Flight Officer Jerry O' Niel had been waiting for almost an hour before he realised nobody was coming to debrief him.
The short flight officer was perched atop one of the Navy's standard issue chairs, furniture which seemed to be specifically designed to render your standard issue buttocks devoid of any feeling. Perry privately wondered if it was all an obscure test of some kind, designed by some particularly sadistic Dominion Intelligence scientist.
Then chaos erupted. Further up the corridor, the Major's door exploded open, and Major Gerard Ashton himself stalking up the corridor, roaring an endless stream of instructions into his com-link. His blood-shot expression was even more haggard than usual, but he seemed tremendously animated, excited. Behind him, like a fussing shadow, hurried Second Lieutenant Burbatoff, who was intently reciting facts and figures from an incessantly bleeping data-pad. Following Burbatoff hurried a trio of junior officers, their expressions taut and pale. None of them were consulted.
The difference between the two senior officers was striking. Where the major was sweaty, hulking and decorated with three days of silvery-stubble, Burbatoff was clean-cut, short and compact; the very epitome of military-trim. Another key difference was that he did not have a cigar jutting out from the corner of his mouth. The Major paid his XO little attention, pausing his tirade only to check a fact or confirm an estimate. Jerry bolted to his feet, snapping a tight salute as the five officers swept past.
All of them ignored him.
The sight would have been comical, had the Major not suddenly halted just as he was about to round the corridor. Burbatoff and his coterie almost collided into him, each of them making an admirable attempt at looking unsurprised at the sudden stop.
Abruptly, Abelev turned, plucked the cigar from his mouth and pointed a meaty finger back down the corridor. With a jolt, Jerry realised he was pointing at him. What followed was not so much a conversation as a series of growled instructions.
"You! Jerry, right? Good. Follow me son. Work to do."
And with that the collection of officers vanished around the corner. As Jerry scooped up his flight helmet and scurried after them, emergency sirens began to blare in the distance.
On the bright side, Jerry thought to himself, at least he knows my name.
The briefing room, such as it was, was adequate, if nothing else.
Originally designed for civic planning presentations, it was a semi-circular chamber at the summit of the starport's tower. It was a gloomy room, arrayed in a series of three tiers, each rising in width as they expanded. A large display monitor dominated the far wall. Naval officers, militia commanders and local representatives filled the chamber, whispering fiercely amongst each other. Rumours and frenzied speculation spread like wild-fire.
The door slid open. There was a fluttering sound as thirty military personnel sprang to attention simultaneously. The other twenty or so, civilians all, also shuffled to their feet.
Major Ashtonand Second-Lieutenant Burbatoff strode straight down to the presentation area. Jerry, for his part, meekly stood in the darkest corner at the back of the room.
Ashton stepped forward to address the crowd, and returned the room's collective salute smartly, much to Burbatoff's visible relief. Somewhere along the way from his office to the briefing room, the cigar had vanished. He almost looked respectable.
Ashton squinted up into the projector lights which shone down upon him, eyeing the crowd before him as he scratched his stubble thoughtfully. Nobody spoke. After a pause, the Major broke the silence.
"Can all non-essential personnel please vacate the room." Ashton stated.
That was the Major at his most courteous. Even the eternally-stiff Burbatoff looked taken aback by the display.
Nobody moved. Ashton scowled.
"I said get out." he spat, "That's an order, not a request."
There was an eruption of indignant protests, mainly from the civilians present. Ashtons withering stare and bunched jaw silenced them quickly. Tellingly, all of the junior marine officers present had already left, without hesitation or complaint. The crowd began to file out, and a confused Perry turned to join them.
"Not you, Terminator." a gloved hand fell heavily upon his shoulder. "It's your lucky day."
Perry turned around, and suppressed the urge to yelp. Barely. Lurking right behind him was a fully armoured Dominion Heavy Commando, all impassive reflective golden visor and glittering weaponry. With his rusty, sand caked red armour, he hard time trying to blend with the shadows of the dark room. Yet he'd been standing there the entire time, and Jerry hadn't even realised it. The name "McTavish" was stencilled on both his shoulder plates.
