Here is Radoma. Burning with a mighty flame, it rests among a sea of stars. Golden Radoma enlightens many worlds, but every one is a barren rock: the lifeless remains of it's birth. A disk of gas condensed as it spun ever faster; the center shaping into a ball. It grew and warmed until it burst into life. Much of the disc dispersed; what remained huddled close and each became a world. These worlds circle Radoma, each in its own ellipse that will, one day, deliver them into the depths of the fiery beacon: back together again.
A ship approaches: an explorer. A simple vessel made of dull grey and black. It takes great time to investigate every world in detail. It is looking for something, anything it can find: resources, intelligent life, or even just a place to call home. The crew must be thorough, so they spend many weeks here. They grow weary, pondering over charts and figures, but do not complain. These are humans: men and women dedicated to the sole purpose of exploration. They search the galaxy for anything of worth, and whatever they find, even if it is nothing, they send word back home.
The survey is complete, and they depart: either to explore another region of space, or to return home. Little time passes before many more ships arrive. These are much larger vessels, and more specialized. In Radoma, Humanity has found the perfect place to build a community, and it leaps at the opportunity like a wild cat. Only one world is suited to the task: here they concentrate their efforts. The grand fleet of starships swarms over the planet. The surface is obscured by the mass of metal shells; all that can be seen are flashes of light, slashing across the surface.
Many days pass in this way, until the sight becomes commonplace. All of a sudden, the swarm abates, and the planet is revealed. Water now dots the world with lakes and scars it with rivers. The surface is soft with soil; only the rare mountain range would suggest it had ever been otherwise. The sky is no longer black during the day, but blue and often a host to clouds.
Much has changed, but this world is not yet alive. As the swarm of starships departs, a different fleet approaches. They are vessels of life, carrying the seeds of what will soon be a vibrant world. The vessels drop into the sky, one by one. They lace the surface with seeds: some in the lakes and rivers, some in the valleys and hills. In close order, another fleet of starships arrives to relieve the seeders. They bring the smallest of animals: microbes. The work is quick, and their departure is as abrupt as their arrival.
Months pass as the world comes to life; green specks appear and devour the brown landmasses as they grow. The time has come for yet another fleet, this time bearing larger animals: countless kinds of creatures from insect to mammal. The work is done, and with the arrival of the last animal comes a wildlife sanctuary; yet such is not its destiny. Humanity has found this world and claimed it. Here, they will build their homes and grow their crops; this is a world of purpose and will be put to good use.
Fields take the shape of squares and circles, betraying their purpose to the skies. It is a patchwork of green and gold, with torn holes and weaving threads of blue. The sight in daylight is astounding, but only at night can the towns be seen. Each twinkling point of light is distant from every other, forming a mirror of the starry sky. A great multitude of people live here. Their farm is the size of an entire world; even with the aid of so many machines, every capable human being must work the land every day.
Here is the community of Jinsetianye, named for its golden fields. Here outside of the town center is a farm; the numerous acres of land are defined by wooden fences, but these fences are little more than markers. The colony is a safe, tranquil, planned place. The farmers were offered powerful defenses to protect against invaders: automated weapons platforms, defense satellites, and even powerful generators to produce great, shielding domes of energy. Few accepted: wood is good enough for a fence and far less trouble to keep. More than that, the farmers know that fields of grain and cattle may be valuable to Humanity, but pirates and raiders always chase after greater bounties: they would not waste their time in unintimidating Radoma.
Years pass while people flood into the colony. As the last of the farmers settle in, a ship descends in each town; it lands, and from it exit a column of men and women. Every one wears black armor, and carries white weapons on the back. They march by the farms and into each town. Outside of Landwirtraum, a young boy and his mother are working in a field nearby. The boy points to the marching soldiers and asks his mother who they are. She tells him: they are Alliance Marines, sent to protect the colony; there are many bad people who would attack us or steal from us, but they wouldn't dare to come here, where there are Marines. The boy smiles, and waves to the Marines. Some of them wave back, some of them smile. They are glad to be here. For them, it is a reprieve; they know just as well as the farmers that a farming colony is safe from harm on its own merits.
In town, one platoon takes dinner in a local eatery; even in their civilian dress, it is clear from their manners that these are exceptional soldiers. They eat hearty meals and laugh hearty laughs, enjoying the peace of a small village. They share old stories and in-jokes, confusing any onlookers. Closing time approaches and the festive mood dies down. From their stout, ivory homes and towering apartments, the townsfolk watch the soldiers shuffle out of the eatery, along the streets, and back to the landing pad. Marines need no barracks, for they live on their ships.
