Interlude: Fratricide
April 12th, 2024 – 22:13
US Route 67, North-east of Searcy, Arkansas, USA
"Got a light, Lieutenant?" the accented voice behind him asked.
Armand almost jumped at the sound. Almost. This wasn't his first day in the field, after all. Sighing, he reached for the lighter in his vest's front pocket. "How long have you been standing there, Stan?"
The old man shrugged as he took the lighter and lit the cigarette in his mouth, closely covering the flame with his other hand as if he were about to crush it in his fist. "Longer than you think, Lieutenant," he finally answered as he inhaled the smoke. Only then he finally let his other hand drop.
"Why do you keep doing that? There's no wind around," Armand said, puzzled.
The man gave him a strange look. "Didn't I tell you all about th- oh right, you don't smoke anymore. Well, take a note anyway – cig lights are a sniper's best friend. Learned this the hard way in Grozny," the last sentence came out quieter than the other ones, while the correct pronunciation of the city's name gave out where did the accent come from.
Ouch. Armand and the rest of his platoon bonded with the peculiar "advisor" fairly quickly. Enough to get on the first name basis with him, and also to learn that asking about his source of expertise wasn't really polite.
Of course, Second Lieutenant Armand Buchard would not give a wooden nickel about politeness if it concerned the lives of his platoon. Little tricks such as the ones taught by a guy that was old enough to be their grandfather were probably worth more than the ammunition, weapons and oil said guy's country was supplying. Well, maybe not the oil. That was just as valuable. Armand still remembered the winter two years ago, before the foreign aid started arriving. Whole cities were on the verge of starvation and freezing. For the military the situation wasn't any better – they were stuck on the western border of the federal government territory, without fuel, ammunition, serviceable weaponry, air or armor support, satellite access, or even basic necessities like hot water and medical aid. If that wasn't living hell, then nothing was.
The conversation got interrupted by the sound of gunfire in the distance. Both men listened warily to the rattle of small arms, interspersed by the sharp cracks of ionized air characteristic of the X-COM laser weapons.
Boom. Boom. Boom. Boom.
The firefight came to an abrupt end as the four Marine Abrams tanks parked on the highway sent a single high-explosive shell each into a two-story house on the outskirts of the town. The flimsily-constructed building instantly crumbled, burying the hapless shooters within.
Armand looked at the tanks with gratitude. The country's breakdown meant nothing but bad news for the US Armed Forces stockpile of armored fighting vehicles, and the Lima Army Tank Plant had been closed for years, ensuring that the amount of the surviving tanks would quickly dwindle due to the lack of spare parts. The Army was planning to get it running again after retaking Ohio, but it was a slow process. Still, they were trying very hard when faced with the alternative – asking the Russians for some, which would be equal parts insulting and humiliating. In the average Joe's mindset the Russian tanks were nothing more than cramped deathtraps.
"They're probably gonna try breaking out of the town," Armand commented, "What do you think about all this, Stan?"
"Not your problem, Lieutenant. 5th Marine regiment will handle both them and whoever tries to flee to the west," the man said dismissively.
"What about us? It's not that I don't appreciate the breather, but shouldn't we help the jarheads out?" Armand asked.
Stan turned away to take another long drag on his cigarette before answering, "Your job here is done. Just sit tight, rest while you can and wait for the fireworks. 157th and 174th Infantry knocked the MSF off I-40 but they'll need your help if you all want to take Little Rock."
Armand shuddered, "Off the record, do you really think this is necessary? It just doesn't seem right, to bomb a town into rubble like this. There's got to be civilians in there."
Colonel Stanislav Konstantinovich Milovanov, an old, grizzled veteran of three wars and decades of insurgency in the Eurasian Hegemony sighed, "Do you know the story of this place?" Noticing Armand shake his head even in the near-total darkness, he continued, "It's not exactly common knowledge, but it was the site of a first Chryssalid attack twenty years ago."
The young lieutenant shuddered. Old leaked X-COM videos of Chryssalids in action were still circulated around in the Internet. Rare were the people who managed to last through one and then sleep well at night.
"As far as I know, nobody settled here after that. Everyone holed up in it is either an MSF soldier or a supporter of theirs. When I was- I mean, I heard people swear the town is haunted," he paused us he looked up to see the moon pierce the cloud cover. "Ch'yort. Come on, let's get down from the road, we're sitting ducks up here with this moonlight."
The two men swiftly worked their way down from the empty highway. Armand felt a tinge of pride – 82nd Airborne was battered by the civil war to the point where it had meager three battalions left, barely enough to form a single combat brigade. Normally the division would be considered wiped out, but the fame attached to its name would mean an unacceptable blow to morale if it were to be disbanded. But even if it remained "Airborne" (the US Army had almost forgotten the concept of "air support" during the past two years) and "Division" in name only, the 82nd still fought on, securing the US Route 67 bridge over the Little Red River mere minutes before the Midwest Secessionist demolition teams could destroy it.
And the secure bridge meant that the Marines from 1st MEF, closely following the 82nd, would be given a clear path straight to Little Rock, the capital city of Arkansas. The only problem was a small, but well-fortified ghost town of Searcy, which was close enough to block all traffic on the highway.
Even when safe from the sniper threat, both real and imaginary, Stan never inhaled the smoke without covering the cigarette first.
