Believe in Harmony: The Fight to Rescue a Planet Read online

  Believe in

  HARMONY

  The Fight to Rescue a Planet

  Chris A. Mitchell

  Copyright © 2015 Christopher A. Mitchell

  All rights reserved.

  This work of fiction’s characters, objects, and events resulted from the

  author’s imagination. Any similarities to actuality are coincidental.

  Cover image is an original watercolor illustration created by Gina Mitchell.

  www.UniversityWatercolors.com

  Edition 1.1

  Contents

  PROLOGUE

  I. KIEVAN

  1. The Hopeful – 2. Empty Freeway – 3. IPGN – 4. Romanticized – 5. Seven Million

  II. ATARAXIA

  6. Trauma – 7. Rip Current – 8. Rebellious – 9. Extrasolar Storm – 10. The Squad – 11. Dissolution

  III. ANEJ d’ECOR

  12. Fossils & Fusion – 13. Morning Attack – 14. Battle of Anej d’Ecor – 15. The Slovenin Towers – 16. Tightening the Ring – 17. Red Light

  IV. RESISTANCE

  18. Post-Switchblade – 19. Everyone – 20. On the Run – 21. Inside Impropriety

  V. ECZELN

  22. Any Storm – 23. New Priština – 24. Scorched & Frozen – 25. Siege of Eczeln

  VI. HARMONY

  26. Memories – 27. Bastogne – 28. This is Harmony

  EPILOGUE

  PROLOGUE

  JUNE 10, 2247 (EXTRASOLAR STANDARD TIME);

  PLANET HORIZON IV, OLLENNIS WILDERNESS AREA

  Winning was all that mattered.

  Crickets chirped. Cicadas buzzed. A bird fluttered its wings.

  Towering trees wafted back and forth in the broiling breeze. The knots of weeds and grass blanketing the ground were sticky in the humid summer atmosphere. Sunlight had long vanished. Indigo skies were descending into fateful darkness of night.

  Wildlife rustled near his boots, but he didn’t move a muscle. Nowhere was safe.

  Any semblance of comfort was forfeited. Sprawled out amongst the syrupy shrubbery, coated in a foul varnish of his own sweat, he kept an eye out for his enemies.

  Beyond the dense thickets of foliage sat the two targets – a pair of one-story concrete forts, each as architecturally creative as a brick, stood separated by a hundred meters of flat grasslands. Both forts were heavily defended.

  The private licked his lips and was greeted by the salty taste of sweat. He looked ahead. Somewhere just past the gentle flapping of leaves, his three squadmates lay at the fringe of the wildflower-carpeted field, waiting for total blackness to take over. The private had lingered behind to watch his squad’s back.

  A rocky bluff blockaded any alternative route to the far side of the forts, so the squad’s plan to flank their enemies for a sunrise attack required crossing the open pasture. Their only protection would be the shroud of night.

  As the minutes passed, a distant rumble grew louder, resembling the reverberation of an oncoming train. Eerie clouds rapidly invaded the air above. The private glanced upward with keen blue eyes, but the growing darkness concealed the weather’s details. He had no idea what was coming.

  Suddenly, a tidal wave of wind crashed into the trees, shaking branches and blowing elastic chunks of loose greenery along the ground. Then the heavens opened up, and an avalanche of rain fell. The downpour screeched like a banshee as whistling streaks of water lashed vegetation.

  This impermeable fog of rain and nightfall would provide an ideal opportunity to cross the field as long as there wasn’t—

  A white flash illuminated the entire jungle for a fleeting moment. Bone-jarring thunder boomed a second later.

  So the journey over the field would be risky after all. Still, for as long as the lightning held off, there would be no visibility between the fort and the field through the cloak of this unexpected storm.

  The private squinted through the abject gray-green color that filled the air. He saw the faint outline of a squadmate’s raised arm. That was the signal: they had decided to put the plan to action.

