Near Orbit

{c}Prologue

As children we always expect the future to be better than the ‘now’. We see the world, we are educated, and we understand that this is the way things are, but secretly within us we want – expect, even – things to change, to be better as time goes on. As adults we understand that the world is static, with little true change. The future is just more of the now: more people, more buildings, more vehicles, more pollution. But every once in a while, things do change, and change radically.

The comet that blasted the entire Middle East region into a gigantic flooded crater had no name. It had come straight at the earth, no oblique angle at all, travelling close to the speed of light and no-one had really noticed or understood the significance of the blurry blob on the astronomer’s photographic plates until it was too late. The nuclear warheads started detonating later that day, as the comet was mistaken for some kind of attack. A thousand suns lighting up every corner of the globe, mankind’s fusion fires scourging the cities clean from the surface of his own world. As each warhead detonated, it created a fireball that incinerated everything for miles around, the light and heat even striking through unprotected windows to burn skin from the bone and set homes aflame. The blasts of the warheads and the comet heaved out huge shockwaves that shattered structures, levelling cities and scooping up huge clouds of ash and dust that fell to the earth as a poisonous, black rain for months to come.

Billions had died, and the apocalypse was only just beginning.

The massive forces unleashed from the detonating warheads and the plunging comet cracked the planet’s crust, tectonic shockwaves caused earthquakes on a scale not seen for millennia. Oceans were thrown from their beds; Tidal waves battered the coastlines of the earth, forming new lakes and inner seas, flooding the still hot radioactive ruins of mankind’s cities. And as the forests were felled like matchsticks and mountain ranges collapsed and new ones raised, whole nation-states simply ceased to exist. Humanity itself brought to the verge of extinction in the blink of an eye.

Yet not all was lost. Mankind was not destroyed that day. Some of his cities, notably the giant Arcologies of North and South America survived, against the odds, and almost at once the rebuilding and reclamation of his heritage began. The comet was seen by many as a ‘Divine Judgement’, especially with the appearance of the Demons who now preyed amongst humanity’s shattered civilisation.

Man was no longer alone on his own planet.

{c}Chapter One

“Dear God! They are thousands of them!”

It was that hushed, barely-muttered sentence on an unsecured frequency that would stay with Cassandra Lomas for the rest of her life.

Even as the Illinois, the Confederation’s brand-new twin-hulled Battle-Carrier had opened fire with its massive 23-inch guns and the on-board air-group of Talon-class navel strike fighters had blazed skywards, the Demonic hive-nest had already spewed forth literally thousands of Demons at the battle group’s approach. The Confederation’s battle computers identified the Demons as ‘Harpies’ and ‘Wyverns’, each Harpy appearing as a naked human female with bird-like lower legs, each Wyvern resembling an oversized armour-plated lizard. With the only thing in common being their bat-like, membranous wings, the flock of Demons seemed like a black cloud of screeching, pure human-hating evil hovering above their adopted home, ready to defend it to the death.

The Illinois’ air-group assembled in strict formation above the Battle-Carrier and its half-dozen escorting Destroyers, the Demons milling about in seeming confusion. Then, just as they had trained, the Talon fighters turned and wheeled, unleashing their opening salvo of long-range missiles from their under-wing racks, and a line of explosions erupted amongst the Harpies, blowing holes in the massed ranks of the human-like abominations. The Confederation fighters closed the distance, a second coordinated volley of missiles inflicting even greater carnage than the first. Seeing the holes in the Demon’s pattern, the Talon’s dived to engage at close range with their rail-cannons – a mistake. The Harpies turned as one, and were amongst the Human’s formation in seconds, clawing and biting at fighter armour. Cassandra saw her wingman’s fighter go down in flames, three Harpies locked to the metal fuselage, tearing at the craft’s innards through penetrated armour. A forth Harpy punched out the fighter’s canopy, plucking the wingman from the cockpit before he could eject, and tossing him almost playfully to a nearby Wyvern. The larger Demon rent him in two effortlessly with its claws, sending his entrails spooling out into the jet stream in a cruel parody of the silk retaining lines of his equally-severed parachute pack. Cassandra was glad she could not hear his death scream.

Instead, she rammed the joystick forwards, hard, sending her strike fighter streaking towards the surface of Lake Michigan. The HUD flashed with a steam of data but Cassandra was interested only in the blood-red targeting icons, a single hexagon superimposed over each of the dozen nearest Harpies. Yanking back on the controls, Cassandra pulled the Talon’s nose up almost vertically, risking a stall and exposing her fighter’s belly, inviting them to attack her when most vulnerable.

The Demons took the bait, surging upwards, the slow beat of the Wyvern’s 50-foot wing-span intermingled with the sharper, quicker beat of the Harpies’ wings carrying them aloft in a blur of hate and blood-lust. Cassandra stamped the foot-pedals in the cockpit, felt the change in the balance of thrust of the fusion jets through the seat, could feel the scream of the engines in her loins as she twisted the jet into a deliberate diving-stall, driving the Demons into a frenzy as she confirmed her vulnerability.