Armand gave him another look. He couldn't place his finger on why exactly, but the old man just did not look right in a US Army uniform. Then again, Armand shrugged in his mind, neither did his men in the Eurasian-made ballistic vests and helmets. Still, his thoughts drifted to where they had ended their conversation, "Shit, I didn't know all that… but what I'm saying is, I don't even care if they're insurgents, it's just wrong to wipe them off the face of the Earth like that."
The colonel slowly sat down on the young spring grass, groaning as he stretched his legs out, "And what's the alternative, Armand? Clearing that town house-by-house, and losing God knows how many men doing that? To your credit, you're trained and equipped a lot better than we were in '95 and '99, and you have Apthorpe in charge instead of drunks, charlatans and incompetents. But still, it's a simple choice between your casualties and theirs. I'd choose theirs. Every single time."
"They're still our countrymen," Armand objected quietly.
"Countrymen? Hah!" Stan spat on the ground, "What a joke… The Nohchi were our countrymen too, you know. We lived in a single country for sixty- no, hundreds of years and then it all went to shit in a span of five. Not just them. From the Tajiks to those Baltic sellouts, everyone was suddenly at each other's throats. This is the same thing here. Yesterday they were your countrymen, but now they'll nail your wounded to window frames and use them as human shields for snipers. They must burn like the traitors they are and good riddance."
"Bulldog Actual, this is Rook 13, we're approaching the target area, ETA 5 minutes. Pop flares to designate friendlies," a voice appeared from the radio in the colonel's vest, interrupting the conversation before it could become really unpleasant.
The response came immediately, "Copy that, Rook 13. Popping flares in three-mike."
Exchanging quick looks, the two men climbed back up onto the highway, lying down with a clear line of sight to the defiant little town.
"So that's how it ends," Armand mused out loud, "Russian jets level American towns with fuel-air bombs. Five years ago this would sound too outlandish even for a movie. Even for a shitty 80's movie remake."
"Citadel command to all Rook units. We have confirmation from AWACS that the Falcons from Little Rock AFB are taking off. You must get back under our SAM cover ASAP."
"Russian jets wearing USMC livery and with American pilots inside," Stan replied, "Irony works both ways, comrade Second Lieutenant."
Before any of them could comment on that, a high-pitched howl of multiple jet engines appeared from the east. As if in response to that, green flares started lighting up all around the besieged town, designating the loyalist Army and Marine units locked in a stalemate with the separatists fortified inside. Thankfully, not one of the flares was even remotely close to the town proper – ODAB-500PM fuel-air bomb was anything but a precision weapon.
"Affirmative, Citadel. Rook 13 to all Rook units, remember, one pass and haul ass. If I see any of you going for seconds, I'll make sure you never touch a plane again, assuming the MSF doesn't do it first."
Armand snorted. After the two-year break the loyalists finally received some new planes and the fuel to put them in the air with. Bringing the extremely happy and overeager pilots back to Earth quickly became a problem.
"Cover your ears," the colonel reminded Armand before doing just that.
"Rook 13 commencing bombing run. Duck and cover down there, boys, these things hit like a ton of bricks."
Pressing his thumbs inside his ears, Armand remembered. He remembered the burning Fort Bragg, the 82nd's base getting bombed by their own former comrades from the National Guard and the Air Force for having the audacity to swear fealty to the new federal government. He remembered the despair he felt as the United States of America he knew and loved was reduced to a handful of impoverished states under martial law. He remembered the frozen, nearly lifeless New York, the civilians huddled in the few buildings that still could be heated, tens of thousands dying just because the rest of the country suddenly decided to go along with "every man for himself". And for what? No matter how much the separatists tried to justify their actions, it was clear as day that the most powerful country in the world fell due to a couple greedy bastards each wanting more power all to themselves.
"Oddballs away!"
He remembered it all as the four Frogfoot ground-attack planes screamed past him and over the town, leaving a visible trail of poorly burnt kerosene so characteristic of Soviet engines. And a hint, just a hint of a cruel smirk crept onto his face as the jets made a sharp turn to the north, accelerating the instant they released their payload. The whine of the engines grew louder, the pilots squeezing out every last ounce of power to get out of range of the blast wave in time.
Empathizing with other people was hard in this new age of warfare, but the effect of the airstrike was beyond what he had ever seen. Normally "Oddballs", as the USMC pilots had called these bombs with disturbing affection, were deployed using a single plane, making every separatist force in a fifty mile radius scatter as soon as the plane was spotted in the air. A squadron of four Frogfoots generally meant more conventional armaments – rocket pods, cluster bombs, air-to-ground missiles. It was nothing to laugh about either, but it could be survived using appropriate cover.
This time was different. There was no single target to be eliminated with a precision strike, no concern for civilian casualties, no fallout from the media to be taken into account. The ghost town of Searcy was just going to be made an example of – for the second time in two decades.
The furious roar of the ensuing blast drowned out even the sound of the jet engines. The fire brightly illuminated the surrounding countryside, making it shine as bright as day before a thick veil of smoke shielded Armand's unadjusted eyes. The inferno consumed the town in mere seconds, terrifying forces shredding buildings like wet tissue paper, throwing trees and abandoned cars around with ease and vaporizing any unfortunate souls to be caught within.
"God have mercy on us all…" he said as he let his head drop into the cool grass.
"None of this would be happening if there was one... Commander?" Stan's voice suddenly sounded a lot more younger and feminine, prompting Armand to raise his head from the grass in surprise.
Yet he saw nothing.
Chapter 10: Respite
Monday, 13th March – 00:10
X-COM Base One
The flames died out, like a raging bonfire that had abruptly run out of fuel to consume. Darkness settled upon his mind for just for a moment, since nobody was about to let him sleep.
