The Fate of Terra

The troopers stormed into the alien ship's cargo bay, their mechanized armor making them a fearsome sight to behold. Each one was roughly eight hundred pounds of gleaming black ionized metal with a tinted faceplate. At nine feet tall with jagged edges and all of them carrying an assortment of weapons, they were an intimidating gesture towards the group of aliens they were now facing.

Pandora intoned in his head, 'Air is good,' and Michael followed his soldiers through the lock. Kat took position on his right and Marcus was on his left, slightly behind the couple. Entering the hold, Michael's first impression was that it was a lot like the one he'd seen in the 'Firefly' series, albeit quite a bit bigger. Dingy corrugated metal made up the deck, bulkheads, and scaffolding overhead.

Warily watching the humans enter was a large alien delegation consisting of over a dozen races, about a third of them wearing some kind of loose-fitting spacesuits. They had told Michael -and Pandora had confirmed- that this was their flagship. He thought it looked like a glorified scrapheap, but so long as their bigwigs were here he didn't much care.

A blue-skinned alien Michael recognized as a being a Felician, the same race as Dejah, stepped out from the center of the group and spoke surprisingly well-enunciated English. "Well met, humans. My name is Revarjah," he spoke in a gravelly voice. "Do you require assistance?"

Michael's eyebrows rose and he gave a light chuckle, "No, but 'you' might if you don't explain what it is you're doing here with what might be construed of as a war fleet." The way he said 'might be' made it clear he wasn't impressed and that the aliens weren't operating from a position of strength.

This caused some muttering among the alien ranks, but Revarjah merely gave an amused snort and explained, "I do apologize for arriving as such unannounced, but we had predicted you to be currently embroiled in a fight with the B'Amuf. We are- were," he spread his arms dramatically and his lips curved into a smile, showing he found it every bit as outrageous as it sounded given the situation, "your rescue party."

Michael couldn't help it. He burst out laughing, the sound echoing around the enclosed space eerily. He found himself liking this alien despite himself. A few of the other aliens shifted nervously at the outburst. Marcus shook his head and muttered something about it being a few months too late.

After wiping the tears from his eyes, Michael asked in an amused voice, "And your group of suped-up freighters was going to take on over a thousand B'Amuf warships how, exactly? Though, don't get me wrong. I love an underdog as much as the next guy, but it seems like an awful lot of effort you've gone through to cobble this fleet together for so lofty a goal."

"Well," Revarjah said, as if discussing a plan that had sounded much better when they were coming up with it, "ideally the main B'Amuf fleet would have left by now, having knocked out your main military assets and landing an occupation force. We would have only had to fight the paltry force they left behind in orbit before defeating their ground forces and linking up with any of your resistance groups we could locate."

There were nods from the group behind him, as if everything he was saying sounded quite logical. Michael realized they had witnessed a B'Amuf takeover before. "After that," the speaker continued, "we would share our technology with you, establishing good relations."

There was then an uncomfortable pause before he admitted, "We were hoping to then use your planet and its population and industry as a launching pad against the B'Amuf. You would be the least pacified race out of the conquered planets and in the best position to lead the effort."

As Revarjah looked around at the armored guards, he was reminded of the warlike nature of the humans he'd witnessed in their television broadcasts. Oh, the Felcians were a warrior-race themselves, proud of their own martial prowess, but in terms of scale, they were nothing when compared to the massive, destructive wars that had rocked Earth. "The last broadcast we received from your planet showed the B'Amuf warships had you surrounded. We'd greatly like to know how you managed to overcome them if it was, in fact, you."

Actually, the very last images had been a terrifying mass of missiles heading outwards while hundreds of thousands of primitive aircraft had lifted off from the surface. Many in the delegation had wanted to turn around at this. Surely, the B'Amuf would not stand for such opposition. They would treat the humans as a lost cause, wiping them from existence.

But Revarjah was a scholar in regards to the Terran broadcasts and had been adamant that their resistance would hold true. That if any race could manage to survive a B'Amuf invasion, it would be the humans. Still, to overcome such a technological superiority and actually 'win' was staggering.