As the Talon dived towards the Harpies, Cassandra triggered the on-board missile pods, spewing out a dozen plumes of fire and smoke, each plume capped at the nadir by a single heat-seeking ‘dog-fighting’ missile. The Demons attempted to scatter, spitting anger at being outwitted by a mere human, but it was too late as the missiles and the Demons collided, warheads blossoming into a rain of fire and shrapnel that minced the Demons into bloody chunks of flesh and gore.

Firing her Afterburners to negate the stall, Cassandra barrel-rolled through the destruction, fragments of the missiles ringing off of the fighter’s armour as Demonic blood splattered her paintwork. She selected a Wyvern in the Demon’s second wave, and activating the rail-gun cannons on the Talon she tore it apart in a stream of electro-magnetically accelerated hyper-velocity ferric slugs.

Beneath her, the Illinois’s huge flak guns boomed, a haze of shrapnel filling the air as the ship crested the shockwaves caused by its own weapons on the lake surface. Its main guns were blasting the hive-nest, the old pre-apocalypse skyscraper that formed the core of the Demonic structure shuddering under the blows, crumbling with each new impact. Harpies and Wyverns had already descended on one of the Destroyer escorts, and the ship was burning, Demonic claws slashing through the flesh and bone of the crew effortlessly, resisted only by the super-alloy of man’s war machines.

More Demons surged forward towards the flagship, and Cassandra dived after them, her cannons kicking up fountains of spray after the speeding Harpies as her first burst from the wing-root mounted weapons was off-target. Correcting her aim, the slugs connected with the Demons, shredding their wings and sending them cart-wheeling into the water. Having left it almost too late to pull-up, Cassandra just managed to turn her Talon side-on to flash through the turrets and towers that made up the superstructure of the Illinois. Banking over the rear flight deck of the Battle-Carrier, Cassandra could only imagine what her father would be saying.

*

Flying at extreme high altitude, the AWACS codenamed ‘Almighty’ could see everything. Currently too high for Demonic interception and escorted by a network of automated sensor and guard drones, Almighty transmitted a stream of data to both the Illinois battle group and the Chicago Arcology, capital of the Confederation and hundreds of miles further South. In the C3 centre buried deep within the Government sanctum subterranean levels of the Arcology, Colonel Joshua Anderson and Admiral Charles Lomas were surrounded by more than a dozen Tech Guards who relayed and fed them information and data from a multitude of screens and consoles.

“Report, Lomas!” Demanded Colonel Anderson, “How are our brave boys and girls doing?”

Admiral Lomas pulled his gaze away from the small monitor where he had been watching his daughter’s battle, glancing instead at the transparent monitors that made up one ‘wall’ of the C3. The wall was set to display the status of the individual Talon-class fighters of the Illinois air-group. Each fighter’s icon was green if OK, yellow if running low on fuel or ammo, orange if damaged. If the ‘asset’ had been destroyed, the icon was dark; Almost a quarter of the air-group’s wall was dark already, and many of the fighters were blotches of yellow and orange. Some of them were even red, representing a fighter unlucky enough to be both low on munitions and damaged. On the opposite ‘wall’ the navel assets of the battle group were similarly displayed, and similarly damaged.

“Casualties are still mounting, Joshua. Estimated air-group combat strength is 65% and falling. We’ve lost one of the Destroyers, and another is continuing to burn out of control.”

“Enemy strength?”

“Estimated at 25K plus, Sir.” Reported one of the Tech Guard.

“Still more than 25,000?” Mused Joshua, “What’s our kill-death ratio?”

“5:1 in our favour, Sir.”
“And the outer wall of the hive-nest has been penetrated by shell fire? Then I think they’ve done enough?” Joshua looked to the group of Generals and military advisors from the Special Strategic Advisory Command (SSAC) gathered at one end of the C3. One of them nodded a confirmation.

“Tell Captain Stevens to pull back. The whole battle group.” Joshua ordered, as he stepped away to one of the communication consoles at the other side of the chamber, placing his hand on the stationed Tech Guard’s shoulder, “Execute Executive Order Two-Twelve, on my authority.”

*

It was with a certain sense of relief that Cassandra received the ‘recall’ signal. A particularly old, ugly and large Wyvern had taken an extreme dislike to her Talon and seemed to have made her destruction a personal priority, pursuing her across the battlefield. Being faster, Cassandra had lured the beast on at first, targeting and gunning down other Demons on the way while evading the Demon’s plasma blasts, but now the Wyvern’s tenacity was growing troublesome. Every time she checked her rear monitor there he was, on her tail. She had performed a series of acrobatic stunts to shake him, but they had failed. She could have just opened the throttle and accelerated away of course, but that would mean leaving the battle and looking like a coward to her fellow pilots, something Cassandra was desperate to avoid. Too many of them already thought she lived a life of privilege and political favour because of her family’s connections.

