The Retreat (The After Trilogy Book 1) (3 page)

Each orbito contained a transmission platform for communication between the eight stations. But only two stations could be linked at one time, so the command officials often travelled to the other orbitos. It wasn’t unusual to see them together, just rare to see so many in one place simultaneously. Usually the commanders split in half to congregate at Orbito One and Orbito Three—whichever was closer—to discuss strategy against the Critamal.

“Buttholes,” muttered Elara. The rest of the knot looked at her askance.

“What?” she said. “I’m hungry! And they’re pushing in.”

“It
is
chocolate cake!” Thrym said as they reached the food ten minutes later. His face remained still, aside from his eyes, which closed in bliss.

The knot grabbed their meals, Deimos and Phobos somehow wheedling extra dessert.

The meal was one of the better ones: dried beef, mashed potato and beans,
and
dessert. The commander was either putting on a show or had bad news. The knot whittled away at their food until only the extra chocolate cake in front of Phobos and Deimos remained.

“So. . . ,” Elara drawled out. She looked around their knot and back at the cake.

“So what, Ellie dear?” Deimos asked after she completed the cycle twice.

“You know what.” She shot him a withering glare. “You gonna share that?” Her fists clenched on the table.

Deimos draped an arm around Phobos. Two pairs of green eyes watched the other three members of their knot. “Pho, what say you? Should we, who employed our full charm to yield this cake, simply share it with our knot?”

Romy looked into their green eyes and softened. They had worked hard for it.

“Should you, who earned us kitchen duties for two months, shut up and give us some?” Thrym retorted.

Romy snapped out of her stupor as Deimos and Phobos scrutinised him across the table.

“Fair point.” Deimos nodded.

After a lengthy discussion of how best to complete the task, Deimos grabbed a knife and cut the square into five parts. Elara, Thrym and Deimos grabbed the three largest pieces. Two remained, one just a little wider than the other.

Phobos winked at Romy and took the smaller of the two.

Dessert was usually once every two weeks, and was usually a dried fruit salad—not that she minded that either. But chocolate cake was chocolate cake. She consumed it with relish.

“Uh-oh, everyone be cool,” whispered Phobos.

Romy interpreted Thrym’s loud exhale to mean trouble was headed their way.

An angry voice whipped overhead. “Which one of you took my dessert?”

Daniel.
Romy groaned inwardly. Daniel belonged to Knot 76, one of the highest in rank. Knots weren’t ranked in numerical order. Entire knots were lost in battle and this created gaps in the lineup. Of course, these holes were continuously filled with cadets.

But despite rank not being in numerical order, everyone knew who the top space soldiers were. . .

. . . and everyone knew who was at the bottom.

Daniel was also a first-class poacherknob. Genetic enhancement hadn’t solved that.

“Danny, how are you? That red flush on your neck brings out your square jawline; you should do it more often,” Phobos said.

“Now, now. The poor man only wants his dessert.” Deimos spoke over Daniel’s outraged splutters.

“In that case, we regret to inform you that we do not have your dessert,” Phobos announced happily.

“People saw the server give you two.” The bulging man was barely able to speak the words from between his gritted teeth.

Phobos gestured to the table. “Do you see an extra plate?” The sixth dessert plate was gone.

“I know you had it,” Daniel hissed. “Why the bottom scum should even get dessert in the first place is beyond me. They should leave it to the real men who go out there and kill the poachers.”

The soldiers seated around their knot went quiet.

A stab of anger pricked Romy, and she felt her hands clench in response. So what if they did the menial tasks? Someone had to do them.

“And women,” Deimos added cheerfully.

Daniel stopped halfway through his next rant. “W-what?”

“Well, you said, ‘They should leave it to the real men to kill the Critamal.’” Deimos stood. “But the women kill just as many,” he shouted. “Am I right, sistahs?”

His shouts triggered a chorus of approval from the women. Even with the twins destroying their underwear, the women still liked Deimos better than Daniel.

The soldier from Knot 76 scowled at the twins before storming off.

The sight of Elara’s cheeks puffed out in supressed laughter set Romy off, and soon the entire knot was doubled over. There’s no way Daniel wouldn’t hear it, and that, perhaps, was the point. They were the lowest in rank, poorly motivated space soldiers who held having a good time in greater priority than being punctual, tidy, and professional, but they could pretend they didn’t care.

“Attention.” Commander Cronus’s voice rang through the room.

The whole room stood in salute in one movement, excluding the other orbito commanders.

“At ease.”

The soldiers resumed their seats.

“Our scouts have reported today that the Critamal are showing signs of mobilising,” he announced.

Romy, along with likely everyone else there, thought,
So what?

