It was almost midday, and Horizon was busy.

The ravaging winds had cleared, and preparations began in earnest. The New Geneva's militia filled the massive expanse of the starport's hardpan, some sixty thousand recruits. Conscripts by necessity, some of them had handled weaponry before, having served aboard the Terran Dominion BattleCruiser Anchises. The majority of the civilians were another matter. Most had never owned a weapon, much less fired one. They wore a jumbled mix of worker overalls, functional jumpsuits and frontier survival gear. Many of them had donned hard-hats and glare-goggles; leftovers from the city's refineries, but it would change though, for some of them would don the CMC-300 Power Armor, reserved for best performing recruits.

With 2.1 million potential volunteers to train, and only a four day time period with which to do so, McTavish had his work cut out for him.

Fortunately, he was not alone. Beside him, the nine other members of his Heavy Commando strike platoon, Special Operations Team Orion, fanned out in a straight line before the seemingly endless horde, their arms clasped neatly behind the small of their backs. All of them were fully suited in oversized dusty red power suits and fully-enclosed dome helmets. The look was suitably impressive, which - of course - was entirely intentional. Instil and inspire, as the Major had said.

Behind him, some thirty off-duty Marines had lined up, as well a few hundred officers from Horizon's original sanctioned militia. Those present were all that could be spared, the rest having been tasked with overseeing the construction of Horizon's perimeter defences. In the distance, McTavish could hear the endless whine of industrial-strength drills. Comparatively, I have the fun job.

Murphy took a moment to consult his data pad.

The training was to be carried out in massive shift rotations. At any given time, one third of the colony's populace would perform drills under the supervision of qualified military personnel, while another third would engage in digging trenches and setting up emplacements. The remainder would take a six hour rest period, after which the rotation would begin anew.

Their orders were simple. They were to instruct the populace in what Major Ashton had called "Fundamental and Preparatory", which was the technical term for a crash course in basic weapons and ballistics training, how to make use of available cover, proper rationing (of both ammunition and food), as well elementary squad mechanics.

"Some party you've got us hosting, Sarge." Specialist Hobbs muttered over the internal squad-link.

"Just as well I've a pretty face." McTavish grinned, before reaching up and peeling off his helmet. He clipped on a com-headset, fumbling with it momentarily. An ear-splitting blurt of interference warbled from the starport's public address system, and as the awful electronic squeal reverberated about the tarmac, McTavish became the unfortunate recipient of sixty thousand irritated people hissing their displeasure in unison.

Murphy smiled sheepishly, feeling all of two feet tall. Blushing, he spoke into the mic.

"ERM, SORRY ABOUT THAT!" McTavish's voice boomed out. All across the city, roosting carrion squawked and fled in terror. Even the commandos cursed.

More hisses. Some booed.

Yup, definitely relying on that pretty face now, McTavish thought acidly, as he fumbled with the PA headset's volume settings. Finally getting it under control, he keyed it again.

"Ahem, testing- One, two, one, two… right. Fantastic."

Everyone clapped. There were even some wolf-whistles. Murphy, ever the showman, loved ever single moment of it. He spread his arms wide, like a circus ringmaster, an infectious grin plastered across his face.

"Now then, who's ready to learn 'Badass 101' ?"

On the far side of the starport, Sandra was hiding.

She was tired of hearing Mommy's periodic messages on the PA. They were meant to sooth the population, and keep everyone focused, but all it did was remind Sarah of how much time she didn't get to see her own mother. Ever since the ship in the sky had appeared, Mom had left her in the care of the local shelter. It was the Responsible Thing to Do, she had said.

And Sarah knew that the Responsible Thing to Do, while sacred to Mommy, was actually boring. Really boring.

And so she played a new game. Clad as usual in Dad's old environment suit, Sandra had snuck out of the shelter, taking with her a survival pack consisting of her drawing pad, her finest crayons and - for Mommy's sake more so than anything else - a generously packed lunch. She knew how silly Mommy would get if she thought Sandra wasn't eating. As resourceful as ever, Sandra had managed to sneak across the city to her favourite spot. The grown-ups so busy fussing about, they didn't notice her as she carefully picked her way through the lines of idle spaceships.

It was there that she found her new hiding place.

Suddenly, she could hear urgent, voices, and the clomping of heavy boots. There came a hissing sound, the sound of a hatch sealing, and with a panicked start, Sarah realised she was trapped. A brave girl, just like her Dad, she didn't panic for long. Instead she smiled.

Secreted away aboard Pelican Kilo-Five-Seven, stashed within an empty equipment locker, Sandra Jennison was finally going on a real adventure.