Michael smiled, showing his teeth as he'd seen Dejah do and countered with a question of his own, "How is it that you speak our language?" He wasn't about to reveal Pandora's existence. She was their ace in the hole and he didn't have a clue how artificial intelligences were received among the galactic community.

Revarjah mirrored his smile with one of his own and said, "We have been receiving your signals for quite some time. Around 14 of your years ago, not long after being conquered by the B'Amuf, some of us began trying to decipher them. At first there was only static, but as we analyzed more of it and homed in on where it was coming from, we were able to gain a picture. Today, I believe we have almost as clear an image as the television sets in your living rooms. By magnifying the area where the signals come from before the particles are dispersed, we're only a couple of years behind in reception."

He shrugged and continued, "English was the language most commonly broadcasted, so when programs I believe you show to your children came on teaching your language, it was those which some of us chose to learn."

Indeed, he'd fallen in love with the range of emotions he'd observed in the broadcasts. He'd filled a hole caused by the death of his family with a willingness to learn about these Terrans. Revarjah was moved by their dramas and war stories, fascinated by their documentaries and science fiction films.

Michael was impressed with the resilience these aliens showed. Then something clicked. "Conquered," he whispered, then addressed the group in surprise, "You're all part of the 23 subjugated planets in the B'Amuf domain."

The blue-skinned alien appeared taken aback that Michael would have that information, but gave a neutral shrug. "Most of us are. Some are from trade delegations that don't like the B'Amuf any more than we do. Some are freedom fighters. Others have simply been recruited to the cause or don't have anywhere else to go."

"Won't the B'Amuf make life miserable for the people on your home planets if they find you're part of an uprising?" Michael asked curiously.

"It is already miserable!" a stout, grey alien shouted in a nasally voice.

Revarjah held out a hand to calm the one who had just spoken and explained in a pained voice towards Michael, "The B'Amuf will indeed make our citizens suffer if they ever find out our identities. As it is, I think we managed to fake our deaths convincingly and none of these ships can be linked back to our home planets. Still, it would be devastating if you were to tell the B'Amuf about our involvement." He knew the humans now had something to hold over them if they so wished, but they were already in a vulnerable position.

Michael scoffed, "Like I have any love for those whoresons. If they find out, it won't be from us." Revarjah shot him a relieved look at hearing that.

Finally, a hulking, bull-nosed alien with dusky green skin and what looked like a transparent oxygen mask over his face stepped forward abruptly, causing Marcus to raise the barrel of his 'handgun' imperceptibly. He'd been acting agitated the entire time the two were conversing and it seemed he could no longer contain himself.

"Enough!" the alien shouted in a crackling voice, ignoring those behind him that were trying to pull him back. "Tell me what you've done to our ships." Revarjah made placating gestures with his hands trying to get him to calm down.

The large brute absently swiped at the hand reaching for his shoulder. "No! He will answer to me or I'll make him answer," he bellowed in barely recognizable English. Dwarfing Michael, he came to rest a few feet away, blocked by two armored troopers. The alien sneered, "I won't be held captive by a mere boy."

Turning to the delegation, he spoke in an alien language that Pandora was able to recognize from the B'Amuf database. She helpfully translated for the humans present, "He still hasn't told us what happened to the B'Amuf. The only explanation is that they made some kind of deal. The humans are stalling! I bet even now the B'Amuf are on their way."

Michael shrugged and said in the silence that followed, "Well, it is true that they are on the way here." Amidst the stunned expressions there shown the triumphant one of the dusky green creature. He made a discreet gesture which caused Kat to blur into motion.

There was a scream from the ramparts above them as her throwing spike was lodged into the vacuum-suited would-be sniper. She suddenly appeared in front of the one who'd made the gesture, her other arm extended towards his head holding her heavily customized Beretta 92A1, a red dot appearing between the green alien's horrified eyes.

She titled her head and intoned dryly, "You've just volunteered to be made an example of." The shot rang out, reverberating around the compressed space, startling all the remaining aliens. Brain matter and black blood burst from the gaping hole and the nerveless body collapsed to the deck.

