It was a warm June evening. The sun was just setting behind clouds turned a brazen shade. Fiery orange set light the pale blue horizon, as the gigantic red ball slowly died, then disappeared. A slight breeze rustled the leaves of chestnuts and birches, all of which surrounded an exquisite lawn.
There, not too far from the small flag-stoned patio, sat a couple; the woman was of average figure, long legs, hazel hair hung down in shiny locks, partially obscuring her face. Her gaze focussed on a rose: white, pure, magnificent. Another breeze whipped her hair, the man could now see her jade eyes. They were brimming with tears.
"Why?" she asked. "Why must you go?"
He shrugged: "I'm sorry, Anne, really. But you know how it is, what with Hitler and his cronies."
"Precisely! They're all mad."
"That's why I must go," he nodded.
Indeed, the ever darkening evening proved a fine augury for the approaching war: a descent into total darkness. Everybody in Britain - that was to say the politicians, soldiers, and civilians - expected Hitler's next move. He'd already annexed Austria, in '37, then went on to take Czechoslovakia the following year when Operation Green was put into action.
"The Nazis are mopping up Europe with their treaties and policies," he said, "and now there's talk of a pact between Germany and Russia. Trouble's brewing, Anne. Hitler won't stop now, believe me."
She sat silent for a long moment, digesting it all. "Henry," she stared into his earnest, almost desperate eyes. "Must you go?"
He didn't answer directly. "I - sorry, that should be 'we' - believe the Nazis have their greedy eyes on Poland. I'll wager that's their next objective, Anne."
"My God, what's wrong with the Germans? Why do they trust the empty promises of a madman?"
She suddenly got up and walked a few steps. Then, as if cold, she hugged herself, rubbing her arms vigorously. She had her back to him, but he knew she was upset. Henry studied her elegant figure, shapely curves covered by a light summer dress, standing barefoot on the spongy close-cut grass. He made towards her. Gently, he put his arms around shivering shoulders, held her tightly.
"I know," he whispered in Anne's ear, "but in this chaotic world, humans are known to err. The German people have had their share of misery and suffering since the Great War - which they lost. They were worst off during the Depression. Despite what they think deep down, on top is the false belief that it takes a madman, in a world gone mad, to make things right again."
"But," tears had finally flowed on to her cheeks, "you don't agree with the Nazis, do you?"
"No," he smiled weakly, "no, I do not. I'm a man of order, but not this so-called 'New Order'. Fascism isn't the answer. But Germany is blinded by hatred, Anne, the people there want a leader, someone of such energy and confidence to guide them. Unfortunately, we in Britain are not so prepared as before. We watch Europe immersed in turmoil, country after country will be swallowed, while we watch helplessly."
"It's too late now," she resigned with so much forlorn, "We've read the signs all too late."
It was later that summer when Henry found Anne already home from the surgery. She was a nurse there, her hours weekend or weekday shifts.
"Hello," he sighed, not looking up.
"Henry," she had caught the same bug that afflicted everybody else; it's symptoms were a case of downcastness and numb shock.
"You heard, then?"
"The wireless," she replied, "Chamberlain."
He nodded, unfolded the Times, dated Sunday 3rd September, 1939, and read it through again. He still couldn't accept that Great Britain had declared war on Germany.
The Day had come...
Matthew Stiles glanced at his digital watch; the LCD display shone brightly: '22:39'. Reflected light gave his bearded face a greenish hue, until he pulled back his tunic sleeve.
Thank God! he grinned. Just another twenty one minutes before shift change. He had been working here since 2.00pm but his excitement was more to do with a full week's 'shore leave' at the end of it. His family waited with equal eagerness; Bernie and Catherine, his children, must have been waiting for this day with irrepresible anticipation.
He'd just finished his log report, pressed the 'send' key, and it was beamed to a nearby satellite. Stiles waited for nearly half a minute before a return signal announced recipient and acknowledgment, via operator BER 907 - to be stored in State archives.
It was then safe to switch off the monitor and drives. The time now was a couple of minutes until 'zero hour', as he called it. They didn't mind a ship's captain finishing early - even the Commandant would accept such a privilege, as there were precious few.
The send and return signals would have been analysed by the spacestation - Stiles' docking destination - but not decrypted. If such a report was intercepted and perhaps even decoded, it spelt certain doom for the offender. Such a person would be immediately arrested then shot for treason. Stiles yawned and stretched his aching limbs, then collapsed exhaustively in his padded seat. Nearby was a comlink. He pressed the button:
"Captain to Bridge," he requested, "Mister Anderton, be so good to complete the docking procedures, I'll be with you shortly."
"Aye, aye, Skipper," confirmed a clear voice.
Stiles yawned a second time, before removing his spectacles. He rubbed tired, strained eyes, and scratched his chin. He was completely bald, which fellow captains often jibed him for: 'roll up, roll up, see the man with the upside-down head!'
He shook his head and chuckled to himself; doubtless they would greet him in the officers' mess likewise.
Stiles was, after all, popular in four stations he'd served on and that was seventeen years hard work: from junior officer, to Second Mate, then First Mate, and now...Captain.
"Ah, Anderton," he smiled. "Everything ship-shape?"
"Aye, cap'n, just another routine day. Station security has given us clearance, we're heading in."
The space station, from an external view on the bridge flatscreen, was a chrome construct, measuring three kilometres in diameter, and shaped like one of those American doughnut rings.
Spacestation 67. Otherwise called, 'God's Ring'; it acted as an anchor in space, which provided sanctuary for a ship and its crew. Maintaining a stationary position in Earth's orbit, its role was also described as a necessary link to the planet. It was similar to any other such facility, with the exception that an enormous symbol - the dominant black swastika inside a white circle set upon a red field - had been painted on canvas that stretched across the yawning gap. An attempt at glorification, mused Stiles. Keeping alive a tradition that had been going for a hundred years.
"Third Reich Victory Centenary," confirmed Anderton. He stroked his moustache, then swore angrily:
"Bastards! They like to rub it in, don't they?"
"Easy there, First Mate." Stiles wasn't angry with him, his tone was almost smooth: you never knew who was listening. "Think of your shore leave."
"Aye, aye, Skipper."
"There's someone still out there," said Cochrane, the ship's pilot. "What are they up to?"
"Sabotagers?" then Anderton whispered, "I damn well hope so!"
Stiles shook his head, slowly, and he smiled. "No, lads, they're adding the final touches. Reich Marshal Von Reger wanted it to have something special."
"Like what, cap'n?"
"Oh, something like: 'Celebrating a Hundred Years of the Thousand Year Reich in Europe - 2044', I think, in big gold lettering. They've got a week to finish it before the Fuhrer's ceremonial visit."
"Huh, they've got less than that," said Cochrane, "Permission to arrow straight through it, cap'n!"
Despite sensory precautions, the whole bridge erupted into raucous laughter.
There were at least seventy other crews billeted in God's Ring, all from various countries governed by the Third Reich: France, Romania, Norway, Denmark, the Ukraine, even a few Poles, (Holland and Austria were no longer seen as individual states, but part of the Greater Germany).
Powers outside of the Third Reich were either modelled on Fascist influence - Spain and Italy - or outside of Nazi jurisdiction altogether - Sweden, Switzerland, and Portugal. These latter three formed the Red Cross League, funding banks and hospitals; they had claimed and continued their neutrality since the beginning of World War Two. When the war ended with German Victory in Europe, the three countries decided to join forces with ideas to plan and rebuild - not for war - but for Peace. The Geneva Convention was their Code: their democratic political system followed it to the letter, it helped improve the economy and standard of living, scientific projects were financed by the three governments.
It even helped to curb the terror of the Nazi Party - on occasion.
Max Khalder, Commandant of God's Ring, sat in his high-back swivel chair. On his desk sat a computer console, and large glass of Napoleon brandy; most of the bottle had been drained.
'...Hitler then decided to go ahead with 'Eagle Tag', the campaign against the RAF which had proved very successful in destroying Great Britain's airforce. The Fueher was so pleased with Goering's efforts that he awarded him the rank of Fieldmarshal. With German air superiority established, the Luftwaffe unleashed fire upon British cities, demolishing factories, disabling airfields. The Blitz wreaked...'
Khalder felt sickened by the film footage; there was no use in the Reich employing the sevices of its Propaganda Ministry to exagerrate or lie - the aerial pictures were real enough.
The scene changed to Hitler studying a map of the British Isles, several of his generals were flanking him, including Goering and Heydrich, with Himmler also close by. It was obviously posed for the purpose of future archive. God! thought Khalder. What the Fueher would say if he'd forseen the future...
'...Here, we see Waffen-SS celebrating the capture of St. Paul's cathedral after three days besieging one of London's most well-known and sacred symbols. About three quarters of the capital city was under Reich control by mid-January 1943...'
Khalder saw Panzer tanks (Tigers, he recognised) rolling along the Strand before the image again changed. He almost choked on his brandy - before him was a face lined with age, stern eyes fixed ahead. Khalder stood to attention, giving the Nazi salute.
"Heil Hitler!"
"At ease, Commandant Khalder," he smiled.
My God! Reichsmarshal Klause Von Reger himself!
"So, Khalder, how goes the Fueher's visit preparations?"
"Almost finished, sir."
The other frowned: "Any problems?"
"No, sir, none at all. Everything is going according to schedule."
"Hmm," he nodded, "good, well, anything unusual to report?"
"No- ah, sorry, sir, there was something-" he paused, the Reichsmarshal raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. Khalder continued, "One of our ships did report a strange phonomenon: it was a bright sphere of blue light."
"Did he make out any details?"
"No, sir. It shot away out of sight."
"For how long was it in the vicinity?"
Khalder shrugged: "Er, at least a minute, I think. I'll look it up-"
"No, no." He waved a hand. "Don't bother. For now we have more pressing engagements." He paused.
"Just out of curiosity, what was the captain's name?"
"Matthew Stiles, sir."
Captain Stiles was seated at a table with two Spaniards and a Pole. He'd only just met them ten minutes ago; they were from the 'Salamanca'. Third Reich citizens from different countries were allowed to be billeted and work together on the same starship or spacestation - integration policy, they called it. Stiles cursed: "What the bloody hell does he want?"
"Perhaps another job?" replied Paledor, one of the Spaniards, "No rest for the wicked, eh?"
"Well," he smiled, "I'm safe, then."
"That's right, Matt," laughed the Pole. He sipped from his vodka and ice. "Don't take any crap from Khalder. Even the Commandant can't restrict your shore leave. Tell him to shove his orders!"
"Perhaps he wants to give you a pay rise?"
The other Spaniard was an optimistic sort, clearly not a desired trait within the Third Reich. Life was hard, tough, unforgiving, made worse by feelings of fantasy. The others laughed at his pathetic attempt to encourage, treating it as a joke.
"Yeah," Stiles sighed, "some damn hope."
"Ah!" smiled Khalder, "My friend. Have a drink?"
"No thanks, sir, just had one."
The Commandant nodded, then noticed the film footage of 'Mein Kampf' was disturbing him. He promptly switched off the flatscreen; black and white images of the Russian offensive shrank away.
"Hmm, I love this brandy, we did well to take all those vineyards from the French." They both laughed, but Stiles remained ill at ease. Again, the Commandant's keen eye put him in mind:
"What's wrong, kamerad Stiles? Lager upset you, did it?"
He shook his head: "Sir, may I remind you that I'm due shore leave. The shuttle departs in another hour."
"Oh, ja, ja, mein Kapitan!" he seemed jovial, "this won't take long, please." He gestured to one of the chairs opposite his own. Khalder - whenever such discussions demanded - preferred to sit without his desk before him. Stiles was, after all, an old acquaintance and a good friend.
Stiles was more easy going than Anderton; while the First Mate was more an ardent patriot, loyal more to the Motherland, the captain was one who accepted Nazi rule in his own way. As long as Berlin let him continue as captain, he was happy enough. The war - both Stiles and Khalder realised - was a long time ago. Germany had governed Europe for a hundred years (one tenth of what Hitler had promised), had re- shaped and re-fitted the continent, moulding the conquered lands into one vast Empire.
