Antz First Trilogy FREE!

Gregory Matlin looked up from his work as klaxon's and lights began to ring and flash, not only in his little electronics shop, but in the wide corridor outside his shop as well.

He had only purchased this place four months ago, but he had never seen the alarms triggered like this in that span. Several gawkers out in the corridor seemed as confused as he, but these were obviously tourists, judging by their outlandish garb.

“Attention residents and tourists of Anton Brusele Station,” the intercom spoke as the alarms silenced. Gregory recognized the voice of Anton Brusele the Third, as it was with him that Gregory had made the arrangements to purchase this little retirement spot to practice some of the skills he had learned as a fighter and troop transport pilot within the employ of the Space Corps Infantry Division of the United Federation of Worlds Space Corps Fleet. In between engagements, anyway. A forty year hitch he had barely survived, one which none of his friends had, but it was a wide Universe and most races humans encountered were entirely unfriendly.

“I have bad news,” Anton Brusele the Third went on, “and I'm not exactly sure how to say it, so I'm just going to say it.” In the short pause that followed, Gregory Matlin was already moving. He didn't know what he was about to hear, but forty years in the Service had taught him not to be caught with his pants down. He wasn't surprised when he heard the rest of the announcement. “According to Military sources, an unknown alien element has breached the Protected Zone, destroying a section of the Automated Defensive Shield with, I was told, little hindrance. I am informed that they will be here by tomorrow morning at the latest.”

Screams of hysterical tourists, mixed with the yelled commands of men and women taking charge, most of the Station's permanent residents were ex-military personnel of one kind or another, Spacers tended to prefer remaining in space after completing their hitches, dominated the air. Gregory was most of the way into a space suit and that after removing the side arm he never went anywhere without, except the toilet, shower or bed, and shortly was re-buckling it back into place over his lightweight, flexible suit. After the sidearm came the helmet, which adjusted itself after he had put it in place, then he was moving towards the exit.

Though he locked the door on his way out, Gregory doubted he would see the place, and his considerable investment therein, ever again. He was seldom wrong about such things. Anton Brusele Station was right on the Fringe. A small Jump from the Protected Zone. He had been a fool, but it had been a long time since any race man had encountered had proved technologically advanced enough to breach the Zone, much less breach it with little hindrance. If they had breached the Zone with little hindrance, there was nothing man could throw in their way soon enough to halt their advance upon Brusele Station.

Not that the military would throw anything away to attempt to save Brusele Station. Brusele Station was lightly armed and could put up a defense against the average pirate, but she was by no means what you would call armed by military standards. Unarmed, she had no military value, thus, the military would not value her. They would throw away no ships in a suicidal attempt to save her.

Much of a hardened sort, Gregory Matlin had made few friends here in the four months on Brusele Station, but he had met a woman. An Officer of the Corps Intelligence, now retired like himself, and about as unfriendly a person as he had ever met. They had taken to one another immediately. She was now the only person he thought of in the mad rush for the evacuation vessels he knew would be coming in from every available location.

“Mary Beth Holter.” Gregory thought, the cue all that was necessary to attempt the communication. She responded immediately.

“Yes I heard! How could I have missed it!”

“Need a lift?” Gregory asked, though he knew the answer.

“I should ask you that. That little minnow might get you swallowed up.”

“Broke through the Zone with little hindrance!” Gregory repeated what he had heard.

“Take some doing.” Mary Beth Holter said, then in a softer tone; “Kinda grown fond of you.”

“Where you going?” Gregory asked. Though they had been seeing one another for the past three months, neither really had ever spoken of it in that way. They were both too tough, to querulous and gruff and impersonal to allow such sentiments.

“I guess it will be Stanton Station. We should have them stopped by then.”

“If they don't . . . ” Gregory said, leaving the thought hang. “I'll see you there.”

“They have to.” Mary Beth said. “I'll see you there.”

