she refuses it.

“You smell like a Jino,” she says.

Jino sniffs himself while the viridian hybreed grabs her canteen and metal box.

“And what do you smell like?” he asks.

“Prey,” she replies while eating and drinking.

The viridian hybreed looks around as she walks away. Jino retrieves his canteen and metal box then catches up to her.

“I think we should stick together,” Jino says.

This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.

“Agreed,” she responds. “You may be useful.”

They continue walking.

“Gonna tell me your name?” Jino asks.

“Tomorrow. If we live to see it.”

Minutes later, they arrive at another abandoned site. They split up to inspect the few items strewn across the ground. Kneeling, Jino stares at what appears to be footprints in the ground.

“I wonder what happened to them,” Jino murmurs.

“You tell me,” the viridian hybreed responds right behind him.

Startled, Jino jumps up, turns around, and clutches his heart.

“You tryin’ to give me a heart attack?” he asks.

“Your scent is familiar,” she responds.

“So does yours, ‘cause we both smell like ass!”

The viridian hybreed pulls Jino to a spot a few feet away and points at the ground.

“No,” she says. “It’s faint, but you were here no more than a cycle ago.”

Jino looks around.

“Look, lady, I suggest you quit whatever is you’re sniff-”

Jino pauses then looks around. His eyes widen.

“You remember,” she says. “You were here!”

“I wasn’t,” he replies, then turns to her. “But maybe my father was.”

The viridian hybreed looks around. She points in the direction that Genji and the others went some weeks before.

“They went there,” she says.

“Can you track them?”

“Maybe? But maybe they march to death.”

“Or maybe they march to food and shelter,” Jino counters.

The viridian hybreed turns to Jino.

“You were conceived in this place?” she asks.

“Close enough,” Jino answers.

“Then let’s trade. Your father for my new home.”

“That was easy,” Jino replies, extending his hand.

The viridian hybreed accepts it, and they shake. She tightens her grip.

“No tricks, archaic.”

“No tricks,” he says while wincing.

She sniffs the air, then releases her grip.

“We need to go,” she says.

“I need some more water,” he says.

“And a bath,” she responds.

They enter the forest.

“So, what do I call you for now?” Jino asks.

“You can call me…queen.”

Their silhouettes disappear into the forest.

“More like bitch,” he whispers.

“Who is this Bitch?”

“I’ll tell you tomorrow.”

04.24.2167

A squadron of manned South African Commonwealth aerial fighters called AirMartials, augmented by dozens of unmanned Stinger attack drones, patrol the relatively peaceful skies above one of the few advanced human civilizations left. From the ashes of the old world order, Lesotho, a mountainous and heavily fortified city-state protected by high walls of steel and concrete, has become the new capital of Terran empire that stretches across the entire southern continent.

Deep within the bowels of Lesotho, a military convoy bearing the SAC insignia barrels through a network of clandestine tunnel roads that would’ve made the former Kim dynasty jealous. The armored column slows then idles at a tunnel fork. The left tunnel is open, but the right is blocked by a large gate. The gate opens and swallows the military convoy whole before closing again.

The military convoy enters an open area with two rows of SAC soldiers facing off in front of an entrance. The armored column stops when the presidential limo’s passenger side door sits between the two rows of soldiers. Standing at the entrance, SAC General Arington Mugabo waits patiently as SAC President Edwin Wasili exits the limo. Pres. Wasili walks between the saluting soldiers and stops in front of Gen. Mugabo, who salutes. The president briefly glimpses up at the SAC’s flag proudly hanging above the entrance.

An offshoot of the former South African flag, the SAC’s version uses the Lesotho’s blue, white, and green horizontal stripes, sans the black mokorotlo.

“Ah-ree,” Pres. Wasili greets.

“Mr. President,” Gen. Mugabo replies. “Great speech.”

“Let’s pray it leads to great results.”

