As Shadows Fall

By Henrik Rohdin

War has come to the galaxy. Planets fall silent and fleets go missing, while allies turn their backs on each other and desperate pleas for help go unanswered... until now.

Returning from the darkest edge of the galaxy, Chad "Gunny" Gunderson and his crew reunite with Major John Gresham and his krokator companion, Akgu Zurra. As shadows fall across the worlds of the broken League of Planets, the collection of unlikely partners must stage a daring rescue in the heart of enemy territory as the galaxy's battered leaders regroup against foes they never imagined they would face.

Old feuds harden and new tensions boil as Gunny, Gresham, Zurra and their ragtag team of misfits, exiles and traitors scramble to strike back and defend their homes - before there is nothing left to defend.

"As Shadows Fall" is the fifth novel in the ongoing "League of Planets Adventure" from Henrik Rohdin.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Henrik Rohdin
• Release date: Apr 6, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463455104

Henrik Rohdin

Henrik Rohdin is a native of the Pacific Northwest. The "League of Planets Adventure" is his first foray into the wild, anarchic world of self-publishing.

Book preview

Prologue

Rome, Planet Terra, Sol System

The streets of Rome were full of bodies.

The tidal wave that had come crashing in from the sea had swept up people, HUVRs and other debris and funneled them down the narrow streets of the ancient city. Those who had avoided drowning in the murky, polluted water had instead been smashed against the walls of the stone buildings or crushed by the tons of junk carried in by the torrent.

As the water receded, it left a tangled mess of corpses and twisted metal behind, along with thousands of fish. At first, the fish had flopped awkwardly for air. Now, they lay as silently still as the humans and aliens around them.

Consort stared out over the carnage. The stink of rotting fish and bloated carcass filled the air as the sun set over the Eternal City. A bulldozer with large treads rumbled down the street, pushing a wall of bodies before it. The Senecan driver stopped the vehicle as he passed her. He rose out of his seat, saluted her with his arm held out straight and bellowed, "Hail Consort!"

"Hail the Iron Mother!" she called back and returned his salute. The bulldozer moved on, finally depositing the bodies in the Tiber. It then went into reverse, turned around and zoomed back up the street to find more corpses to clear.

This was Caesar’s dream, Consort remarked to one of her two bodyguards. Reclaiming our home, here, where our culture originated.

A centurion approached down the cleared street, stepping scornfully on one of the corpses that the bulldozer had missed, and saluted her. Hail Consort! Your presence is requested in the Colosseum.

Consort nodded once. Of course. Lead the way, Centurion Severus Agrippa.

They walked at a calm pace. Any resistance left in the city had been scattered to the outer districts. After the waves of death receded back to the Mediterranean, the Greatcrawlers had formed a perimeter around the city before the Senecans landed their main force here, from which it had spread out with tanks, Ventures and a special troop of elite warriors meant to clear the towering apartment blocks that began at the old city’s outskirts. Men of fighting age were executed on sight, while women and children were arrested promptly.

There had been sporadic fighting in recent days, once word spread. Planetary forces that had survived the tidal waves had mobilized, particularly in the north. Any troop movements larger than more than a few dozen men were easily targeted via orbital strike, however, as they had been all over the planet. As long as the guerillas stayed away from the quarantine zones Consort had created, there would be no issue.

A Greatcrawler drove one of its two dozen shiny steel legs through the dome of St. Peter’s. The massive cathedral crumbled as it slammed its leg into it again, and the massive pulse beam affixed to its head levelled the rest. The other end of the Greatcrawler lit up as well as its pulse blew down two structures a hundred yards away. The whole of the inner city was to be cleared of structures built by the Abandoners – this was where the Children who had survived the destruction of the Iron Mother were to come.

Even after several return trips to Nero – which defeated the entire purpose of the Home-Coming – the most adroit Senecans still could not figure out what had happened to the ancient vessel. Thousands had perished in seconds, but Consort was lucky that almost all of her warriors had been part of the fleet that had retaken their home. Breeders and children were replaceable, and they had salvaged enough Habitats to begin populating the remnants of Rome.

They circumvented a mountain of debris being sorted through by the gleaming chrome drones the Raptor fleet had sent down to begin the deconstruction process. They were capable of quickly and efficiently demolishing the buildings that needed to make way for the gleaming capital city envisioned by Caesar before his death, and they were just as useful for moving the ruins of what the Greatcrawlers had already levelled.