"Commander? Are you there? Commander?" Andrea's voice quickly brought Buchard some sixty years back into the future, back to the quiet of the command center.
He blinked a few times, trying to focus his vision and chase the annoying memories away. "Yes. Sorry. Must've dozed off. Something happened?"
Andrea gave a hint of a smile before pointing to the datapad on Buchard's lap. "All quiet for the past four hours. But the government's weekly evaluation just came in," she said before lowering her voice, "Don't snore so loudly next time."
The monitors weren't much brighter than the rest of the command center now that the city they depicted had gone to sleep. The lights were dim, the streets were quiet, and only the feed from the few functional cameras in the downtown district stood out like a sore thumb, the neon signs making Buchard's eyes sting. He quickly turned his gaze to the datapad.
"Pleased with your performance and adjusted the funding accordingly", finally some good news for a change," Commander Buchard grumbled as he read through the message. "I dare them not to be pleased considering what we're forced to work with here…"
"You're being awfully negative lately, sir," Scruggs commented quietly from his workplace. Judging by his tone, he was bored out of his mind.
The commander shrugged sarcastically, "Damn right I am. Our only capable interceptor is wrecked, two agents got nearly blasted to shreds with while another one got nearly eaten by those… what did biochem name them?"
"Hyperworms, sir," Andrea helped him remember as she leaned on the commander's chair. She had recovered pretty fast, but still could not stay upright for prolonged periods of time.
"Yeah. Those things. So now we can only sit here and shout obscenities at the passing UFOs. In about thirty-six different languages, if I remember the personnel list right. Not even during the First War were we in shit so deep, at least back then the CFO took us seriou-"
"CFN, sir," Andrea interrupted him, "It was renamed to Council of Funding Organizations only in 2040."
Buchard gave her a scolding glare. "Whatever. What I was saying is that our sponsors took us seriously, and did not leave us to handle an alien invasion with hovercars. Painted bright red. This is the part where I'm supposed to say that I'm too old for this shit, but then the Sanctuary Clinic will sue me for slander against their rejuvenation treatments. When is the announcement going on air?"
"Sensovision will insert it into the daily news block at noon, Commander. Permission to speak freely?" Scruggs asked.
"Go ahead, Specialist."
"That "don't get hurt" poster looks plain stupid. Does its author even have any idea of what our agents look like in the field?""
Buchard took a few seconds to process the outburst before chuckling, "We're short on good artists here, Scruggs. This is just something Yamanaka from quantum physics threw together on a moment's notice yesterday. I think it's actually based on some old 20th century poster. Don't mind it too much, we got bigger things to worry about."
"Yes sir," Scruggs nodded. "I'm sorry, that was random."
"No problem. Now, what else do we need to check on?" Buchard looked at Andrea. "Oh yes. How's the progress at the crash site?"
"They've just finished disassembling and shipping. Krause's squad is setting up the charges to destroy the rest. Still no sign of any alien activity."
"And the Valkyrie?"
Andrea hesitated for a bit, "It's… salvageable, but Engineer Spratling said it will require a considerable amount of time to repair."
Buchard dismissed the concern, "He can take his time. We'll need to lay low," he said as he noticed Andrea's bewilderment at his words, "No other choice here. Our agents are exhausted after this week, our fleet is useless, and the reinforcements from Mars are delayed. I have all the reasons to believe that this is due to someone poking their nose into our business uninvited."
"And who would that be?" Andrea asked.
"Hell if I know. It might be anyone from the moral crusaders in the NWC Parliament to Solmine trying to pin the stolen Elerium on us again. What matters is that whoever they are, they should not expect to mess with us and not receive a kick on the ass afterwards," the man made a pause as a yawn interrupted his tirade, "But that's a problem for some other day."
Andrea shook her head. "We can't let anything be put on the backburner now, sir. If there's a threat, we need to allocate resources to containing it and-" her eyes widened as she suddenly fell to her knees, "What- why?"
The commander sighed as he helped her stand up. Careful not to let himself be heard by Scruggs, he quietly berated her, "I told you it was too early for you to get up. Even if you can't feel it, your wounds haven't healed yet."
The young woman scoffed – a first expression of emotion in days, "I can't afford to be lying around in the med bay now of all times, I got a base to run!"
Buchard chuckled, "It's midnight. Your shift is over anyway. Come now, I'll help you get to your room. Scruggs, inform me if anything out of the ordinary happens."
"Yes sir!" the operator was polite enough to coincidentally look the other way.
"I can make it there myself, I'm not helpless," she protested as Buchard led her out of the command center.
"Sure you can," he grumbled as he steered her towards the officer living quarters, "I'm just going to make certain that you actually go there and not on some business that can wait till morning."
She gently wrenched herself out of his grip, "Alright, alright, I'll go."
The Commander watched her every step of the way as she disappeared into her room. Grumbling, he turned towards the door to his own quarters. Truly, there were no more urgent matters that couldn't wait till after a good night's sleep, he thought as he closed his eyes just for a moment… and the image of the flames immediately came back.
"It was not my fucking fault!" he spat through clenched teeth to nobody in particular as the door opened, letting him inside. After a moment's consideration he just collapsed onto his bunk, not even bothering with undressing. From his point of view, sleep was a waste of time by itself. Being haunted by memories of his own mistakes would only make it worse.
The past is over, dead, and buried, he thought, not for the first time in years. And not for the first time he knew he was wrong. Always wrong.