However, Hitler and his ruthless generals were long dead, lost to the history books, known only in tradition and film footage. The ruthless Gestapo had gradually faded away to become a more civilised SD. The Intelligence AMT Bureaus - along with the merciless SS police system - were mere shadows of their former selves. The military had, step-by-step, taken full control the Defence of the Nazi State. Someone was needed to protect against the Pacific Alliance of America, Japan, and Canada. After a full century, the German descendants had become estranged from Nazi policy; they were no longer relevant, nor acceptable. Within four generations, the Swastika was seen as an empty symbol.
Much of the old 'Prussian Method' was re-introduced, along with its militaristic pride. Khalder could be described as such: a good soldier, stubborn at times, dedicated to his duties, stuffy with his habits and no-nonsense attitude. But he counted Stiles amongst those few friends he could trust. Both men were professional and skilled, rarely put a foot wrong. However, in the confines of space, with artificial air to breathe, lack of privacy, and seeing the same faces most of the while, put its strain on spacemen, all and alike. Even the tough, unrelenting Khalder, whose sharp wit was tested to the extreme, was affected. It got to you at some time - it always did.
"So, what's the problem, sir?"
Khalder sympathised: "Well, to be honest, Matthew, I don't know if there is actually any particular problem...yet." He paused, then frowned. "I had a call from Reichsmarshal Von Reger. He seemed slightly concerned, and somewhat curious, as to what you'd seen. At his request, I am now asking you what it was exactly you had seen."
"You heard about it, sir?"
"Ja," he grinned, "Matthew, surely you know by now that every little bit of news somehow reaches me."
"Yeah, that Cochrane's got a big mouth." He said it without malice; a slight smile marked his face. "For what it's worth, it's true."
"That as may be, and I'm not contesting your judgment. How could I? But what is in question are the exact details."
He shrugged: "It's in the report, sir."
"Oh, come along, Matthew!" he laughed. "You know what these bloody officials are like in communications. It takes ages and a hell of a good reason to disturb their lunch 'break'." The emphasis on this last word carried a tone of contempt; Khalder despised Space Attache based on Earth. Stiles, too, had to agree with such a view. Cushy numbers!
"Aye, aye, sir," he smiled, "Well, if it will save you time..."
"Ja," Khalder leaned forward, face lined in concentration.
"...Jesus, quick!"
The German engineer was wrestling against four American marines. He was a strong one; he had to be to tear himself free from their muscles. This, thought Sergeant Ramshawk, was one tough cookie!
They'd found the deranged man drifting almost into deep space. Nearby was his spaceplane; obviously, the maintenance to it had been interrupted - by something. The Pacific Space Corp frigate had towed it back to the nearest RCL station. It was one of the agreed requirements - outlined in the Space Peace Treaty of 2015 - that any distressed citizens discovered by an opposing power (Cold War Standards) were to be taken immediately to a neutral base in Earth orbit. Only in the most extreme of emergencies was this point to be ignored, as long as the soldier/civilian was treated with respect and in accordance to their rank, and returned immediately as possible to their own side.
The Americans hadn't violated this rule - it was hardly desperate circumstances for them - but the engineer was in terrible need of medical attention.
"Come here, you loon!" growled Ramshawk. The terrified man cowered, very much like a cornered fox.
"What in hell's up with the fella?" asked one marine.
"Dunno," said another, "but hell's just about right."
"Shut up and fetch a damn doctor!" snapped Ramshawk. "Now!" The sergeant's tone made the German cringe tighter, much as a coiled spring ready to go off. "Noooo!" he yelled. The man was pale and sweating profusely. Scared, red-ringed eyes regarded the marine sergeant with distrust. He was visibly shaking.
"Alright, pal, alright," he soothed, "Just take it easy-"
"You're trying to trick me! You are! I'll kill you..." he mumbled something in German. "Mein Gott, it-it was terrible! Terrible!" he wailed.
"What?" asked the sergeant, mild-mannered. "What was terrible?"
No answer. Just a stare full of fear.
"Come on, buddy, you can talk to me."
He shook his head. "No, no, keep away! I warn you!"
"Here, sarge." One of the marines gestured to a man in a white lab coat. He was holding up a hyperdermic needle. Some sort of sedative shot out, hit the ceiling, splattered the floor.
"It's alright," he said gently, "Come along, we don't want to hurt you."
"Keep back," he snarled, "I'll kill you all. I will!"
"On my signal, boys-" whispered Ramshawk, "-ready doc? Right..." he appeared to relax... "NOW!"
Suddenly, they were on him, a heap of khaki-uniformed bodies, seizing his frantic limbs. The German emitted a stifled scream; he was caught off-guard, helpless.
"Go on!" shouted Ramshawk, "Jesus H. Christ! Grab his-" Then, the engineer's bulk went limp.
"Thank God!" gasped one marine. "He's a darned tough nut. Should be in the marines with us!"
"Not while he's like this. Jesus, I don't want to be near him for another darned second!"
They lifted and placed his unconscious body on a stretcher which was carried to sick-bay by two orderlies. Ramshawk confronted the doctor.
"Make sure he's taken care of, won't yer?"
The doctor was Swiss - he spoke both German and English: "Yes, don't worry, sergeant."
"So," he turned to his men, "we go and make the report. Though Christ knows what we're goin' to say!"
Word of the German engineer's performance reached God's Ring before long:
"God," said Khalder, after a long, tense moment. "What in Himmel happened?"
"First that strange 'fireball'," mused Stiles, "now this." Stiles observation needed no encouragement, but still the Commandant nodded: "Ja, something's afoot here, Matthew. But I'd be damned if I know what it is. Is it the PA? Have they perfected some secret weapon?"
What's he looking at me for? thought Stiles, but kept quiet.
"Mein Gott! If it is, the Third Reich may be finished."
"If it isn't?" asked Stiles. "You must remember, sir, that the Americans found and took him to hospital. Hardly the actions of hostile intent."
"How convenient!" scowled Khalder, "I mean, they just happened to be there, didn't they? It's a set-up, kamerad, they want us to think them innocent and equally as perplexed. Lull us into a false sense of security!" The 'Old Prussian' attitude had taken hold, there was no stopping Khalder now.
Still, the captain interjected with reason once more: "Alright, sir, let's say they did have something to do with it. Why didn't they fake things enough so they could take him back to their own headquarters? Why didn't they take this chance to interrogate him? Alternatively, why go to all this trouble to rescue him?"
"Perhaps they disabled him?" Khalder thought aloud. He was going the oppisite way Stiles wanted - he always saw the 'Amerikansche' as an enemy, didn't trust them and inch. "Perhaps they hypnotized him, Matthew, eh? 'Turn' him into a double agent. It's happened before."
"Suppose the whole thing was an accident?"
"Nein!" he frowned. "This was no freak of Nature, this was an American experiment gone wrong. They're trying to cover-up!"
Stiles gave up. He changed the subject: "Sir, the shuttle-"
"Ja, ja, go on, kamerad," he waved an irritant hand, and from his movement he seemed a little tipsy; Khalder always enjoyed the drink.
"Wait!"
"Sir?"
"Kamerad Stiles," he smiled a wicked, knowing smile. "How would you like to extend your leave by two weeks?"
He frowned. "Sir? I don't quite-"
"I could arrange it, you know." He stared into the captain's own eyes. "But I need you to do a little job for me."
Oh, yes, right-o! Stiles' heart sank, "Yes, there would be a catch. What do you want, sir?"
"Well," he perked up, "how about refuelling and heading back out?"
"Where to, sir?" Deep down, he knew the real answer, he laughed, tensity draining. "Alright, fine. For how long?"
"Ah, mein kamerad! You're a golden mark to treasure." He sipped some more brandy, thoughtful. "Ja, scan the area for half a day at most, try not to miss anything, alright?" He proffered the brandy bottle. "Have one?"
The other nodded: "Hell, why not?"
"Gut!"
Captain Matthew Stiles broke the news to his crew as gently as he could. But no amount of smoothing would satisfy them.
"W-what!" stammered Anderton. "You must be bloody joking, Skipper."
Cochrane shook his head, slow, contemplative. "I know I'm single, cap'n, but you must be bonkers in turning down your leave. You've earned it for Christ's sake!"
"Lads, lads," he replied calmly, "like I said, you don't have to come along. But if you don't, someone else will. Think about an extra fortnight's leave! Isn't that worth a day or so of inconvenience?"
Anderton seemed deeply frustrated, his eyes aglow with impatience. "God," he sighed, "alright, Skipper, I'm with you. But on condition Khalder informs my that family we're coming home late. And we ARE going home soon, after this is over, OK?"
Stiles nodded. "Cochrane? In or out?"
"In, cap'n." He spread his hands wide, his face a nonplussed expression. "What have I got to lose? Bugger me, this is going to be some party, eh?"
Stiles half-smiled. He couldn't really blame Anderton for his irritated reluctance; Catherine and Bernie were both stunned and deeply disappointed when Stiles had told them. His wife Clair was more helpful and re- assuring, but at the same time a little disheartened, fearful almost.
"Don't worry, darling," she'd smiled weakly. "Just you watch yourself, don't bump into any asteroids." This last remark was intended for the children's benefit.
Bernie had brightened up at this: "Are you going to race the comets, Dad?"
"Yes," he'd said gently, "there's a comet to catch, son."
Bernie, to all obvious reasons, was a fanatic enthusiast on deep space, astronautics, and science fiction. At the age of seven he'd already mastered the personal PC. Kids grew up fast these days, he reflected.
Catherine was only four; but she was catching up fast and proved a bundle of joy, always happy, always smiling. But her powerful ecstaticness was also a hungry element that required large amounts of kindling. Stiles' arrival home was to provide the essential spark - and Khalder's mission request instead provided a bucket of ice-cold water, thrown suddenly, dowsing the hopes of any homecoming until it dried enough.
Stiles silently swore, helpless. The Commandant's persuasion was too great, a mission that rudely interrupted his tranquil yearning to get home. God! he fumed. Why didn't I refuse this fool's errand? However, the lust for learning the truth had, somehow, tilted the balance in Khalder's favour; like the grizzled old Commandant, Stiles just had to know for himself what was happening. It gnawed at him like an annoying insect. The fact of a quenched flame - his daughter's welling tears, her stubborn, sulky look spoiling her angel-like features - didn't help any.
Serves me right! he thought grimly.
"Skipper?" Anderton broke though the captain's reverie. "Are you alright?"
"Hmm? Oh, aye, course I am."
"Are you sure, cap'n?" Cochrane asked. "Are you sure you want to do this? It's not too late to change your mind - there's still time to catch the last shuttle."
"No, no," he smiled, "what's done is done. What is promised will be fulfilled: Matt Stiles doesn't go back on his word, lads." He drained the last dregs of his lager. "Come on. First Mate Anderton, ship's pilot Cochrane, let's go."
For they had to catch a comet.
Sergeant Ramshawk stood before his commanding officer. Colonel Sanlovitch was a Canadian of Russian origins, his family had fled their homeland when Hitler invaded.
"At ease, sergeant," he smiled, "I have been looking at your report," he pointed to the console, "very interesting."
"Yes, sir."
The other nodded. "Yes, indeed. But what I want to know is: what are the bloody Boche up to?"
"Sir?" Ramshawk offered a somewhat perplexed look. What did Sanlovitch want of him? Theories?
"You know what I mean, sergeant," he frowned. "The Boche aren't so well known for their charity." He paused, sat staring into emptiness. "And so, why did they choose to experiment on a seemingly healthy German engineer?"
"Beats the hell outta’ me, sir. Which is why I think they didn't."
"Oh?" the Colonel raised an eyebrow. "So what could have happened to him?"