Under armed escort, Pres. Wasili and Gen. Mugabo walk through the entrance and into a luxurious and heavily guarded compound.

“Then you’ll be pleased to know we have now gained access to the Chinese satellite,” Gen. Mugabo confirms.

“Fantastic, Ari.”

The men and their armed escorts approach a flight of stairs.

“It’s a miracle anything up there still works,” Gen. Mugabo says.

They proceed up one flight.

“It’s a miracle there’s anything up there at all at,” Pres. Wasili responds. “And what of the Americans?”

“Scattered, independent factions,” Gen. Mugabo answers. “Not even a shadow of its former glory.”

“Like everything these days.”

They reach the top and continue down a long hallway, passing more soldiers and base personnel saluting them along the way.

“The men?” Pres. Wasili asks.

“On edge, but ready.”

“Good.”

They arrive at a giant, thick, vault-like metal door guarded by two soldiers, who open the door for them. Pres. Wasili, Gen. Mugabo, and their armed escorts enter a large war room filled with bustling staff and four large display screens hanging overhead. Surrounded by chairs, a large, round table with its own large surface display sits in the middle of the war room. Digital nameplates identify assigned seating for the president, general, and war staff. Gen. Mugabo remotely activates the table display. A three dimensional, holographic topography of the South African Federation rises from the table. A thick border encompasses the former nations of Lesotho, now the SAC’s city-state capital, as well as the former nations of Eswatini, Zimbabwe, Malawi, and Mozambique. Across the channel, the Republic of Madagascar appears to have maintained its territorial integrity.

“The same tools used to destroy humanity may also become its salvation,” Gen. Mugabe says.

He slides the virtual topography toward the much greener northern Sahara, where Lorian starships and industrial structures dominate the landscape. Once filled with water, the Mediterranean Sea now resembles an agricultural oasis. Lorian megacities appear concentrated around Europe.

“A drink would be my salvation right now,” Pres. Wasili responds.

“Thought you’d never ask,” Gen. Mugabo responds with a smile.

Gen. Mugabe leads Pres. Wasili to a private office in the back of the war room. The president looks around while the general shuts the door.

“I may have to miss Kia’s birthday again,” Pres. Wasili says.

Gen Mugabo heads over to the kitchenette and pours boiling water into two cups. He adds a tea packet to each cup.

“Comes with the territory, Mr. President.”

Pres. Wasili takes a seat on the plush couch against a wall, where a worn, twenty-first-century world map hangs.

“Every time I blink, she’s an inch taller,” Pres. Wasili says.

Gen. Mugabo takes a cup of tea and walks over to the couch. He hands Pres. Wasili the cup of tea. Pres. Wasili takes a sip.

“Brings me back,” he laments.

Gen. Mugabo walks back to retrieve his own cup, glancing at a worn poster featuring the last Nigerian national futbol team hanging on another wall. Carrying his hot tea, Gen. Mugabo joins Pres. Wasili on the couch.

“We both know you didn’t come all the way here just for my wife’s tea,” Gen. Mugabo says.

Pres. Wasili nods.

“True,” Pres. Wasili responds.

“Mr. President, Chief Ichi and Prime Minister Ringazi are calling on the hotline,” the base AI says.

Pres. Wasili and Gen. Mugabo exchange glances.

“Together?” Pres. Wasili asks.

“Affirmative,” the base AI answers.

“This ought to be interesting,” Gen. Mugabo interjects.

“Put them up,” Pres. Wasili says.

“Yes, Mr. President,” the base AI replies.

The main display shows a split screen of the Lagosian Prime Minister on the left, and a muscular hominoid with tiny holes around his head on the right. Both men wear formal attire.

“Ichi,” Pes. Wasili says. “Gazi.”

“Mr. President,” both the Lagosian PM and muscular hominoid simultaneously reply.

“So, what conflict is in dire need of mediation now?” Pres. Wasili asks.