The line made the little sound that meant it had been disconnected, although of course there was no actual sound. The brain interpreted the signals as sound, just as it interpreted vibrations on the eardrum as sound. Same principle, just added into the circuit farther up the line. Gregory was running. Wherever Mary Beth was, he knew one thing for sure, she was running also. An unknown enemy meant unknown technology. An unknown technology meant an unknown Propulsion System. Gregory Matlin did not trust the assessment that this enemy would not be here until tomorrow morning theory!

Once installed in his little ship, the best of everything money could buy besides square meter-age, he was only moments getting free of Brusele Station. It was a free-for-all of ships clearing the Station but few had gotten ahead of him and none could've caught him once in the freedom of open space.

Piloting his little minnow, as Mary Beth liked to call his Transient, between a huge liner that had not even gotten docked and was now turning ponderously away, and a large luxury yacht, the liner, of Trans Verse Lines, cutting it very close, Gregory applauded the piloting, it was clear the liner's pilot was an expert, but hadn't counted on the little Transient flying between.

On one side was what to all extents and purposes was a massive cliff like wall of liner, on the other the bulk of the luxury yacht, it's nose still embedded in the side of Brusele Station. Despite the gravity field of Transient's propulsion system the mass and inertia of the huge liner would smear him all the way down the side of the yacht if they were merely to touch. The pilot of the liner was cutting it close. It was reversing and turning at the same time, normally a procedure that could cost a commercial pilot his license, but under the circumstances might earn him a citation. If the liner escaped. A luxury liner would have no need of a propulsion system in a ratio proportionate to that of Transients. Luxury liners weren't designed for fast trips. Transient was.

Gregory slammed his control toggle all the way up and felt only the slightest inertia as Transient flipped over and dropped like a runaway elevator. In most cases you weren't supposed to feel any reaction at all but Transient had too much drive field for her own good. Or at least in most cases.

Gregory watched expectantly as the liner closed the gap between itself and Transient. Transient was already but less than a meter from the yacht behind it and Gregory still couldn't see the bottom of the liner. This particular liner might've been as large as a small moon and could carry twenty or thirty thousand passengers in complete luxury.

Some of those passengers might've noticed Transient as it passed, but if they did, by this time all they saw was a blur. Then Transient was beyond and accelerating out into open space beyond, the first ship to . . .

A blip he had his computer programmed to recognize was out there ahead of him, though he was slowly gaining on it. Before he could pull close it vanished into the spectacular light show that was Jump.

“How in the hell!” Gregory swore, but there was no answer. Communications between the dimensions, or normal long-distance communications at the span they would now be separated, were not possible with either Transients technology or his internal link. Gregory allowed his computer to plot a Jump, then both he and ship disappeared into its maw.

Gregory exited Jump well behind Mary Beth, fourteen minutes after he and Transient had entered. Jump velocity was fixed, of course, nor did velocity at entrance matter except in the minimum velocity requirement. Try going into Jump too slow and you wouldn't come back out. Most theories on the subject tended towards the belief that you were separated at the atomic level and spread across a vast section of Real Space, that a certain velocity was required to make the push through the dimensions, or folds of space, though nothing had ever been conclusively determined on the subject.

“That was foolish!” Gregory said when he regained contact with Mary Beth. She had gone into Jump just above the required velocity, probably only just to beat him.

“You forget my instrumentation.” Mary Beth responded. “I was well within tolerances. Better hurry up, slowpoke, or you won't get a berth.”

“I'll dock to you and pay the berth.” Gregory said. “There's going to be a lot of ships coming in.”

“Yeah.” Mary Beth said. “I was trying not to think about that. Don't worry about the fees, there aren't any. Military Emergency Act 2714.”

“Right.” Gregory said, though of course he had never heard of it.

Gregory followed her and her Mystical into a plot relegated to the smallest of ships. Mystical wasn't as small as Transient, but was still small enough for these berths. Gregory set the autopilot to dock them and locked onto Mystical even as she locked onto Stanton Station.

There were few ships as small as Transient. Large sleeping quarters, a small kitchenette, a very small head, a living/dining area and small rec room. The rest of her area was made up of drive, reactor and weaponry. She was overpowered in those areas, by some large percentage. Mystical was three times her size, and for its credit, almost as fast. Once docked, the two ships were essentially one.

