“Just everyone that got in his way.” Marq

General Bruce sat at his desk and waved on the monitor. The blunt features of General Davian Saxe appeared. The ranking General's closely cropped white hair was stark against the black Consortium flag behind him. He clenched his jaws and scowled, but only the lesser ranks feared that look. Bruce could hear the air struggling to pass through the General's saddle nose; Davian pulled on it and spoke.

“Morgan,” said Davian.

“Davian,” said Morgan.

Davian said, “We've been following your scuffle with interest.”

Morgan replied, “Just mopping up. Do you have news?”

Saxe nodded, maintaining the stone mask of a ranking General's face. “The net is complete,” he said. Access to the inner arm is ours. The Judges, as you may imagine, are excited to be underway. They've given us three days to finalize. Group openings are sealed.”

“That's sudden,” remarked Bruce. “I had a man I wished to submit.”

“Just one?” asked Davian.

“All I need,” said Bruce. “As good as any two Enmen.”

The image of Davian flickered. Saxe turned to look at another monitor while activating the command feed attached to his ear. The image flickered a second time. Few could read the face of Davian Saxe, but Bruce thought he saw the slightest difference around the eyes. Was there trouble on Onones? The image faded to black, leaving Bruce to wonder; he checked his input. Then, the image snapped back.

“Is there trouble?” asked Bruce.

“News of minor damage,” answered Saxe, his tone of voice dismissive. “It appears the Enmen have space-worthy vessels.” Saxe cracked a smile so brief, had Bruce blinked, he would have missed it. “We were taken by surprise. They'll soon be dispatched. Which reminds me,” said Davian. “We're sending a Dreadnought. They're pissed. Pull your men out, Morgan; we have the green light for collateral damage.”

Alarmed, Bruce asked, “What's the ETA?”

Saxe moved a hand, lifting it slightly, dismissively, answering uncertainly, “Thirty minutes?”

Bruce jumped to his feet. “Damn it, Davian! That's not enough time.” But, Bruce was yelling at a blank monitor. The connection was gone.

Bruce sat and turned from his desk, resting an arm along the edge of it as he drummed his fingers. He tapped on communication and addressed Core Command, turning to his monitor.

“Core Command Whiskey, Tango, Foxtrot; General Morgan Bruce issuing. Retract all elite. Set nav channels for incoming Dreadnought routing.” Bruce ended the transmission, turned, and hit the desk with his open palm. It stung, but no more so than the will of the Judges.

Suddenly, the image returned. Davian Saxe stared out at him with an ashen face. “Sorry,” said the General. “We underestimated the Enmen. They brought Hydras, Morgan. Damn their tenacity! The moon took critical damage. We ashed the bastards, but the Judges are screaming. We're moving the fleet in case there's another attack. I'll call when I can. Watch your ass.”

Bruce hung his head. Who could have guessed the Enmen had Hydrogen nukes? Where would the panic of the Judges lead the fleet; to Luna Two? Would they just take off for the next arm of the galaxy? Bruce felt the chilling possibility of abandonment. Terra was on the cusp of social dissolution. Bruce foresaw government failure and social unrest; military intervention, suppression, and martial law. Lost in an inner spiral, Bruce was startled when a channel opened from Core Bank 3-A.

“Sir,” said the Captain. “High Judge Katrina Mercia on her private channel.”

Everyone knew Kat the Merciful. She was the Consortium Relations Abbess. Her Official Quarters were topside, but her duties took her around Terra. Dubbed Terra's Mother Teresa, she was loved by all. Few, however, knew of her hidden love for General Bruce. He preferred it just that way, making difficult lives just a little easier to manage.

Bruce tapped on and saw an empty room. He immediately felt uneasy. “Kat?” he answered.

Kat came to her desk, seating herself with a practiced flourish. “Sorry,” she said. “Have you heard?”

“Where are you?” asked Bruce.

“Sheltering in Three Sorrows,” she said. “There are small incursions all over Eopirica. I'm told the fleet must move. They'll not leave without us. Surely.”

“I'm glad you're safe,” said Bruce. “Onones was hit. Hydras. I'm sure they're just repositioning. Who's with you?”

“Childress,” Answered Kat. “He has me so immured, I can't breathe.”

Bruce said, “Stay safe, Kat. They've dispatched a Dreadnought. I'm sure they'll send a few your way. At any rate, we all know the drill; if we get abandoned,” he stopped as Kat shook her head.

“Don't,” said Kat.

Bruce persisted. “If we do get abandoned, you are the new government of Terra. I can't stress your safety enough. He's old and chipped, but Childress knows his business. Listen to what he says.”

Kat placed arms on her desk, tipping her head forward. Long red locks spilled across her face. She took a breath and sighed. Bruce watched frightened green eyes look out through the monitor, reaching the guarded depths of his heart. “I miss you,” said Kat.

Rude covered the distance between the two containers and the crane on numb legs. His heart shook his rib cage as a painful reminder of his exhaustion. Passing the crane, Rude slid behind a container near the water. He sat with his back to it, panting; a fine spray reaching his face. Without helmet control, his body was overheating inside his armor. Sweat stung his eyes.

The crane queue stretched far to the north; Rude was at the southern offloading end. Another crane would be on the northern end near the destroyer and fueling station. Somewhere along that line of containers, Rude hoped to find his friend. The nagging question was, had he made it in time? He could hear them; although they were pinned by fire from the rail nest, they gave as good as they got. Rude had only his sandman, but he would gladly throw in with them; he just needed to catch his breath.

