record, held black dust compressed by centuries, and wondered at it.
He had never faced it in real time, never thought what it meant—at least not in real terms—to the survivors.
Cross clapped Jamison on the back. “You’ve faced tough odds before.”
“Yeah,” Jamison said softly. “But I always knew someone would win the game.”
“You know that now,” Cross said.
Jamison looked at him, his broad face empty of all emotion, but his eyes were alive with something. Fear? Probably. Cross suspected that emotion was underneath all of their facades.
Fear and anger.
“Right now, we’re the underdogs,” Cross said. “And this is our Hail Mary pass. We’re going to fight back and win this.” Jamison smiled. “Your analogy sucks.”
Cross shrugged. “I’m not much of a football fan.”
“It shows.” Jamison pressed a small area at the tip of the wand, then pressed the base against the black dust. Dust swirled within the glass base, just like it would in a vacuum cleaner, and then it rose around Jamison. He coughed and shut off the wand.
His face was covered with dust.
“We need some kind of suit,” he said.
“Already thought of that.” Cross nodded toward the copter. The Army guy was there, holding a box. “You just got ahead of me a little. I didn’t expect you to turn that thing on so quickly.”
“Hey, if we’re going to go for the Hail Mary pass,” Jamison said, “we’ve got to move quickly.”
“Yes, we do,” Cross said. More than he wanted to admit. Because in one hundred and seventy-three days, the alien ships would be back. And if Earth didn’t find a way to fight them, the ships would again take what they wanted. Cross felt every second tick away, as if second by second, the blood was dripping from the body of humanity.
April 25, 2018
10:12 Universal Time
172 Days Until Second Harvest
Commander Cicoi stood on the balcony of Command Central, overlooking the valley below. Malmur was a beautiful planet—or it had been, in the times before. He had once been privileged to see the Stored Memories in the sacred vault, images of Malmur when it had its own sun, when it had life every day of every year.
Now the valley below him was just a cut in the dirt, with thousands of solar panels gathering the life-giving energy covering its slopes. There were suggestions of the past. The river that had once flowed through the valley left an impression time could not erase. Smooth stones covered that area under the panel, and a winding depression suggested where the river had once been.
If Cicoi brought down all but two of his eyestalks, he could almost see the water flowing, as it did in the Stored Memories. But try as he might, he could not imagine the greenery that had once surrounded the river, nor the creatures—long sacrificed—that (lew overhead or bathed within its depths.
It was said that the Malmuria began their existence in the once-fertile oceans of Malmur, oceans that, like the rivers, were long gone. The tentacles and eyestalks that were such an important part of their race once had different purposes within the water.
So said the Keepers of the Stored Memories, the only ones allowed to study the past for its own sake. Most Malmuria spent their brief time awake struggling for survival, procreating, repairing damage, and eating enough to make it through the next period of darkness.
Once, so said the Keepers, the Malmuria were a magnificent people. They had vast cities and miraculous technologies. They thrived on a healthy planet that orbited its own sun.
But a disaster struck, a disaster so horrible that none were allowed to speak of it, even now. The only way that the Malmuria survived was due to the wisdom of the Ancients. They foresaw the disaster in time to develop a way to survive it: they changed the entire planet into what it was now. And survive was what Malmur did.
Now the planet had a strange orbit in a different sun’s system. Malmur’s survival depended on a
He had never faced it in real time, never thought what it meant—at least not in real terms—to the survivors.
Cross clapped Jamison on the back. “You’ve faced tough odds before.”
“Yeah,” Jamison said softly. “But I always knew someone would win the game.”
“You know that now,” Cross said.
Jamison looked at him, his broad face empty of all emotion, but his eyes were alive with something. Fear? Probably. Cross suspected that emotion was underneath all of their facades.
Fear and anger.
“Right now, we’re the underdogs,” Cross said. “And this is our Hail Mary pass. We’re going to fight back and win this.” Jamison smiled. “Your analogy sucks.”
Cross shrugged. “I’m not much of a football fan.”
“It shows.” Jamison pressed a small area at the tip of the wand, then pressed the base against the black dust. Dust swirled within the glass base, just like it would in a vacuum cleaner, and then it rose around Jamison. He coughed and shut off the wand.
His face was covered with dust.
“We need some kind of suit,” he said.
“Already thought of that.” Cross nodded toward the copter. The Army guy was there, holding a box. “You just got ahead of me a little. I didn’t expect you to turn that thing on so quickly.”
“Hey, if we’re going to go for the Hail Mary pass,” Jamison said, “we’ve got to move quickly.”
“Yes, we do,” Cross said. More than he wanted to admit. Because in one hundred and seventy-three days, the alien ships would be back. And if Earth didn’t find a way to fight them, the ships would again take what they wanted. Cross felt every second tick away, as if second by second, the blood was dripping from the body of humanity.
April 25, 2018
10:12 Universal Time
172 Days Until Second Harvest
Commander Cicoi stood on the balcony of Command Central, overlooking the valley below. Malmur was a beautiful planet—or it had been, in the times before. He had once been privileged to see the Stored Memories in the sacred vault, images of Malmur when it had its own sun, when it had life every day of every year.
Now the valley below him was just a cut in the dirt, with thousands of solar panels gathering the life-giving energy covering its slopes. There were suggestions of the past. The river that had once flowed through the valley left an impression time could not erase. Smooth stones covered that area under the panel, and a winding depression suggested where the river had once been.
If Cicoi brought down all but two of his eyestalks, he could almost see the water flowing, as it did in the Stored Memories. But try as he might, he could not imagine the greenery that had once surrounded the river, nor the creatures—long sacrificed—that (lew overhead or bathed within its depths.
It was said that the Malmuria began their existence in the once-fertile oceans of Malmur, oceans that, like the rivers, were long gone. The tentacles and eyestalks that were such an important part of their race once had different purposes within the water.
So said the Keepers of the Stored Memories, the only ones allowed to study the past for its own sake. Most Malmuria spent their brief time awake struggling for survival, procreating, repairing damage, and eating enough to make it through the next period of darkness.
Once, so said the Keepers, the Malmuria were a magnificent people. They had vast cities and miraculous technologies. They thrived on a healthy planet that orbited its own sun.
But a disaster struck, a disaster so horrible that none were allowed to speak of it, even now. The only way that the Malmuria survived was due to the wisdom of the Ancients. They foresaw the disaster in time to develop a way to survive it: they changed the entire planet into what it was now. And survive was what Malmur did.
Now the planet had a strange orbit in a different sun’s system. Malmur’s survival depended on a
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