"Ain't sure, sir. But I know the straight forward facts: we found him drifting some way from the spaceplane, still secured by his safety line, clutching a laser tool like it was some goddam holy cross, sir." He paused.
"It was like handling a new-born babe, sir, at first. He was unconscious durin' the flight to the League station - that was 'til we got there. Suddenly, he started screamin' and kickin', yelling like a madman-"
"Yes, yes," Sanlovitch seemed irritated, "I've read the report, sergeant. But what's behind all this? That's what nags me." He stopped, stared awhile, clasped hands holding his chin, lost in deep contemplation.
Ramshawk took this long moment to glance round at the office. It was a luxurious suite, complemented in particular by the oak panelling. The two doors here were of rosewood, brass handles and hinges; one led outside to the corridor, the other into a bedroom and bathroom area. A large enamelled teak desk, inlaid with ivory, pens and papers surrounded a computer console.
The carpet was of an Indian design; such fashion was all the rage in the 1980s' when Japan was admitted to the Pacific Alliance. Her Empire in the east had grown, taking in Korea, Burma, Indo-China, Singapore, the Polynesian Islands, then later India itself. With the Third Reich triumph in Europe, so the Japanese conquered most of the Asian world. China had simply crumbled before Japan's might; now reduced to a dozen provincial countries, occupied and decadent.
Ramshawk looked in particular at the framed photographs hanging on the walls. Some were black and white, preceding the war years, then a few in colour from the late 70s' onwards. All were of men that held the Sanlovitch title, the 'royal' blood line, as it could be called, founded by Joseph Sanlovitch, the eldest son of the original 'Pilgrim Father'. Their home had been Quebec for a hundred years since their expulsion from western Russia by the Nazis.
However, in some ways, the exiled Sanlovitch Family was unbelievably lucky. Leaving their farmland pastures, they headed due south. The going was difficult, but somehow they made it to Constantinople, and sailed by boat to Port Said, in Egypt. Fortunately, they had enough money to purchase passage on another boat that sailed along the southern coast of Asia, whereby eventually they were in Japanese- infested waters. The British Empire by that time had fallen and most of her possessions taken over by the conquering Japs.
They had no trouble in getting to Canada after that; the Nips had no qualms with the United states at that time, nor with Russia herself (officially, there was no war declared between Japan and Russia). She was only interested in Britain's isolated colonies - and China. The Sanlovitch family were treated with decency and respect, even escorted as far as American territorial waters. And so, Canada was finally reached and became their new home, the site of their great success in business and the story of their long journey half- way round the world sold well. The Sanlovitch name was a powerful one, respected and admired by most PA citizens.
Although it was fearfully expected, the predictions of a US-Japanese War were proved false, and later on an uneasy alliance ensued. Eventually, the Pacific Alliance was formed. Japan had won her place in the world - she wanted to settle down and enjoy her plump gains. America was sharing the same table, eating her own dish: a choice of friendship to Canada and Australia, highly recommended on the menu, and it was a very short list of options at that. Meanwhile, the Third Reich was at a more distant place to them both; Europe Surprise followed with Death by Chocolate, eaten by a very greedy fellow indeed.
"Sergeant Ramshawk," Sanlovitch said it almost fatherly, "take a platoon out to where you found that Boche engineer."
"Sir!" he snapped to attention.
The other nodded to himself. "We must find what in God's name we're dealing with. My hunch tells me it isn't the Boche playing a practical joke. But what we mustn't do is just sit here, twiddling our thumbs - there must be an answer to all this somewhere. Where you found the Boche is perhaps our only lead." He smiled, and said: "Alright, sergeant, you may go."
"Yes, sir." He saluted, turned abruptly about, then disappeared through the door.
When the door closed, Sanlovitch stared ahead for a while, thinking. He then decided to retire for the night, but first he desired a vodka and ice. As he sipped the drink, he looked through the large window at Earth, a distant globe hanging in inky blackness. Stars twinkled from hundreds of light years away, pin-pricks that represented the billions upon billions of vast suns in this galaxy alone. Logic and Chance stated that so many must harbour life - somewhere. Earth, Mankind, was not alone in the Universe. And, if the Sanlovitch hunch lived up to its proximity, there was Life out there. Somewhere...
The 'Richthofen's Revenge' was anchored at the exact co-ordinate where Stiles had seen the fireball. He was almost certain that the entity would not return - not one chance in a thousand, at least. The whole charade was ridiculous, he thought. Why did I sign up for this? What do I hope to achieve in such a forlorn mission?
"Broderick?" he asked the communications controller irritably, "You got anything yet?"
He shook his head. "No, skipper, nothing. We've got all radar locked on a wide sweep: thermal, UV, infra- red, sonic - hell, even gamma and micro!" He was by now very impatient. "Whatever's out there, Skipper, is gone well out of our radar range."
"Skipper," said Anderton, "Broderick's right, this is a useless exercise. We're wasting our time here. Let's go-"
"No!" snapped Stiles in reply, then his voice turned grim. "We stay, First Mate, until ten hours have elapsed. After that we scout for a further two hours, just in case." He paused. "Khalder would never forgive me returning too early. Listen, I respect your feelings on this matter, honestly, but my hands are tied. So, let's just patiently sit through and concentrate on our mission, alright?"
"Aye, aye, Skipper."
"Right. We have a duty to uphold to Space Defence, and this is one number I aim to do justice, no matter how tedious. Alright, lads?" He received several heads nodding agreement. "Good. Now, less griping and more concentration."
"...so nothing might happen, boys, but be ready, just in case."
"Yes, sir!"
While the troop carrier was making its randezvous with the location where they'd found the German spaceplace, Sergeant Ramshawk was giving his men a pep-talk. Hopefully, nothing untoward would befall them, but you couldn't take chances; the marines had to be fit, fully trained, and mentally prepared to take on anything, no matter how lethal nor unusual.
"That engineer," he explained further, "was no doubt performing a test run, but someone - or something - had interrupted his flight plan."
"Excuse me, sir," one corporal ventured, "but ain't it possible that the Boche had simply gone mad?"
"Yeah, it's possible. But space sickness, men, is different. It numbs you, depresses you, affects your concentration. But to be turned from an able enough engineer happily on a test flight, and the next minute into a raging lunatic - hell, that ain't space sickness I never seen before!"
There was a long tense moment of silence, before the corporal spoke up again:
"Yes, sarge. But why are we here? What do we hope to achieve?"
He nodded, understanding. "Two fair questions. The answer to the first is security, provide backup, just in case things turn nasty. The second answer - or rather the most preferable outcome - is the opposite. We hope to achieve nothing, boys, nothing. That's the positive outlook, y'see?"
"Yes, sir," replied one, "so, if we arrive and find...'nothing', then that's it?"
"Right, son." He beamed. "Our mission is to safeguard this carrier and its crew. They are the scouts, we are the soldiers, the dutiful marines." His steely nerved gaze then fell over each and every one. "But don't get over-confident, this ain't no teddy bear picnic, got that?"
"Yes sir!"
"Just keep in mind yer training and be ready. Don't let Uncle Sam down, boys!"
"Woah, blimey!" Broderick nearly jumped out of his skin. "Skipper, a bearing port-side, twenty kilometres, mark!"
"Very good, Mister Broderick," Stiles climbed into his seat. "Standby Alert!" The ship sirens emitted an electronic drone, red lights flashed their warning of possible imminent threat.
"Target rapidly approaching, fifteen kilometres, mark."
"Cochrane, arm the lasers, maintain present position."
"Aye, aye, cap'n."
"Broderick, magnify target and analyse, if you please."
The flatscreen image was suddenly filled with the oval-shaped bulk of a space ship.
"Skipper, spacecraft identified as a PA troop carrier, fully armed, still on an approach vector."
"Identification confirmed, Mister Broderick. Open channels, please." He paused, then announced:
"This is the Richthofen's Revenge, in the service of the Third Reich. You are violating our temporary air- space. Repeat: You are violating our temporary air-space. Please acknowledge."
There was a short moment, then: "Acknowledge, Revenge. We are here for our own purpose. Remain where you are."
Bloody hell! thought Stiles. Just who do they think they are! Bloody cheek!
"Open channel direct to me, Mister Broderick." The flatscreen flickered to life; the transmitted picture showed a ship's bridge, likewise the Red Alert was in force.
"PA transport," announced Stiles, "you are violating our air space. Agreements between our two factions dictates that a minimum of twenty kilometres outside our radius zone must be maintained. You are ten kilometres too close right at this moment. I ask that you withdraw in good order."
The captain of the transport was a Japanese - arrogant and distrustful of all Europeans.
"We regret we cannot do that, captain. We have important business here, and you are in the way." Stiles was too stunned to reply straight away. "Therefore, we must ask yourselves to withdraw."
Jesus! thought Stiles. The audacity of this pompous officer!
"With deepest sympathies," Stiles barely managed to force the diplomatic words out, "we regard your work, whatever it is, with respect and esteem, but you are still violating our zone."
"And you are violating ours," the Jap's smile contained little warmth, "is that not so?"
"But we were here first." His face grim, Stiles felt a little embarrased at this childish remark; yet it was the truth. "You approached us, remember? We have been in anchor here for over three hours, now. You are invading our territorial zone area."
"So you keep saying. Captain, you are blocking our path, thus preventing our duties."
Stiles simmered with rage; this damned Jap seemed to have all the sharp answers. The Nippon Empire produced nobody else other than this impertinent, high and mighty sort.
"Captain, 'scuse me, sir..."
The Jap turned slowly to confront a larger, stockier man attired in combat fatigues. Stiles saw he was a sergeant; the NCO was armed with a holstered pistol clipped to his belt. At first he thought - or rather hoped - that the sergeant might use this on the pompous Japanese. The Jap was frowning, clearly in an arguable mood. He seemed taken aback, however, when the sergeant replied in his captain's native tongue. That brought him down a peg or two, smiled Stiles. In the end, the Jap gave in, submitted to this NCO's cunning and judgement.
"There will be trouble back at base, sergeant. Just remember that!"
The NCO simply shrugged, unperturbed in the least by this fop's attempt to threaten and humiliate him; the tough marine was far too headstrong and experienced for such nonsense. The Jap's whims didn't work on this soldier. He got up abruptly, then walked off a few paces. Still in view of the flatscreen, Stiles noticed him stood, arms folded, his back to the marine NCO.
"My deepest apologies, captain...er-"
"Stiles, sergeant."
He smiled, and nodded: "Captain Stiles." The NCO spoke with an American accent, though from which State he could only guess. Still, he thought, he has better policy than the Jap.
"Please accept my captain's hasty mistake with good faith, sir. We may be from, er, different sides, but we're not at war. Let us put aside our differences and remain here at our leisure."
"You are still in the restricted zone, sergeant," said Stiles, "therefore, I request your immediate removal to a safe distance. You are defying the Treaty of Damascus by not so doing."
"Yes, sir."
The sergeant saluted and the screen buzzed alive with static. By the time the signal re-connected the two ships, the PA carrier was over twenty kilometres away.
"That OK, cap'n?
"Yes," he nodded. "Stand down to Amber Alert!"
"Aye, aye, Skipper!" yelled Anderton.
"Thank you, Captain Stiles. Now, let us start again - this time on the right foot."
Stiles grinned: "Of course." Officially, Stiles should have cut the communication link with the PA ship the moment its ignorant captain had turned his back or forced their hand in some way. The two ships would have gone to war - in fact, the Pacific Alliance and Third Reich would immediately have gone to National Emergency Status the moment they picked up the automatic distress signals. There would be outrage, indignation, and sheer pandemonium within the political structures of both factions - if the two ships had confronted each other. What might have been a minor conflict in space would have sent catastrophic repercussions back home. Like two small stones dropped in a pond, the ripples resulted in ever decreasing circles. Trust and Diplomacy between the Two Powers would have been severely weakened.
Blimey! thought Stiles with great relief. Because of this quick-thinking NCO, the Earth had narrowly avoided yet another World War!