The poachers mobilised every other day. Then the Orbitos defended, or attacked. The Critamal
could
blow up the stations, but in the time it took for their bombs to travel to the orbitos, retaliation bombs could be fired. Their technology and weapons were eerily similar, causing a stalemate that would likely last until Earth was inhabitable again. It was a deadly game and she couldn’t imagine it ending.

Unless more Critamal ships arrived. That was always a threat, and one that would tip the exact balance in favour of the Critamal.

“At this stage, they appear to be mobilising
all units
.” His voice echoed down throughout the room.

She sat up straight, listening closely. That
didn’t happen every day.

“
All
units?” came Elara’s incredulous whisper.

“It could be a bluff,” Thrym added.

Cronus surveyed them with a calmness Romy had always respected. “All units are on standby until the threat is contained.”

Romy glanced at Thrym. It was lucky they’d cleared the orbit of debris today, or standby would be a moot point for their team. More often than not, Knot 27 was still expected to go out and pick up the junk despite lockdown alert.

“Spacewalks and external duties are suspended until further notice.” The commander looked over the rec room with dark, wrinkled eyes.

Those in the topmost positions were permitted an extended lifespan because they didn’t go into battle. The commander was over
fifty
. The same rules for health and fitness applied, regardless of his position, so he was fit. But he couldn’t completely erase the signs of age. And the uncommon sight of the age lines never failed to amaze her.

Romy felt sorry for High Command.

Sure, they got an extended life. But each of them had to go on living. This could be the second or third time command had watched Romy’s life span. They had to endure the endless cycle: cultivation tank, grow, learn, recycle. Over and over again. What a lonely existence. It was no wonder the commanders were all so close. She didn’t envy them for a second.

“Dismissed,” Commander Cronus called, sitting back down.

Knot 27 remained seated while the rest of the room filed back to their quarters or internal duties.

“Guess we might get a chance at the action.” Thrym broke the silence, voice tense.

His excitement was contagious. Romy grinned along with him, while the twins ignored the others to practice their handshake, and Elara looked inconvenienced by life.

Standby would be a nice break from routine. They were only called to battle maybe once a month, where other knots with higher ranking were called twice a week. More often than not, standby didn’t eventuate to actual fighting for Knot 27. There were far more false alarms. Still, standby was a little thrilling and it was nice to see Thrym so excited at the prospect of getting noticed.

The room was mostly empty now, though the seven commanders remained at their table, heads bent together.

“I can’t wait to bond with you guys over dishwashing,” Phobos said.

Romy and the others groaned at the reminder. It looked like the stack of resources on her nano would remain unread for the next two months.

H
er life was privileged. She was gifted life, to protect, to serve. To serve, to fight. To protect, protect, protect.

Rough hands shook her. “Romy! Wake up!”

Romy jerked away, breath catching when she found Deimos a bare inch from her. Someone else was screaming. No . . . not screaming—the sirens were wailing.
All knots are on standby!

“Hurry—even Elara’s nearly ready.” Deimos blew in her face.

Romy flew into action. Elbowing the panel containing her clothing, she dragged out the orange spandex suit and pulled it up with deft hands.

“Don’t forget diapers!” yelled Thrym.

“Are you serious?” Phobos shouted. “I hate those things.”

“Fine, pee your space suit after six hours.”

Romy groaned and caught the white, puffy nappy tossed her way by Thrym. She hated them too, but the thought of her own pee circulating around her spacesuit was worse.

“We are never talking about this. Ever!” Elara complained, turning away to put hers on.

“Come
on
. All the good crafts will be gone,” Deimos complained from the entrance.

There were only ninety operating battle crafts on each orbito, and not all of them were made in this century. When there were large battles like this, instead of fear of dying—which the soldiers genetically couldn’t feel anyway—there was a desperation to get the best vehicle. If you got a bad battler,
that
was when you were more likely to get blasted apart by the Critamal before your expiry date. Goodbye recycling. Goodbye return to Earth.

“Ready!” Romy dodged Elara’s flying limbs to stand next to the black-haired Deimos.

“Incredible,” Thrym said as he and Phobos joined them. “Elara was first awake and is still last.”

Knot 27 set off at a fast clip down the passageway to the moon dock station.

There were 450 active soldiers on board Orbito One at all times. The remaining fifty personnel included the newest batch of forty cadets who were in warfare training, priming to slip into position of “space soldier” at any time. Then there were ten officials, including the commander and vice-commander, who stayed on board to direct the battle. This number didn’t include the hundreds of baby space soldiers ripening in the cultivation tanks in the heart of the station.

The hallways were empty. They were definitely last.

“Where are we in orbit?” she called to Thrym.

He studied his watch briefly, expression tight. “Five minutes until spotlight.”