Panting heavily, Rude looked into the black sky. High up, he spotted the lights of a Rasp returning east across the sea. Then, he saw another. He rolled his head south and saw a distant stream of lights; they were Con Isle Rasps and elite transports. Why were they leaving? Even to the stouthearted, abandonment is a painful realization. Rude shook his head in denial, even while he knew it to be true. Con Isle had thrown in the towel.

Rude watched a black drone hover out over the sea. It had no lights. It did not surprise him that Con Isle watched, but he found it a bitter pill that Command would retreat, yet, still watch the demise of those they left behind. Rude held his breath and closed his eyes in an attempt to calm his racing heart. He exhaled and controlled his breathing rate, but there was too much input; his heart, his head, his trembling muscles. He rolled his head north and thought to himself, hang on, Marq.

General Bruce stepped from his office and stopped. Calling back his men left a bitter taste. The sacrifice was appalling. Ahead of him were the Bank fields; A-field was communications command, B-field was operations and observational drone command. Far to his right, in the opposing end of the bunker, was navigation command. Straight ahead, covering a wall from floor to ceiling, were the eyes of the war. Bruce clasped his hands behind his back and strode forward.

Below the screens, he stood; quiet, brooding. He sought and found the dark image of a soldier missing a helmet. Silent apologies held in check, Bruce watched the young man behind a container; a brave young man of courage and skill. Bruce would have liked to shake his hand, and say goodbye. It was a shameful waste, thought Bruce. He strongly disagreed with the call, but still, Bruce was a soldier. The chain must hold.

“Let me see his face,” said Bruce.

The image was magnified into a grainy blur. Details were lost, but Bruce could see a man who had given his all. The young man panted and seemed to stare back at him, disapproving. Bruce nodded; a brave soldier. Bruce also disapproved. He looked down, then back up; no, he could not look away. He felt he must face the man out of respect. The soldier would die. The Enmen would overwhelm the holdouts and kill them. Then, the Dreadnought would fall from the sky and obliterate that end of the docks. Nothing would be left.

The final dark image of a brave man was illuminated from an overhead source, then went black. “Captain,” called the General. There was a pause, then the answer came. It was reserved, almost apologetic.

The Captain said in a hushed voice, “EMP, Sir.”

A tracer flew northeast over the sea, exploding high. Rude shielded his eyes from the bright flash. Seconds later, he felt the shock wave. He blinked, and the drone fell into the sea. When he looked at his sandman and saw no power light, he knew exactly what had happened. The Enmen used an EMP. The remaining heroes would be in the dark, their weapons useless. They would struggle to shed their helmets.

Rude took a few deep breaths, and scrambled to his feet. Was Marq among the last? Rude could not afford to wait. He gathered his resolve and ran north. The Enmen were marshaling; their next move was a predictable assault. They would physically rush the eastern stronghold. Rude was now unarmed; of little help, but he ran steady, with a growing sense of dread, waiting for the shrill berserker screams. Ahead, was a lone container on its side, having been knocked off the stack. Rude somersaulted atop, ran to the end and made the leap to the upper level.

As he ran, he looked west. The Enmen were waiting, perhaps for reinforcements. Rude leaped across a wide gap, rolled to his feet, and continued. He could make out an open area ahead. He ran into a cul-de-sac of small warehouses and admin buildings that faced the sea. They were dark. On the far side of it, Rude chose to keep right. He ran between containers and the sea. Even without light, Rude could make out the destroyer docked at the extreme north; he was getting close.

The next hurdle was a collapsed area of the dock where an explosion had tumbled containers into the sea. A part of the dock was missing. How much longer he could milk the pirini for somersaults was a question that would soon be answered. The jumbled containers sat at all angles, but fortunately, the first was diagonal. He ran to the top and leaped to the corner of a dented container. The uneven surface posed little problem, and he was soon leaping to the formation of a bridge; once across, he was beyond the damaged dock.

His legs failed on the next leap; he rolled hard, struggling to regain his footing. By then he could hear voices of heroes, and the destroyer loomed large in the black night. He took an opportunity to leap west, landing atop evenly stacked containers. Still, no berserker sounds, and Rude had no clear line of sight on the enemy. Since there was no heavy arms fire, Rude guessed the Enman goal was to reach the undamaged destroyer; he expected small guns and hand-to-hand engagement.

Rude crouched on the corner of the stack overlooking another cul-de-sac. Unlike the previous cul-de-sac, this one opened to the west. Rude could see the rail station silhouetted against burning warehouses. In the orange glow, he could see Enman reinforcements rushing to the nested position. It was a hellish visage of black shadows emerging from fire, but it was strange that they made not a sound. Enmen from the nest gathered silently as well. This was a new one; an Enman sneak attack.

Rude jumped down, and sprinted across the cul-de-sac; the northern stacks were ahead. He stopped behind them to take a breath. A hand reached out, startling Rude. A hero crouched in hiding; a young First Lieutenant missing his helmet. Rude crouched and looked into scared eyes.

“How many are you?” asked Rude.

The First Lieutenant shook his head like one in shock. Rude stood, pulling the man to his feet. He drew the man to the edge of the dock. The man resisted; Rude leaned in close. “The Enmen approach. If you want to live, hide below the dock.” The First Lieutenant, confused, searched Rude's eyes. With no time to waste, Rude pushed him into the sea.

A cluster of five heroes stood between downed containers, whispering. They tensed at Rude's approach. Five worried privates accepted Rude among them; some had removed their upper armor. The faces were unfamiliar; he walked up and spoke in a low voice.

“Any working weapons?” he asked. They shook their heads. Rude said, “I'm looking for Private Musaid.”

A short oriental woman said, “Some went to search the destroyer.”

Rude said, “Listen. The Enmen are coming; their weapons still work. I suggest you hide below the docks.”

“What about you?” asked the woman.

Rude answered, “I have to find my friend.”