"Sergeant?" asked Stiles, "what, exactly, is your purpose here?"
"Sorry, sir, but that's classified, as I'm sure your own mission is." He nodded. "Yes, I'm sorry for asking, it was careless of me. But perhaps we could converse on other matters, maybe life back home."
"How we all miss families, hey? Yeah, OK, I'm game, cap'n. You start."
"Alright, er...by the way, what's your name?"
"Sergeant Ned Ramshawk, sir."
The cordon of bright blue spheres moved so terribly fast, that in an eye blink they disappeared from sight. There were twelve of them, keeping such tight formation it must be a crack squad of highly trained pilots - or highly sophisticated computers. With breathtaking skill and co-ordination, they suddenly split formation and fanned out like some extraordinary starburst.
You all know what to do?
Yes, sir.
Very well then, you have your orders. Randezvous at Vangroz's Sanctuary.
Yes, sir. Good Fortune, sir.
The two central spheres rose high and away.
Luck or no, just succeed.
"...so, you never thought about marrying?"
"No, sir," smiled Cochrane. "Never had time to think about it, really. Nor have time to BE married! My work, you see..?"
Ramshawk nodded. "Yeah, I know. I sometimes think to myself, 'You ain't got no business being up here, you should be down on Earth, looking after the littluns-'
"You have a child, sergeant?" asked Anderton. "A boy or a girl?"
"A girl," he smiled fondly, "Tessa, we named her after- What the hell!" The answer was shortlived. A klaxon blared out, rudely interrupting Ramshawk.
"My God," Stiles groaned, "a Full Red Alert." He looked at the sergeant, whose hands were spread out: "Don't look at me!" he half-joked. "We got a Red Alert, too!"
"Bloody hell!" swore Anderton. "Sir, the computer is issuing an emergency procedure, direct from God's Ring - she's in danger!"
"Wha-! the entire spacestation? In trouble?"
"We're being pulled round," announced Cochrane, "they're taking us back to base, cap'n. Automatic pilot is now locked on!"
"Very good, Mister Cochrane." He turned to the First Mate. "Mister Anderton, be so good as to monitor the computer for any further messages."
"Aye, aye, Skipper!"
"Skipper!" Broderick spoke up. "The screen's gone, channel with the PA ship is broken."
"Forget it. We have more pressing matters. Mister Broderick, continue to analyse rear scanners."
"What for, skipper?"
"Damn it, Mister Broderick! Do as you're told, sir! Keep your eyes peeled for any tricks."
"I don't think it's the PA, cap'n, however much I'd like to hope so."
"No," he shook his head, "even the all-powerful Pacific Alliance isn't that stupid, Mister Broderick." But if it isn't, he thought to himself, then who in bugger can it be?
"Damn it!" cursed Ramshawk. As with the Richthofen's Revenge, sirens and strobe lights were flashing wildly.
"Sergeant!" the Jap stormed forward. "You are now asked to relieve this chair."
Ramshawk did as he was asked, there was little point in refusing. For what reason would he wish to do so? And how would he enforce it? No, he smiled, let the little yellow man have his moment of glory... One difference between Alliance and Reich ships was that this computer never took full control of the carrier's flight path without the captain's consent. It only relayed information; how you acted upon it depended on your discipline, loyalty, and common sense. The Jap chose to be more sensible than his previous actions allowed. The carrier headed towards Earth.
"Mein Gott!" Commandant Max Khalder couldn't believe his eyes. "Would you look at that - Himmel!"
This last word contained fear, for one of the two spheres suddenly shot away to the left of the screen. Khalder - along with the rest of the personnel in the Operations Centre - was stunned. The speed of those spheres was incredible - impossible!
"Are all our outbound craft returning, lieutenant?"
"Yes, sir." The man's voice slurred with an Italian accent. "We have relayed the recall, all ships' computers have responded immediately and with no registered problems."
"Gut," said Khalder. He never took his intense gaze from the mysterious sphere. However, he thought, Stiles' mission had been for nothing; unknowingly to them all, the spheres would eventually come to God's Ring.
"Sir!" exclaimed another controller. "The other sphere has escaped our radar screening."
Khalder frowned: "What?"
"Sir, the second sphere has either employed some very sophisticated cloaking device, or it's..." he hesitated, "...gone!"
"Gone? What do you mean 'gone'?"
"Out of radar range, sir."
"Mein Gott!" Khalder closed his eyes for a brief moment. "Scan the other sphere, analyse its structural materials, energy emittance!" he snapped. He was not going to let this one escape.
The sphere remained stationary, waiting and patient, making no attempt whatsoever to run or turn hostile.
However, there was a shock in store:
"Sir! We cannot compute the sphere's statistics. I believe the craft is blocking our surveillance."
Captain Charles Flemont - the OP Centre's chief of staff officer - stood beside his superior. He was, in effect, second-in-command to Khalder, a Frenchman competent and able enough to run God's Ring in an emergency. The present situation might well prove his capabilities to the limit, he thought.
"Well, Flemont?" Khalder turned towards him. "What do you suggest now? We cannot verify our invader's strengths, weaknesses, his intentions, and definitely not his identity."
"Sir," Flemont shook his head slowly, "whatever that thing is, it isn't a secret weapon constructed by the PA. Certainly, we'd have hear about it by now; our spy network would have gleaned something. But this -" he stared in awe at the sphere, it remained quite motionless, unthreatening, "- this is most profound. Out of this world!"
The Old Prussian in Khalder scowled down at the French minority. Captain of Security and Defence for God's Ring he might be, but he was still a vassal of the German Reich - no Teutonic blood in him whatsoever.
"Pah! 'Out of this world'," he mimicked Flemont, "By God, the PA has fooled you good and proper, captain!" He heaved a sigh. "I'll bet my family jewels that the sphere is analysing us - did you ever consider that possibility, Flemont?"
The captain avoided Khalder's stern, impatient eyes, but coolly shook his head. "But what can we do, monsieur? It wouldn't improve the situation against these..." he paused, then reddened, "Aliens."
Khalder looked down in mild surprise for a tense moment, then burst out laughing, short but loud. Flemont was filled with a mixture of relief and puzzlement in this sudden change in the Commandant's demeanour.
"You hear that?" he chuckled to a dozen half-turned heads. "Your Captain Flemont believes the sphere is of alien origin. He claims that the PA has nothing to do with this. Oh, of course," his tone became more snide, "it has to be little green men from Mars. Hah!" He turned back to Flemont. "Captain, I am now certain, beyond all doubt, that you have become mundane in your post as my most 'trusted' Captain of God's Ring Security and-"
"Commandant, sir!"
Khalder was rather annoyed at having his drawn-out joke interrupted. He'd been about to suggest Flemont's transfer to an outpost on the desert planet Mars, but then the intended words stuck in his throat, half-choked him.
"What the-"
Another voice interrupted him; it held the attention of every controller and officer in the room. The speech was sharp yet smooth:
"Greetings, members of the Third Reich!" it echoed ominously, "We apologise for the way in which we approached you. However, we are a people who possess a superior technology and yet deeper understanding to your own race. We come here to put to you, the entire human culture of planet Earth, a proposition that could be of benefit to both our peoples'. To you, we offer the improvement of your economies, technologies, and standards of living that straddle your beautiful jewel-like planet. In return, we ask for only your companionship in the continued exploration and further understanding of the galaxy. Your precious Earth is ruined by distrust wrought over the years by bitter and unnecessary conflict. Both hatred and war have prevented Mankind from achieving his full potential. But now, we believe you are ready to leave behind the dread days of darkness and utilize your skills and intelligence to suit more peaceful but very rewarding ambitions. We know you are also tired of violence and depression, and we are here to help you along the winding, difficult path to complete satisfaction and understanding. The time has come for Earth to unite its forces and work together towards a much brighter future, at the same time forgiving - but not forgetting - your tragic, turbulent history. The present is your prime concern: you must act well now, for it decides your future. We implore you, to join us and end your petty strife. In helping us, you help yourselves."
"God's Ring up ahead, Skipper!"
"Very good, Mister Anderton," smiled Stiles, "Take us in dead slow, Cochrane."
"Aye, aye, cap'n! I have full control of the flight systems." It was safety procedure that the ship's computer released the auto pilot within thirty kilometres of base. "Will reach God's Ring in T-minus five minutes and counting."
The seconds ticked by:
4.57, 4.56...
Stiles' thoughts were vaguely troubled; he wondered what in the blue blazes was going on...
4.31, 4.30...
Perhaps it was a drill? He knew Khalder was a stickler for routine practise and thorough preparedness...
4.09, 4.08, 4.07...
God! he thought suddenly. Something didn't click, though. Presuming it was a drill, then Khalder would have spared the Richthofen's Revenge of taking part. He did, after all, send Stiles on this desperate mission, didn't he?
3.35, 3.34, 3.33...
Bloody hell! Stiles' face was grim. Well, that's that, then: State Emergency. Those stupid and ignorant, war cabinet generals were going to push the button. An all-out Nuclear War. The Reich had done it this time, bitten off more that it could chew. Mad buggers the lot of them! he thought savagely...
2.47, 2.46...
Christ! What about my family, Clair - and the kids, Bernie and Catherine. Dear God, no! Not them, please not them. What if I'm too late to join the fight? Not that it would matter, any road - the PA satellites would target Third Reich instalments on Mars, then turn on Reich Defence systems: weapons platforms and space stations orbiting Earth. Thus, his ship would run out of fuel, then either air or food. Suffocated or starved; what a prospect to endure. A crew trapped and marooned in a ship's metallic tomb, drifting helpless in the coldness of space...
1.50, 1.49, 1.48...
An eternal shame, he reflected. Old Earth, Beautiful Earth, Friend Earth. Already, he began to miss its lush green landscapes, striking deep blue oceans, sparkling ice-caps, and mystic clouds that swirled and swept past all. Ancient Earth, home to Mankind, would be ravaged, shattered, violated, and poisoned. Its natural beauty burned by endless fires, spoiled by toxins. People killed in hundreds of millions, cities destroyed and flattened, the pure crystal waters soured by radiation. Mutations would follow in its wake. That's what would happen, Stiles cursed bitterly. The PA was spread from the Alaskan wastes down to the southern coast of Australasia. With Japan's Empire in the Middle East and the US naval bases in the Atlantic, it proved a big juicy target for Third Reich Europe, sprawling from Great Britain in the west to the icy reaches in Russia, from cold Norway to the drastically hot climate of Reich Afrika. Stiles half-laughed to himself. Perhaps Greenland would survive such a catastrophe. But who lived there? Who could?
1.06, 1.05, 1.04...
In less than a minute, he thought, we'll watch our world sicken and die. And, in damnation, we'll follow it.
Khalder looked upon the sphere, his stubborn face betrayed a restless fear: "Arm the lasers," his tone was a serious growl, "blast it out of existence. Lieutenant Chipper?"
"Sir?"
"You have the honour: open fire!"
The lieutenant frowned, stared at Khalder, opened his mouth as if to protest. "Do it!" barked the Commandant. "Carry on, man, aim and fire, sir." Flemont sensed the officer's hesitation and decided to use this: "Sir!" he warned. "For the love of God...you can't!"
"Can't?" he raised an eyebrow. "Can't? Are you Commander in Chief of this station?" The other shook his head. "No, thank you." He turned to the fated gunner: "Lieutenant Chipper?" he repeated the dreaded instruction: "Carry on, destroy the sphere."
Chipper prepared the lasers, charged and locked on to the target. If the sphere knew of the imminent danger coming from God's Ring, it did nothing about it. It remained still. The lieutenant now had his fore- finger by the flashing red execution button - where it stayed. Flemont smiled, relief flowed through his limbs. Khalder, on the other hand, tensed himself; he stood as if to attention, kept his eyes on Chipper.
"Lieutenant, obey my command, sir, and fire the lasers."
Nothing happened. Silence had descended upon the Op Centre, nobody moved, all stared at the lieutenant. He had his hand poised over the trigger button and continued to stare at the flatscreen. Clearly, he was faltering in his duty.