So focused on the Wyvern now, when the ‘recall’ signal had first flashed across one of the cockpit’s secondary screens, Cassandra had almost missed it, but as the beeping tone continued to sound it had finally penetrated her consciousness. The other navel strike fighters were already falling back as Cassandra performed a final ‘split-S’ manoeuvre, turning her fighter right at the Wyvern. The Demon was alone, its allies falling back in turn towards the hive-nest, but the wily old beast wasn’t running. Cassandra decided she was not either, as without support it was now vulnerable to destruction.

Instead of fleeing, the wyvern extended its toothy maw and unleashed another plasma blast at her, but Cassandra dodged easily, continuing to close the distance. It seemed it was just the two of them now, jousting like knights of old, but there was a third, currently unknown player in the struggle.

The solitary stealth fighter had been lurking at the edge of the battle since the beginning. With the receipt of Executive Order Two-Twelve, the fighter turned towards the Demon hive-nest, its bomb bay doors opening. Moments later, a single sleek dark-grey cruise missile dropped from the bay, steering fins snapping out, the rocket motor firing and lighting up the missile, all pretence of stealth lost. But by this point the Stealth Fighter had already closed its doors and banked away.

The cruise missile streaked towards the hive-nest, the rocket motor accelerating it to five times the speed of sound. Like a flaming supersonic comet the missile blazed into the heart of the Demonic base, its nuclear warhead exploding like a miniature sun, the blast engulfing the Harpies and Wyverns, incinerating them in seconds. Only the old Wyvern survived for the moment, because he had not retreated, the blast searing his wings and the shockwave buffeting Cassandra’s Talon.

Too close, the electromagnetic pulse of the warhead fried her fighter’s electronics, deafening and blinding her Talon but leaving her unharmed inside the reinforced pilot’s compartment, her ears and eyes shielded by her helmet and visor. The wyvern was not so lucky, flailing miserably around the sky, deafened and blinded permanently by the nuke. Although surprised by the nuclear explosion, Cassandra remained focused and in control of her fighter for the moment. The Wyvern was struggling. As her fighter threatened to stall and enter a flat-spin without the computer assisted control surfaces to counter its inherent instability, she aimed at the Demon’s head and with the last ounce of electrical charge still stored within the internal capacitors she blasted its skull apart, her cannons ended both his misery and the battle.

The recoil of the rail cannons was slight, but it was enough to reduce the air-speed past the critical threshold. As her fighter stalled and its nose dipped, she had no choice to ‘punch-out’ and hope the Illinois’ rescue teams were ready to pluck her from Lake Michigan.

Ejecting from her now spinning, doomed fighter, Cassandra felt herself oddly at peace as she hurtled towards the water. Outside of her cockpit, she had expected to stabilise, but the world below her was still spinning crazily as she plummeted, buffeting her body and head, driving the air from her lungs.

Seconds later, she blacked out.





{c}Chapter Two

Less than 18 hours later, Maximillian Starling pressed the last fuse pencil into the block of plastic explosive with his usual determined flourish, before sitting back on his haunches and grinning at Lady Perdita, “That should blow the whole fuel bunker as high as Cloudlands! Give those high-an’-mighty military types something to think about when their new super toy goes up in flames!” She simply stared back as Starling punctuated his boast with a hearty ‘thumbs-up’.

“Looks like our new ‘Deep Throat’ came up with the goods!” said Starling, with a chuckle.

“Let’s get out of here”, was all she suggested, her thin tongue licking lightly across her needle-like fangs as she triggered her camo-field, seeming to fade back into the shadows she had come from. “We’ll meet up later...to celebrate your success. I’ll have a surprise for you.”

Thoughts of naked congress with Lady Perdita sprang into Starling’s mind. The memory of her bare breasts and muscular thighs sheathed with soft mattered fur, the Demon’s tail entwining his own rod, stroking seductively the shaft of his manhood.

Starling nodded, suddenly sober at the thought of what was about to happen. Above them, the massive twin hulls of the Illinois loomed like dual mountains of metal. It was linked to the dockside by a series of plastic and rubber umbilical cords, attaching the ship to the fuel pumps he had just sabotaged. Beyond the docks the Arcology towered above the Battle-Carrier just as the ship towered above them.

*

Cassandra Lomas watched the drop of rain as it trickled slowly across the surface of the armoured glass of her hospital window. The ‘raindrop’ was in fact a conglomerate of several drops that had coalesced into one larger bead, too heavy to support its own weight. The rainwater was crystal clear, obviously not from one of the old Rad-Zones or the direction of the recently nuked hive-nest. The sunlight refracting through the shower giving the drop an inner sparkling beauty, like a diamond.

The bead reached the open ventilation grill set in the glass, dripping through, and splashing on Cassandra’s breast where she had unbuttoned her white uniform blouse because of the day’s heat, despite the coolness of the brief rainfall. The bead continuing its journey down between her cleavage, around her military ‘dog-tags’ until it encountered the barrier of her bra, the wetness soaking into the black material.