Monday, 13th March – 11:34
Medical Bay, X-COM Base One
Owing to the events of the last few days, the medical bay was a little more crowded than usual. Most of the injuries were easily dealt with in a matter of hours, limiting the number of those remaining in Soup's care by Monday to three.
One was a slim, tall Latino-looking man barely out of his teens with shoulder-length black hair. Of all the patients, he was the furthest on the way to full recovery. Even so, he resembled a patchwork doll with freshly regenerated skin coming in sharp contrast with the remains of tattoos that had once covered most of his body.
The slightly shorter person sitting in the open intensive care chamber next to him also had black hair, but that was where the similarities ended – for starters, his haircut was a shorter, unruly mess. He was also very pale, a feature common of those who had spent most of their time in space. He did not look too bad either, the casts on his legs being the only reminders of a near-fatal crash a few days ago.
The same could not be said for the third and final patient. Auburn military buzz cut and overall bulk indicated that he was the only soldier out of the three. Still unconscious, he was sealed inside his chamber, medical equipment reaching deep into the disturbing, perfectly round wounds.
"…and like our flight instructor back at the Academy used to say, "A cadet's head is primarily used to keep a helmet in its regulations-mandated place," the pale man finished the joke, being in the middle of telling a story to his newfound ganger friend.
Both men shared a chuckle, before Rico spoke up. "Well, that's a side of X-COM I definitely haven't seen before. Honestly, I thought that for a shady government agency you guys would be at least a bit dour."
This time it was Ian's turn to laugh as he waved his hand in dismissal. "Don't get me wrong, we are the best of the best. Well, at least I am. But given the stresses of our line of work the higher-ups don't really see anything wrong with us having our fun every once in a while, as long as we keep doing our jobs right."
"No alcohol though, eh?" Rico asked with a smirk.
Ian nodded. "Yeah, no booze until shore leave. We're not missing much here anyway, all that's sold in this city is Nutrivend brand environmentally-friendly piss. You want a good drink, you go to Geneva, or Mars. And there's also a nice brewery on the Land of Nod, but that's in the ass end of nowhere on the Frontier. I think I've been there like… twice. Best beer I've ever had though."
Rico's cheerful demeanor gradually turned into fascination. "You get around a lot, don't you? What's it like out there…" he stuttered for a second, seeing the confusion on the pilot's face, "Out there, in space? I've never actually been off-world."
Ian took a few moments to gather his thoughts before speaking, "Imagine a desert. A really huge desert, like North Africa. And in that desert, there's fifteen thousand people scattered in small villages. And these people don't get along. At all."
Rico leaned a bit closer, "That bad, huh?"
Ian blinked, "Bad? I wouldn't say so. The Frontier is a mess, that's for sure, but it still represents progress. Land- well, space of untapped riches and wonders. The name was chosen for a reason."
"But it's dangerous, isn't it? Aliens and stuff?"
The pilot chuckled a bit at the young ganger's curiosity, "The Ethereals haven't showed up in almost a decade, ever since they got their last expeditionary fleet single-handedly trashed by CANS Cameron. The real danger in there is human. If you were to make a two-dimensional map of the Frontier, the territory under firm NWC control consists of three systems in the lower right corner – Elysium, Hope and Ra. That's where the first colony ships arrived, and the conditions there are pretty much like on Mars. Beyond those three it's the proverbial Wild West. There are only two exceptions."
Rico made a guess, "Asgard and Al Dagor, right?"
"Right you are," Ian nodded, "Marsec's private haven is roughly in the center of that map, while Al Dagor enjoys permanent X-COM protection on the top right corner."
"Why Al Dagor of all systems though?" Rico asked.
"The only settled planet in the system, Astron, is a priceless treasure we must keep under contol at all costs. It's the only one we've found where the atmosphere and gravity are practically indistinguishable from Earth's. You know what that means?"
To Ian's surprise, Rico readily answered, "Mainly it means that there's a lot saved on colonization. Even Mars is still relatively hostile to human life. But on Astron there is no need to spend money on terraforming, atmospheric regulators, gravity stabilizers, radiation shields and whatnot."
Ian raised an eyebrow, "You're a lot more knowledgeable than I thought. You weren't kidding about being from the slums earlier, right?"
"Nah," Rico said, "It's true. I really wanted to get out so I spent a lot of time on educating myself."
"That's admirable," Ian noted with approval, "I like people who strive to improve. What do you think you're gonna do once you're in?"
Rico looked away a bit, "I, uh, always wanted to be a lawyer," he stuttered again as Ian burst into laughter again, "What? What's so funny?"
Ian wiped the tears off his eyes, "Sorry, sorry, it's just... "lawyer" was the last thing I expected to come from you, no offense meant."
"Eh, none taken- wait, did you hear that?" Rico sharply turned to the sealed ICU to his right.
"Putain de merde, where the hell am I?" came the weak, yet extremely annoyed voice from the inside.
"Inside the base's medical bay, Private Gautier. You are safe," Soup's voice came from nowhere as the chamber's lid retracted, exposing Gaston Gautier to the world once more.
"Morning, Private Gautier," Ian addressed him with a chuckle, "Feels good to be alive, doesn't it?"
A groan indicated that the trooper was not in the mood for humorous banter. "Not really, but I do feel the urge to murder everyone around me if it counts."
"That's too bad. Will a sandwich fix that?" Ian said, pointing to the enormous food tray next to him, courtesy of the base's resident (and as it turned out, very compassionate) chef.