"I-I can't..." he whispered.
"Carry out my orders, sir."
"No!" he shouted, red-faced with anger. Then slumped back in his chair. "I can't, damn you."
The Commandant either ignored this last insubordinate remark, or seemed not to hear, but the initial outburst didn't pass him by. Slowly, in response, he pulled from his holster a luger pistol. The weapon was both accurate and deadly. The dull click as he cocked the hammer seemed to resonate about the tomb- like room.
"No!" cried Flemont. "For pity's sake, no - Jesus!"
"For the last time, Lieutenant Chipper, I ask you to carry out my orders. Now, sir, fire those lasers."
He lifted his head, stood to attention, turned about face to confront the Commandant and took two steps forward. All eyes were on him. Chipper was unarmed, save for a thin smile. "Go to hell, sir."
Khalder frowned, nodded, and pulled the trigger. Lieutenant Chipper's head exploded in a red mist that bespattered the surrounding consoles. A woman screamed in horror. The loud 'bang' had deafened everybody, their ears rang painfully, and witnessed in a confused, terrified state the body topple. It all happened in slow-motion.
"Captain Flemont," Khalder said quietly, without tone nor expression, "You are hereby relieved of your duties and under arrest. You shall retire to your private quarters and there remain until further notification of your removal from this space station. You are dismissed, captain." walked away.
"Now, we shall concern ourselves with the destruction of that accursed sphere," he said. "Allow me."
The Old Prussian made for the terminal where Chipper once sat. A globule of the lieutenant's blood congealed upon the screen, but Khalder barely noticed it. His grim face was set, his determined mind decided: he would slay this damned thing if it was the last he'd do. The Op Centre personnel recognised the Commandant's eager initiative, self-determination, and strong sense of purpose, all in full drive. But there was something else they hadn't seen before...malevolence, madness, obsession - insanity? He was a well-known stickler for duty and honour, but all this had gone too far. They continued to watch in helpless, horrified mortification, as Khalder gave the screen one intense stare.
Got you now, schweinhund!
His finger touched the flashing button.
The sphere interior glowed briefly in shades of orange as it received four direct laser hits. Although it wasn't even scratched, the alien was somewhat indignant.
How foolish and barbaric these primitives can be!
Brother? Are you in trouble?
No, no, fear not, sister, for their weapons are of no great concern to our superior technology. But their display of hostility and fear, coupled with their complete lack of understanding of the Universe, grieves me deeply. I fear...
Yes, brother, I know.
He was right. The humans were blinded by fear at their limited knowledge, so they turned to violence in the hope it was the right answer to all their problems. They either lacked imagination to dare the true explanation, or possessed too much to presume a terrifying scenario. But what they certainly did lack was trust.
He shook his head, wondering how Man had become selfishly ungrateful with his inventions and discoveries. They never stepped back to take in their achievements, nor the consequences of such. When Man discovered fire, he learned to keep warm, dispel the darkness, cook his food - then sadly smelt iron and steel ores in furnaces for swords and axes in the coming centuries. How presumptuous they were! he thought. How they create their own wars. They had become over-confident too soon.
Brother? Do you wish me to return and help you?
Please return, sister, but you shall disable God's Ring on your own.
Brother...
I must intercept Captain Stiles and his crew. Don't worry, they'll not be harmed. But I must save them!
Good Fortune, Brother.
Sister, my Love protect you...
"We're back, cap'n!" said an elated Cochrane, although his enthusiastic announcement was unnecessary: Stiles saw God's Ring for himself on the flatscreen.
And God, what they had come to.
The pilot's words stuck in his throat as he witnessed, along with his fellow crewmen, the slow death of a prominent and once-impregnable spacestation of the Third Reich.
"What the-?"
Captain Matthew Stiles was rarely lost for words - and this proved one momentous occasion. No humour was offered, no urgent orders were given, as they watched, dumbstruck, disbelieving, at the sight before them.
God's Ring had fallen.
It was without dignity, nor grace, but the destruction wrought was terribly fantastic. The pearl blue-white sphere was alone, but moved with awesome speed as it smashed through the thick metallic body of the Ring, then manoeuvred sharply to arrow into another section - it was a swift, indestructible, deadly, and yet beautiful battering ram. Not of this world, thought Stiles, So Christ strike me down Himself if it ain't.
Aliens!
"Bloody hell!" whispered Anderton. "Skipper..." he faltered, then fell silent.
"I know," he replied, "I know."
Stiles couldn't say anything else - but such as what? Oh, aye, the aliens fooled us, First Mate, and assaulted God's Ring while we were out, so the bloody Commandant invited us to the party. Bloody typical! Never die alone, kamerads, we go together, we are legion...
And we're buggered, he thought grimly.
But Khalder was, after all, Stiles' friend. He was somewhere in the space station that was gradually being reduced to wreckage.
"First Mate," he snapped, "set a course for God's Ring."
"Skipper?"
"We're going in," he replied, "Cochrane, take us in a bit closer."
"Aye, aye, cap'n!"
However, the pilot couldn't quite get a hold on the controls. "Bloody hell! Sir, the-"
"Aye, I see for myself, Cochrane, engine trouble, eh?"
"Not that I can see, cap'n, the old girl's not responding. Everything looks normal!"
"He's right." Anderton spoke up: "The computer would have told us of anything abnormal, Skipper, the ship's as fine as she set out, and still plenty of fuel to fly ten times round the Moon."
"So-?"
"Incoming message, Skipper!" shouted Broderick.
A sudden tremor shook the Richthofen's Revenge, then died away to be replaced by a loud but very polite voice:
"Captain Stiles," it said, "please do not be alarmed. We beseech you to listen and perhaps agree to our proposal. What you see on your flatscreen of God's Ring and its demise is worse than it seems. We responded with what little choice we had. You must understand we mean no harm to ANY humans, whatever their, creed, colour, religion, beliefs, or individual aspects - as long as they don't attack us for violent reasons. Wait-" there was a short pause, then: "We understand you have a continuous transmission signal, a distress beacon, please acknowledge..."
The alien voice cut out to have a very familiar - but at the same time a strange face - appear on the flatscreen.
"Ach il ven - Stiles! Gott in Himmel. Stiles mein kamerad! Ach, have a drink?" Stiles stood frozen. He's bloody drunk! he thought. Blimey, what do I say now?
"Er, hello, sir. What are you doing?"
"Doing? Getting drunk, Stiles, of course." He cackled. "What else can I do, eh, kamerad," he hiccupped, "Himmel, I've lost my precious Gott Ring, kamerad, my home for...humph."
"Sir! You're alive?"
Khalder stared at him: "Of course I am! Heh, heh, perhaps you've had a taste too much of lager, Herr Stiles, eh? Kamerad," he grinned and proffered the bottle. "Mein gut kamerad!"
"Sir," he pleaded, "where are you, sir?"
"Hmm? Oh, here. No, no, hah!" he paused in slurry thought. "Nein, I'm in an escape pod, captain. Good job I put this in here!" he hefted the brandy in mock salute. "Good old Napoleon, eh?" he cackled insanely, "Ja, ja, mein Gott," and started to sing the first verse of 'Old Blucher's Ballad' out loud.
"Bloody hell, Skipper!" exclaimed Anderton. "He's stone drunk!"
"Aye, First Mate," he replied.
"Stiles," said Khalder quietly, "I'm guilty."
"Sir?"
"Nein, don't pretend!" he seemed hurtful. "Please, understand, I am guilty of starting a war with these aliens." He guffawed. "A war! Gott, I acted without forethought, and killed one of my own men. All my fault, kamerad..." He started off again on the third verse of Blucher's Ballad, bottle in hand. His pod spun into space, a quiet, dark, and lonely haven.
"God made Man," Anderton uttered a modern prayer: "Then Man believed he'd made himself. God became angry, and brought his word of warning..."
...They defied his Word. And the Alien Vassals wrought a fearsome revenge on the Sinners...
"God's Ring," said Stiles, "God's Hand."
Cochrane was not one for religious phrases, but he rather fancied the once proud God's Ring as a Polo mint that had been broken up and then the pieces spat out.
The alien sphere - some hundred metres away from the Richthofen's Revenge - did not interfere for some time. During this period, Stiles, Anderton, Cochrane, and Broderick, all stood and saw the hot glowing remnants of God's Ring swirl and tumble through space.
They looked on in numb shock at the death of a space station, they were helpless to do anything of use; their ship's instruments gone haywire, kept prisoner by the strange but powerful alien sphere.
Far away, the charred remnants of a flag, the swastika symbol with gold lettering, spun and turned...
...It vanished into darkness forever.
The bridge was deathly silent, but far from deserted. Two groups of uniformed men stared at each other across the floor, the air so charged with intensity you could smell the anger, fear, anticipation. It was so unbearable; somebody was bound to break the spell any moment. Nobody moved for nearly a minute, it was a pathetic game of patience, nerves, and ugly stares.
To hell with it! thought Sergeant Ramshawk. Goddam this for an oil painting.
"Captain," he said, firmly and with little respect, "it is clear, sir, that you are ignorant of the welfare of this ship and its crew, including the lives of my men."
The Jap captain shook his head, slowly, his thin smile remained to taunt Ramshawk. "Sergeant, you are gravely mistaken in both your words, and your actions. What you have said is enough to put you on a charge of insubordination, but by your actions alone you have condemned your future career and jeaprodized your very life." He shrugged. "What a shameful waste."
"It's a waste," growled Ramshawk, "when you are arrogant in the face of others, whilst knowing their advice to be valuable. It is also a crime to be stupid and reckless that you, sir, are very aware of."
He shrugged again: "Perhaps. But let's review the situation, shall we? First, my rank far exceeds your own; second, you are aboard my ship, thus within my jurisdiction; thirdly, you are under orders from your CO to safeguard this very ship. So, I conclude, that you concern your duties to solely me, your present superior and captain of this vessel. Do you not agree?"
Ramshawk continued to stare, saying nothing.
"Hmm?" prompted the Japanese. "Well, what do you say, sergeant? Have I made a valid point or two?" He then smiled a broad, toothy smile, and nodded. "From your silence, I conclude that my reasoning has hit home. Come, sergeant, order your men to put away their weapons and retire. Please realize, I desire to avoid trouble and defuse this misunderstanding between us. I do not wish to charge you with mutiny; the penalties for such are harsh, or so I hear." Nobody moved. "Well, sergeant?"
The other nodded, though not in acquiescence of defeat, but in grim, sudden realization; Ramshawk had spotted two careless remarks made by this stuffy yet witless man:
First, the captain had pointed out the foremost priority duty last. This further proved the captain's lack of loyalty and sense of purpose, which he replaced with his own tastes; it also inspired Ramshawk that he was to safeguard the ship and all its occupants from ANY danger.
Second, the Jap was becoming a little fearful of Ramshawk's growing influence on his security men, who were, after all, under the same orders of the same CO - in other words, Colonel Sanlovitch. Although crewmen and marines had different functions, it boiled down to one common denominator: to maintain their general duties which would serve to execute Sanlovitch's specific orders.
The wily Jap was hoping to offer Ramshawk a pax and promise to forget the sergeant's insubordinate action, in return for control of the mission and run the show his way. But Ramshawk was having none of it. The Jap captain's bluff did not work; Sergeant Ramshawk was too clever for that by far. This Jap was a fool, pompous, arrogant, inefficient, who snubbed reasonable advice. True, he was of superior rank to the sergeant, but that lone fact didn't deter Ramshawk from his current decision.
He took a deep breath: "Lieutenant Makhoto?" The officer raised an eyebrow in response. "It is your sad yet proper duty to place Captain Sinlio under arrest."
"Sergeant?" replied Makhato, uncertainly, "What's-?"
"Lieutenant, the captain is hereby relieved of his command and duties appending to his post." He nodded to one of the black-clad security men. "See he is disarmed and escorted to his private quarters forthwith."