Cassandra sighed at the coolness of the water, rolling over in her bed and peering out of the window. A thousand feet below, the people were as tiny as the raindrops that had pattered against the glass, and just as insignificant. They were refugees, desperate to enter the Chicago Arcology on the shore of Lake Michigan that Cassandra and her family called home.

Cassandra thought about the refugees often. Who were they? Where had they come from? There was little room in the Arcology itself: the native population was already estimated at over a million. It was told that at first the army had cleared the refugees away from the Arcology’s walls, but they had kept coming back. In the end the army had just given up. The refugees had then built their own city outside, a cruel reflection of the suburbs of many pre-apocalypse cities. And so they lay siege, waiting for their formal immigration papers, often for years until old age, illness or the criminal gangs killed them. So few were granted access. It was the same at New Manhattan; North America’s only other Arcology. The two great city-states had formed an alliance in the absence of the old Federal government in the dark days after the bombs had fallen, and quickly been joined by a multitude of smaller towns and villages that somehow had also survived the end of the world and the coming of the Demons. It had been the birth of the Confederation.

That was over 300 years ago. Ever since the Confederation had been trying to pool the resources left to the remnants of the old USA in order to rebuild an American Empire. The Confederation formed a broad crescent shape that stretched from Texas in the south, reaching north-west along the Gulf of Mexico to the Chicago Arcology and New Manhattan, before turning back on itself to Calgary in Canada. New towns were being founded all the time inside the ‘Confederation Crescent’, the refugees encouraged to move to them, but many of the new outposts were quickly attacked and destroyed by the Demons. They had arrived right after the warheads and there was much speculation as to their origin. Most of the common folk said the Demons were just that, send from Hell to complete the destruction of the Human race after the great comet. The Confederation Army’s HArm’s , Power Suits, lasers and rail guns had shown that Demons were as mortal as men. Nevertheless, the situation remained grave and Cassandra had volunteered for military service, despite being of noble birth, able to dodge the conscription if she had so desired.

A low tone sounded from the intercom. It interrupted Cassandra’s thoughts and scowling, she dragged herself from the bed to thumb the activation switch. The transparent pane of glass darkened, and an image of her father formed on its surface. Another raindrop dribbling along the surface made it look like he was crying a solitary tear.
“I must admit, ‘Lieutenant Lomas, holder of the Cross of Valour’ does have a certain ring to it,” said Admiral Charles Lomas from the other end of the intercom. Cassandra kept her expression neutral – the camera was fortunately set to frame her face only, otherwise she might have been treating her father to an impromptu display of her ‘female assets’ and the lingerie normally concealed beneath her blue, Air Force uniform. Oblivious, Charles continued, “Joshua has been asking after you.”

“It’s your victory party, Da-, err, Admiral. I just needed a few minutes...”

“Come back to the party. I have news. Not on a commlink, though.”

The screen returned to its natural transparent state, the channel closed. Cassandra started to re-button her blouse as she turned the thoughts over in her head. The Illinois was the Confederation’s latest warship for patrolling Lake Michigan, a new Battle-Carrier designed to instil in the people a proper patriotic spirit in order to continue to reclaim the Great lakes region from the Demon. But they were many who thought such a ship a waste of resources that could be better spent extending the Arcology itself to house more refugees. And the battle at the hive nest just seemed to reinforce the point about the waste: all those deaths and then the nest nuked anyway, Demons killed yes, but another area of the Earth reduced to an uninhabitable Rad-Zone by ‘Executive Order’. She herself had almost been killed because she had been too slow in her retreat, too obsessed with killing that old Wyvern. Plucked unconscious from the water by the rescue teams, she could easily have drowned and on returning to the Arcology she had been referred to the hospital. It was only the victory party that had managed to coax her out of her hospital bed, but Cassandra felt strangely empty inside.

It was rumoured radical-thinkers advocated living with the Demon in peace. Cassandra paused a moment to consider that, before rejecting it. She had seen the Demon first hand; there could be no peace between them. Perhaps the plan to conquer near-orbital space and establish a colony above the earth was not so radical after all? She pondered, thinking about the Confederation’s latest secret plan, revealed to her by Joshua the last time they had shared a bed in his chambers, before the battle of the Hive-Nest, It all depends on the launching of that damn space plane!

Tutting, she slipped her court shoes on and headed back to the party.

*

Charles Lomas was stood with Joshua Anderson by the H’ourderves table, to one side and away from the main party, where it was quieter. Alerted by the click of her heels on the slick black-marble floor as she approached them, both men turned to face her before she could address them. Charles was as tall as his eldest daughter, and his hair as dark, touched with a distinguishing flash of white at the temples, instead of her deep copper shade. He wore the full immaculate, white dress uniform of an Admiral in the recently formed Confederation Navy, a champagne flute in each hand.