The glare Ian was given in return could probably burn through an inch-thick plasteel armor plate. "You're offering me a snack right after some… things tried to eat me for dinner," Gaston muttered before focusing his eyesight on the tray, "Actually never mind, I'm starving. How long have I been out? Rico, you should know."
"Ever since they brought you in on Saturday night, so I guess that's..." Rico paused for a second to think, "Two days."
"It's Monday already? Oh man. Corporal Homburger is going to skin me alive for lying around like this."
However, the imminent threat of flaying by superior officer did not dissuade Gaston from descending upon the breakfast with vigor that could not reasonably be expected from someone who had just spent three days being a living vegetable. Rico and Ian were left to watch in silent amazement as Gaston devoured three times the amount of food they had both eaten today in mere minutes.
"Ah," Gaston breathed out in relief as he finally relented, "That's much better. So who might you be?" he asked Ian.
"Sergeant Ian McNeil, assigned to Charred Heap of Scrap Metal One. No, don't do that," he quickly added, seeing Gaston's horror at the realization that he had just shown disrespect to a superior officer, "I don't give a shit about ranks, especially my own. Just Ian. Okay?"
Gaston smiled, relieved, "Yeah, okay, Ian. So… I guess you guys have a better idea of what happened after I got jumped by these critters?"
Ian rolled his shoulders, "I wasn't much better off than you, but last I heard, they secured the UFO. No more surprises after that."
"Yeah, about that," Gaston shuddered, "I didn't actually think you survived the crash. Not having ejected and all."
Ian frowned, "Ejecting would have been suicidal. Valkyries and Hawks take quite a bit of time to purge the armor plating around the cockpit pod. I wasn't quite sure the aliens wouldn't just shoot me as I ejected either. Especially since I've seen it happen before."
"Uh, guys," Rico interrupted them and pointed to the large screen on the wall, "The news are coming up."
"From the Sensovision Corporation, this is The World's Afternoon News on MPBC. Good afternoon, Mega-Primus, this is…"
"That's nice," Ian turned to the screen, "I like discovering new things to complain about."
Rico snorted, "Like you'll find any on MPBC. All they ever do is trumpet about the glorious triumphs of the hard-working folk of Mega-Primus, yadda yadda."
"Reading between the lines, my friend, that's what you do when facing blatantly pro-government media," Ian answered with a chuckle.
"Final evaluation is being carried out on Megalopolis Number Two. Today the NWC Environmental Safety commission will issue its verdict on whether the newly-reconstructed city is once again safe for human habitat..."
"I wonder what will they name it," Gaston commented on the sight of the Manhattan. Like with Toronto, the construction crews tried to restore or rebuild the most iconic landmarks, and the images of Chrysler and Empire State Buildings (reconstructed thanks to the aid of General Metro corporation, and they would never shut up about it) flashed prominently in the segment.
"They'll probably keep calling it New York. Mega-Primus is the only one with a unique name because it was the first of its kind," Rico said.
"Despite the rapid progress made, experts are still voicing doubts about the success of this venture, most concerns being about the significantly higher degree of atmospheric contamination compared to Mega-Primus, as well as the proximity to the toxic Atlantic Ocean..."
"Bullshit," Ian waved his hand in dismissal, "Our atmospheric regulators can handle everything short of a hellhole like Venus. Earth is practically a cakewalk compared to colonizing other planets, which is why we're building these cities in the first place. And who are these "experts" anyway?"
"I always thought "experts" means "we have a stupid opinion that we want to look smarter than it actually is," Gaston stated with a completely serious face, eliciting a few chuckles.
"A memorial service was held today at the New Quba Mosque in the city of Port Scott on Mars, commemorating the 30th anniversary of the official end of the Eurasia—Arabian war of 2054. The so-called Last War on Earth started with a massive Eurasian air- and missile strike on the former Saudi Arabia and abruptly ended after Transtellar's announcement of the creation of the Mark I Conversion drive on New Year's Eve. An official ceasefire was signed only three months later in Budapest…"
"Funny thing is, Transtellar probably saved the humankind. Arab Bloc was one itchy trigger-finger away from nuking the Ruskies in return for destroying three quarters of their oil production capability," Rico said, before noticing the weird looks from Gaston and Ian, "What? I've been paying attention during history classes!"
"In the Frontier- we're sorry, but we interrupt our schedule to bring you this breaking news."
"Oh shit," Gaston quipped.
"Here we go," Ian sighed.
"Huh?" Rico said in response to both of them.
"Moments ago, X-COM Mega-Primus Detachment has declared the city to be under the state of "partial lockdown". According to the local X-COM Section Commander, whose identity is still kept secret, "due to the complications faced by X-COM in its investigation of the unknown alien race's activity in Mega-Primus, a limited set of travel restrictions and enhanced security measures will be set up in cooperation with the Senate and the local Megapol branch."
"Martial law?" Rico asked.
"Sort of," Ian responded, "But saying exactly that would mean a panic."
"X-COM has reassured us that the situation is kept under control, and that the aliens are not hostile unless explicitly provoked. Citizens are encouraged to report any suspected alien sightings via the hotline now shown on the screen. Additional information on the changes implemented can be accessed via the government webpage. Now, back to our scheduled programming…"
Nobody listened to the rest of the news block, instead trying to process what they just heard.
"Oh man… oh man oh man oh man. Those reinforcements from Mars better get here before late," Ian muttered while staring into the ceiling, "Valkyrie down, no airpower left... at this rate we're screwed. Shit, I'll be happy with whatever and whoever they send here, we just need something before this goddamn city goes up like the White House on the 4th of July."
