1236, Friday, July 2, 2027
+27 Hours 31 Minutes SMT
Septus Minor
Neverland, Slaver Ring
It’s taken all day to get the first batch of refugees to fill Staging Area Alpha, and it’s almost time for people to get some shut-eye. Granted, they’ll be sleeping on the ground tonight, but with this being their last night on Septus Minor, no one seems to care.
Hobbs has cordoned off most of the north-bound lane heading to Camp Monday, and estimates say there are about 20,000 people waiting in the group, the large majority being from the settlement’s south side. The figure is less than Chuck’s proposed 30,000, but it’s easier for us to manage. The people seem excited at the prospect of going home, and I’m happy for them. This first group will most likely make it, as I doubt the AE has had time to mobilize a second recon team.
We’re still not leaving an enemy attack to chance though. Sergeant Naresh Abdullah has formed two ad hoc security platoons nearly 100 people strong. Members range from current and former military service members and cops to private security personnel. There are even a few retired spooks from the Pentagon who’ve volunteered. Half will remain behind to help oversee the staging areas, the other half will go with the first batch. Then the returning unit will swap out with the rested one, and so on.
As for weapons, only three SR-CHKs and two LTL-MAC 41s were recovered from the initial skirmish Camp Monday’s refugees had with a surprised and overrun plushy scouting party. I’m still light on the details, but apparently the incident happened shortly after Insarka and I switched the export designations. Bottom line is Abdullah and a few of his counterparts got lucky, jolted with a trinium charge—maybe from the portal—and scored some firearms. Not bad.
Then there was our most recent conflict with the plushy recon team. That netted us seven new rifles—would have been eight, but one was destroyed—five new pistols, including a DB24-A double-barrel sidearm, several VODs, and one of Chuck’s baby brothers from the overlord. Of course, “baby brother” is a misnomer because, even though the VLSR-CHK2 was developed after the SR-CHK, it’s twice the size and a beast to carry.
For everyone else, they’ve fashioned spears and slingshots as self-defense tools. Not enough to be any match for a death angel at range. But there’s a certain confidence that comes from having a weapon in your hands, even an archaic one, that I won’t rob from these volunteers.
The second prep ground, Staging Area Bravo, is on the path leading to the southern camps. But it won’t be filled for another few days—no sense pulling people from their infrastructure before absolutely necessary. This, all thanks to Chuck and his big brain. According to the current time dilation ratio, moving 1.9 million people at 20,000 people an hour will take us ninety-five hours total, plus ten hours for each trip across MPF6, assuming the average person walks five klicks per hour. There’ll be mandatory rest breaks and medical issues for sure.
Where things get really weird is when the time dilation is factored in. This means that at the current 2:45 ratio, one ten-hour trip in Karkin Four Time, what we’re calling KFT, becomes 225 hours, or 9.37 days in Septus Minor Time, SMT. And that’s assuming Phantom Team hustles our asses back at the end of each run. Then we’ll need sleep, food, and to compensate for anything new that the enemy decides to throw at us.
The leadership team is gathered around a sand table that’s been erected in the clearing beside the ring. In addition to the model of Neverland, a second section has been constructed to show MPF6, built to scale according to Insarka’s intel.
As for our security at this new field HQ, some of Abdullah’s scouts have been positioned on either side of the portal to watch for enemy movement. Oddly enough, if anyone on the Karkin Four side reports seeing tangos, we have a truly stupid amount of time to get ready—assuming the time dilation doesn’t fluctuate one way or another. Yut, according to Insarka, that’s a possibility, depending on what state the Unity arcs are in. I’m not sure what kind of tech the arcs are, but I feel like someone seriously needs to work on a redesign.
“So what are we really talking about then?” Hollywood asks me and, by association, Chuck. “How long’s the whole operation gonna take?”
Sir Charles is lying on the middle of the table amidst all the various rocks, twigs, mosses, and leaves that make up the topo maps of Neverland and MPF6. “If all 1.9 million souls wish to cross at our fixed rate of 20,000 people per ten-hour trip, that’s 950 hours KFT but 21,375 hours SMT.”
“That’s how long I play COD a week,” Z-Lo says. “Least that’s what my mom used to say.”
