Harvest Moon 1

Notes:

Head-rooms: “Max-Headroom,” a television show originating from 20th Century Earth in which an artificial intelligence construct is tapped from a Network 53 cameraman.

Mega-plex: A large, multi-level agricultural complex. Crops and livestock are raised beneath domes to minimize the effects of weather, temperature, and insects on output.

47 Ursae Majoris

UM-2/Avalon

Avalon was terrestrial. The planet wallowed in a thick blanket of Nitrogen and Oxygen that covered the surface and allowed humans unrestricted movement without pressure suits. Weather patterns, sometimes vicious, were a consequence of the planet’s heavy atmosphere undergoing severe heating as the planet reached perihelion. It was early evening, as local time marched on, and just after the harvest, as far as the local seasons did.

Squad Sergeant Alvin Kray, NCCF, breathed deeply the husky aroma of newly reaped crop-fields and powered his optics. He lifted them to his eyes and then to where he saw a flash in the sky. The button beneath his thumb zoomed the view to “max-enhance.” Resolution at that setting was poor and all he could make out were fuzzy, oblong blotches floating low on the horizon.

"Sigis, what do you have in orbit at three-three-zero?" He said and looked over his shoulder towards the shelter set up next to the cluster of 2-meter sat-dishes that was the headquarters commo-array.

Specialist Armand Sigis, the 1st sergeant's nodie, turned and inspected that part of the sky. Nodies were battlefield information feeds, the guys he always saw looking over the shoulders of command personnel. They lived in a virtual, bitmapped world via the Mk. 5 BUGEYE data-visor mounted on their helmets, far superior to the Mk. 2 SNAPSHOT visors Kray and the rest of his boys had on their own.

Kray had looked through nodie helmets before and found them odd experiences. The node-pack sorted the data-flow and displayed it in a media they could rapidly interpret; visually, as a real-time, high-refresh, full-color, point-glance display of everything generating data within 8 kilometers. It was an extra 40-kilograms on top of their regular loads. Sigis and the others were privy to its secrets but paid the price in lost sunsets.

"That's classified." Sigis replied.

“You must mean Task Group Romeo then.” Kray said and let his eyes drift over the horizon. A group of Straked Bounders, bipedal native xenoforms, shuffled over the open ground 100 meters away.

“You didn’t hear that from me, Alvin.” Sigis radioed back.

Kray laughed. “That’s affirmative.”

The only vessels left under that command were a few heavy freighters still off-loading supplies; food, munitions, and new equipment. Three troopships had come and gone, discharging soldiers and taking on cargo of a different kind… refugees. The convoy delivery was unusually large- crates piled up at the prime spaceport. Supply shuttles were brought in one at a time while traffic control diverted stacks of falling vehicles to secondary sights.

"A probing skirmish? What?” Corporal “Harley” Jamband, his assistant squad-leader said, always the natural skeptic. “Hey, hey Sergeant Kray. The head-rooms are wide-banding smleck again.”

Harley came from a farming mega-plex in Alberta Territory, Canada and his helmet receiver was set to the feed from a university station in the settlement around the spaceport, three hundred klicks to the North and lifetimes away from home.

"Of course they are. Do you think that they want to start a panic? Just wait until they announce a mobilization," Kray said and looked out over the plains. The planet’s twin moons were rising. "What is it now?"

"Task Group Romeo. They're saying that the damage is from a pirate attack," Harley said and shook his head with a sour look. "On that scale? Do they think we're stupid?"

The story of the latest arrivals in orbit was the current sensation; office workers kept datapads set to the government and news stations, virtual teachers issued evacuation instructions to children in education centers. Avalon had been taken from the EuroCon during the Neo-Colonial War. Citizen-soldiers frequently drilled for the day they might come to take it back.

"Not good, see if you can bring it up the datapad,” Kray said. He and his troops were from all over the NorCom… members of the garrison that the Northern Combine contributed to Avalon defense. “I got my receiver linked to the company net."

“There's nothing but lies on that one, either.” Harley said but complied, opening a panel in his radio, setting it for the news station in Savage Rift. Kray flinched as a voice came to life inside his helmet. The speaker volume was set too high.

"Bulldog calling Bravo Two Actual."

A call went out over the company tactical net. Bulldog was Captain Cortez. A veteran of the Procyon Crisis like Kray was, Cortez was a Lieutenant when Octavian separatists, mostly student radicals and miners laid off from the gigantic APEX 3 mine, seized the colonial parliament on that world. UN peacekeepers were sent from SOL when they demanded an independent state for those that wished to “launch from the company.” When they arrived, the malcontents had been in power for two years and had weapons powered and waiting.