"I hear you," Gaston said while looking even sourer, "We've got some reserves as far as I know, but a dozen agents in a million-large city – that isn't going to end well."
Rico, not being privy even to the general X-COM information, could only guess what his new friends meant. He could make up a lot of different versions and come to varying conclusions, but thing was certain – his troubles hadn't even begun yet.
Tuesday, 14th March – 22:01
X-COM Base One
Despite the safety concerns, high-ranking personnel on X-COM bases were given the luxury of their own quarters, and Carl Krause was infinitely grateful for that. He could use the privacy right now.
Rubbing his temples, he once again stared into the screen of his private terminal. He had spent two hours trying to compose one letter without any success. The screen's blue, cold glow remained indifferent to his suffering. Sighing, he tried again.
Dear Mrs. Miller, he started. It is with great sense of loss that I must regretfully inform you of your husband's death in the line of duty.
Krause awkwardly lifted his hands off the keyboard, as if disgusted by what he was writing. "Loss, regret," he spat under his breath, "There aren't any fucking words for this! Damn it, Sam, why did you have to go like that…"
In but a few moments, rage gave way to tear-inducing despair, "How am I going to live with all this?"
A piping, snide voice just kept whispering accusations in his mind. Miller had a wife and a child. Crossett, the eldest sibling out of five was practically supporting his family on his own. Petersburg's widowed mother would just love to know that her only son was shot by his own commanding officer. This is all your fault. Your fault. YOUR FAULT.
"Damnit!" Krause punched the wall, before wiping the message and starting over again.
You are unfit for duty, the voice kept taunting him. They were right all along. You preach to the corporals about how they aren't real soldiers. Are you one? Are you? No, you're not.
An image flashed through his mind like an old leaflet blown close by the wind. Hundreds of soldiers clad in urban camo, made into faceless, identical, soulless monsters by the combination of gas masks and night vision goggles. Gunfire. Bodies. Unacceptable casualties. Another failure. YOUR FAILURE, his raging subconscious immediately reminded him.
This was going to be a long night for him.
Friday, 17th March – 11:34
Briefing Room, X-COM Base One
"Morning. Let's skip all the "thank you for joining" crap and get straight to the point."
The briefing room on the X-COM base was being used for the first time in this base's admittedly short history. The hectic pace at which things got done during the first week left little time for lengthy discussions and briefings.
Things had settled down somewhat. The UFOs had been sighted only once, but all X-COM could do was to just watch them deposit their cargo in remote, industrial areas of the city. Krause and Taylor had made several search-and-destroy runs, but met little success.
"Our mission did not start in the best possible way, and I won't lie that we've taken more blows than we can handle. Nevertheless, we've got plans in place to replace our losses."
Commander Buchard was not one to keep a cool head under any circumstances, and it began to show.
"Half of you are here and not enjoying the city life above us due to another unexpected variable – the Cult of Sirius. According to our… sources at Megapol and our own little excursion to the Temple of the Visitors, the Cult is armed and ready to fight a street war. They have not found us. Yet. If we want them to stay away, we will have to attack them again at some point."
Some glances were exchanged in the audience. The opinion was split on that issue. Some believed that the Cult was given a clear enough message and that the focus should have been on the aliens. Others pursued a more militant stance.
One of the "arrivals" in the back row raised his hand. Noticing Buchard's attention, he asked "What of the information that Megapol has been infiltrated?"
"I was just about to get to that, Corporal Hasan. Here's what we've pieced together over this week."
Buchard pressed turned on the screen behind him with a press of a button on the remote. Gaston, who had up until this moment been quietly snoozing somewhere in the middle woke up as he immediately recognized the scene – the rooftop of the Aldous Huxley Emporium.
The commander himself took a look at the still frame with contempt before continuing, "One of Megapol's elite SWAT teams has been compromised. Earlier we suspected that they were working for the Cult, but as of now our chief science officer is convinced that they are under alien control. Which brings us to this," Buchard said as he switched to the next slide.
Gaston felt Sata grab onto his arm nervously.
"This is a Brainsucker. Through means yet unknown to our biochem division, they exercise a form of mind control on their victims. One such alien was the cause of the regrettable… loss of Private Petersburg."
Krause never explained what actually happened in Bakunin Block, but the pieces were easy to put together. The rest of the attendees tried really hard to avoid glancing at the sergeant, who, in turn, was doing his best impression of a stone statue.
"Evidence suggests that the entire team has at some point been attacked and successfully subverted by these creatures. There are sixteen renegade troopers. Two squads, four fireteams. Corporal Taylor here will provide additional information on Megapol."
With a quiet, barely noticeable grunt Oscar Taylor got up from his seat in the front row and took Buchard's place before the screen.
"Contrary to what some of you in here might think," he paused as Homburger, Krause and several others pretended to be very interested in the ceiling, "Megapol SWAT units are not a bunch of rent-a-cops with fancier gear. Technically "SWAT" is a misnomer if you apply it in the traditional sense."
Another switch of a button displayed a picture of a fully armed and armored SWAT team posing in front of a Suppressor troop transport.
Taylor continued sharing his expertise, "It's more than just a law enforcement unit. Their tactics are practically copied from the 3rd Chief Directorate of the Marsec Internal Affairs Agency."
"Rat squad creeps," Homburger grumbled under his breath, "I'll die a happy man if I never have to see one up close again."