The Colosseum had been left untouched, per Consort’s instructions. The ancient structure was now surrounded by a thousand yards of cleared space in each direction. Jagged chunks of rubble still stuck out here and there, but soon it would be gone, and the Colosseum would be the center of the new Senecan capital to be erected on this spot. Consort had approved the designs already – it would be the perfect new home for her loyal warriors and the wives and children they would soon be taking as their own, a debt owed to them after generations spent on the sun-blasted rock of Nero.

At the entrance to the Colosseum, Consort turned to her centurions and said, From here, I go alone. Wait for me.

Of course, Consort.

She entered the ancient structure, running her hands along the walls. The Romans had pitted slaves against each other here, fights to the death, all for sport. The Senecans would do likewise, she had decided, for the fittest women. The ones who survived the death matches to be put on here would be conscripted as warriors, to join the ranks of the Children. Survivors were always adaptable.

You are late, a voice remarked from behind her as she came into the central grounds of the Colosseum, and she turned around to see Hazhak sitting perched in the stands behind her. The Assavi narrowed his fierce green eyes and twitched his fanged mouth as if he were smiling. Admiring your city, Senecan?

It is not finished yet, Consort replied. We have barely just begun.

Hazhak crawled down from the stands. Like all Assavi, he was a dark brown color, with four legs and four arms. Small spaces between his thick, armor-like scales glowed as the darkness continued to set in and he pivoted as he approached her, his clawed feet clacking against the old, weathered stones. He stank of carrion and excrement.

When you are finished, he said in his harsh, high-pitched voice, you must give me the tour.

You will have to remind me. Consort looked around the empty Colosseum. If I’m late, then where are the others?

Coming, Hazhak hissed. An Assavi hates to come to a meeting last. He made his way down towards hypogeum and turned to face her. Will you join me, Senecan?

Consort warily followed the Assavi down into the shadowy bowels of the Colosseum, treading carefully on the thick vegetation that blanketed the place. Involving the Assavi was unavoidable, or so Caesar had insisted. She understood the thinking, and the nomadic barbarians had taken the brunt of the casualties in seizing Terra – thousands more of her Children would have died without their help – but she still was put off by their lack of hygiene, their intentional boorishness, and most of all the blunt condescension of Hazhak, the ambassador sent to treat with her by the hunt chieftains.

I am proud to report that we intercepted an Alliance carrier group reinforcing the planet Manhattan, Hazhak said. We can confirm there were no human survivors. Five of our vessels were lost. Even on heightened alert, we caught them completely unprepared.

Excellent, Consort replied. The Abandoners are being scattered both on the ground and in space.

All the easier to hunt one at a time, Hazhak mused. Here we are, Senecan.

They had turned a corner and faced a massive Raptor. The reptilian creature glanced over his shoulder at them, and then returned his attention to the large box sitting in the very heart of the hypogeum.

You came, he observed. The small translator mounted on his collar translated his message both in Assavi and the Senecan tongue.

You called, Consort replied and stared at the box. Are the briling coming?

The briling have not earned our trust yet. They have done as asked so far, but there is still too much risk to include them.

Hazhak tapped two of his arms together and turned his large, ovular head on its side. Included in what, Larjzla?

The Raptor Larjzla turned completely around. He was missing his right eye, and his snout and neck were covered in poorly-healed scars. Some of his long teeth were missing their tips. Consort had no doubt that he had earned every one of his battle marks.

You were invited to this place on my recommendation, Larjzla said in a low growl. This is a privilege you have earned through your loyalty and station. If you speak to anyone, even your own people, of what you are about to see… then I will kill you.

Hazhak paused and looked at Consort. The loosely-appointed Assavi spokesperson seemed uncomfortable with the responsibility.

Once this box has opened, there is no turning back. Do you understand, Assavi? Larjzla continued. This is the ultimate test of devotion.

I… I’m ready, Hazhak replied, clearly nervous but also quite intrigued.

Senecan, are you ready to begin?

I am ready, Consort said bravely, though she could feel her legs trembling. What secrets could he be keeping in this box?