The lieutenant looked at Captain Sinlio, then back unsteadily to Ramshawk's marines. They numbered sixteen in all, fingers itching on the triggers of their heavy duty machine guns, whilst his seven security men, including himself, were armed only with stun pistols. An uneven match indeed.
Captain Sinlio was watching Makhato carefully, saw his lieutenant's hesitance, and he became desperate and pale.
"Lieutenant!" he forced himself to shout. "You are under my orders, man! Tell these marine buffoons to surrender. Now!"
Ramshawk ignored the Jap captain. "Lieutenant? If you would be so kind..."
"Very good, sir." He nodded at two of his men. "Make sure he's secure."
Two pairs of gauntleted hands clasped Captain Sinlio's arms and shoulders. He started to struggle and curse, losing all cool calmness, but the professional grip of the security men held.
"Disarmed and escorted to his personal quarters, lieutenant," confirmed Ramshawk, "you know the procedure."
"No!" cried Sinlio in despair. "You have no right, Ramshawk! You are a mere sergeant!"
"May I remind you, sir, that as an NCO I have every full right to act, under military law, as required by any officer during a crisis. This is one such emergency."
"What! You're mad, all of you!" He finally ceased his frantic wrestling, and slumped resignedly in the arms of his captors. "What-what is the charge?"
"Treason."
"Treason?" he raised and eyebrow. "Treason! Have you taken leave of your senses, Ramshawk? What have I done-?"
"I arrest you, Captain Sinlio, for acts of treason against the orders of Colonel Sanlovitch, and therefore the Pacific Alliance. You acted in your own personal interests and endangered the ship and its crew by your contemptuous behaviour unbefitting a PA officer.
"You are hereby removed immediately from the bridge, and this current operation, to be escorted to your private quarters, where you shall remain under pain of death, until this mission is over. Lieutenant!"
"Sergeant Ramshawk?"
"Carry on, sir!" And so, Captain Sinlio was stripped of his pistol, his rank, his responsibilities, all privileges were denied him. He sat on his bunk, contemplating the precarious situation that confronted him, one which he gleefully expected Ramshawk to endure, now Fate cruelly dealt him a fatal blow. How ironic, he thought, and smiled.
All knives and other sharp objects had been confiscated, as had all medicines, to prevent any premature suicide attempts; Sinlio would answer for his crimes, death would not reward him an escape. How odd, he thought, that I am so relieved, as if a weight lifted from my shoulders. That moment came when Ramshawk told him what he really knew all along, the one danger to the ship and its crew:
Captain Sinlio.
Sister?
Yes, Brother.
I have the Richthofen's Revenge in safe hands.
What of Ned Ramshawk?
He's safe, too. My arrival was somewhat untimely; Captain Sinlio was against my reasoning, he was the only problem, however.
So, the PA carrier is safe, also?
Now that Sergeant Ramshawk is in command, yes. How goes the 'elimination'?
No problems, Brother. These Humans are very strange indeed...
Several hundred warheads had been 'eliminated', the spheres that intercepted them thrived and pulsed with energy emitted by wasted radiation. The spectacular explosions were no-where near as devastating if they had hit Earth-side targets, as intended by military installations far below; their radar controllers sat amazed, dumbfounded, helpless, as one-by-one their missiles simply 'disappeared' from screen.
The Third Reich and Pacific Alliance had gone to all-out war status. The aliens were going to end it - peacefully. After assaulting each others space stations, the Earthling superpowers were set to desecrate the entire world with their ungodly weapons.
The alien plan, however, was going well.
Besides taking out nuclear missiles, the spheres rescued hundreds of escape pods and nudged them into orbit around Earth, and there the dazed survivors witnessed their superpower comrades 'down below' being thwarted of thermonuclear war.
And what a bloody good job too! they thought. Seeing the alien craft was one surprise - greeted by most with jubilant cheering and ecstatic amazement - but the sudden second shock of a final showdown on Earth was too much to bear. Soldiers and civil servicemen stood and watched with grim fascination. Relief enlightened them further with every missile eliminated; the angry yellow-orange fire erupted with terrible force, followed each and every time by a hearty cheer.
And, of course, the aliens listened with interest and understanding. Perhaps, now, it was the other way round?
Again, Sergeant Ned Ramshawk stood in a deathly quiet room, surrounded by at least twenty other people. It was an entourage that included Colonel Sanlovitch himself; he had to be there to greet a special guest of the highest honour. And, like the rest of the reception committee, he was very nervous, even for a man so high in esteem and rank. He sighed for the umpteenth time, told himself to steady his breathing, stop fidgeting his hands, get rid of the frown, and enjoy this momentous occasion in History.
"My God," he sighed.
"Sir?" asked Ramshawk. "What's wrong?"
"Hmm? Oh, nerves, sergeant, nerves. It's like I'm back fifteen years and a lieutenant. Raw, I was, sergeant, raw as steak in a butcher's shop." He paused in thought, then, "God! But what am I going to say? 'Welcome to Earth, and how do you do, Mister Alien.' Hah! bloody hell..." "Well, Colonel, I think it wise to let the aliens do the talkin'. Just smile warmly, sir, and shake the envoy's hand-"
"If they have hands!"
Ramshawk smirked at this half-joke and nodded. "They speak our language, sir, that means we're dealing with intelligent life."
"Yes," he turned, held Ramshawk with his steely gaze. "Intelligent enough to influence and manipulate our minds. That Captain Sinlio incident, for example. Well?"
"Sir, that thing between Sinlio and myself started long before the aliens turned up."
"But that argument did ensue their appearance?"
"Sir. Although they were the cause of the argument, they kept well out of it. They sort o' left us to decide between us."
"I see," he said, "however, Sinlio isn't likely to forget this, Ramshawk, he construes this as an insult." He shook his head. "You know the Nips, they're a bloody awkward, cagey lot, always think they're right, you know? Huh!" he scowled, "Japanese Empire, high and mighty, honour means everything to them. Bastards have grown soft, sergeant, too much of the good life, everything laid on, land 'n' servants included."
Ramshawk raised an eyebrow in surprise. "Sorry, sir, but I assumed yer family were helped by the Japs during the war?"
"So?" he laughed softly, "That's ancient history, Ramshawk, my ancestors gradually changed their opinion of the Nips, held them in contempt as the years clocked by. Now there's me. And I say sod 'em!"
Ramshawk had to admit Sinlio was a pompous ass, but he didn't regard the entire Empire as decadent nor backward. The Nippon people were tough, resilient, resourceful, and brave, with proud customs and traditions spanning their history for hundreds of years. They might be a strict, rigid culture, but on the other hand they'd achieved in five years to what the British had in a hundred: build a vast empire and destroy all that threatened it. Worthy a feat of Caesar himself, or Alexander the Great, even the Mongols. And where Great Britain had failed only after numerous wars, the Japs had held tightly on to Asia with a ruthless, iron rule and an efficient government - which had lasted for a full century.
But now, with the coming of the aliens, the Empire was either about to fall (as had others before it), or change accordingly.
Ramshawk knew Sanlovitch well by now to know he was a man with deep-founded feelings that couldn't be shifted, he would not change his mind for whatever nor whoever. He was stubborn in his own way.
"Christ Almighty," he swore. "Here they come, sergeant!" Everybody in the room began to fidget, straightening uniforms, brushing tunics, tidying hair; the last minute checks carried out with nervous precision. Sanlovitch coughed loudly:
"'Tention!"
The entire entourage snapped to his order, briskly, and stood as if they were statues of stone. The lift was on bridge level; doors opened to reveal two khaki-armoured marine guards bearing heavy calibre rifles and expressions that carried no meaning.
The third figure in the centre was a man of average height with handsome features: a somewhat tanned face with a roman nose, small mouth and dimpled chin. He was dressed in a somewhat strange garb for an alien; not bizarre exactly, but rather a familiar form of dress. Sanlovitch had seen similar profiles in old photographs of his ancestors, notably the war years and the Fifties. He turned to Ramshawk, but the sergeant was just as stunned with shock and amazement.
The guest of honour paced in time to his flanking guards, together they marched toward the reception committee. The 'aliens' face was proud and brimmed with intelligence, he was apparently calm, without fear, fully confident. He halted only a few feet away from Colonel Sanlovitch. Nothing was said, nothing moved. For a few uneasy moments, both men regarded each other; Sanlovitch wide-eyed with surprise, the guest maintaining his relaxed yet alert pose.
It was the Colonel who first broke the tense silence: "I-I didn't think- I mean...I didn't expect you looked like," he paused, "US!"
"Don't worry," the alien's smile broadened. "We, on the other hand, anticipated your reaction at such a human-like appearance."
"Er, 'we'? 'Human-like'?"
"Yes. There are certain factors and matters that you must consider. You, the human race that is, must learn astounding things and accustom yourselves to change the way you live. Forever."
"I see," Sanlovitch nodded. "Oh, forgive me, sir, but what is your name?"
"My name?"
"Yes, you do have one?"
"But of course, Colonel. You may call me: Henry."
He frowned. "Henry? But-"
"I know, Colonel, that 'Henry' is an Earthling name, European or American continental in particular." He paused. "But the fact is I AM human - originally."
"Originally?"
The other nodded in reply. "Indeed, I am a fusion of both the human and alien cultures, and it is to them I owe my very existence."
"How?"
"I am what you might call a clone. The alien people, known to me as the Orb, extracted my DNA from a woman and man, a couple who were very much in love."
"So," asked a fascinated Sanlovitch, "you are technically the first human to reach outer space?"
"You could say that," he smiled, "but only with the help of the Orb, of course." He slowly held out his right hand, the smile remained, his facial composure one of respectable calmness. "Colonel, would you do me the honour of clasping my hand in welcome?"
Sanlovitch's face broke into one of his rare grins. The join was made. A great resounding cheer filled the air as men broke ranks to add their own enthusiastic greeting. And yet, Sanlovitch did not mind.
For the clasp heralded a new Era in Earth's History.
With the threat of nuclear war removed, the power blocs of Earth little choice but to comply and greet the aliens. At last they had seen the light of reason. Not through war, but by aversion of war. When most of the atomic missiles were eliminated, the U.S. President, the Japanese Emperor, the European Fuhrer were persuaded to receive an Orb ambassador - but deep within their own territories. That's how the aliens wanted it: to greet each leader, at the same time, on their own ground, to show that the Orb intended equal rights for the Big Three.
The ensuing conferences were, in truth, elaborate inquiries - more made of the Orb - and then, when matters calmed after a storm of questions, the tranquil seas of peace began to flood in, and Earth was aflood. Naturally, there were those who questioned further and remained suspicious, sceptical, and fearful of alien invasion. But they were a very small minority. No matter how fervent, they eventually succumbed: how could a few pebbles turn back the tide?
The different governments of Earth were expected to change their attitude towards - not just the aliens - but each other. The Orb arrival founded a deeper meaning to the Universe, that Man was not alone after all. Space could be conquered and Earth had to co-operate and attempt to understand the Cosmos in the hope of striving the stars.
What the Orb offered was a share in the priceless adventure that lay in the outer reaches of the galaxy, perhaps beyond, and at the same time aid an ailing, demoralised planet. They didn't seem to want to destroy Earth itself, but instead make it safe, shield the people from themselves. Confiscate the most awesome weapons ever devised by Man and eliminate them as if the Orb were mildly chiding naughty children, then carefully have their mistakes pointed out to them. The Orb were there to merely indicate, direct, and protect.
'Godparents from another world,' many thought, 'They want the best for their adopted children...'
"I hope you are both comfortable?" asked Henry in his polite, well-spoken voice.
"Good. Well, then, let us begin."
"Say," Ramshawk proffered the glass, "this is mighty fine champagne. Where did you find it, Henry?"
"A baron in Germany donated it to us, out of generosity. Er, was that one of your intended questions?"
He barked a laugh. "No, no, just a pleasantry."