Ignoring the kid, Aaron says, “That’s just over two years.” He turns around to look at the mass of batch one stretching around the bend in the path heading back to Camp Monday. “And yet only forty days on Karkin Four.”
“Thirty-nine point five, actually,” Chuck replies. “Of course, this is assuming that all refugees want to go, or are even able.”
Winters chimes in, almost looking pleased with himself. “We’re getting many responses in the negative already. Several camps are saying their people would rather stay here than endure the risks.”
“Plus,” adds Hobbs. “Chances are we’ll encounter the enemy in that window, and then the question becomes how long can we hold out? Forty days is a long time to ride out a flood.”
I eye her with new interest. “Didn’t take you for a Bible scholar.”
“Who doesn’t go to Sunday school at least once growing up? That’s what fun grandmas are for, right?”
I offer a half-smile. My grandma was a raging Irish alcoholic who told us Lucifer and the English were on the same side, and that we’d grow up to be just like them if we didn’t go to mass. But no need to ruin the moment. I look back at the table.
“There’s a limiting factor that’s far more pertinent than the number of refugees who want to attempt the crossing or the number of hours it takes us.” I look around at everyone’s faces. “The Unity arcs will close the portals long before we’re through. Our previous ‘constant stream’ idea gave us a shot at moving everyone. But now, even if we can keep the enemy at bay for four days, we’re talking eight, maybe nine trips.”
Chuck cuts in. “Nine point six, if you want to be exact.”
I ignore the comment, mostly because point-anything means lives who don’t make it, not numbers.
Bumper counts on his fingers. “Nine trips, twenty-thousand a pop, that’s 180K.”
“Very not as manies as we first wish upon a star, yes?” Vlad asks.
I know it’s rhetorical, but I answer nonetheless. “Very not as manies. Yut. But we’re gonna take who we can, and try and minimize the disappointments for who we can’t. This is all about starfish. Copy?”
Heads nod, and Hobbs winks at me. I let the weight of the plan change settle in for a moment before continuing. Adjust and carry on.
To use another military mantra, you might say this operation is the most epic display of hurry up and wait ever known. On Septus, things will be as slow as dial-up—not that most people even know what that is anymore. Or was . And yet, on Karkin, we’ll be trying hard not to kill everyone from pushing too hard.
Of course, on the off chance that we get back early, Cortes and Winters have orders to ramp up and get people ready to move. Staggering refugees in batches is definitely the right call. I just hate that it means we’re gonna be moving slower.
“Back to the basics,” I say. “Let’s review.”
In rough terms, the twenty thousand-person column that Hobbs has designed for passage is twenty-five people across and eight-hundred rows deep. Abdullah’s First Platoon of fifty people is evenly spaced along the left-hand side, or south side once we pass through, which seems the most likely flank to be assaulted during our exodus. He has a guard positioned every sixteen rows with instructions to help maintain order and call out any signs of the enemy.
Insarka and her eight-person squad head the column while Phantom Team is positioned at the rear. The thinking here is that, should anything happen and we get separated, Insarka will be able to salvage the batch and get as many people through as possible while we fall back and defend the ring—with our lives if we must. Since Septus is the weakest defensible position, and Earth is the goal, then sabotaging the ring is always our priority should the op be compromised.
I level with the team in even tones. “That means that if worse comes to worst, and you’re the closest person to the det controller that Yrag’s set up, you blow it. Don’t think twice. Heaven will foot the bill, and the rest of us will clean up the mess and toast your name forever.”
I sense eyes shift past me and down. Someone’s behind me. I turn and see a child.
“Mr. Wic?” she says. It’s the girl from the path when we arrived, and she’s holding the weird animal she was playing with before.
For a second, I just stand here. Never been good with the miniature version of our species. “What?”
Hobbs sends me a fairly seething whisper. “Get down to her level, dummy .”
I squat. “Uh. Hey, kid. What’s, uh, your name?”
“Lorelei,” she says while petting the fluffy thing in her arms.
“Well, that’s a, uh, nice name.” I wait a beat and then say, “Why don’t you get back to your mom now, okay?”
“She’s dead.”
“Shit.”
“Language ,” Hobbs says.
“Sorry. That’s… really sad.”