Then kneel! the Raptor bellowed and the box opened from within. Inside, a silver sphere stopped spinning and slowly came apart with a distinct hiss. Consort looked up and locked eyes with the orange-eyed demon that had crawled out.

It took everything in her power not to scream.

The Gathering Storm

"…never was so much owed by so many to so few..."

Our Ancestors’ Prayers, Foreword

Devlin, Peter

New Cambridge University Press 2/39

I have been fascinated with the idea of ancient visitors since I was a young boy and read my first books on Sumerian mythology and the notion that what ancient men believed were gods were in fact astronauts from an advanced civilization.

I was raised in a small town known as Centwine-upon-Goodbrook on Aurora in a large family, with six siblings. I was the third eldest, and the first boy. My parents were devout Anglicans, and I share their deeply-held belief in Jesus Christ, even today as I grapple with the existence of nuclear attacks against primitive cities, aliens jetting about to stone age worlds in mighty starships, and the worship of these astronauts by people trying to reconcile what their eyes saw and their minds could understand.

It is with this attempted reconciliation in mind that I wrote this book after many years of research. The field of ‘Edenist’ study has spawned a vast variety of theories – there is much we do not know about this primordial, galaxy-spanning civilization that vanished without a trace suddenly and cataclysmically. To develop an understanding of them, we must first understand who their devotees were. Who were these people who looked with wondrous eyes to the stars, wondering when their gods would return?

In exploring the experiences of primitive societies in interacting with what to them was near divine, we will also in this book subvert many theories about ‘ancient astronauts.’ It is not my belief, or the belief of anyone serious in this field, that the great monuments and behemoths of the ancient world were built by Edenists – rather that they were built because of them. This distinction is critical in my view.

I also hope to try to infer who these spacefaring, all-powerful beings were. Many in the field of xenoarchaeology are skeptical that the galaxy-spanning Edenist civilization had any contact with primitive cultures, particularly humanity. While they are right that there is no direct evidence, there is plenty of circumstantial proof, in my view, to suggest that Edenists not only visited Earth but sustained a serious presence on it several thousand years ago, during the age of the Pharaohs, the kings of Sumeria, and the earliest Mesoamerican peoples.

And finally, I will admit that I cannot easily reconcile the existence of this species with Christ. There are many who believe that the Yahweh of the Old Testament was Edenist – this I simply cannot concede. Nor will I concede to those who believe that it is dangerous for the devout to study the possibility of gods in the flesh, lest we ignore evidence to support only conclusions that will comport with our religious texts.

I instead counter with only this – for those of us who believe in a higher power, there has never been any greater opportunity in the history of science or religion to marry the studies of the two into one. Never before have we had the chance to definitively attempt to answer the great questions of the universe and try to understand the true nature of the divine.

So with that in mind, I thank you for your interest in the most important subject matter ever set before men – and invite you to join me on this fascinating journey.

Peter Devlin, PhD

Chair of Department of Xenoarchaeology

Endowed Chair of Department of Xenoanthropology

Board of Faculty, School of Extraterrestrial Studies

New Cambridge University, AUR

Chapter One: Alcatraz

Installation Sigma, Unnamed System

Alcatraz was only two hundred yards beneath the shuttle now. The legendary military prison and covert testing site spread out across five craters, forming a rough W-shape on the surface of an otherwise dead moon orbiting a milk-colored gas giant.

The biggest crater lay at the far end of the complex, covered entirely by a massive steel dome. In the other craters were smaller buildings and structures. There were no external structures that appeared to link the buildings – the hallways must have run underground.

The shuttle circled the emptiest crater, the one at the opposite end of the complex from the largest building, and John Gresham noted what appeared to be landing pads and dry-docks nestled inside the shallow pit.

You ever wonder exactly what it is they do down there? he asked aloud.

Colonel Gary Moss looked at him. I try not to think about what Special Projects is up to out here too much. Sometimes ignorance is bliss, especially when it comes to the Alliance’s dirty little secrets.

You’re probably right.

The shuttle banked left as it approached the large structure at the very end. Moss moved to the front of the vessel and peered out of the windows in the cockpit. That should be the prison facility right there. Goes a few hundred feet underground, apparently.

The pilot, Hiro ‘Fuji’ Fujimoto, looked over his shoulder. We’ve been instructed to dock on the other side of the crater. This is it, Colonel.