It took ninety-two minutes for the stations to orbit Earth. Spotlight was code for the position closest to the Critamal’s mothership. Once Orbito One reached spotlight, they would deploy their battlers and Orbito One would continue its orbit around Earth. It would take a further eleven and a half minutes for the next orbito to rotate into spotlight after them and deploy the second wave of battlers.

The moon dock—the dock on the poachers’ side—was wide open; the knots already there were moving in orderly, precise fashion.

“Wait here, I’ll get a craft,” Thrym ordered. He had to yell over the flurry.

“If we get a bad one, it’s your fault.” Phobos glared at Elara.

“Shut up, meteor face.”

“Shh, Thrym’s coming back,” Romy said.

“We’re one of the last to leave,” Thrym said dejectedly. “Eighty-four crafts have already been prepped.”

Deimos snorted.

They had six crafts to choose from. The odds of doing well in battle with such a craft were low.

The knot wove through the moon dock, piling into a battler right down at the end.

“Mighty Mercury, will this thing hold together?” Phobos asked.

Romy read the manufacture information engraved on the inside of the door. “Made in China, 2045.”

“Are you freakin’ kidding me?” Elara screeched. “It was made on
Earth
?”

“Just get into your suits.” Thrym groaned, his patience in tatters.

Romy never understood why they had to get into their space suits for battle. The logic of it made sense; if you had to evacuate your battler, then you’d be able to survive in space. But barely anyone survived evacuation into a battlefield, and if you did there was a fifty-fifty chance you’d get picked up by the Critamal. The black, scaly creatures with the beady yellow eyes weren’t known for their gentle side.

Suited up, Romy strapped herself behind a gun. She grinned, gripping the dual handles with relish. At least the artillery on the battler was up-to-date.

The twins followed suit, sitting behind the remaining two guns. There was a gun on each side, and one at the back. Thrym acted as co-pilot and manned the missiles at the front beside Elara—their pilot. Romy felt secure in the knowledge that if they died, it wouldn’t be because her knot member crashed.

“Pressurising Battler 56,” Elara shouted.

“Shutting off vents.”

“Initiating Terminal Launch sequence.”

“Guns functional.”

“Open valve.”

“Ah, screw it,” grumbled Elara. “I’m just going.”

Romy was thrown to the back of her seat, head rattling in her helmet. Thrym’s voice crackled through her earpiece, shouting at Elara for incorrect deployment.

It always took Romy a minute to get her bearings with the speed these crafts put out. This particular battler made her feel like she’d shake apart before they even reached the battle.

A high whining followed by a disjointed voice rang in her ears. “Battler 56, this is Control Deck. Assistance required at H8.” The voice cut out.

“Roger that, Control,” Elara responded, poking her tongue out at Thrym. “Everyone ready?”

“Elara, I can assure you that if
you’re
ready, the rest of us were probably ready ten minutes ago,” Phobos said. Romy laughed, peering out of her window as they approached the front line.

The battle was in full swing, with their forces concentrated in a semi-circle facing the Critamal. The Orbitos battle crafts were grey and sleek, and the fleet of Orbito One attacked the Critamal in two rotating waves. You fired, you circled to the back, you fired, you circled to the back.

Debris was everywhere. Grey alloy, as well as the dark green of the Critamal battlecrafts. There were already casualties on both sides.

Elara dodged a ruined ship, slamming everyone to the right. “You know what, Phobos? I’m gonna make sure I crash on your side. See how ready you are for that.”

Battle was an odd thing. Jokes were funnier, pain was more acute, and you were so aware of everything; your head was constantly turning, every flash drawing your fidgeting attention.

“Approaching H8, ETA: nine seconds. Guns ready,” Thrym chimed.

Romy knocked back the safeties and tilted her head to the right—she swore she shot better this way. Her chest rose and fell in even breaths as she eyed the chunky, ugly enemy crafts.

Oddly, Romy didn’t really blame the Critamal for trying to invade Earth. It wasn't like the Orbitos owned the planet. Did it mean she wanted the aliens to have it? Comets, no. At the same time, she couldn’t blame them. Killing the Critamal was just a job to be done.
Protect Earth: Kill the Critamal.

She supposed she should feel bitter because the poachers annihilated so many of the knots. However, the space soldiers killed just as many of the Critamal kind. Time had proven that neither side would lose from lack of number. While the Orbitos’ four-thousand-strong force was continually replenished from the cultivation tanks, the Critamal bred at astonishing rates.

Again, Romy put the blame for the death, like most other things, on the shoulders of their ancestors. If they hadn’t ruined Earth, it wouldn’t have attracted the Critamal.

“Battle concentrated to our lower right quadrant,” Deimos reported.

“Preparing to fire.” Romy’s fingers strained as she held the tension in the trigger for just the right moment.