"Go Bulldog."

"Hey, Alvin,” Captain said. Both were veterans of the Procyon Crisis and on familiar terms. “Where’s Lieutenant Swift? I’ve looking for that boy for dang near an hour."

"Chow-line, sir." Kray said but opted not to add “that ignorant vermin-weed.” He concentrated on pulling the bolt-assembly from the upper-receiver of his M-32. The cleaning kit for it was already laid out on the berm in front of him.

"Right. When he gets back, tell him that I’ll be down to have a look at your positions in about twenty mikes."

"Roger that, sir." Kray said and used a small squeeze bottle to dampen a rag with “Clean-Lube” solvent.

"Bulldog out."

Harley snapped on a datapad and put the feed through so that Kray could watch and listen.

“Thanks,” Kray said and froze as there was a familiar horn. “There’s the supply track. Try to get something good.”

“Sure thing, Alvin.” He shuffled off toward the supply point. Troops were gathering around the tracked chow vehicle.

“Hold on,” Kray said as the “breaking news” prompt flashed on the screen. It cut to a live broadcast from the spaceport. “Something’s happening.”

The byline “Kim Pel reporting” flashed across the screen as she pointed out across the gray fibrocrete landing field.

"As you can see from this footage, the crews of the landing craft stay only long enough to drop their cargo ramps and roll out their palletized loads- following a timetable that, at times, seems almost frantic,” Kim Pel paused for a breath as the cameraman zoomed past her and the view centered on people streaming toward the dropships with open cargo doors. “Curious, yes… but business carries on is the attitude from Freeport officials. Very few here believe what they’re being told, when what they’re seeing is telling them that they have a very good reason to be concerned."

The news anchor turned to face the correspondent framed in the monitor beside him and said, "Are there any signs you’ve been seeing, any common concerns that might offer a clue to what’s on people’s minds?"

"Absolutely. Those we’ve talked with feel that critical pieces of information regarding Task Force Romeo are being withheld. There has been virtually no communication with the group since they passed the outer beacon line and came under military traffic control. Shortly after that, we saw the garrison bases at Freeport, Solstice, Alpine, Little Springs, and Savage Rift issued an alert and personnel recall. Those bases have been locked down… nothing coming in or out.”

“Kim, has there been any word from officials in Freeport?”

“We tried to find someone at the Ministry of Defense to answer our questions, but the only official statement we’ve been given is that these are scheduled maneuvers. The public knows that Task Force Romeo has taken battle-damage, they can see the ships from the ground. With no statement from the Haderson administration, most are in wait-and-see mode."

The anchorman swiveled in his chair to face the camera.

"

We’re here talking with Senator Tanis from the Solstice settlement. Thanks for joining us in the studio.

"

The view panned over to an older man in clothes that did not suit him. He attempted a smile, but his face froze someplace between a frown and a sneer.

"You've openly disagreed with the Haderson policy of 'wait-and-see.' Do you think that there's more out there than what's being officially stated?"

"Absolutely,” Tanis said. His nose flared as he took a deep breath. “The few members of Task Force Romeo that we've been allowed to speak with have given us dodgy answers or outright silence. We’ve heard rumors coming out of the Big Deep that there was a large-scale battle there- one apparently fought between the ships of the NorCom Ninth Command and a larger, unidentified force around Zebra Station. We cannot confirm this but it doesn’t take an ELP graduate to figure out there’s something going on here.”

The anchorman looked thoughtful and said, “The sensor logs of Task Force Romeo have been sealed and classified, is that correct? What could they possible want to hide at this point?"

The planetary garrison was broken into Northern and Southern groups. The 10th Heavy Infantry (Mechanized) Division was the bulk of the Group North. When the infantry went on alert so did their scouts… the skimmer-cav. They set up near the projected forward edge of battle, between the 10th ID (Infantry Division) and the plains where the E-Cons were expected to land. NorCom and local militia forces rushed for their pre-determined staging sites, though their haste had made complications- the supply train was still forming. The armor and infantry were behind the cav, marshaled at strong points. The skimmer cav was the thumb under the NorCom hammer. Once they had fixed the enemy, the sledge would fall.

"Run, you navy pukes. You got the easy way out." He said and stuffed the rag back into his pocket.