Thanks, Fuji. Moss turned around and shut the door to the cockpit. Showtime, John.

Showtime, Gresham concurred and got up as the shuttle slowed down. He looked one last time out of the window and noticed large surface-to-orbit batteries fortified in the dusty gray rock.

A hangar door opened on the side of the dome, just above the crater’s lip, and the shuttle touched down inside. The door shut behind them and the hangar was oxygenized. Moss popped open the door on the side and poked his head out.

Here we are, he said and smoothly stepped out. Let’s get our man.

Gresham followed close behind, looking around the bare, unmarked hangar. Part of him still couldn’t believe it. Alcatraz. One of the most secretive places in the galaxy. Everyone in Military Intelligence had known it existed, in some form or another. They knew there was a high-level detention facility here, one where people disappeared and never came out. There were also whispers of secret labs and workshops run by Special Projects. He shuddered to think what kinds of tests were done here, far from the eyes of the public and inquisitive politicians.

A door opened and an unarmed man emerged, wearing nothing but a black jumpsuit. Colonel Moss? he asked smartly.

That’s right, Moss replied.

And who is that with you?

This is my senior aide, Major John Gresham, Moss explained. And who are you?

Instead of replying, the man disappeared through the door from which he had entered. Moss and Gresham exchanged confused glances. Five minutes later, a woman wearing a similar jumpsuit emerged.

Please follow me, gentlemen, she instructed, and led them down a hallway lit with bright fluorescent lamps. After several anonymous hallways and three doors that were only opened with her fingerprint, they emerged into what appeared to be waiting room. There was a fit young man in identical black garb waiting behind a desk.

Thank you, he said to the woman before she vanished through an adjacent door. The man smiled. Welcome to Installation Sigma, gentlemen. I’ll need your identification and official request for transfer of custody.

Gresham and Moss both had their fingerprints and retinas scanned and then Moss handed the man a small disc. Here it is. What should we call you, by the way?

Officials at Installation Sigma are not required to use or give their names, the man replied without looking up while reviewing the information on the disc.

Even when a superior officer addresses them?

The man looked up and stared at him for a long time. How do you know that you’re my superior officer, Colonel?

I… never mind.

Gresham looked around the blank, undecorated room. It had bleach-white walls and the lights were extra bright. Though he was tanned from his weeks on Kenka and Rukkur, his skin still looked pale in the harsh glare.

The man got up and handed Moss the disc. I’ll be right back. Please stay here, gentlemen.

He vanished through a door and the two visitors stood in awkward silence.

They sure roll out the red carpet for you here, don’t they? Gresham quipped after a few moments.

Moss smirked. Yeah, they really go all out to make you feel welcome.

Gresham looked up at the ceiling and focused on a suspicious-looking fixture behind one of the lights. Do you suppose…?

Probably, Moss cut him off. This is a Special Projects facility, after all.

The doors slid open and a tall, fit woman with ice-white hair emerged, wearing the same unmarked black jumpsuit as everyone else. My name is Ash, she said in a soft, soothing voice. Colonel Moss, Major Gresham, please follow me. We’ll go and retrieve your inmate.

Thank you, ma’am, Moss said and motioned for Gresham to go first. After you, John.

#

Eighty thousand miles from the dusty gray rock of Alcatraz, the Shadow Hunter lay in wait. The system was devoid of any jump gates or other signs of civilization, though the scanners had identified what appeared to be two other haphazardly-cloaked facilities on the far side of the binary stars the lonely gas giant orbited.

Chad ‘Gunny’ Gunderson stared at the hull camera display, telescoping the small silver spots on the far-off moon. To his right sat Andrew ‘Cal’ Calvert, his navigator aboard their hijacked stealth cruiser.

They sure are taking their sweet fucking time, Cal muttered as he did another peripheral scan to check for any ships patrolling the system. Think they’ve been apprehended?

On what grounds? That’s an official Alliance order they have with them, Gunny replied. You should stop worrying so much, Cal.

That’ll be the day, Cole ‘Trench’ Trencher chuckled from a few feet away as he delivered a tray of water cups to two of the briling Shades lounging on the bridge. The massive man turned. Anyone snooping in our direction?

No, not quite yet. We’ll see, though. Gunny got up and nodded at Trench. You got the controls for a second?