  Sheets of water were cascading overland, soaking the private’s camouflage jacket. Slowly, cautiously, he dug his fingers into the mud and pushed himself upright. Then he crept through the murk, splashing his boots across rippling puddles as angry raindrops punched him. Trees swayed and groaned as the muggy wind gusts only grew stronger and louder.

  Lightning flashed again, this time far in the distance. The grumbling clatter arrived several seconds later.

  He stopped next to a bush that was practically being uprooted. The private’s three allies rose to their knees in front of him.

  One of them leaned in and whispered, “We’re taking the risk.”

  The private nodded. He unslung his rifle.

  Muck slithered past their feet as the private’s three squadmates sneaked away and reached the threshold of the open field. The forts had become invisible, hiding somewhere behind the curtain of rain.

  The trio ran into the field, wading through the grass with a few meters spaced between each man. Following their plan to the letter, the private stayed back and watched them dash into the gloom. He made sure the coast was clear. Then he took a step forward…

  Lustrous white light sliced through the rain, brightening the field clear as daytime for an instant like a screenshot. Thunder snarled while darkness flooded back to its rightful place.

  He froze in his tracks, and as soon as the clamor faded away and his ears stopped ringing, the private heard something new through the hammering rain – the yells of voices. These urgent sounds came from the nearest fort.

  Despite the malicious heat, a wintry chill crept down the private’s spine. He watched in horror, knowing full well what was about to happen.

  Muzzle flashes erupted from the roof of a fort. The crackle of gunfire carved through the air. Bullets raked the middle of the field. Flashlights poked through the murk and searched for the three runners.

  They were found. Streams of projectiles knifed through the tall grass. The panicked cries of his comrades penetrated the monsoon. They desperately fired back at the fort’s defenders, adding to the nighttime lightshow as they were slaughtered.

  The private trembled. He could open fire at the fort, too, but that would publicize his location.

  He had to do something. Within seconds he would be completely alone. But he wasn’t going to give up… he couldn’t afford to give up with so much riding on this mission…

  Clenching his jaw, the private sprinted through the downpour, not toward the field or forest, but straight toward the nearest fort. He sloshed across wet silt and sludgy pools as the last gunshots echoed in the air. The private slammed against one of the structure’s concrete walls. He tightened his grip on his rifle and closed his eyes, shivering with fear. No matter what, he stood no realistic chance at the decisive win he had hoped for. Even survival was doubtful.

  One man versus two garrisons. It was time for a last-ditch Hail Mary.

  The noise of gunfire was gone, leaving only the powerful pulse of pelting rain. Taking a deep breath, he ran around the corner and kicked in the fort’s door.

  The private stormed inside. Dripping water, he lined up his weapon’s sights and kept his head on a swivel as he hurried through the steamy concrete rooms. He passed overflowing shelves and lockers.

  Around a wall, the private saw a laptop-sized electronic box sitting on a table. The machine was sprinkled with blue lights. Next to the table, a man wearing a jungle-camo vest turned around, startled by the private’s fast entrance. The man reached for his sidearm, but the private tapped his rifle’s trigger and sent a flurry of rounds int
o the man’s chest. With a muffled thud, the body collapsed against the wall.

  The private rushed over to the electronic box – the fort’s wireless electricity transmitter. Wielding his rifle like a club, he swung with all his might and shattered the box’s thin metal skin. Bits of circuitry and welding scattered on the table. The blue lights died along with the fort’s ability to communicate. With any luck, the garrison hadn’t yet broadcast news that they had crushed a trio of intruders. That would leave the other fort in confusion about the gunshots they had heard.

  As long as the private could force his opponents to think quickly, he might be able to lead them into the wrong decisions. So he scooped up the sidearm from the fallen man’s body and raced back to the fort’s open doorway, where he knelt.

  Thunder bellowed from far away. The private squinted through the misty rainstorm as he raised his rifle in one hand and the stolen sidearm in the other. He swallowed and pointed both guns in the general direction of the other fort, which remained masked by the veil of inclement weather.

  He fired.