Joshua Anderson was shorter, half as old as Admiral Lomas’s 50 years with his hair an unruly mop of blond curls. He may have been dressed in a Colonel’s uniform of the Communications Division of the Confederation Army – his double-breasted jacket dark green with matching trousers over a tan shirt – but everybody knew his real power was as Chairman of the Executive Committee, and by definition the direct successor to the Overseer of the Confederation, his mother.

His blue eyes seemed to flash with an inner mischief as he locked eyes with Cassandra, “Your father has told you the news? The Argo needs a test pilot – and you are it!”

Admiral Lomas offered her one of the champagne flutes, “No, I hadn’t managed to tell her yet. And yes, Cassie, I have been given command of the whole space program, so I still get to tell you what to do!”

“But I’m a fighter pilot, not an astronaut!” Cassandra managed to stammer, blindsided, the thought of being strapped into the rocket-propelled and unarmed space plane filling her with dread. Another thought occurred to her a moment later – Her selection another gesture that would mark her out as a favoured by the political elite because of her family, “I should be in the launch site’s defensive squadron!”

“Come with me, Lieutenant Lomas – we’ll discuss it.” Joshua received a nod of acknowledgement from Charles, before steering Cassandra away from her father to a small conference room. It was empty except for a small drinks table covered in empty, dirty glasses.

“Allow me to congratulate you personally, Lieutenant”, laughed Joshua, throwing a punch at the back of her head. But Cassandra was ready for such a cowardly strike, ducking under the blow and robbing it of much of its power, and turning to face him. Joshua followed in with a snap-kick, but Cassandra parried it away before lashing back with knuckle-fist to Joshua’s chest, staggering him as it drove the air from his lungs.

“Good to see you still know that Kung-Fu shit!” He managed to gasp moments later, as she caught him in her arms. “What do you think you were doing!? I might have killed you!” she exclaimed, but Joshua just grinned as he straightened and pressed his lips to Cassandra’s cheek.

“Is this, er, well, appropriate? I thought we were going to discuss my new career as the Confederation’s first astronaut!?” she asked, but Joshua ignored her question, kissing her lips to stifle the next question even before it had escaped her throat, his free hand pressed firmly to her breast. She wanted to protest – they were no longer teenagers where Joshua’s brand of fighting horseplay had been the norm, or in any kind of formal relationship anymore.

She lacked the conviction to remind of him of that fact, however, as his hand moved to the buttons of her blouse, deftly flicking them open one by one with a well-practiced gesture. Within moments his hand was inside her bra cup, his finger tips teasing her nipple to prominence. As she mentally struggled to pull away, she felt his tug on the zipper of her skirt, but before she could protest further they were both knocked from their feet by the shockwave of an explosion. It rumbled up from below, and they could see it through the external windows of the conference room: a great bellowing fireball of oily black smoke rising from the docks.

“The Illinois!” Hissed Joshua, his hand still inside Cassandra’s underwear, “Damn terrorists!”



{c}Chapter Three

Admiral Lomas surveyed the wrecked fuel yard with a mounting sense of anger and hatred. It was not so much the fact that someone with security access had betrayed the Confederation and planted a bomb. That had been expected. Nor was it that said bomb had detonated the conventional fuel silos, turning the docks into a junkyard of flames, smoke and scrap metal that had been machinery, vehicles, but it was the extent of the destruction, the shear waste of it all, that inflamed Charles. Dozens of Tech Guards swarmed over the remains, scouring for clues.

The Confederation used Fusion technology for the ship’s reactors, but fossil fuels still had their place in the combat jets and other smaller vehicles of humankind. The fuel was mined from under the seabed near Mexico by the Gulf States of the Confederation. And fossil fuels were still damn explosive, especially the rocket fuels intended for the Argo.

“We found this, Sir.”

Admiral Lomas turned the blackened, twisted piece of wreckage over in his gauntleted hands, recognising it at once but knowing he had to play his part.

“A detonator?”

The Tech Guard who had handed the evidence to him nodded a confirmation, “We believe they were several. This one failed to go off but was still caught up in the initial blasts, destroying it but leaving just enough intact for us to find. It’s standard Army issue, Sir.”

Joshua came scrabbling over a nearby pile of wreckage. Like Charles he was now clad in full sealed Battle Armour, the ceramic plates covering Joshua’s shins scrapping like nails on a chalkboard across what had been a forklift truck before the blasts had twisted it into an unidentifiable wreck.

“What have you found, Lomas?”

Charles tossed him the wrecked detonator and dismissed the Tech Guard as Joshua examined the shattered apparatus.
“We have traitors in our midst,” explained Charles as Joshua looked up at him through his open helmet visor, a quizzical look upon his face.

“Then we must root them out!”

“And who do we trust? This was a warning – ‘if we can hit the Illinois, we can hit the Argo.’”

Joshua paused, considering for a moment.