Commander Buchard was getting increasingly impatient with the long explanation. "Cut to the chase, Corporal."
"What I mean," Taylor's voice adopted a shade of annoyance, "Is that these men are trained for high-risk operations, including but not limited to sabotage, survival in extreme conditions, assassination, hijacking, hostage-taking, kidnapping and guerilla warfare. Right now they are putting that training to use. They're setting up hideouts and safehouses all over the city in preparation for a lengthy campaign."
The audience did not seem to be too convinced by Taylor's argument. "And what makes you say that?" Krause asked, voicing everyone skepticism.
"The Boomeroids we ran into at the Civic Project were laid in a standard military pattern. I think it's too much of a stretch to assume that a completely alien intelligence would have an identical approach to the concept of a minefield. This only serves to reinforce my concern that not only these troopers are under alien control, they're actively using their skills and training too."
The audience became silent for the next few seconds, watching Taylor intently as he gathered his thoughts and continued. "We've secured the body of one of them, identified as Special Constable John Drinkward. Biochem is still studying it. Meanwhile, these are the unit commanders we should be on the lookout for," he paused to switch slides again to a few mugshots, "Sergeant Edmund Krakowski, Inspector Kevin Avery, Inspector Sidney Dodd and Senior Inspector Arnis Platais. Like their troops, they are to be considered extremely dangerous and must be eliminated on sight."
"Fantastic," Krause nearly spat, "Now we have some commandos in addition to the Cult and the aliens. How about some good news?"
"Just getting to that, Sergeant," Buchard took the stage again as Taylor returned to his seat. "First things first, the reinforcements from Mars ran into some unexpected trouble, but Commander Steinbach assured me that it has been sorted out and that they will depart any day now. Aside from an elite team with valuable experience, they'll also be bringing in some new hardware for our agents to use, which, in turn, will allow us to focus our resources elsewhere. Namely, I've been looking into the issue of issuing our pilots with some actual combat-worthy craft."
Gaston glanced to the side. Ian and his two subordinates, whose name he did not know, looked genuinely relieved.
"Thankfully, the Senate has graciously," Buchard made a dramatic pause to let the sarcasm sink in, "provided us with funds large enough to order two additional Valkyrie interceptors. Captain McNeil's own craft is also going to be repaired in a week."
The more jovial-looking of Ian's friends punched him in the shoulder, exclaiming "Bout damn time!"
Ian, however, did not share his optimism over getting promoted. "With all due respect, sir… that will cause you no end of trouble with the rest of the organization."
"To hell with them," the Commander shrugged, "This is my base, my command and I promote who I need. Whatcha gonna do about it?"
A few weak laughs were had in the room before Buchard returned to a more serious demeanor. "Now then. On to more good news, our Engineering division is working around the clock to adapt the captured alien disruptor weapons for our own use. The first batch will be issued to squad Bravo tomorrow. Lastly, two more squads have been activated and are on active duty as of now – Squad Echo under Corporal Hasan and Squad Foxtrot under Sergeant Patterson. Due to the large amount of reported alien sightings in the city we'll be forced to conduct our investigations in small units, one or two squads at a time. Since this entails a higher risk of casualties, I will stress this again – we cannot afford to take any more losses. Gentlemen, you are second to none in training, equipment, experience and especially cost," the Commander stressed the last word.
"Due to several changes in our modus operandi since AWII replacing losses has become even more prohibitively expensive. In the following months we will have to make best with what we have here, and we must not squander it. Any questions? No? Good, meeting adjourned."
Friday, 17th March – 14:50
Somewhere in Mega-Primus
"Honestly, what's with you guys today? You all look down," Rico said as he made attempt at conversation. Being blindfolded and taken somewhere in a car wasn't really making him comfortable.
A tired groan came from Gaston, who was sitting next to him, "Let's just say that the boss wasn't happy during our morning meeting and leave it at that."
"Quiet, Gautier," the man in the driver's seat silenced him. "Alright, we're at the spot. You can take it off."
After Gaston removed the blindfold, Rico blinked a few times as his eyes adjusted to the light. "Where are we?"
"Practically the center of the city. It's up to you to decide what to do next. Here's your passport," he said as he gave Rico an electronic ID card, "Your standard immigration package should allow you to rent a room somewhere while you do… whatever you want to do. That's about it. Come on now. Go."
The former ganger-turned-citizen opened the door of the car and stepped outside. The passport and the clothes on his back were his only worldly possessions now. Fitting for a fresh start, he thought as he turned around to, "Uh… thanks, guys. Good luck with the war and stuff. See you around, I guess."
"See us around, huh," the corporal displayed the first sign of emotion since the start of the trip in form of a smirk, "For your own sake, I hope we never run into each other again."
"Bye, Rico. Take care now," Gaston hastily said his goodbyes as he closed the door.
Rico stood and watched for a few minutes as the Stormdog lifted off the concrete, made its way back into the traffic and vanished in it.
Sighing, he forced himself to look the other way as he started walking towards a brighter future and a better life.
Sunday, 26th March – 06:30
Zander AFB, Cydonia, Mars
The base was abuzz with activity now that the hated government Airtrans had finally left, personnel aimlessly running around, loading crates, unloading wrong crates, arguing with each over what crates were wrong and getting yelled at in turns by Russell and Steinbach for making a total mess of the simple order that consisted of "load all this stuff into the Hawk".