"What the hell is this? Talking to yourself again, Sergeant?" Harley said from behind him. "Just make sure you don’t mistake those voices in your head for someone giving you orders." He laughed at his zinger.

Each soldier got enough rations for two days, but the supply crawler was often late, so they quickly learned how to conserve. Camp Buford, headquarters and home base of the 21st Cavalry Brigade (airmobile), was still being evacuated. If they were EuroCons, then the standard procedure would be to bombard all of the major military bases before attempting a landing.

"It's about time," Kray said and accepted a meal pack. The plastic wrapping is green instead of brown or blue, the mark of an old batch. He scrutinized the label. "Scrapple loaf! This smleck has been sitting in a warehouse since twenty-one eighty. It’s probably left over from Octavia."

“Your own fault, Alvin,” Harley said with a grin. “If you had come with me you could’ve gotten something better. Them privates in First Platoon are eating better than you right now.” He laughed again.

"I doubt it… the crawler had to go through all of Ten Division to get to us. The only way I can eat this stuff is if I try to pretend I'm eating something else. Let's see," Kray said and closed his eyes as he tore open the wrapper. "Ahh, Chicken Cordon Bleu sounds good."

Kray took a bite and grimaced, then set down the ration bar and uncapped his canteen, Harley saw the look on his face and laughed at him.

"How's the Chicken Two Bravo? Nutritionally perfect goodness?" Harley said as he inspected his own brown package.

"Don’t ask,” Kray said as he started taking out the smaller packets filled with meal sidelines. “What did you get?"

"Beef enchilada with rice! Stellar!"

"Trade you? I'll throw in my brownie and my last pair of clean boot liners." Kray said with fake desperation that might not have been. The enchilada meal was a common favorite. Harley shook his head as he tore open the packet.

"I don't want your germs."

"Then I order you to swap rations with me."

"Sure," Harley replied as he brought up a large glob of spittle, which he dribbled theatrically into the open packet. He wiped his mouth and offered over the enchilada with a grin. "Here ya go, Sarge… bon apetite."

Kray frowned and waved it away, sighed at the injustice, and shook the chemical heating sack to warm his food. The meal came with a packet of processed cheese whip to be squeezed over the Scrapple loaf and crumbled cracker added. If the cheese was still solid he will never get it down. A rumble from the north and clouds gathering overhead tell of a coming storm, perhaps the first big one of the harvest season. He adjusted the temperature of his weather-proof jacket another 10 degrees warmer as the wind picked up. There were four seasons on planet, each divided into early and late parts, each with it’s own unique climatic characteristics. Avalon could often be unpredictable, but one of the constants was the wind.

During Sede it was an easy zephyr that carried the smell of moist earth and growing things. Twelve Mons long, Sede was the longest season. In Risen, during the planet’s apogee, heat produced whistling messengers that pushed tri-hulled sailing-craft along settled coastlines. It eddied during Harvest and gathered its strength. When Gale season came, so did a shrieking plague, one that required physical effort to walk against. The slight of build were often swept away. Although only into late Harvest, the warm barracks and fully serviced mess hall were missed by all.

“At least when it gets colder, we won’t have to deal with these damned diggers.” Harley said as Kray felt something crawling on his wrist. He pulled back his cuff with a finger and found one of the small, worm-like native pests. It resisted when he pulled it off and squirmed in his grip as he squeezed it. When he felt its exo-skeleton crack, he opened his fingertips and wiped the remnants on his uniform leg. If allowed to burrow in, the human immune response to the alien invader was an itch irritating enough to scratch bloody.

"I was talking about what’s happening out in the Big Deep. Hold on, don’t answer that yet... hey, Private!" Harley said as he spotted a new arrival; a pasty white new-boot (new recruit) crossing over the berm sheltering their fighting positions, his head on a swivel, taking everything in. He stared at the cluster of Strake-Bounders grazing outside the perimeter then turned Harley’s way. “Get over here! Now!”

The approaching E-1 was J.O.B.- just off the boat- and looked confused. Forty-eight months on a troopship messed with the brain.

"Yeah, Corporal?" He said and went to parade rest in deference to Kray, who spooned seasoned potatoes out of a packet and watched in silent amusement as Harley testified. The newbies got a hard time from everyone at first.

"Well, well… would you look at this odd job. The King is dead, son… you need to straighten that collar and keep it that way,” Harley said and the odd job was quick to comply. “It ain't even got cold yet. Who's your First Sergeant, odd job?"

