“Hi there,” Foley began. “We need transportation to the surface. . . . You can invite us aboard, or we’ll shoot you and commandeer the ship. Which would you prefer?”
There was a pause while one of the aliens spoke into a lip mike. And another pause as he listened to a response. Then, having been ordered to do so, he lowered his weapon. His voice sounded like a rock crusher in low gear. “You can board—but do so quickly.”
Foley was the fi?rst one through the hatch, and the mob surged in behind him. A short fl?exible tunnel led between a pair of pressure doors and into a well-lit hold. A series of loud clangs was heard as muscular Hudathans wrestled the cargo modules off the carts and secured them to D-rings set into the deck. A Klaxon began to bleat as the last humans managed to squeeze themselves into the hold, and massive pressure doors slammed closed behind them. With no warning whatsoever, the alien ship lifted free of the deck, turned on its axis, and began to accelerate. Foley, who was being crushed from all sides, closed his eyes. The naval offi?cer had a good imagination, which meant he could visualize the scene outside the battle station, where the Ramanthians would be lying in wait. And sure enough, as the boxy freighter shot out through one of two enormous hatches and entered space, the bugs opened fi?re on her. The Hudathan vessel’s screens fl?ared, and the ship shook like a thing possessed, as the captain took evasive action. But rather than be thrown around as they could have been, the refugees were so tightly packed, that they held each other in place.
What happened next was wonderful and horrible at the same time. Wonderful, in that the fugitives were spared, but horrible because thousands of people were killed when Battle Station III exploded. Later, after there was time to refl?ect, some would maintain that the devastating explosion had been triggered by members of the space station’s crew, who, having defeated all of the reactor’s safeties, had intentionally pushed the device into overload. The action destroyed both the platform and the Ramanthian troopships that were alongside it.
Others took the position that such theories amounted to wishful thinking and amounted to jingoistic nonsense. The truth, they claimed, was that Battle Station III, like IV, had been destroyed by the enemy. This meant the loss of their troopships was the result of poor judgment rather than a suicidal act of heroism. One thing was clear, however, and that was the fact that the fl?eeing freighter had been able to escape during the aftermath of the blast, saving more than a hundred lives. That meant Foley could open his eyes, give thanks for the fact that he was still alive, and ask himself a very important question. Given the fact that the Ramanthians seemed in- tent on occupying Earth—how could an entrepreneur like him profi?t from such a horrible calamity?
NAPA VALLEY, PLANET EARTH, THE CONFEDERACY OF SENTIENT BEINGS
It was dark in the western hemisphere, so when Battle Station III exploded, it was like the birth of a small sun. Light strobed the surface of the planet below, which caused people such as Margaret Vanderveen to look upwards and gasp in surprise. Because even the most pessimistic of news commentators had been telling the citizens of Earth to expect a battle that would last weeks, if not months, ending in a draw if not an outright victory for the Confederacy’s navy. That was why many people were still in a state of denial even as the Ramanthians destroyed the last ships sent up to oppose them.
But not everyone. As the newly formed sun was snuffed out of existence, Margaret not only knew that thousands if not hundreds of thousands of people had died, but what would happen next. Because her husband, Charles Winther Vanderveen, was a senior government offi?cial presently stationed on Algeron. And her daughter, Christine, was a diplomat, and more than that, a survivor of many months spent in a Ramanthian POW camp. That meant the society matron not only knew what was coming, but what to do about it, starting with the very thing that most of her wealthy Napa Valley neighbors would be most reluctant to do. She must leave the lovely three-story Tudor-style house, not to mention all of the treasures within, and run like hell. Because if safety lay anywhere, it was to the northeast, along the border with what had once been the state of Nevada. A place where the Vanderveen family had a rustic vacation home. The problem was that the potential refuge lay hundreds of miles away. And while the vast majority of the population were still in a state of shock, that wouldn’t last for long. Once they went into motion, all the freeways and roads would be transformed into hellish parking lots. So even though Margaret’s heart was heavy with grief for those who had given their lives attempting to defend Earth, she knew it was important to get moving. And do so quickly. The family had six full-time servants. And having polled them, Margaret discovered that while four wanted to join their families, two preferred to remain with her. They included Thomas Benson, who served as the estate’s maintenance man, and Lisa Qwan, a young woman who was married to a naval rating currently serving aboard the Epsilon Indi. Wherever that ship might be . . . And, since John, the family’s domestic robot wasn’t sentient, he had no choice but to come as well.
So in keeping with the needs of her party, as well as the likelihood that they would be on their own for a sustained period of time, Margaret chose the estate’s sturdy four-wheeldrive pickup truck as being the best vehicle for the trip. Her employees were instructed to load the truck with food, tools, and her husband’s gun collection.
Then, having already selected a pistol for herself, Margaret went upstairs to the master bedroom. The safe was located at the back of the closet. She and her husband typically kept a few thousand credits on hand, which should be spent fi?rst, since they could be rendered worthless later on. That was when Margaret’s jewelry, and her husband’s coin collection, might very well come into play. Then, having slipped a computer loaded with all of the family’s records and photos into her pocket, the society matron took one last tour of the house in which her only child had been raised. There were dozens of beautiful vases, boxes, figurines, hangings, mementos, and paintings to choose from. But in the end it was the carved likeness of Christine that Margaret chose to take with her. Not only because it was beautiful but because Captain Antonio Santana had given it to her. And, if the legionnaire managed to live long enough, he might become her son-in-law one day.
With the box clutched under one arm, and towing a suitcase loaded with toiletries with the other, Margaret left through the front door. The air in the entryway was thick with the odor of spilled fuel. The heavily loaded truck was waiting in the driveway. A big horse trailer was hooked up behind it. “Are you sure about this?” Benson wanted to know, as Lisa took charge of the suitcase. “What if we’re wrong? What if the bugs never come?”