The Marines are welcomed by everyone, or at least, anyone who feels otherwise is kind enough to hide it.
One day, the soldiers are called away. Just outside of Jinsetianye, a young lady, no older than seventeen, spots the Marines as they board their ship. She asks her father about this; why are they leaving? He tells her that there are many other colonies of greater value than this one, and because of their value, they are at a greater risk; the Marines were able to stay here for a time, but they are needed elsewhere now. The young lady feels ill at ease, but she returns to her work. During their time here, the Marines left an impression on many people. They earned great respect and admiration. They had nothing to do in such a safe haven, but they did not laze about. Marines aided the farmers in the fields and the villagers in the town; whether it was repairing an old harvester or replacing the ground floor doors on a tower, they were always willing to help. Their selflessness was inspiring to everyone they met.
Few of the others are as calm the young lady's father. Only one day after the Marines depart, a woman preaches doom in shrieks as she runs through the town; she pounds her fists on closed doors, and shouts at open windows: we have been abandoned. A small crowd has been following her, trying to calm her down, but they cannot catch up until she collapses in a fit of tears. The wailing drowns out any words of sympathy from the crowd. As two cousins lead her away by the hand, the remainder broods over her outburst.
Over the next few days, many are surprised to learn who does and does not keep arms; those who do, offer their protection, most in exchange for payment. Everyone knew how safe they were before the Marines, but they became accustomed to the reassuring sight of a soldier patrolling the streets, or offering a hand with difficult work. Now that they've gone, the colonists cannot help but fear the worst.
Across the world, town councils hold meetings, hoping to address these concerns. Different communities have different reactions, but they share one question in common: who will protect us? Debates rage on for hours, and in a few towns, the day runs out before a conclusion is reached, and another meeting must be called the next day. Every town comes to a solution of some kind or another; most choose to establish a militia, made up of able-bodied, willing adults, and funded by the town treasury. A few towns go so far as to enact conscription. Conscripted men and women are made to live in a barracks in the town center, tearing families apart and dooming small farms to be left untended. The rare trading vessel is overwhelmed by customers for armor and weapons, and any trader without them can only leave empty-handed.
Some of the towns are calm. The inhabitants remember the time before the Marines, and they understand that their safety continues. Ever since the colony was founded, no one has invaded or attacked, not even before the Alliance extended the arm of protection. Even so, much of the world lives under the shadow of fear: anxious about an impending attack.
Dawn breaks on the largest town and capital of the colony: Lubentia. The red veil of the morning sun falls across the tall towers and stout houses, smothering the dark. As the red sky gives way to blue, a black spot pokes through. The hole grows, and as it takes shape, it drops out of the sky, leaving it intact. Early morning light reveals a shimmering vessel, descending from the heavens. It settles on the earth, and a figure emerges; A middle-aged woman walks into Lubentia with a briefcase in her hand. Her blue uniform is unique to the Alliance, and this starts many hushed conversations among the villagers. They fear news: hoping against better judgment for the return of the Marines. Even the militiamen, who have formed great confidence and bonds with each other, hope for the Marines, but despite their inner desires, they keep an air of disdain about the matter.
The Alliance woman marches forward in silence, seemingly blind to the curious farmers and villagers watching her advance. She enters the town hall, and people crowd around the entrance. They grow tired waiting for hours to hear any news, but very few leave the scene. In the absence of any apparent danger, the colonists have become even more anxious. If Radoma's iron grip on the world could be broken, the building tension over the last few months could break it, releasing the world to sail away from its orbit.
The woman emerges from the town hall and is pelted with questions, but she ignores them. An expression of cold stoicism leads her out of town. The inquisitive villagers turn to the town hall instead. The men there tell more with flush faces than could be told in words; while the farmers still must provide for the Alliance, there will never again be a Marine on this world.
Angry militiamen arm themselves and chase after the Alliance woman. She is about to step into the vessel, when the armed farmers hurl threats from a distance: demanding the Marines at gunpoint. Weapons wielded with menace, she glances at the two guards on the ship, and takes a chance. She dives into the ship, as the guards raise their weapons. One of the militiamen is too nervous to keep from shaking. A shot is fired. It wounds one of the guards, and the other fires back in response. As the ship lifts off, out of harm, several of the armed men lay wounded, and the others continue to shoot in anger, until the heat of their weapons is too much to bear.