The Private was carrying a sheet of hardcopy in one hand. Harley snatched it and brought it to his eyes. "Let's see here… Bravo Company… Twenty-first…" He lowered the sheet with a look of stunned disbelief and said, "Sweet Mary, he's one of ours."

Harley handed back the hardcopy and started tugging at pockets, protesting to Kray in silent amazement when he found something not up to his personal standards, normally very liberal. Harley was a slob.

"I…"

The private got out the beginning of a reply before Harley stabbed at him again.

"Look at this smleck. Pouches unfastened, water bladder half-empty, straps hanging all over the place… are you an octopoid, Private?" Harley said and Kray guffawed. The private shook his head with wide-eyed confusion. "Because you sure look like one. Judas Priest! Did they just give you a rifle and put you on the ship?"

"I…"

"Listen up, son! I don’t know what vacuum rock you fell off of, but you didn’t land in the mud. We rule land and sky and we got manners here. Do I make myself clear, Private?"

"Yes, corporal."

"Well, that’s just stellar." Harley said and scowled.

"I…"

"Now you seem okay, Private…" Harley said and leaned in close to inspect his name badge. "Elroy. We’ll get you squared away. The First Shirt is over in the commo-shelter, just give him your orders and he'll get you assigned."

“Ok, sir.” The private said and moved off, equipment and weapons clattering against the rigid armor plates protecting his vital parts.

"Hey private! While you're up there, tell them you need a prick-e-nine," Harley shouted and pointed at the tactical radio beside his boots. "The one we got is all worn out and we need another one, pronto."

Elroy turned and waved an acknowledgement.

“Hopefully the prick E-nine that he finds in the commo shack will square him away with a roll of tape after he gets done with his corrective training.” Kray said and crumpled up the empty side-line pack, reaching for another one labeled “Applesauce.”

“Top’s gonna be so pissed.” Harley said and chuckled. “Looking for a prick” was a pick-up line used by the queens-in-green, female troopers… the number afterward was the preferred length in inches. Top was a no-nonsense type that longed wistfully for the day all but “real” men were barred from combat infantry, but he treated them all like soldiers, male or female- as long as they never forgot who had the biggest bulge in the outfit.

"Now I know they’re not going to be able to get everybody off. Look, there’s only a few transports left. There’s another one outbound." Kray said and pointed out a contrail rising on the eastern horizon. It was another dropship burning for orbit.

“You know, I actually think it’s kind of pretty, I guess if it weren’t for the circumstances.” Harley said. Dropships had been falling from orbit for days, unloading cargo and taking on passengers, then lifting them to the task force overhead. People were afraid. “Where they going with all those people? They don’t got enough freezers for all of them.”

"Pax, I guess. Fifty-one Pegasi is closer so some of them might give Transterran a shot. You can tell if they’re inbound or outbound by their orbital path. The planet spins counter-clockwise so by coming east to west, it decreases their time to ground from orbit… its just the opposite when they’re outbound… and do you see how low they are? They’re staying below the horizon of the defense batteries around Freeport. The dropships are clear of the free fire lanes for the planetary defenses."

Kray and Harley grimaced as a heavy lift skimmer, a massive Avianca CV-19 in three-tone “Savannah Tiger” paint droned overhead. The flight-vehicle mounted twin box chutes for air-deployable mines used to sow suspected landing zones; a mix of anti-vehicle and anti-personnel devices that filled its wide cargo bay to capacity.

“I don’t think the Scrapple-loaf is sitting quite right,” Kray said and put a hand to his stomach. Conical objects began tumbling out of the chutes. The mines were easy enough to find and dispose of, but that took time… the skimmer could sow a minefield a kilometer square in much less.

"This better be a drill. What do you think, Alvin?" Harley said and flipped up his data monocle. The nodie had the minefield pin-pointed and the location was a critical feed, so it appeared constantly while in line-of-sight.

“I hope so.” Kray said. He spent two years with the 71st Infantry Division, one of only five units in the whole Combine that dropped on hostile worlds from space. There was a falling star patch over his right breast pocket, above it- centered on the gray strip stitched with NCCF, is a melancholy reminder that he is a qualified drop trooper. The large spiked-gauntlet-on-shield patch covering his right deltoid reminded others that he had seen action with the "Iron Fist"- orbital assault, and lived. Kray took a bite of warm Scrapple loaf and chewed thoughtfully.