“The Tech Guards tell me that they were fueling the Illinois’s internal fuel bunkers from the dockside when the explosions occurred. It was intended by the saboteurs that the detonating fuel would carry up the fuel lines to the ship itself, detonate the vapours in the tanks for the Air Group, blowing the whole ship to hell. It could have been worse; the damage to the Illinois is quite light. But in any case she is not ready to put back to sea as planned.” Joshua paused again, considering further. “I guess we will have to tighten security, and if I were the terrorists I would think about hitting us somewhere else, somewhere as vulnerable. The pilot, perhaps?”

“Cassie!?”

“Perhaps,” replied Joshua, “she is going to need a bodyguard.”

*

James Stone was just a farm boy, from Missouri. How on earth did I end up here? He thought, as the creature’s tail flicked a stream of razor-sharp darts over the trench lip Stone was ducking in. There is no way I’m calling that thing a Demon! Thought Stone as a second flick of its tail send another stream of darts at Stone, this time the bone shards splintering against his Armour’s ceramic chestplate, failing to penetrate but the impact knocking him of his feet and on to his arse at the bottom of the deep ditch. Shit!

“Lieutenant!” , The young Tech Guard was at his side in a moment, attempting to pull Stone to his feet – no mean task as Stone towered over the Guardsman – Reece Blake – by at least a foot in height, was fully-armoured in sealed plate, laden with weapons and equipment. Despite that, Blake succeeded in pulling Stone at least upright in the muddy water and sludge of the trench bottom.

The Demon – a Manticore, if you could believe that terminology – had in the meantime reached the trench lip, six of its locomotive limbs grasping at the edge, claws crushing rocks in anticipation of crushing skulls and armour. It gazed down at the two Confederation soldiers with baleful, yellow eyes. A long tongue that resembled flame more than flesh darted between its fangs.

“Would now be a good time?” asked Blake.

“Now would be a good time!”, hissed Stone, and by his relayed command a series of laser beams lanced through the Manticore’s belly plates, piercing the Demon’s weaker gut as concealed troopers leapt to their feet from underneath camo-netting to open fire at point-blank range. Grenades exploded beneath the Manticore’s rear legs, tearing one from the socket in a gout of crimson gore. The Demon collapsed in a frothing frenzy, an unholy howl cutting through even the sound muffling of their helmets as one of Stone’s men bathed the creature in superheated gas from his Plasma Emitter, burning it to a blackened husk in seconds.

Perhaps they are Demons after all! Thought Stone.

That thought and the Manticore’s death howl were still both echoing in Stone’s mind hours later when the helicopter from the Arcology arrived.

*

“Lieutenant Lomas, Sir. Reporting as ordered. I’m here to fetch you.”

Stone put the orders file down on his desk and scrutinised the newcomer. Young, female, athletic build even if her boobs are a little large, he thought, black copper-tinted hair in a non-regulation ponytail, blue-no, green eyes. His eyes swept over her uniform’s qualification badges, and the bright purple stripe on her uniform jacket. An Elite Naval Aviator and a graduate of the War Collage too, but no Field Experience Badge – another over-privileged noble-officer then! He thought, A head full of theory and no practical experience! He shot Blake – stood at the back of the office behind the Navel officer – a knowing look.
“These are confidential orders from the Office of the Overseer herself, Lieutenant Stone. It seems we have a situation at the Chicago Arcology, and you are needed. I have a helicopter standing by.”

*

The Crow-class helicopter dipped low under the bridge leading to the Chicago Arcology before gaining height rapidly as it swept over the shanty town built up in the ruins of the old city. It was a scene of new growth amongst the shattered remains of man’s past, thought Stone as he stared out of the window of the Crow’s cargo bay, the Arcology rising above the old remains of the skyscrapers like an enormous black volcano.

The Arcology was over 1300-feet in height, with a ground ‘footprint’ over 15.2 million square feet, stretching out into Lake Michigan. As one got closer, you could see the Arcology was actually stepped like a ziggurat, pierced with thousands of armoured windows, landing ports and weapon turrets. Foliage was seen sprouting from deliberately planted ‘gardens’ and unintentionally, where it had taken hold within a pitted blast crater or crack in the super-alloy reinforced rockcrete walls.

As the Crow continued to climb, it passed the huge rail-track mounted anti-siege guns on level 53. Each weapon was mounted on a railcar that ran on track atop one of the steps of the ziggurat. Here, the outer wall had been built up and effectively formed a trench the guns ran inside, protecting them from sight and attack from below.

Still the helicopter climbed, it’s counter-rotating blades beating the air as it surmounted the flat roof of the Arcology, penetrated as it was by the city-states’ University, main hospital, and ‘Cloudlands’, the private retreat of the Overseer and her immediate family and staff. The Crow passed over the artificial beach that made up one end of the estate before passing over Cloudlands’ living quarters. Here the helicopter dipped and touched down on a small landing pad amongst the estate’s cherry trees. Neither Stone or Blake had been here before, only heard of this infamous ‘paradise’ playground of the rich and powerful of the Confederation.