They can’t be that hard, Trench said with a sly smile. If you can handle flying a cruiser, I think I can pick it up on the fly.

Yeah, you really got me there, Gunny snorted and socked Trench in the shoulder as they passed each other. After leaving the bridge, he ducked down a dimly lit hallway that cut across the cruiser’s top deck. To the sides were living quarters for the briling crew that had once run this vessel and were now locked in its brig, directly below the bridge. Straight ahead was a stairwell that led down to engineering.

Gunny went around the stairwell to a situation room in the very back of the ship, a sort of mess hall with three tables arranged in a semi-circle with a large screen at the back. Sitting at one table were Riyao Seryin and Gayais Uyail, two of the disavowed Shades that now formed the backbone of Gunny’s crew. At another was the massive figure of Akgu Zurra, Gresham’s krokator partner and confidant.

All three were watching footage on the screen of the Briling Dominion’s Arch-Prime, Nidoan Oiyai. Dressed in modest black and white robes, he had a gaily dressed honor guard behind him as he spoke from a simple poyl-wood lectern.

"The events of the last few days around the galaxy have shaken the modern interstellar order to its core. As we lose contact with populated worlds and systems every day, as the value of currencies and financial markets around the galaxy continue to plunge, as chaos reigns, I can only give my Decree that the Dominion is secure. Our trade lanes are open, our military is on watch for the phantom threat that is scouring the systems of our allies and neighbors, and our government is intact."

What he really means, Uyail said icily, is that we knew this was coming and we know they won’t attack us.

Seryin looked over his shoulder at Gunny. An Arch-Primal Decree. This is the first broadcast from the Dominion since Terra was hit.

Gunny crossed his arms. This ought to be good, then.

"…With fleets around the galaxy vanishing into the darkness of space and pandemonium about, the Dominion will be retrenching here at home. All fleets of the Dominion Navy will remain within our borders, to defend our civilians and our trade lanes. Refugees from around the galaxy are welcome to join us at select sites both in the extremity systems and in the Core Worlds, up to a quota to be determined this week by the High Council. We know that the Teacher smiles on the Dominion in that we have been spared so far from the senseless attacks by our unknown enemies, and we pray that in His wisdom, we may continue to be so spared."

Someone will decipher soon that the Dominion is not being attacked, Zurra remarked. They will be suspicious.

No attacks reported in the Iktathol Federation, the Pree Republic or in your Empire either, Sharm Zurra, Uyail countered. That’s four Chair Nations that have been spared so far. Clever thinking, too. No briling general or politician who values his career would ever endorse aligning with the krokator to fight off a threat, and the pree and iktathol are hard enough to corral into galactic events as it is.

Zurra nodded. This is true, friend Uyail.

I wouldn’t be surprised if your Arch-Prime tried to blame the krokator, given the circumstances, Cal said out of nowhere, materializing next to Gunny. Sly motherfucker that he is.

"I humbly ask all merchants still travelling space to report any suspicious activity and to be at guard for attacks. We cannot fight this threat together unless we are vigilant and watch for any and all signs of danger…"

Seryin sighed deeply. I never thought it would be my people who would become the enemy. That we would be the aggressor race.

Zurra gave him a dark look, as if anticipating what would come next, but Cal instead tapped Gunny on the shoulder and said, You should come back to the bridge, we’ve got something on the Network.

Gunny obliged, leaving the three aliens in the mess room. Once they had gone, Zurra leaned towards Seryin and asked, Seryin, I have often wondered about this odd human expression… what does the word ‘motherfucker’ mean?

Seryin laughed. Zurra, I have my theories, but I think I shall keep them to myself. Perhaps it is best we not know.

#

Ash led Gresham and Moss into an elevator at the end of a long, narrow hallway and they started to move down very slowly.

The internment facility here at Installation Sigma is designed to hold up to eight hundred enemies of the Alliance, Ash explained. Entering this elevator is usually a one-way trip. It is… exceedingly rare, you see, for someone confined within this facility to be moved to a different one.

Well, Acting CAF’s orders, Moss replied, unamused. The elevator was tight and claustrophobic.

Do you know what the inmate you are requesting did to land himself in here? Ash asked off-handedly, as if she was asking what the score of the morning’s game was.