“It’s okay. My daddy says you’re gonna make everything better and get us back home.”
I swallow. No pressure or anything. I look back at Hobbs and Hollywood, hoping they’ll tell me what to say. But they’ve got those pouty doe-eyes on that seem to think this is the greatest moment in the whole world. Hobbs motions me back toward the kid.
“We’re gonna try our very best to get you—”
“Here.” She shoves the animal into my hands. “It’s a corgachirp. His name’s Bob, after Mr. Winters. They bring good luck.” Before I can say anything else, the child runs back for the staging area and leaves me holding the damn animal.
“Here, let me,” Cortes says. The critter tries to gain footing in my palms as the woman pulls it away. “I’ll make sure it gets back to her with your regards.”
“Thanks,” I reply and then look down at my hands. “It was soft.”
Cortes smiles, and a few of the Phantoms chuckle.
“What? It was.”
“The look on your face,” Hollywood giggles. “When she ran away and left you with that…” She can’t even get the rest of the words out.
“Well, I’m glad I could entertain you.”
“Oh, it was more than entertaining.”
Vlad cuts in. “Is very nice you play with childrens and adopt small animal as mascot.”
“Mascot?”
“Corgachirp,” Lada says with her hands blocking out the letters like they’re on a billboard. “Mascot official of team Phantoms. Is good. I like.”
“Remind me to tell your grandma about a new poker chip idea when we get back,” Bumper says.
“Roger,” Vlad says. “Is going to be very nice.”
“All right, team.” I glance at my wrist. “Time to hit the hay. We’re a go in plus-six hours beginning now. Cortes, Winters, we’ll rely on you to spread the schedule to the refugees. Abdullah, you do the same for your team.”
All three leaders nod and move.
“Phantoms, find somewhere comfortable. And Hollywood, for laughing, you get first watch.”
“Worth it,” she says with a gleeful smile.
I point at Hobbs. “And you’re second.”
“Guilty.”
* * *
My helmet vibrates under my left arm. Time to get up and relieve whoever’s third shift. I sit up from the tree that’s been acting as my La-Z-Boy and stretch, then seek out the Phantom standing watch beside the wall of blue energy. The smaller sun—dimmer of the pair—casts the landscape in an eerie yellowish hue that reminds me of the old films from the 1970s over fifty years ago.
“You’re early,” Ghost says as I approach.
“Gives me time to piss.”
Ghost raises an eyebrow. “Can’t you just go in your armor?”
I lean to one side, hold the position for a few seconds, and then smile. “Yut.”
Ghost lets out a chuckle, which is practically like a belly laugh for him.
“Any movement?” I ask.
“All quiet on the western front.”
“Good book.”
He nods. He also doesn’t move from his position, which I find interesting. Not that I’m trying to read too much into his behavior, but it almost feels as if, well… As if Ghost wants to talk.
I try to speed things up. No, not because I’ve decided to become an extrovert. I’m just curious. “Well, have a good nap.”
He nods like he’s gonna walk off but then stops short.
Son of a bitch, he does have something to say. “What’s on your mind?”
Ghost sucks air across the front of his teeth and then looks up at the stars. “I think we have a good plan and a real chance of getting a lot of these folks home. But there are enough unknowns, enough time in the open, that I think it’s gonna be close.”
“And?”
He sighs. “And I think we’re gonna a get a lot of people killed if everything doesn’t go our way.”
“Then we’re gonna do our damndest to make sure it does go our way.”
“Copy that. I’m not sayin we shouldn’t do this. I just… got a feeling.”
Jesus. If Z-Lo was talking like this, that’d be one thing. But it’s not. It’s Ghost. And my spidey sense is going haywire.
He takes one more look at the stars, starts moving toward the hut, and then stops. “Hey. Wic. Thanks.”
“Just taking my shift.”
“Not what I mean. For what you’ve done with the Phantoms. For giving us a mission. A purpose. Thanks for that.”
So, what? He’s gotta be cryptic and sentimental? Christ. How’m I supposed to respond to all this? The best way I know how. Keep it simple, stupid. “You’re welcome.”
Ghost nods and then walks away again.
“Hey,” I say. “I still don’t know your name.”
He smiles, winks at me, and then heads for the hut without another word.