Cassandra powered down the Crow, climbing down from the cockpit to join the two Special Forces soldiers. She indicated for them to follow her. Everywhere they looked it was trees, grass, small ponds and outbuildings. It was almost impossible to believe that they were not in some kind of idyllic park, rather than on top of the Arcology. Every so often though, Stone would spot a discreet Praetorian Guard, some in Ceramic Battle Armour with laser rifles, others shod in Power Suits and rail guns patrolling the grounds. It created a veneer of calm – even the wind itself was serene; the parameter wall of Cloudlands protecting them from the otherwise surging gusts at this altitude.
Cassandra let them into a large building that could only be described as a whitewashed mansion, complete with picket fence and neatly mowed lawns. Inside, they were greeted by a smartly-dressed ‘butler’ (no doubt another Guardsman) who checked the ID chips built into their Dog-tags with a portable scanner before offering them drinks. The mansion was filled with elite civilians in their finest evening-wear and senior military figures in full dress uniform, drinking and sharing snacks as they made polite conversation. Cassandra led Stone to a side room where more guests were gathered around a holotank displaying an image of a Demon. To Stone’s and Blake’s surprise, the Overseer herself was stood next to the hologram giving a lecture to her guests on the different types of Demons so far encountered by the Confederation’s troops.

“.....for convenience we have named the different types of Demon based on their mythological counterparts,” Dr Ursula Anderson was saying, “as even when we order our men and women not to, they still refer to the Demons by their nicknames!” There was a polite round of laughter from the guests. Stone shifted his feet uncomfortably. That was true, and he felt completely out of place here. He was dressed in his normal ‘Battle Dress’ blue uniform as was Cassandra, yet she looked so at ease and in place here. Stone did not, and felt it acutely.

“Magical beasts? Alien invaders? Supernatural avengers? Who can say for sure what the Demons truly are and where they came from? That is the job of the Demon Containment & Study Group. In the meantime, all we can do is keep killing them as they attack us.” The image in the holotank changed to show a reptilian monster, its dull dark body covered in rows of bony spines. “The Basilisk’s most distinctive feature is its eyes,” explained the Overseer, “which glow with a pale incandescence. It’s said that its gaze can turn a man to stone!”

“It’s all a bit boring, don’t you think?” hissed a voice next to Stone, causing him to jump slightly. The man who was now stood next to Stone was young, dressed casually, his blond hair an unruly mass of curls. Stone had never met Colonel Anderson, Chairman of the Executive Committee and head of Confederation Communications, but he recognised him at once from the newscasts.

“Stone, isn’t it? You’d better come with me before mom’s presentation on the Basilisk turns us all to stone!” Chuckling to himself at his clever joke at the expense of both soldier and Demon, Joshua led Stone, Blake and Cassandra through the mansion, back out into the grounds and to a small building that could have been described as a pool house. Joshua indicated the comfy chairs arranged around the room’s interior. Blake shook his head, also clearly uncomfortable at where he was. Stone sat down in one chair, Cassandra seated herself in another of the high-backed comfy seats, crossing her legs and allowing one of her court shoes to slide partially from her foot, to dangle dangerously close to falling from her toes as she listened. It was only at this point that Stone realised another man was also in the room with them, dressed in the coal-black uniform of the Internal Security Division, with the rank markings of a Commander. He said nothing, seeming to be studying the two lieutenants from his chair pressed against the back wall.
“I’ll get right to it, Lieutenant Stone,” started Joshua after handing Stone a drink, “Terrorists attempted to cripple or even destroy our new flagship two days ago.”

“Yes, Sir. I heard.”

“What you might not have heard was this was a warning from a group that we are calling the ‘Fifth Column’. A group of vile scum that could only disrupt our operations by gaining access with internal help, in order to plant their bombs. What I am saying is this: We have a traitor in our midst, Stone.”

Stone nodded glumly. It had been the rumour for months now. Joshua continued, activating a small data pad, displaying a rotating flat screen image of a delta-wing craft. Joshua passed the pad to Stone. Stone frowned. He didn’t recognise the craft’s design, and was equally confused why Joshua was showing him the image on such a small screen.

“This is the Argo, a unique one-off space plane.” Explained Joshua, “The Argo was designed from a recovered set of plans we found in the Arcology Vaults. We have modified the design but for all intents and purposes this is a pre-apocalypse artefact.” Joshua let this news sink in. As Stone mentally grasped the concept he understood the secrecy of the small data pad.

“The Fifth Column want to disrupt the launching of the Argo.”

Joshua nodded, “The bombing of the Illinois was just a warning, like I said. I want you to help protect the Argo’s pilot on the run-up to launch day.” Joshua indicated Cassandra. “I fear the Fifth Column will want to hurt her, and I want you to play a dangerous game: if you can draw them out I would like you, and Lomas here, to find them!” Stone nodded. Cassandra flashed him a grin. It’s obvious she is eager to prove herself! Thought Stone, remembering the lack of her Field Experience Badge. “I’ll need you to liaise with Internal Security in order to spring the trap, of course,” Continued Joshua, indicating the silent officer in the black uniform, “This is Commander Starling – a good man!”