Rumors, mostly. It’s not really our concern why he’s here, Gresham said smartly. His skills are needed for the war effort.

Yes, that takes precedence, Ash agreed. The reports have been grim, what few we receive here.

The elevator stopped suddenly and the doors slid open to reveal another waiting room. Wearing a bright-yellow jumpsuit and sitting passively on his knees between two black-clad guards was a middle-aged man with thinning gray hair, bony cheeks and bright, intelligent brown eyes. He looked up, confused, at Gresham and Moss.

Please identify the inmate, Ash ordered.

Inmate 703, one of the guards said loudly. Lithcombe, Ian. Fifty-one years old, born on Aurora. Fourth year of internment.

Please consult your orders, Ash instructed Moss, who complied, sliding the disc into his touchpad. The dossier for Lithcombe appeared, with the inmate code and information matching.

It looks good to me, he said, glancing up to meet Lithcombe’s curious gaze.

In that case, we will escort Mr. Lithcombe to the hangar, where he will be formally transferred to your custody, Ash explained. I will show you back.

They returned to the elevator with Ash and it rose quicker than it had descended. Gresham ventured, So how long do you guys get stationed out here?

We are not at liberty to discuss terms of service here at Installation Sigma. Ash looked at Gresham coolly. It is a breach of protocol as it is for non-internal personnel to travel to and from this installation. Our location is a closely guarded secret.

They emerged into a different hallway than the one from which they had come. They walked in a sort of semicircle through a curving, white-painted passage with sealed chrome doors leading spaced about twenty yards apart. Gresham noticed that one door was slightly ajar, and he could make out three men in civilian attire poring over a stream of data on five massive screens within.

A pudgy man with square glasses and gray hair parted straight down the middle passed them, walking in the opposite direction. He accidentally bumped into Gresham and stumbled slightly, turning and quickly apologizing.

Oh, I’m very sorry, sir, he said in an Auroran accent.

That’s quite alright, Gresham replied. Once the man had walked another hundred yards or so down the hallway, almost disappearing around the corner, Gresham peered over his shoulder to get one last look at him.

Probably just one of the Special Projects researchers here.

A door slid open in front of them and Ash led them into a perpendicular hallway. They turned sharply right and through the next door was their hangar, with their shuttle parked right where they left it. Lithcombe, still attired in his yellow suit, was standing next to the shuttle, his hands still magnetically cuffed behind his back.

If you will just sign this release, Colonel Moss, Ash said and handed him a touchpad. Dr. Lithcombe is all yours.

Thank you, Moss said and quickly obliged. He looked at Lithcombe, who was watching them intently, and then smiled at Ash. We appreciate your help.

Good luck, she said cryptically and then motioned for her guards to follow her out of the hangar.

Included with Lithcombe’s official release was the key to his magnetic cuffs. Once he had climbed into the shuttle, Moss turned them off.

My name’s Gary Moss, this is John Gresham, Moss explained. We work for the Alliance government.

Lithcombe looked between the two of them warily, rubbing his wrists together to return circulation to them without saying anything.

You’re being released on a probationary basis, Gresham continued. Your services are needed by the Alliance.

My services being needed is what landed me in this fucking hellhole, Lithcombe said in a brash, thick Auroran accent. He grimaced. I figure maybe they wind up landing me right back in.

We don’t know the details of your incarceration, Moss said diplomatically. Your files were sealed. Whatever it is, I’m sure you didn’t do it, and if you did, I’m sure… I’m sure that you’re very sorry about it.

I’m never sorry about being a scientist, Lithcombe replied. He leaned back against the shuttle walls and strapped himself in as he felt the vessel streak out of the hangar. I do appreciate you two coming here to fetch me, though.

Gresham could already tell that Lithcombe was going to be difficult. He leaned forward sympathetically and asked, What were you in for?

Knowing too much. Like most people in there, I imagine. It’s not like they let us talk to each other very often, and bad things happen if they find out you’re sharing privileged information. Lithcombe seemed to relax as he added, A lot of people in there are pirates, aliens, that kind of thing. There’s a lot of secrets in that place, there are. I should know. I used to work on the other side of the bloody installation from the Prison Hole, as they call it.