“Slave your engines over,” Mary Beth ordered, “then come over, if you like.”

Mary Beth was used to giving orders, a full Bird in the Service before her retirement. Gregory didn't argue with her. A man who had spent most of his life alone, who had found it difficult to get along with those of the opposite sex, he had somehow found it easy to give in to Mary Beth. It was simply one of those things he had been unable to explain, it simply was what it was. He slaved his computer over to hers, making them in essence one ship with now nearly double the drive, and walked into Mystical through the open hatchway.

Mary Beth sat at the Captain's console reading a military briefing displayed there. Of course she didn't look her sixty-eight years. Rejuvenation treatment came free for Officers and at a reduced cost for all Service personnel. Physically she was no more than twenty-six, her last Rejuv having taken place right before her retirement. Rejuvenation was the main reason the ranks and files of the Service were so full, when the state of near constant warfare was perpetually thinning them. Gregory's own hopes for an escape from military service, if he also wished to maintain his youthfulness, would be destroyed with the destruction of Brusele Station, if this new enemy force took interest in it. All of his savings had been invested there.

“Admiral Nelson Sandgarth and the 401^st Destroyer Detachment are proceeding to intercept.” Mary Beth said, turning her beautiful eyes on me. Tragic, beautiful eyes. Those were the eyes which had captivated me, but she was a beautiful woman in every aspect, from her honey coloring to her muscular, 1.7 meter, lithe frame. I knew why her eyes were tragic.

“What is her complement?” Gregory asked.

“Nineteen Destroyers and forty-seven Frigates.” Mary Beth said. “They are essentially a police force. They were having piracy problems along the Frontier here.”

“They'll never stop a force that broke through the Zone with little hindrance.” Gregory said, setting his own youthful frame into the copilots lounge. Young in body but old in spirit. “Warfare appears to be the natural state of affairs. When I retired I vowed never to participate again. Now it looks as if I'll have no choice.”

They had never talked of such things. Each had had their own reasons for their decisions. Perpetual youthfulness had not been enough to allay the weight of the things he had done in mankind's name. If he had not retired he might one day have turned the guns of his fighter or transport on his own Commanding Officers. The Service Psychs must have reported somewhat similar findings because he was given his retirement without argument, when pilots of his skill were seldom released graciously.

Mary Beth made no comment and went back to the news release she was reading. She knew she had never been as close to the actual fighting as had Gregory, she knew she could never feel what he felt, but her reasons for retiring had been similar. In her opinion man had forever been too eager to make war on those races it had encountered. Complete subjugation to mankind's rule or complete destruction. She had always agreed that no enemies could be left within man's ranks, but those in positions of authority had always gone farther than she would have. Disarmament, she had always thought, should've been the answer.

Now however, Mary Beth was not so sure. Now an alien race had come to them, showing an aggression and an ability previously unknown to any but man. Maybe war was the natural state of affairs and survival belonged only to the fittest. Unlike Gregory, Mary Beth was not crushed by the weight of the things she had done. The decisions which she had made that had caused the deaths of untold enemies, the actual number of whom she would never really guess. What she understood that Gregory did not was that with which Gregory was made. Mary Beth Holter was an instinctive commander of both men and women and what she had seen in Gregory Matlin, why she had taken him both to her heart and her bed, was the carbon which underlay his personality. It was something the Psych Techs could never understand with all their ridiculous little tests and questions. When the chips were down was when Gregory Matlin would be up. He was a survivor.

Brusele Station

Anton Brusele the Third sat in the luxuriously monstrous chair behind his desk of real teak wood in his office aboard Brusele Station and watched the monitors on the walls for the first telltale signs of either the 401^st Destroyer Detachment or the incoming alien fleet which had breached the barrier of the Protected Zone and according to reports was heading directly towards him. He realized he was a fool for remaining, but he wasn't the only fool to have done so. There were still hundreds aboard who had refused to go, though there had been plenty of available transport. His own yacht was still berthed in its slip, its crew dismissed and gone, with their pay. He had heard the military analysis, as had they all. He was surprised they were attempting a military intervention at all.