A poacher ship came into range; she followed it until the green craft lurched upwards, exposing the underbelly of the ship. She squeezed the trigger and a red laser shot from their battler in response.

The enemy ship exploded into unrecognisable debris as her laser connected with the fuel cylinders on the underbelly of the craft. The fuel cells were Romy’s favourite targets. “Hit,” she cheered.

“You’ll be cleaning up debris and yellow poacher guts tomorrow, Ro. Ever think about that?” Deimos cackled.

Romy pulled a face. Though the exterior of the Critamal was a hard black shell, their insides were gooey and yellow. The worst was their brains—huge bulbous organs that held together far too well after the body was destroyed. The skulls she’d seen in cadet training were as hard as steel, so that came as no surprise. The Critamal had no mouth, ears, or nose; they seemed to communicate telepathically, at least from what the Orbitos’ scientists could glean from study of their remains. The poachers did possess beady yellow eyes, however, which gave Romy the hand sweats.

“Preparing to fire,” she said again.

“Initiating evasive manoeuvres,” Elara responded calmly. Romy released the trigger and clicked on one safety, grabbing the straps of her harness.

Elara’s evasive manoeuvres were killer.

One of the Orbito battlers exploded in front of Romy, victim to the white fire of the Critamal. Sadness weighed her stomach as she farewelled five of their crew who would never see Earth.

The battlefield was overrun with poacher fire. Flashes of white filled the gaps between debris, and the constant ebb and flow of their battlers. Romy twisted and saw their battle lines were broken. More white fire than red. Not a good sign.

What had broken through their lines?

“Lordy lordy, I hate it when she does this!” Deimos squealed as Elara flipped the battler in a sideways spiral.

Romy focused on a panel above her head so she wouldn’t get sick. Elara’s insane laughter screeched through her earpiece. The combination was unsettling.

“Launching missile one,” Thrym said. “That should scare them off.”

There was a brief pause as Thrym fired. None of their ammunition was explosive. Explosions and spacecraft didn’t mix well. Instead, the battler missiles were actually the debris they collected, shot at rapid speed. Romy heard the whir of the stabilising engines behind her as they strained to counteract the force of the missile. She was surprised they even worked on this battler.

“Nope, they’re still coming.”

“Very helpful, Pho. Thank you,” Thrym shot back.

“No probs.”

“Guys,” Elara squeaked. “I have six Critamal ships up my butt.”

A white flash seared past Romy’s window as their battler looped backwards in stomach-lurching suddenness. It continued for a few minutes, battering and rattling them until they didn’t know which way was up. Elara was trying to shake their six tails.

The craft stabilised.

After the disorienting flight, Romy had no idea where they were. “Current position?” she gasped. She was determined not to lose last night’s chocolate cake.

“Uh . . . K4,” Elara said quietly.

K4 was the part of the battle grid directly at the heart of enemy territory!

“K4?!” Deimos shouted.

Romy lifted her head. Her eyes grew wide as she stared through the window at a hundred or more Critamal crafts. Most were rotating in waves to meet the rest of the Orbito force, oblivious to the enemy ship in their midst. However, no sooner had Romy made this observation than the Critamal noticed Knot 27’s presence. She threw off her safeties as five Critamal crafts swung towards her.

“I’ve got five,” Romy said.

“Three,” Deimos spoke.

“One,” Phobos finished. “Oh, wait. Make that six.”

Elara slammed them into evasive manoeuvres as a wave of Critamal fire shot towards them.

They weren’t supposed to feel fear. But fear wasn’t just a single gene you could just delete, no matter the advancements in genetics. And Romy knew, as her palms grew slick with sweat, that her body was feeling fear despite her mind remaining unresponsive to it.

“What the hell are we doing in K4?” Thrym demanded.

“I got turned around,” Elara said, as though it was the most obvious answer in the galaxy.

“Opening fire,” Romy said, helmet rattling with the zipping motion. She heard her words echoed by Thrym, Deimos, and Phobos. None of their comrades would be this deep in poacher territory. Knot 27 were on their own.

Perspiration ran down Romy’s face as she fired on everything within sight. The Critamal swooped and angled their crafts to evade her fire, well seasoned in space battle.

“Shoulda let Thrym drive,” Deimos muttered.

Romy’s breath caught as her fire connected with the underbelly of one of the evil-looking crafts.

“Hit!” she shouted. There was no break in the rapid staccato noise coming from the underside of their battler.

Poacher crafts were everywhere. Possibly the only thing working in Knot 27’s favour was there were so many Critamal crafts, their enemy risked shooting their own ships by firing upon the space soldiers. The white Critamal fire still seemed to flash in blinding waves as Elara threw them side to side.