Michael stuck his little finger in his ear and rubbed the itch he had from the sudden pressure the noise caused. "What I was going to say," he continued, as if nothing had happened, "was that the aliens are coming here because we defeated their first invasion force. We predict them to send another one, most likely considerably larger, within the next few months."

The assorted aliens looked shocked as they rubbernecked between Kat's gun and the pile that remained of the dusky green upstart. Then, one of the scaly lizard-like people of Isaac's race stepped forward stuttering, "Yo- You're actually using projectile weapons inside a ship?" By the end of her statement -Michael thought it was a her since she didn't have the prominent ridge of bone he'd seen on Isaac- her voice became quite shrill as a sign of her distress.

"Why not?" Michael asked, with a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. "How thick are your hulls?"

The alien turned to Revarjah and he furrowed his brow and said, "Around one of your inches in metal with roughly five inches of insulation."

"One inch," Michael repeated dully, seeing what the scaly individual was getting at. He sighed as Marcus muttered something about 'fucking deathtraps.' He supposed he shouldn't have been surprised. The hulls of the first Apollo craft were only a few millimeters of aluminum thick.

Still, he'd built the Intrepid to withstand full-on nuclear blasts without shields. His hulls made these ones look truly pitiful -and that was without considering the new isotopes or the regenerative qualities the nanites gave them. If he remembered correctly, as soon as the shields on the B'Amuf ships had been overloaded they were absolutely shredded. Perhaps now he knew why...

He shook his head. "Why don't we move this meeting into a conference room on the Intrepid," Michael suggested, before adding under his breath, "before someone sneezes and it all caves in around us."

"It's all perfectly safe," Revarjah added hastily, not sounding very convinced himself. He stamped down hard on the deck as if to verify this statement and all the troopers in the hold flinched in response.

Michael nodded assuredly, as if agreeing with a child's logic to simply appease them. Pandora's analysis scrolled across his vision and he saw that their hulls were made of an unidentified metal that was lighter than aluminum, but also less dense.

"Yes, we are all well aware of their vulnerabilities," the surly, grey alien that had spoken up before said impatiently. "They weren't built to fight battles. They were built to haul freight. Now if you don't mind, I believe you suggested us getting out of this cold lock."

Tilting his head to acknowledge this, Michael opened his mouth to agree and get them moving when the watching aliens saw his eyes lose focus, as if he was sharing some unseen conversation. He turned to the alien that had been outlined in red in his vision and casually told him, "I suggest telling your engineers to stop whatever it is they're trying to do. It won't rid your ship of our control and is actually causing your drive to overheat."

Addressing the entire cargo bay, he fixed them with a steely gaze and declared, "Know this. We have control of your vessels. If you somehow manage to regain control of them, we still have power over the inner workings of your reactor cores and will immediately order a self-destruct. So just sit on your hands and enjoy the ride." With that, he turned and walked back towards the Intrepid, leaving the alien he'd called out hastily fumbling for his comm.

As it turned out, only a portion of those aliens present decided to board Michael's strange and domineering vessel. At least, he assured himself it was because of the ship, not wanting to believe they could have been turned off by his sunny and ever so un-prickly demeanor...

These included: Revarjah, the Felician. The scaly green alien whose name and race were both impossible to pronounce, but she politely told Michael that the other aliens called her Serkiss (apparently humans weren't the only ones who had trouble in that department). And Pillum, the stout, grey-skinned creature of the Malmorian race that Michael had come to admire for his straightforwardness.

Together, the three represented the 'refugees' as Michael had dubbed them; those that had escaped the subjugated worlds. They were joined by three lanky figures swathed in brightly colored robes that stood for the main body of the merchant consortium in their sector of the galaxy. They were actually looking to open up trade with Earth and had provided most of the ships for this expedition. Michael wished them luck. They would need it.

Next to join the party was the leader of a troupe of mercenaries, of all things, a dark skinned female with long, oily braided hair wrapped around her neck and olive green face tattoos wearing dark armor. She said they could call her Mara and didn't offer her race. Michael wondered if she'd taken the name from their broadcasts. Her English was impeccable so it seemed a possibility.