More than likely, Anton guessed, the Federation Destroyer Detachment would make a feint to try and forestall further aggression, but would pull back if a superior force continued its advance.

Everything Anton Brusele the Third possessed was tied up in this Station, however. The whole venture had been a calculated risk. His only insurance coverage was for his remaining debts. The Station had only just begun to pay for itself. Fifty years was the mortgage and then he would have become a very rich man. To flee now, to flee the destruction of Brusele Station, would only be to flee into poverty. Anton Brusele the Third had decided to stay and pit his tiny guns against whatever alien horde had broken through the Zone. He hadn't long to wait.

The screens on the walls to his left erupted in brilliant colors, like a star suddenly opening its eyelid and staring out in fusion brilliance. Out of the blazing eye emerged the massive body of a Federation of Worlds Destroyer, emerging slowly but steadily into a new existence. All around it other points of light erupted, also spewing forth their massive machines. Many, many more points of light spewed forth the smaller Frigates.

On Anton's screens the Detachment seemed like an invulnerable force, but the military authorities had made no bones considering their estimation of the Destroyer Detachments probability of success. The 401^st wouldn't have a snowballs chance in hell of successfully penetrating the Protected Zone, so unless this unknown assailant had lost most of its force just penetrating the Zone, they had no chance of stopping them.

“This is Anton Brusele the Third,” Anton said, hailing the 401^st, “welcome to Brusele Station.”

“Thank you. This is Admiral Nelson Sandgarth. You are to evacuate.” Came the response, nor did he sound particularly happy to find civilians still aboard. “I'm sending a Frigate over. Your life is in grave danger. Is there anyone else aboard?”

“No.” Anton said slowly. He had already attempted to talk those who had remained into leaving. Those who were too hardheaded to leave before now had made up their minds. Anton didn't want to complicate Nelson Sandgarth's job any more than it was already. “Just me, and I'm staying. Brusele Station isn't completely defenseless. I'll fight for what is mine. In any case, my time is up.” The right-hand screens had begun to blossom with their own spots of brilliance, though these were farther out.

“Jump technology.” Anton heard Sandgarth say. “Last chance?” Sandgarth added.

“Too late.” Anton said. “Anyway, the Captain is supposed to go down with his ship.”

“It's your funeral. Good luck.” Then the circuit was dead. Anton brought his weapons systems online, targeting the distant Armada still entering Real Space.

There was no question shortly that he had pulled his own hole card as the unknown alien Armada continued to appear in Real Space. His computer continued to annotate each distant blip with its schematics. The ships coming through were huge, some nearly the size of Brusele Station. They kept coming for four hours, slowly advancing on Brusele Station to make room for the smaller ships which followed. That lasted even longer. In the interim Admiral Sandgarth docked a Frigate and took aboard several Stationers who changed their minds. Anton had nothing beyond Brusele Station and stayed with the few recalcitrant's, who, like himself, had their entire investments tied up here. Several others, who owned small ships, there were no ships of any size remaining now, he had sent someone else on with his own, had taken up positions of defense between the growing alien Armada and Brusele Station.

Admiral Sandgarth and the 401^st slowly fell back as the alien Armada advanced. Anton still had some hope he and Brusele Station wouldn't be destroyed, but it gradually decreased over the day as it became obvious they were moving directly towards him. He had never seen a Federation Detachment besides the one now retreating, so this was his first glimpse of anything so massive. These massive alien Capitol Class Ships literally dwarfed the Luxury Liners which frequented Brusele Station, and there were thousands of them. Later in the day, when the last of the advancing alien Armada's ships had finally all entered Real Space, Anton attempted a communication;

“This is Anton Brusele the Third and this is Brusele Station, welcome, in the name of mankind.” He sent this message out on every channel at his disposal, but there was no response. The Armada just continued to advance.