"W-we've met before?" Jerry managed; conscious of the high-pitched pique his voice had taken on.
"Yeah, you've run my boys out on field exercises." the man's voice was jovial, even through the filters of his fully-encased helmet, "Wasn't wearing the full show-suit then, mind you." The soldier rapped his name-tag with his knuckles, before proffering his hand.
"Staff Sergeant Barett McTavish, 510th Bullfrogs. Call me Tavish."
"Jerry O' Niel. Nice to meet you, Tavish."
Jerry accepted the soldier's oversized armored hand and shook it, doing his best not to wince as the marine's vice-like grip ground the bones in his hand to a fine paste.
Perry found it disconcerting to have a conversation with a fully reflective visor: all it did was reflect his own terrified expression. The Heavy Commando, unfortunately, seemed to be enjoying the exchange thoroughly. The pilot was beginning to suspect the man was mentally unhinged altogether. You'd want to be, if you jumped out into space without a parachute for a living.
Perry opened his mouth to say something, but the major was beginning his briefing.
"Come on down, everyone, I'd rather not have to shout." Ashton's beckoned everyone closer, his torn mouth twisted in a vague feature of a smile. Even without the scar-tissue, the expression was forced, strained.
They gathered around on the lowest tier. Ten men and women in total, a collection of the most influential people in the colony. And Jerry. Many of those present represented fundamental trade-skills: civil engineers, technical advisors - aspects crucial to the successful operation of any colony.
Among them was Administrator Abbey Jennison, a graceful woman who would have been attractive, had the stress of administrating the colony not worn her grey years ago. Jerry knew that she'd lost her husband some months ago, one of the first to disappear on the outer patrols. Now, crows' feet tugged at her eyes, and her manner these days was usually reserved, frosty. Her way of coping, Jerry guessed. Nevertheless, when Jennison spoke, people listened. Like everyone else on the colony, the pilot respected her immensely.
"Major Ashton, I thank you for your attempts at keeping us calm," Jennison began, "But I would ask you for a frank assessment of our ability to deal with this threat." The ghost of a smile touched her lips. "No bullshit."
"Straight to business, ma'am, I like it." Ashton's awkward smile blossomed to an honest grin, "As you know, I'm just a straight-to-God ground pounder, so I'm gonna step aside and let the space-jockeys brief you on what it is we're dealing with, before I give you my take on things."
Ashton motioned for one of the men, a thin man dressed in a singed Navy command uniform, to step forward.
Lieutenant Commander Harrold Shu was the ranking naval officer on the planet. Like many of the surviving senior crewmembers, the skin on his face had been partially disfigured by plasma burns - the after effects of the near-destruction Anchises' bridge at Korhal during the Queen Of Blade's treachery. Despite the lack of naval assets available on the planet, his presence was not simply out of courtesy toward protocol: former navy crewmen made up a large percentage of the current Colonial Militia serving on New Geneva.
Ashton slid a data-chip into the briefing podium in front of him, and then nodded toward Shu. On the display above, a blurry image of the crippled and battered ship of some kind flickered into view. Shu's voice was strong, confident. Jerry could see why such a young man had advanced so quickly through the Navy's ranks.
"This image was taken seventeen minutes ago, by one of the starport's automated scanning posts. I have to apologise for its quality."
He let the image sink in with his audience.
"Even to us, this ship is of unknown origin, but we do know, it's a warship from the look of those guns sticking out here, here, and here. This could be the start of a First Contact scenario with another intelligent life, but still a real nasty piece of work. We don't know if these things vary in size but you're looking at about 5028 metres of superior combat vessel, give or take. Its crew size, unfortunately, is unknown, but it's estimated at being somewhere between twenty or fifty thousand."
"As you can see, it's heavily damaged. From what, we don't know - our main scanners systems are still hit and miss ever since the winds from the planet's Northern Hemisphere hit. We estimate that it crashed down about fifty clicks east of Horizon. As for the cause of the crash, that's also unknown."
The display shifted. An illustration of a the archiac looking ship began to rotate on the screen, a steam of data scrolling down beside it, projecting a myriad of estimates.