Gresham looked out the window one last time as Alcatraz vanished from view over the dead moon’s horizon. For all the rumors and hushed whispers about the place, the facility had seemed small compared to the imposing house of horrors he had been expecting.

Easiest bloody transfer they ever made, Lithcombe continued. They just escorted me from my dormitory on one side of the place to my cell. Simple as that.

What did you do?

An experiment went wrong, and the government pulled funding on my project. Lithcombe smirked. Didn’t want me sharing what I knew with anyone else, so they found a clever way to keep me quiet. That security clearance I enjoyed came back to bloody right bite me, didn’t it?

Gresham could see Moss’s discomfort with that notion. Did everyone privy to the Alliance’s great secrets get hurried off to Alcatraz eventually?

Alcatraz grew smaller and smaller as they approached the rendezvous point with the Shadow Hunter. Against the black of space, a lit-up hangar appeared at the bottom of the cruiser and the shuttle deftly slid into place within. The hangar doors were shut within seconds and Gresham felt the brief, fluid quivering of the Ripple Drive as it quickly leapt lightyears away into deep, uncharted space.

There was a broadcast from the cockpit as Fuji announced, "The Hunter is clear of Alcatraz. We are beyond the Alliance now."

How did you…? Lithcombe looked around, confused. In what…?

Welcome to your new assignment, Dr. Lithcombe, Moss said with a smile. We’ve been wondering just that same thing.

Chapter Two: Acting Government

Planet Aurora, Bessel System, Human Alliance

In the last twenty-four hours, we lost contact with the Herculean system and Polyphemus, General Robert Mountcastle explained. Ten hours before that Hippolytus went offline.

That’s two major worlds and a cluster of smaller colonies, then, one of the former Parliamentary-aide-turned-Cabinet-officials muttered grimly. Munchie Mangold had a hard time keeping track of who was who – every day it seemed like someone brought into the Acting Government from the original Auroran government had been fired or broken under pressure.

Who are we still in touch with out of the major worlds? Acting President Roger Cleary asked. Just over a week ago, he had been Prime Minister of his native world, responsible for little more than domestic budgets and making sure the planet ran smoothly. Now, he was presiding over the rapid collapse of the Alliance.

Poor bastard, Mangold thought from his vantage point at the far end of the room, opposite Cleary and Mountcastle, the head of Aurora’s local defenses and, for now, the Acting Commander of Allied Forces.

We are currently in touch with New Prussia, Lutetia, Tian, Edo, Solaris and Darwin, a young woman answered. If Mangold’s notes were correct, three days ago she had been promoted from local Minister for Arts and Culture to Acting Foreign Secretary. That was one hell of a jump.

Per the Contagion Protocol, we have nationalized every jump gate that we still have a signal on, Mountcastle said self-assuredly. We are also in direct contact with each world that remains. Every fifteen minutes, we receive a signal. If a signal is missed, the jump gates to that world go on standby. If a second consecutive message is missed, or an emergency broadcast from that planet is received, the jump gates are turned off immediately.

Wouldn’t that cut off refugees? the temporary Foreign Secretary asked.

That’s how Contagion works, unfortunately, Stu Craig replied. The former GDP political guru and longtime Santa Monica ‘fixer’ had been unceremoniously shipped off to the League of Planets by Richard Godford a few months prior rather than be appointed Secretary of Defense. He had since raced back to Aurora to fill a similar slot in the Acting Government, and just with hours to spare: since his departure, Tero and the League headquarters there had been attacked. There were few who doubted its fate.

As I was telling the President this morning, Contagion assumes there is a virus or disease. Jump gates are immediately nationalized and turned off to quarantine infected worlds, Mountcastle detailed. It is the best countermeasure we have against… against whatever it is that’s assaulted us.

Where are we at with intelligence on that? Cleary asked. He looked exhausted.

Most of our incoming reports are panicked rumor. Very unreliable. Under ordinary circumstances, we would discard it, an MID representative chimed in. However, these are no ordinary circumstances.

Based on the lack of hard data to go on, everything we hear about our enemy we’ll have to assume is true, Mountcastle concurred.

Which leaves us where?

Senecans and Assavi for sure. Something else, too, but we don’t know what. Foreign vessels unfamiliar to our analysts, the MID man said. Massive, powerful vessels. Unlike anything ever seen. Can tear apart our destroyers with a single blast.