Admiral Sandgarth sent out similar messages, which Anton viewed, and got a similar response. Nothing.

“Admiral Sandgarth, Sir.” Ensign Rawlings, a mere tech said, interrupting his reverie. “The enemy has ceased advancing.”

“I can see that.” Admiral Sandgarth said, but a little too harshly. Like nearly everyone else in military service he appeared young. He was young, physically. In standard years he was two hundred-fourteen and felt the weight of the years squarely on his shoulders as he assessed the strengths and weaknesses of the advancing alien Armada.

He refused, yet at this point, to call it an enemy Armada. To do so would be to admit that he was powerless to stop what would be the destruction of many millions of innocent human lives, due to the fact that the Fleet had nothing close enough to stop them.

“We are beginning to gather some preliminary findings.” Jennifer McClury, his Chief Engineering Officer, said from her Station. “The gravitational fields they are using are not drive fields.”

“Then what are they?” Sandgarth asked, not able to imagine what else they might be.

“Purely defensive, as we also use them.” Jennifer said. “Their drives appear to be primitive fusion. Possibly Cold Fusion with helium 3, but I wasn't able to get an accurate reading through their particle fields. Unless their fusion engines are some type of backup, which I can't imagine, they'll never be able to catch us, Sir.”

“Nor will we be able to stop them!” Sandgarth said. “And we're the only thing between them and several dozen inhabited worlds.”

“Not to mention Brusele and Stanton Stations.” Lieutenant Commander Bradley Vincent said.

“Do we have any type of weapons analysis yet?” Sandgarth asked Vincent.

“We can't read anything through their shields.” Lieutenant Commander Bradley Vincent said.

“They're attempting a full spectrum analysis of our own capabilities.” Tamasia Dalby, his Chief Electrical Systems Engineer said. “They can't read us any more than we can read them.”

“Yet they seem to have no intention of communicating.” Sandgarth said. “They're looking for weaknesses.”

“Or strengths.” Lieutenant Commander Vincent said. “Their intentions are obviously hostile. Our refusal to run has probably confused them, considering their numerical advantage.”

“That confusion will be cleared up when they do attack. If their arsenal is merely atomic and nothing more advanced, which I doubt,” Mark Kennedy, his Chief Weapons Systems Engineer said, “they'll still walk through us as if we weren't even in the way. Anything heavier, anything as sophisticated as we carry, and it will be a short battle.”

“I'm aware of our limitations,” Sandgarth said, “but thanks for pointing them out. We are here to hunt pirates. These aren't pirates.” Sandgarth felt the wave of relief from those on the Bridge, but if he had thought for one second that sacrificing every ship and every life of his command would save those planets he wouldn't hesitate for one moment. There were millions of civilians who would never get evacuated in time, notwithstanding this intruder Armada's slow propulsion system.

“How are the evacuations going?” Sandgarth asked.

“Word of the invaders,” Chief Communications Officer Brenda Stanford began, then paused at Sandgarth's look, and corrected herself, “word of the alien force reached the general population before authorities could institute Martial Law.” She said regretfully.

“Which in layman's terms means those with ships escaped without care for those left behind.” Sandgarth snarled. “I want every one of those who fled in empty ships charged with Treason.” There were several gasps of astonishment in the huge Bridge of Sandgarth's Flagship Bellefontaine, but he didn't care. Mankind had never been so threatened before and he wanted to make examples. To flee and leave your fellow humans to perish was as cowardly an act as he could imagine and this would help stem its repetition if the enemy continued to advance. If the enemy continued to advance, the planets only now directly in its path wouldn't be the only ones to fall. Man's domain spanned trillions of light years and millions of inhabited planets. Admiral Sandgarth could imagine no enemy strong enough to exterminate man, but an enemy of sizable proportion and technological ability could cost her billions or trillions of lives.

Here on the Fringe the planets were yet sparsely inhabited, but only a short span farther into man's sphere of influence, it would be a totally different story.

“They're doing something.” Lieutenant Commander Vincent said.