"Oh, well, thank you, sergeant."
"Ned," he insisted. "This is informal, ain't it, Henry?"
"Oh, quite so, quite so," he nodded, "'Ned'."
"And call me Matt."
"Very well."
After a short pause, and another gulp of champagne, Ramshawk spoke up again:
"Henry, let's start with something you said to my CO. It intrigued me at the time, and it kinda got me thinkin'."
"Yes?" Henry cocked his head to one side, waiting.
"It's about yerself, really. What you said about being a - clone?"
"Ah, yes. It's a long story, but one rather interesting, to myself especially. It all began back in the last years of the War. London was ruined and what remained of it occupied by the Nazis. My parents - or, rather, biological parents - were a very close couple, but never married. Because of the German invasion, and eventual Nazi Victory in Europe, I never knew what really became of them."
"Weren't you grieved by never knowing your true parents?" asked Stiles.
"Not really," he replied, "you see, I never knew them, let alone met them. Yet, it is a little sad actually not knowing. Anyway, my DNA strand was made up from samples taken from my mother, Anne, and my father, Henry. A certain Doctor Adams had discovered my parents whilst they were fleeing from the invaders. Of course, he was one of the alien agents sent to collect healthy DNA samples from other human couples, although they were never fully told the truth..."
"They weren't ready for the truth?"
It sounded more a confirmation than a question, but Henry nodded his agreement nonetheless:
"Yes, Matt, the agents concocted some other story of DNA sample requirements. Top secret project, they termed it, for the British High Command. That made it sound more plausible, and at the same time inspired donors to come forward."
"The Orb told you all of this?" asked Ramshawk. "Weren't yer angry, Henry, that you were part of-" he paused, hesitating, "an experiment?"
"Not really, Ned. You see, they took it upon themselves to raise me as one of their own, but at the same time I knew I was part of something very special. The Orb gave birth to me and many others with human genes, but equipped with alien tuition. They treated the DNA samples with other strains, so it became modified, engineered of a fine sophisticated craft. I am honoured, in other words, to be a member of 'Orb- raised' humans, ready to help both my fellow peoples."
"Is that why?" asked Stiles, "I mean, why they cloned you to understand both races?"
"In order to bring a new dawn of light and reason to Earth? Yes. Their experiments were conducted for neither devious, nor selfish purposes, but a grand plan with results culminating a full century from its beginning."
"Why didn't you act then?" frowned Ramshawk.
"We felt that, whatever the outcome of the conflict, you weren't ready to receive and listen to us. An Axis victory would have resulted in world-wide misery and suffering, but given time that would have ripened global resolve to our influence. Allied victory instead would have made the world a war-weary planet, but also highly suspicious and edgy. As it happened, the Axis were triumphant in Europe and Asia, the Allies dominant in the Pacific, even more so with Japan's late entry into your Pacific Alliance." He turned to Ramshawk at that last stated fact. "So, whatever the outcome, we preferred to watch, and wait."
"Until we'd achieved space travel?"
"Yes, Matt, you've presumed right. By such a time, your technological - and perhaps your idealistic - capabilities would have progressed enough to be a worthy foundation on which we could build. The Orb, as now, would urge a revolution of world-wide peace and human understanding of the Universe."
That explanation seemed to satisfy both men, and Henry topped up their glasses.
"This sphere," put in Ramshawk, "what's it made of?"
"Ah," smiled Henry, "it's of a material to be found on the Orb homeworld, and there's nothing like it on Earth. It's a type of hard metallic crystal that absorbs energy from almost anything you care to name."
"A sort of built-in conductor?" inquired Stiles.
"That's right. It's hard, durable, lightweight - perfect for travelling through space." He stopped talking to sip some his drink, then thoughtfully said: "I understand they're building hundreds of these spheres back home. They'll be looking for volunteers, Ned, Matt, you're perhaps the first two ideal choices we have. You've already proved to us you have skill, daring, good personalities, and a certain degree of loyalty to your comrades. The Orb respect such traits."
"I might stick to the Revenge," said Stiles quietly contemplative. "She's what I'm used to, you see. Unless we can re-build her in that crystal material I can see myself at home with Clair and the kids." Ramshawk was oddly silent, lost in deep thought at this point in the conversation. Henry was quick to spot this:
"Ned? Are you alright?"
"Yeah, yeah," he nodded, "but there's something I can't figure out."
"Oh? What's that?"
"Why did you, the Orb I mean, ever bother with us? Why not shrug and just say: 'Oh well, let 'em get on with it, it's none of our affair, we don't need their trouble at our door?' No offence intended, buddy!"
"None taken," he laughed, "but you see, the Orb are a very inquisitive race. Every species is unique in some way or other, and, as very practised adventurous explorers, have developed a sense of curiosity and interest on their travels. They are incredibly sensitive and wise, you see, and hate to bear witness of other, more primitive worlds (if you'll forgive me) in plight or with little hope and happiness. To go on in ignorance goes against their paladin code. Every world has a right to share Orb technology once contact has been established. But humans - not hybrids like myself, but true humans - are sometimes strangers to themselves and don't trust anyone they know little about. They are selfish at best of times. However, after years of your Cold War euphoria, Earth is now ready for something completely new: men such as you had endured enough of the pressure and desperately desired a change."
"What about that engineer?" Ramshawk suddenly asked.
"Engineer?"
"Yeah, that German test-run pilot. We found him unconcious by his spaceplace; there was no change in his condition until we got him to a Red Cross station. He went half-crazy!" Henry frowned. "Yes, I remember him. We tried a little experiment, you see, an attempt to penetrate his mind and see through his eyes." He shook his head sadly. "Unfortunately, we'd chosen a weak-willed person and our little plan went wrong."
"I'd forgotten all about him," said Stiles. "My CO, Commandant Khalder, had suspicions that the PA were somehow responsible for the engineer's plight."
"We didn't cause it," replied Ramshawk, "but we did find him."
"That's true," put in Henry. "The trouble was he'd seen us, so we had to disable his plane and his communications before he could alert base."
"So you decided to use him?"
"Yes, Ned. The sphere rendered him unconscious and, ah, 'turned' him. It was a mistake on our part, we'd rather hoped too much in one human being who had little understanding. He was incapable of coping with our 'presence' within his confused mind."
"So that's why he went half-mad?"
"I'm afraid so. Oh, er, how is he now?" Stiles peered carefully at Henry's troubled face, it expressed guilt and regret, as Ramshawk explained the situation.
"Thank the Stars," whispered Henry, "he's alright. Good, good..." and he took another taste of champagne.
Ramshawk asked: "What do the Orb look like?"
"Well, er..." Henry frowned, and hesitated; his reproach in replying was easily noticed by Stiles.
"Don't worry, Henry, you don't have to answer that. Ned was only being curious."
"Yeah," apologised Ramshawk, "Sorry 'bout that."
"No, it's alright. It's just that, well, the Orb wanted to wait until you were prepared to accept their physical appearance. On the other hand, perhaps, it may be a good idea to inform you in advance, give you all a chance to get used to it, what to expect."
"They were afraid of frightening us?" asked Stiles. "Putting us in fear of monsters and demons?"
Henry laughed at this: "Yes, hah, they didn't want to shock you too much with the difficult truth, Matt, so..." he shrugged: "The Orb," he continued, "are humanoid in shape, about eight feet for average height, and have longer limbs in proportion to a human. They have a blue-black skin of cold leathery texture that must be kept moist, and they wear special suits to maintain their body temperatures at about twenty five celsius."
"They prefer the warm?"
"Yes, Ned, they are not in terms of physical attributes so dissimilar to your own Earth amphibians."
"So," asked Stiles, wide-eyed with intrigue, "the Orb are essentially descended from the amphibian chain of evolution?"
"Yes. Where you humans are characteristically mammals, the Orb race had been founded in the amphibian stage, whereas in Earth's per-history the amphibians became reptiles and reigned supreme until the meteorite impact wiped them out. From there, the mammals took over and evolved..." he sipped from his drink. "So."
"In other words," ventured Ramshawk, "the Orb ancestors somehow came into new-found intelligence and formed a civilization. Fascinating! It's what would have happened if that meteorite, millions of years ago, never hit Earth."
"Possibly so," acquiesced Henry. "As I was saying, the Orb are cold-blooded creatures, with the ability to live both in the sea and on land, therefore they also possess gills."
"So they can breathe either water or oxygen?" asked Stiles.
"A slightly lighter version of Earth's, but not much different. Their world is also similar to your own but, without an unprecedented climatic change, the exotic and tropical plants still remain."
"A sorta alien Jurrasic landscape," Ramshawk thought aloud, "but what of reptiles, Henry, do they exist on..." he paused, uncertainly, "Orb?"
"Oh yes, indeed. Where you humans were descended from apes, a kind of reversal occurred, a schism where most amphibians evolved into the Orb culture, and reached creativity status, while other species went their own way and became 'mindless' reptiles. Some simply reached a dead-end and died out, others were made extinct because of Orb activities. The Orb are nor longer a violent nor malevolent race, but preceding our space-age Era we had our own wars, plagues, and dark times, as did you humans.
"But the Orb somehow succeeded in overcoming each obstacle and grew stronger with each victory, until one day they achieved inter-galactic flight, by which time they were supreme beings in themselves. The human race, by comparison, has diverted from its true path and started this space age at the wrong time; hastened out of necessity and fear of each other, rather than out of pride and sense of accomplishment. Now, the Orb have arrived, and we wish to correct this grave error by helping you, as we have shown you already. Soon, Orb and humans will work together in peace to reach other stars and bring the light of reason to them in turn."
"I never thought this would happen," said Ramshawk, "I mean, an alien civilization come to save the human race from itself. God does work in mysterious ways."
"Or profitable ways," replied Stiles. He was suddenly chilled by what he'd said, and guilty; the fall of God's Ring and Khalder's broken state haunted him still. A swallow from his glass wet his dry throat, momentary relief.
"Henry, the Orb themselves," he said, changing the subject, "what are they physically capable of - in term of optics, sonics, strengths and weaknesses, you know?"
"Hmm," he nodded, "well, being amphibian, they require only a small degree of light by which to see, although deformities have revealed some Orb to live more on the land. Sonically, they are particularly sensitive to vibration; rather like your sharks their smell senses are just as acute. Therefore, they have to wear special protective muffs designed to block out any unwanted noise that could cause them great pain. It is perhaps their great sense of balance that helps them to concentrate more, they are superbly agile, very strong and muscular, with a slightly larger brain capacity than a human being's."
Stiles leaned forward. "How do they talk?"
"In ancient times, the Orb used a series of grunts, squeals, and whistles, which proved a rather limited vocabulary, so they transcended to sign language about the same time as the first scriptures. Although an improved form of communication, it was nonetheless cumbersome. The Orb continued to use this method until their brains were capable of telepathy."
"Telepathy!"
"Yes, Ned, it is one of the many techniques and skills the Orb have to teach the human race."
"I've heard about this mind control before, but only certain people have mind-over-matter. But people speakin' to each other by telepathy...impossible!"
"You must understand, Ned," he replied patiently, "that the Orb have been exploring the galaxy for nearly three thousand of your Earth years which, as you know, is a long time to discover, develop, learn, and evolve further skills. The Orb are like pioneering librarians, scouring the galaxy and its various inhabitants of ideas and qualities which might prove useful in the journey ahead. In return, they help those other peoples to reach the stars."
"And we are one of those planets," nodded Stiles in wonderment.
"Yes," confirmed Henry.
"What about their religion?" he asked further.
"The Orb are a practical and realistic race, Matt, and have little functional use for any religion. What they see, they believe. All Orb are individuals; some are recluses who wish to stay behind on Orb, who desire a traditional and more homely way of life. Nevertheless, the majority continue to explore the stars and bring only two words of universal meaning: Peace and Understanding. Besides, like you, the Orb have had their fair share of 'religious wars'. If God made the Universe, that is his business, yours is just to live in it and do your best to learn and endure its natural hardships. Any sins will just upset the Balance and bring his redemption upon the offender - but still, that's the outcast's affair, and God can afford to wait a while before serving sentence. But we, the Orb, are here to prevent sinners from commintting sins, and correct evil deeds."