Word spreads to the other towns in little time. Several riots break out, and the slip-shod militias are called to quell them. Militiamen are pitted against their friends, their neighbors, and other militiamen: men who submitted to anger like those in Lubentia. Very few are killed, yet even one death is too much.
Over the next few days, the villagers come to their senses, and life resumes; they can do nothing else.
It is the middle of the day in Jinsetianye. A cool breeze battles the heat from bright Radoma in the sky. A young lady is cutting wood while her father shears sheep. She is preparing for their new home; many of their neighbors have already replaced their homes, and some have even bragged about it. The colony houses were bearable, but many sought a house suited to its location: built to make the most of each season, be it the sun in the winter or the wind in summer. Being folk of labor, the father and daughter prepare what materials they can contribute.
Elsewhere in Jinsetianye, farmers are tending their crops and cattle, artisans work their craft, and technicians keep the town up and running. Some monitor the power generators, while others maintain the complex circuitry in and around the town. A select few regulate air and space traffic. In town, high in the control tower, a monitor flashes with the arrival of a fleet; the technician at this station is relieved: the incoming shipment was so late that it seemed not to be coming at all. The number of vessels is slightly greater than expected, but the technician pays no mind.
An explosion shakes the tower. The power cuts out, and the room is flooded with darkness. They aren't left in the dark for long before the building collapses. The tower topples with a resonating crash: no one inside could have survived. The town is roused by the destruction, and the alarm sounds to gather the militia. Many armed men and women rush out into the streets to the rhythm of the siren, but everyone else seeks shelter underground. Another explosion, this time, some distance outside the town center: the power station. The siren dies with it. There is near silence but for the burning wreckage of the control tower, punctuated by small explosions and electrical discharges.
The militiamen tread carefully, searching for the source of the destruction: perhaps a coordinated attack from one of the greedier towns. No one has faced a real crisis; all are afraid and shaken, some too terrified to move. One woman happens to look upward and spots several small shapes in the sky. She calls to the others to look up, to see the approaching ships. It is an unmistakable sight: dark spots growing larger and more distinct as they approach.
All across the planet, unfamiliar ships are attacking the towns and landing around them. Seven ships land around Jinsetianye, quelling any chance of escape. Dozens of strange, green aliens pour out of each ship; they march forward, weapons at hand. They make no demands or offers of mercy: not a word. Most of the militia are too shocked to react; they are pinned to the spot and are killed first, but the others do not last for long. These invaders are seasoned marksmen; while the militiamen overheat their weapons without a single hit, the invaders rarely waste a shot. Within the first few minutes of fighting, the town militia has been vaporized.
The invaders march through the Jinsetianye, exhibiting their brutality; they knock down doors, blast their way into bunkers, and kill anyone who resists them. Anyone they haven't killed, they pacify and abduct as slaves. Nearly every town suffers this fate: humans tied together in bundles and dragged away in terror. The few towns who prove too difficult to capture meet different tactics; these well-armed, fortified settlements are bombarded from orbit into rubble and liquified.
From the towns, begins the search of the farmland: looking for any more potential slaves. The invaders spread outwards to barns and farmhouses, but quickly grow bored of searching. With their plentiful bounty stowed away, they burn the fields from the comfort of high orbit. A point is made to leave no one alive.
Radoma shines on what is now, again, a desolate rock. Before it was given life, it was a dark, grey landscape, pockmarked with craters and jagged mountains; now it is a bright, red maelstrom. The great fires consume the world for several days: eating away at the green and gold patchwork, boiling up the blue holes and threads of water. When the meal is done, there is nothing left, and the fires die of hunger. Grey rock turned to green fields burned to brown dust. The night-time surface is no longer a mirror for the stars.
It is a lifeless rock but for one small sign. Just outside of the darkened towers of Jinsetianye, a trapdoor opens: a lone cellar forgotten by fortune. The face of a young lady appears, no older than seventeen. She looks around slowly. The remains of her world are little more than cinders, but though it is a sad sight, she does not cry. She glances up at the golden flame of Radoma, just for a moment. The towers of the town center are dark but still standing. The young lady marches toward them. If Radoma will survive, so will she.
Afterword:
This was a small side-project of mine, and the product of my efforts on writing a larger piece. However, that piece will not be ready to publish for a long time yet. In the meantime, I decided to put something out there: something that was at least partially related to what I was working on. This is just the first of several short pieces that have materialized as a result of the longer work, and I expect to release some of those short pieces in the coming weeks.