The Hawk was going to become a home for seven people for the next week, and a very cramped one at that, considering how the above-mentioned unmarked crates full of equipment meant for X-COM on Earth occupied most of the available space. Thankfully, there was still enough of it left to install a small habitation module and Russell's unit was used to less-than-stellar working conditions.
They weren't a perfect team by any means. Reckless, insubordinate, perhaps even crazy, but Steinbach still had no concerns about them. At the very least they solved a lot more headaches than they caused.
The Commander was concerned about a different matter entirely, one that had the potential to turn into a disaster.
Making his way past the chaos in the hangar, he came to a halt before the gigantic spacecraft, the Valkyrie's oversized and extremely ugly successor.
Hacksaw (Captain Kovacs, Steinbach corrected himself in his mind) saluted him as he climbed in. "What brings you here, Commander?"
"Gotta check up on her. I'm not sure she actually understands what she's going into," Steinbach answered after returning the salute,
Hacksaw's face darkened as he stepped away from the passage to the cockpit, "Frankly, sir, she creeps me the hell out."
"That's rich coming from you," Steinbach shrugged unconvincingly. He wasn't exactly happy about this arrangement either. Taking a deep breath, he entered the cockpit.
A voice instantly came from the pilot's seat, "Was zum Teufel wollen sie jetzt von mir?"
"It's me. And how many times did I tell you to speak English?"
"Warum denkst du, dass es mir nicht egal ist?" The owner of the voice did not even bother turning to face him.
"Because this is your first and only chance to prove that keeping you around wasn't a mistake. I don't need to tell you that most of my staff considers you a dangerous liability."
"I've heard that one before," the voice commented in a disinterested fashion.
Patiently, as if talking to a small child, Steinbach explained, "The impression you make on Buchard will be critical for our evaluation of your performance so far."
The speaker mocked him, "And what if I don't make the grade? Wirst du mich umbringen, oder was?"
"I hope it won't come to that," Steinbach cut her off before adding, "If you behave like a responsible person, everything will be fine. So please, just this once, try not being a pain in the ass."
Silence was the only answer he got. Shaking his head, he turned around to leave.
"Komm lebend zurück," he said quietly to himself as he stepped back through the access hatch.
"Thanks," came a sheepish answer from behind him. Steinbach smiled. Maybe there was hope for her yet.
Barely two hours later, the Hawk finally lifted off and disappeared into the yellowish Martian sky in a flash, on its way to bring hope and relief to the forces on Earth. Yet Commander Steinbach could not shake the feeling that it would end up as yet another futile offering to the ever more bloodthirsty Moloch of war.
2023: Tigers and Dragons
In South East Asia political changes were not as violent, although quality of life continued to plummet and smaller nations regularly collapsed and got absorbed by their neighbors. PRC and ROC were eventually peacefully reunited as Free China in 2023, and one year later their example was followed by the two Korean republics. The Korean unification was extremely difficult, and for most of the time Federated Korea existed as two states under a single government. The borders between the two parts were completely opened only in 2045.
Following the US civil war most of the US overseas troops were recalled home, leaving Japan without any foreign troop presence on its soil. Like all developed countries, it was suffering from a lack of natural resources and diplomacy could only get them so far. Eventually this resulted in major changes to its constitution that resurrected some of the imperialist ideals of pre-WWII Japan. The country could officially have an army and build offensive weapons once again. This was accompanied by radical cultural changes, mostly consisting of an upsurge of patriotism and calls for a return to more traditional values. The result was so different from what the world was used to that it was frequently called Neo-Japan, although officially it was still known as the Empire of Japan until its dissolution in 2064.
To the credit of the Japanese leadership, despite their notably aggressive foreign policy they still managed to avoid sparking military conflicts. Possibly the worst thing that happened in the region until AWII was just a series of naval skirmishes with Free Chinese and Australasian navies in the vicinity of Philippines over an oil field dispute, which ended in stalemate and prompted the sides to return to peaceful negotiations.
Like Canada, New Zealand and Australia were left without allies following the formation of ES and the temporary breakup of the US. Their solution was to create a bloc of their own, called (unimaginatively) Australasia in 2023. During the next few years they formed a military alliance with Indonesia and Malaysia, with most of the remaining Pacific and Indian Ocean island nations joining soon after. Militarily this bloc was vastly underpowered when compared to other powers in the region, but managed to hold its ground nonetheless due to its formidable navy, centered around two seized USN carriers that fled to the continent after the outbreak of the US civil war. One of them, the HMAS Glorious, is preserved in Perth even to this day.
The final multinational conglomerate to form in Asia was the aptly named Asian Coalition with its center in India, formed purely out of necessity as India's long-time nemesis, Pakistan, now had an entire Arabian Bloc backing it up, not to mention that Free China wasn't looking at its neighbors with entirely altruistic intentions either. The Coalition was founded in 2025, later than any other bloc in the area. Nominally it was potent enough to hold the other regional powers at bay, but it was plagued with domestic issues so severe that the aftermath of the T'leth disaster utterly destroyed it. This became the first in a wave of immense humanitarian catastrophes that eventually claimed nine billion human lives.
A/N: Exposition: The Chapter! Don't worry, in case you're craving for some action, I'm probably including some into the next chapter, which, knowing me, is probably coming out next year. Somehow I can't shake the feeling that I'll finish this story right when an actual Apocalypse remake comes out, which could be anywhere between "when pigs fly" and "sometime in the actual 2084".
Oh by the way, since I'm a terrible, evil, cruel man, I wrote a huge, detailed history segment on the US. And I'm saving it for last. Because I'm evil. And cruel. Did I mention evil?