"Like God's Ring, you mean?" asked Stiles.
"Alas, your Commandant Khalder was a stubborn man with a fiery soul, quite unreasonable to us. We could have fled, Matt, but we made an example of the space station instead. Were the Orb to take the word of a proud yet impatient and fearful man as that of Earth's own?" He shook his head. "It was a regrettable act, I agree, but to have abandoned Earth because of Khalder's reckless and thoughtless act upon us would have betrayed the fair and wise innocents.
"No, we wouldn't deal with the likes of Khalder, we knew what was required of us. The ordinary citizens of Earth had to know who had failed them, that we intended to come in peace and friendship, and remove the troublemakers before they condemned the entire planet."
"He says he's sorry," said Stiles lamely.
"Hmm, so he should be, he has a lot to be sorry for. I understand he shot a lieutenant?"
"Yes, he refused to carry out Khalder's orders."
"Good for him! Er, Chipper, I mean. A shame the Commandant used his gun instead of his ears." He shook his head, remorsefully. "A terrible, shameful waste, just because of his stupid pride. Ah, well, you do get some bad rogue seeds in the field."
Both men mutually agreed with Henry, but did not say as much, just sat silent, sipped champagne. Stiles had thought he knew the Commandant; they were after all friends. But Khalder had proved treacherous and malicious, a side of him revealed that Stiles never knew existed. Duty was one thing, but such an act was overdoing it. It was as if the Commandant had gone madly insane and become an intent killer...
"Henry?" asked Ramshawk, concernedly. "What's wrong? Are you ill?" Henry was sat smiling, unmoving, eyes open and unblinking that stared straight ahead. He seemed in a trance.
"Forgive me," his voice startled both men. "I was in conversation with my sister. She reports to me that the first Orb ships are on their way! They will reach Earth in one week..."
The summer of 2045 was to be a memorable one. In particular it was a pleasant time for Stiles and his family.
The Orb culture had enthralled Earth with gentle reforms and wisdom for nearly a year now; everybody had benefited. Stiles sat in a deck chair, lazily, because it was his day off.
And, by God! he thought, I'll spend it well.
His face spread into a wide grin as he looked upon his children, shrieking in sheer delight, as they ran and chased near-naked around a lawn sprinkler. Both were armed with water pistols. The water shot everywhere.
Clair had come out, wearing a bikini and light sarong. She carried a tray laden with a jug of fizzy lemonade (in which floated several ice-cubes) and four empty tumblers. As she set about filling these with the cool refreshment, Stiles took in her tall, slim figure. Her blonde hair was straight and still wet from her cold shower, while she stood barefoot and gorgeous upon the soaked grass.
She handed Stiles a lemonade. "Thanks," he smiled.
"Catherine! Bernie!" she called. "Come on!"
"Boy!" shouted Bernie in eagerness, "I'm ready for this!"
"Easy, easy, it's not going anywhere!"
My God, thought Stiles in a daydream way, She's so beautiful when she's happy. And I'm happy...
Clair sat by him, kissed his cheek: "Oooh," she pulled a face in mock hurtfulness, "You're so prickly, Matt, it's time you had another shave."
"Hmm, s'pose so," he remained placid, "but not today, eh?" She giggled. "Oh, alright then, you win." She raised a hand to caress his tanned face. "Darling, you look so much better without that horrid beard."
"Hmm," he rubbed his chin. "you sure?"
"Yes, dear, it makes you look much younger." He shrugged. That decided the matter: you couldn't really argue with Clair, she was too lovely and stubborn for that. Besides, he wasn't in the mood for arguing. It was a brilliantly hot and humid day. Laze and lounge!
"Ah, here he is! The great Major Matt Stiles in person." There was a sudden laugh. "And what a sight he is!"
"Blimey!" Stiles suddenly woke to a familiar voice, he almost forgot his drink and spilled it in surprise.
"How yer doin', buddy?"
"Ned!" he gaped, "Ned Ramshawk! My God, what-?"
"Thought I'd better come to say my farewells. Say, who is this pretty gal?" Clair reddened and hugged Ramshawk, pecking him on the cheek. "Glad to see you're shaving," she laughed, wrinkling her nose at Stiles, who replied in the same, playful fashion.
"How are you Ned?"
"Fine, Clair, thanks for askin'. Sorry I ain't bin here for a while, but for the past few months it's been kinda busy."
"What have you been up to, Ned?"
"Well, Matt, ah..." he faltered, "Well, er, the thing is - I'm off."
"Off?" Clair frowned. "Off where?"
"Ahem!" he coughed, smiled nervously. "Well, you could say, 'off-planet'."
"What! You-you're joking!"
"No, buddy, on the level - or, hah, should I say, 'straight up'?"
"Why, Ned?" asked a disbelieving Clair. "What for?"
"Well...you see," he scratched his head in an awkward manner, trying to find the right words.
"Oh, Ned," she said, "I'm sorry, would you like a lemonade?" He then brightened up: "Yeah, thanks, Clair." She smiled and made her exit into the house to fetch another glass; Stiles decided to complement her tactful withdrawal with his own friendly approach.
"Here, Ned, have a seat."
"Thanks."
He looked to Ramshawk's feet, where the marine sergeant had dumped his tiger-striped issue kit bag. "I see you've packed for the voyage," he pointed out. "So, it's definite, then?"
"Sure is," he replied grimly. His eyes fell upon the children as they ran and squealed, so tireless, so carefree. "Took me a goddam while, Matt."
"To pack?"
"No," his eyes met Stiles' own, and he smiled at the joke. "To decide, I mean." He became sad. "But there's more, Matt, much more."
"Oh?"
He nodded: "I'm taking Marie and the baby with me."
"You - all of you going? Outer space?"
"Hell, Matt," he sighed, got up from the deckchair. "I can't stay here!"
"Why not?"
"Matt, use yer loaf, and think of the name Sinlio."
"You mean that stuck-up Jap carrier captain who-?"
"Who I disgraced? Yeah, that's about it. He might be in prison serving his sentence, but he's still got friends and family wanting revenge. Well, they ain't goin' to get it, Matt: because my family and I are leavin' Earth."
"For good?"
"Dunno," he replied, seemingly helpless. There was a short pause, then: "You're running away, you know?"
"Yep." He nodded without argument. "That's about it. Got any better ideas?" Stiles shook his head, nothing useful to say, to suggest, nor to advise. "Thought so. Sanlovitch was right, Matt. Goddam bastards, the Nips - when they want something badly, they'll take it." He shook his head. "But, hell, they won't take my family from me."
"Ned, fleeing Earth isn't going to solve anything."
"Ain't it?"
"No. You've said so yourself. Look, the Japs will follow you, and off-planet you're more likely to be isolated, forgotten about. Here, at least, it is more secure; we can watch over and protect your family. See?"
He frowned: "I'm not into all that FBI protection scheme, fake ID crap, Matt, you know me. I'm a soldier, ex- NCO I agree. I resigned outta my own choice, not forced by some bushwhacker. I don't want trouble, Matt, can't afford it."
"Ah, here we are!"
Clair came out to give Ramshawk his ice-cool lemonade; but whether he was too distraught and preoccupied, or that he didn't mind, he never showed any suspicions of her overlong absence from the heated discussion. Matt Stiles, on the other hand, knew his wife better. Doubtless she'd offer her own views later to her husband.
Because of her sudden appearance, Ramshawk changed the subject:
"Say, you guys made a good job of the garden here. Kinda makes me feel homesick already."
The ex-marine stayed and chatted for nearly half an hour, mainly asking about Anderton, Cochrane, and Broderick, and then how Max Khalder was coping in the sanatorium.
"He's due to come out soon," replied Stiles, "and he might even be staying with us for a while."
"Has he got any family?" He shook his head: "Not that I know of, only a couple of cousins in Germany."
"Only child, huh?"
"Yes, and both parents died when he was younger. He had to stay with one of his uncles."
Ramshawk tutted: "Poor guy," he shook his head. "No wonder he went crazy." He drained the last dregs of lemonade, put his empty glass on the table, shouldered his kit bag, and embraced Clair.
"Nice to see yer again, Clair," he grinned, "and thanks for the lemonade." She pecked his cheek again. "Goodbye, Ned. Take care, won't you?"
"Will do." He waved to Bernie and Catherine. "See yer, kids!" They waved, before returning to their screams of excitement.
"I'll see you off, Ned."
"OK, Matt."
Slowly, they paced the gravel path that wound its way to a wooden gate. "It's not right," said Stiles, more contemplative than talking to his friend, "I mean, leaving like this. That captain is the criminal, not you."
"I know that, buddy," nodded Ramshawk, "but it's for the best, ain't it? We want to go anyway, all three of us, our minds are made up."
"Are you certain of this?"
"Yep. You see, the way I figure, the Orb caused that showdown, so we might as well go all the way with 'em. Does that make sense to you?"
He nodded. "I think so."
"Yeah, my superiors and the Orb applauded my efforts and quick thinkin'. Don't worry, there'll be others goin' - thousands of pioneers."
"I hadn't thought of that."
"It'll be like the Wild West all over again," he laughed, "I dare say I'm lookin' forward to it."
"It'll be a breathtaking adventure," agreed Stiles. Suddenly, he realised he was - out of shock more than anything else - accepting Ramshawk's decision.
"Why don't you come with us, Matt?" he asked. "You could start over, forget the troubles of the past, leave Earth behind, and make yer future with the Orb. Why not?" They'd reached the gate. "No," he shook his head, gently. "I only help build the Orb spheres, I don't intend to travel in them. Besides," his smile grew, "Clair would never forgive me." Ramshawk laughed heartily: "Yeah, I suppose...well, I'm outta here." He put out a hand.
Stiles shook it. "You'll come back some day, Ned?"
"Sure, buddy, I promise."
The clasp was released, the gate closed, and Ned Ramshawk walked steadily down the path.
Until he disappeared from sight.
"Daddy, daddy!" Catherine ran to him, arms wide, voice giggling, her face full of delight. "Bern's found a flower, daddy!"
"A flower?" he caught her up in his embrace, she squirmed and wriggled. "What flower? I bet it's nothing as lovely as you - petal!" She buried her face in his chest, convulsed in fits of laughter, as he tweaked her small nose.
"Matt?" Clair sidled up and hugged them both. "Do you think we'll ever see him again?"
He thought for a moment. "No," he said at last, "I don't think so, Clair. He promised, but I still don't think so."
"Dad!"
"Yes, Bernie? What is it?"
"Come and look at this!"
Slowly, they came to find Bernie standing proudly by a strange-looking orchid. It was not very big, about seven or eight centimetres high, with brown and purple almond shaped leaves on a bright yellow stalk. A bee also decided to have a closer examination.
"Is it alien, dad?" asked an intrigued Bernie. "Did the Orb plant it?" Stiles frowned. He then recalled Bernie asking so many questions following the interview with Henry; some he could answer, others he was simply incapable of - and this was yet another one of a million bizarre and alien mysteries.
"Well, yes," he said, uncertainly, "I believe they did."
"Told you, Cath!" he said, head raised, "didn't I?"
At that, she wriggled out of her father's arms, jumped to the grass, and squirted him. The chase started all over again.
A distant whining sound distracted their attention from the alien orchid: a private jet, its silver chasse glinting bright in the dazzling summer sun, came close on its trajectory curve to the west, where the
Atlantic Ocean lay. It then slowed to an unsteady hover. Matt Stiles smiled, as the jet waggled its wings, then shot away.
Goodbye Ned, he sighed. Take care of yourself.
"Was that Ned, dad?"
"Yes it was."
He followed his father's gaze into the brilliant blue sky. "Where's he going?"
"He's going to ride a comet, son."