Kat was eyeing her with lusty appreciation just as she was eyeing Kat with masked wariness over how fast she'd seen the dark red-haired girl move back in the hold. Coincidentally, the ships Mara led were the only ones that looked like they could have weathered a battle. They also contained the only crews that hadn't panicked when their ships were taken over. The refugees had set aside a portion of the ore and minerals they had collected for the B'Amuf and given it to the merchants who then hired the mercenaries on retainer.

Finally, the last of the aliens to follow them aboard was the leader of the self-proclaimed freedom fighters, a smooth-talking alien with slicked-back orange fur that reminded Michael of a weasel. He acquired an instant dislike for this latest addition even before he began complementing Kat about her looks and how deftly she'd gotten rid of the 'slimebag' in the cargo bay.

As Michael was contemplating the quickest way to kill him without leaving a mess, Revarjah leaned towards him and gave a snort of amusement, murmuring, "I see you don't approve of Greasy. He's contributed no money or ships to the cause and still thinks he should be in charge. Trust me, you're not alone."

Michael glanced over with a raised eyebrow. "His name is Greasy?"

"Well," Revarjah hedged before chuckling, "not to his face."

That got a grin out of him as Aurora and an aide joined them around the conference table. Michael synced with Pandora and ordered them on a course towards Mars with the alien fleet bringing up the rear, each ship escorted by a pair of AI-controlled destroyers. He also ordered her to prep the Council for a video conference.

'Of course, master,' came the reply. 'Refreshments will be ready momentarily. We know what Revarjah and Serkiss will like from Dejah and Isaac, and I have analyzed the physiologies of the other aliens and have made approximate guesses.' Michael smiled at her foresight.

His smile grew wider as he heard a shriek of pain and looked up to see Greasy with a slim foldout knife stuck through his hand. Apparently Kat hadn't appreciated his attempt to pet her hair. Michael addressed the troopers that had rushed. "Haul this trash back to- no wait, I don't want him out of my sight. Toss him in the brig," he said in a bored voice, waving his hand dismissively.

Michael found the array of emotions that flitted across the table fascinating as the armored guards dragged away their screaming prisoner. The three trade delegates squeezed together, clearly distraught, but recovered almost instantly after the sounds had died down. Serkiss and Revarjah looked satisfied while Pillum looked as if he found the whole process distasteful.

Mara was unfazed and continued to watch Kat, but there was newly formed respect in her eyes. Aurora ignored the incident, having gotten used to such things happening in Michael's presence, while her aide shuffled papers nervously. Just then, refreshments arrived.

Revarjah's eyes lit up as he sipped his drink and he asked, "What is this heavenly concoction?"

Laughing, Michael told him, "Baileys Irish Cream with a hint of caramel. A friend of mine loves the stuff."

Michael turned to Serkiss and inquired, "I'd heard your race doesn't take well to long periods of travel. Are you doing okay in this dry environment or would you like to go someplace to wet your gills?" Serkiss blushed and explained that she was fine. They had recyclable mist machines on her ships. Her words tended to end in cute little hisses that were driving him crazy.

Finally, they settled down as images of the Council of Terra began flickering in. Holographic representations of members began appearing around the vacant seats and Councilman Whitmore, elected to the position of Speaker among the group, began introducing themselves. Revarjah, in turn, introduced their side and Michael began explaining the situation.

He finished saying, "And the best part of it all is we only had to kill one of them," pleased with himself for the restraint he'd shown.

"Two," Kat piped up with a wicked grin.

Michael's expression dimmed a fraction, "Okay, two causalities."

"And we had to cripple one," Kat reminded him, enjoying this way too much.

Michael grumbled something about irrelevant details. "Nevertheless, they're not hostile, they've agreed to tell us what they know technology-wise, and if you so choose, when this is all over, you'll have trade relations with the biggest conglomerate in the quadrant." He made a sweeping gesture and said, "For now, I was thinking we park their ships on Mars and shuttle them to Lunar base."

"I'm confused," Pillum said. "Why not just go to Earth?"

The Council looked uncomfortable and Michael spoke bluntly, "Look. If you had shown up when the B'Amuf did, you'd probably have been regarded as our saviors. Now..." he trailed off before shrugging and continuing, "it would not be conducive to your health to walk the streets at this time."