“Shutting down the Geni slaughterhouse,” the Lagosian PM answers. “Permanently.”

“And condemn your people to the same fate?” Pres. Wasili asks.

“At their current rate of expansion, we’re condemned if we don’t.”

“And you have the support of the Senate?”

“I have the support of the people,” the Lagosian PM replies.

“As do I,” the muscular hominoid says.

Pres. Wasili turns to the muscular hominoid.

“This isn’t medation, is it?” Pres. Wasili asks.

“Thanks to sapien tribes, our extraction programs have gathered more intel on the Geni than we could ever have hoped.”

The muscular hominoid nods.

“Gratitudes,” he replies.

“It only took going from farm to table,” Gen. Mugabo mutters.

Pres. Wasili grins.

“I’m sorry, General?” the Lagosian PM asks.

“A sentiment all sapiens can relate to, General Mugabo,” the muscular hominoid responds.

“And when do you both plan to embark on this suicide mission?” Pres. Wasili asks.

“Nearly every seven Terran revolutions, a shift change takes place at the industrial zone,” the muscular hominoid answers. “At which time, a skeleton crew operates the facility for approximately four lunar cycles before the new shift arrives.”

“One group will incapacitate the skeleton crew, their drones, and communications,” the Lagosian PM says. “Another will release as many sapien brothers and sisters as we can. And a third will set strategic charges on and around the facility’s power core.”

“And how do you plan to get an entire army inside?” Pres. Wasili asks. “Ring the doorbell?”

“No,” the muscular hominoid answers. “But we plan to use the genetic samples we acquired from the current personnel. It was not easy.”

“You’re both mad,” Pres. Wasili chuckles.

“We’re simply running out of real estate,” the Lagosian PM says.

“I’ll prepare our border regions for sanctuary,” Pres. Wasili says.

“Edwin, you must know the Lorians insatiable appetite will drive them to your doorstep,” the muscular hominoid says.

“Then let them come!” Pres. Wasili replies.

“Mr. President, they’re not asking for shelter,” Gen. Mugabo says. “They’re asking for soldiers.”

“We do not wish to deceive, Edwin,” the muscular hominoid says. “Many lives will be lost.”

“A sentiment all sapiens can relate to,” Pres. Wasili responds. “Gentlemen, I appreciate the call. I’ll discuss it with our Council and Join Chiefs.”

“Of course, Mr. President,” the muscular hominoid replies.

“Ed, we only have six years to pull this off. Once the window closes, the facility’s security protocols will switch over to the replacements’ genetic codes. And Lagosia may not be around for another shot at this.”

“We await your decision,” the muscular hominoid says.

The hotline transmission ends. Gen. Mugabo turns to Pres. Wasili.

“This might be our chance, Ed,” he says.

“Chance for what, Ari? Serving our men up on a silver platter?”

“And when the Geni reach our borders, who will be left to help us?”

“A united humanity couldn’t stop the Lorians,” Pres. Wasili says. “What can three armies do?”

Pres. Wasili walks back over to the window overlooking the command center.

“Avenge them,” Gen. Mugabo replies. “Sir.”

“We are not superheroes, Ari,” Pres. Wasili responds. “And you forget the kibakara outside these walls?”

Gen. Mugabo shakes his head.

“You forget the promise you made to you father?”

Pres. Wasili sighs.

“You think the Council will approve?”

“Threat of extinction can be very persuasive.”

Pres. Wasili paces.

“We’re talking the largest offensive operation since Man Fall,” he says.

“Forever embedded in Earth’s memory,” Gen. Mugabo replies.

“Is this really happening, Ari?”

“Better sooner than too late, Ed.”

“So it begins.”

“Yes, sir.”

Gen. Mugabo nods, walks back to the console, and starts typing.

“Ari?”

Gen. Mugabo stops typing and looks up.

“Mr. President?”

Pres. Wasili holds his empty tea cup and says, “I’m gonna need something a whole lot stronger.”