Speaking of which, what’s the status there?

Craig shared a defeated look with Mountcastle before saying, "Out of the thirty-six carrier groups active prior to the attack, we have so far lost nine. Six at Terra, of course, and then the Palermo group the next day."

So a quarter of our fleet capacity has been destroyed, Cleary calculated.

"Correct. The other two groups destroyed include the Athens and the Algiers, both from the 8th Fleet when it was scrambled to defend the Altair System two days ago. That’s just the fleet carrier groups, too. The local orbitals have been almost completely wiped out, and several fleet strike groups beyond the Alliance have been destroyed."

Craig emphasized, Sir, keep in mind we have only the Auroran Royal Defense Force in orbit here, with the 7th Fleet arriving in the next few days… if we have that long. Other fleets are scattered throughout local space, including in defensive positions above friendly non-Alliance worlds, and all our remaining strike groups are out on patrol.

Any new reports there?

"Nothing new to report. Vega is still the nearest and largest neighbor to go offline, and we should assume the worst about their defense fleets. I held off on sending the Philadelphia and its attached group to investigate for that reason," Mountcastle said.

Good thinking, Rob. Cleary drummed his fingers together. What would you suggest the next course of action be?

Contacting neighboring star-nations to mount a unified response. We’re scattered and running around like headless chickens, Craig said with a grimace. The Dominion obviously won’t be any help, you heard the Arch-Prime yesterday.

And we still haven’t heard from Vice President Reed or our embassy there?

Radio silence. Intelligence assets on the ground have been unable to respond to our messages, Craig stated. "My worry is that Destiny and her protective detail were ambushed and destroyed coming home."

It’d be mighty fine for the Dominion to tell us if that was the case, though.

Like I said, they’ve completely hunkered down and shut off communication. The krokator have, amazingly, been sending us intelligence updates, but they haven’t had a single attack within twenty lightyears of them. Mountcastle thought about it and then said, That tells me our enemy is afraid of the KSE’s naval prowess.

It could tell us a lot of things. It could tell us that this is a Crock plot, too, Craig said with a paranoid tremble to his voice.

It’s not beyond the realm of reason, but they’ve been more open with us than our ostensible allies in the Dominion, Mountcastle cautioned. I’d avoid jumping to any conclusions, President Cleary.

Cleary nodded. Yes, yes, I agree. Keep our ears open, let’s not be hasty. Rob, can you send out a signal to the nearest carrier groups and have them converge on Aurora? I have to imagine there’s a reason they haven’t attacked our provisional capital here yet.

That’d be concentrating a lot of our forces in one place, vulnerable to a single attack, Mountcastle said. I would advise against it.

What do you think, Mr. Craig?

Our fleet is vulnerable as it is spread out thin, with each group able to be picked off rapidly. There is strength in numbers, I suppose. You are the Commander-in-Chief, Mr. President. It is your decision. I can understand both your argument and General Mountcastle’s.

Cleary seemed to debate the matter internally and then nodded once. Make the call, Rob.

Of course, sir.

Well, we’ll adjourn for an hour. Everybody get some coffee or a nap. I’ll be in my office, Cleary said with a sigh and shakily got up. He was escorted out by a huddle of advisors, leaving a few stragglers in Parliament Hall’s situation room.

It’s a bad idea, you know, Mountcastle remarked to Mangold as the researcher passed him on the way out. We’d be risking more fleet assets at once.

You don’t think Craig’s analysis holds true? Mangold asked. He’s a sharp man, General. I’ve known him for years. Opposite sides of the battlefield, of course, but it’s hard not to respect the man.

Mountcastle smiled. Would you care for lunch, Mangold? I’m positively famished.

They made their way down to an empty cafeteria that overlooked the central financial district of Buckingham City, across the deep blue waters of the Windsor River. It was early spring in this part of Aurora, and cherry blossoms were budding along the impeccably landscaped river walk that cut through the central city.

It’s a strange thing, having practically a whole city to yourself, Mangold said as one of the dutiful cafeteria robots served him mashed potatoes and a side of lukewarm chicken. The pantries here had been some of the first to be raided as panicked Members of Parliament assigned to the new local government had fled the city to the temporary Auroran capital established on a different continent.

"It was like that in the Dhruiz War. You’d