Starling smiled at James and Cassandra, “Call me Max.” He said.



{c}Chapter Four

Lady Perdita was a ‘Succubus’, one of the sub-species of Demon as categorised by the Confederation’s Demon Containment & Study Group. Like all Demons she preyed on the weak, but her sub-species area of speciality was the seduction and then destruction of humans.

She felt the terminology did not do her work justice.

Like any Succubus she could assume the form of a striking, beautiful female human. The fact she had to have killed that beautiful female human in order to literally steal her form did not bother Lady Perdita one little bit. She had chosen her victim carefully, a woman of the Military Intelligence branch, a woman as close to Max Starling’s idea of perfection as possible. She had not bothered to discover the woman’s name. The fact that Starling had lusted after her for years was all Lady Perdita needed.

Tall, slim, yet with definite curves, in this latest form Lady Perdita was almost as high as Starling’s six foot frame, her new long blond hair spilling down her back as she unbuttoned and then shrugged out of the woman’s white uniform blouse and dark green jacket, allowing them to drop to the ground. She unzipped the dark green skirt and bending over she pushed the too-tight garment down her shapely thighs to join the rest of the uniform on the floor. Straightening up again, she placed her hands on her hips, now wearing only the woman’s white bra, matching panties and a suspender belt to keep up the white silk stockings she personally preferred.

“You did well, Max”, she purred, stepping out of the kitten-heeled court shoes to move closer to Starling, her hands behind her back working to unclasp her new bra as she did so.

“They’ve appointed investigators,” mumbled Starling, still not quite believing what he was seeing: this isn’t what he had imagined when she had promised him a surprise back at the dockside, “I met them today, but...” His next sentence died on his lips as the bra fell into his lap. Lady Perdita stood in front of him now, her breasts bare, nipples prominent, inches from his face.

“This is the woman you wanted, isn’t it? Always wanted?” The face was human, but the expression was undoubtedly Demonic.

Starling swallowed, nodded, uncertain what to say. She pressed her breasts into his face, his tongue flicking across her nipples automatically, feeling every bit as good as he had always imagined they would. Buoyed with a sudden sense of confidence, his hand grasped at her loins, felt the searing heat of her core through the skimpy fabric of her panties. Barely capable of containing himself, he tore them away.

“Yes!” she exclaimed, as his fingers thrust into her pussy, her juices spilling across his palm. She pulled his head to hers, their lips locking as tongues intertwined for a moment. She thrust his head down, forcefully, his tongue now penetrating her vagina as he lapped hungrily at her moist heat. She gasped with pleasure; Starling was quite skilled – for a human.

Lady Perdita unfastened Starling’s trousers, his meaty cock seeming to erupt from the torn cloth of his underpants as she raked them away with her claw-like nails. Before he could protest his manhood was in her mouth, her tongue pleasuring his rod in a way he could not describe.

“What did you do with Sandra?” he finally managed to pant out, after his cock had exploded down Lady Perdita’s throat. She hesitated for a moment, unsure of whom he was speaking, and then she realised, anger rising within her.

“Sandra? You mean the girl? She is now.....part of me,” she hissed, “But make no mistake, I am still Lady Perdita!” With a flourish of her own to match Starling’s ‘trademarked’ gestures, she adopted her true form for an instant, her bat-like wings spread wide, her fur covered lower limbs tearing through the silk stockings like tissue, her blond hair burning jet-black and streaming in all directions as if blown by a non-existent wind. Starling recoiled in fear, his erection wilting as fast as his resolve.

Lady Perdita calmed herself, reverting to human form. Her hair dropping about her shoulders, returning to blond also. Her stockings shredded and hanging about her legs in tatters, she cusped Starling’s head in her hands, bringing his trembling lips to her breast, mother-like. “Now,” she whispered, “tell me of these ‘investigators’...”

*

Stone pored over the Tech Guard reports of the bombing. Again. Avoidance of the regular security patrols. Army-issue detonators. Carefully-planted explosives at just the right spot to cause maximum damage. The conclusion was inescapable – An inside job. A traitor.

Stone leaned back in his seat, ready to say something deeply profound, but “Damn it!” was all he managed. Starling had proved himself a dead loss in turning anything up at all, and if he was representative of the Confederation’s internal security then it was no wonder they had problems with traitors!

From across the room Cassandra shrugged, and stretched. Out of the corner of his eye Stone couldn’t help but notice the swell of her breasts as she did so. Technically, they were ‘off-duty’, and Cassandra had suggested a drink, and had unbuttoned her collar. That was over half-a-dozen drinks, three hours and a several buttons ago. Perhaps one too many of her blouse’s buttons had been flicked open as they sat reading, studying, mused Stone, unaware that Cassandra had been checking him out ever since he had slung his jacket over the back of a chair and rolled up his sleeves.




[To Be Continued...]