"You mentioned an estimate twenty or fifty hundred," One of the engineers folded his arms and sounded sceptical, "Surely we outnumber them easily - New Geneva has a population of nearly five million!"
Shu smiled patiently.
"That unknown ship isn't what really scares me." The display shifted to show an image of a far larger vessel, lurking just above the planet. A hushed gasp shot out across the chamber.
"This is another unknown vessel, which we believe is chasing it - it's about three times larger, and is currently in low orbit on the far side of New Geneva. For now, we've dubbed the two, Little Boy and Big Boy."
Shu's voice was low as he continued.
"I should add that this vessel doesn't just scare me - it terrifies me. If and when they touch down on the surface, ladies and gentlemen, we are lookign at a planetary invasion and also caught in the crossfire between two species. We are going to be grossly out-classed and out-numbered."
Ashton cleared his throat, his rheumy eyes taking in all those around him.
"Which is where I take over. You mentioned Horizon's population being around five million. You forget that only about a a mere tenth of the populaation is comprised of viable, combat-ready militia personnel, and that's only provided we implement a draft." Ashton shook his head grimly, "You're also forgetting that these are unknown hostiles we're gonna be facing. They're damn well gonna be better armed, and they will fight smart. Needless to say, anything which gets discussed here does not leave this room."
"About the militia... make it about half of us willing to fight, Major." Jennison spoke up, "Granted, we're a third-generation colony, but many of the original settlers will step forward to fight, if need be. We can make a difference."
"Not without proper training you won't." Burbatoff sniffed.
"Proper training?" A filtered voice spoke up. "Some of the hardest bastards I ever fought alongside never had any proper training. Just guns with a whole lotta balls behind 'em."
It was the Heavy Commando, McTavish. The Lieutenant balked at the soldier's insubordination, but the sight of the fully-armed and suited commando put any remark he would have made invalid. Everyone turned and looked at McTavish.
An awkward silence descended.
McTavish seemed to realise he'd put his foot in it. He held up his hands in an apologetic, non-threatening fashion. A strange sight, considering he was armed to the teeth.
"Uh, permission to speak, I mean. Sir." he blushed, thankful to be hidden behind the Gold-coloured visor.
Jerry fought to hide a grin. The Heavy Commandos were the best of the best, next to the Ghosts but their elite status often branded them as cowboys, fire-brands both on and off the battlefield. He'd heard the stories, and this McTavish confirmed every one of them.
"Knock yourself out, Marine." Ashton arched an eyebrow, sharing in everyone else's amusement. The Heavy Commando inclined his head respectfully, his helmet clicking with the gesture.
"Sir, with the utmost respect to the El-Tee - these people carved a colony out of nothing but rock and sand. They've already got the prerequisite survival skills. Plus they know how to dig in. You give me three weeks of honest time; I'll have my boys whip 'em into shape. We got CMC-300s and ammunition much much more than we have men, and 3 major fabricators to produce more ammunition"
Abelev pursed his lips, considering. By tasking the Heavy Commandos with training the local militia, the overall city's defence would benefit from their extensive experience. On the flip-side, it meant not being able to deploy the most potent offensive tool in his arsenal. He turned toward Burbatoff.
"Lieutenant, what's our current strength?"
Burbatoff's summary, as ever, was nothing if not efficient.
"Two full strength Companies - Alpha and Charlie - as well as the leftovers from Bravo: they've lost quite a few these past few weeks - so we're numbered at 240 active marines, factoring in the recent MIAs."
The heavy-set Major considered this, resting his hands on the podium. His jaw was set in concentration. Finally, he spoke.
"Alright, let's shuffle it up - three new platoons, forty men in each. Same platoon designations as before. Charlie and Bravo get to keep the home fires burning. I want this place locked down tight."
"And Alpha Company?" Burbatoff asked, data-pad in hand.
"They go hunting." Ashton grinned. Then he pointed at McTavish. "Alright, soldier, we're compromising: we don't have a week, so you've got four days to forge our happy residents from being well behaved and eating apple pie to spitting nails and kicking ass. Understood?"
"Everything but the apple pie reference, Sir." McTavish saluted.
"Good," Ashton clapped his hands together. "Alright people, we have a plan, let's get to it."