  He didn’t fire only one shot at a time, instead unleashing rapid volleys. Blinding muzzle flashes spotlighted his position. Recoil wrenched his wrists, but he ignored the pain.

  Fight back, he pleaded.

  The pistol clicked – its magazine was empty. He dropped the sidearm to the ground and clutched his rifle with both hands, continuing his bombardment of an opponent he couldn’t see.

  Please fight back.

  He felt thudding footsteps on the roof above. The same defenders who had wiped out his squadmates were moving to hunt down the private, and he was in no position to resist all of them. He would be overwhelmed in a heartbeat once they made it down the stairwell.

  But then a distorted flash of light shined through the haze, followed by a piercing crackle. All at once, the distant fort was retaliating, and the private ducked back inside as whizzing projectiles dinged off the fort’s concrete walls.

  The drenched defenders on the roof above the private must have been taken completely by surprise, being showered by a hailstorm of bullets without warning. They didn’t have time to think beyond instincts.

  They returned fire.

  This new gunfight raged, one side convinced it was barraging the squad, the other too shocked to wonder about its adversary’s identity. The private leaned against the inside wall and caught his breath in the dim light.

  Turmoil reigned. Jagged flares of gunfire cut through the glistening raindrops. The plan was working.

  But then the private’s ears perked up as a series of strange electronic pings sounded from the roof. A loudspeaker roared, “Hold fire! Hold fire! There’s been a mistake!”

  Gunfire ceased as readily as it had started.

  The private’s horrorstruck eyes widened. His best idea was about to fail. There was just one thing he could think to do, and it was more recklessness than strategy.

  He bolted for the fort’s narrow staircase.

  As he ran, the megaphone continued, “We found and neutralized three of the attackers as they crossed the field!”

  The private lunged up the stairs.

  “We are not your enemy!”

  He rammed through the gateway to the roof and stumbled up into what was basically a waterfall. Visibility had only gotten worse. Barely discernible, short sandbag-laden shelters filled each of the roof’s four corners, and in the middle stood a cylindrical spire. Several centimeters of standing water crowned the hard concrete surface.

  The outline of the defender holding the loudspeaker stood behind the nearest embankment of sandbags. The private surged across the water, tumbled against the man, latched a hand onto the silver loudspeaker, and yelled through the squall, “Don’t listen! We’re hostages!”

  “What the—” the defender protested under his breath. He yanked back on the megaphone, and it slipped through both of their hands and flew off the roof.

  “Damn you!” the defender growled. “Give up already!” He punched the private in the abdomen.

  Landing on his back with a splash, the private pointed his rifle upward and squeezed the trigger. He raised an eyebrow and said, “I don’t remember seeing ‘give up’ anywhere on my itinerary.” The defender’s body crumpled onto a sandbag.

  Lightning scythed horizontally across the sky.

  Undistracted, the private sprang to his feet and caught another shadowy figure in his sights. He fired two shots before hopping over the sandbags, high-stepping across the waterlogged surface toward the side of the roof farthest from the distant fort.

  Sparkling flashes erupted as the distant garrison restarted its barrage. Screams tore through the night as a gush of projectiles thrashed nearby. Defenders all over were confused and desperate.

  The private started to feel renewed hope as he jumped over another line of sandbags.

  In midair, a bullet struck his left ankle. The private’s foot buckled upon landing, and he toppled. His head smashed against the padding of water. Numbness invaded his leg.

  He lay motionless behind the sandbags, wincing and gasping for breath. In the pause, he listened to the howling wind and felt the rain pummeling his skin.

  More lightning snaked through the dark heavens, illuminating the top of the fort as its remaining defenders frantically took cover from their misguided allies. Bullets zipped and ricocheted everywhere. The private heard muffled shouts from defenders arguing whether to fight back, where to take cover, what to do. By hiding from the other fort, though, the defenders unknowingly made themselves vulnerable to their one actual enemy.

  Teeth gritted, the private pushed and forced himself off the floor. With only one competent leg, he climbed up to a crouch and spotted two defenders hiding behind the central spire. The private sprayed a salvo in their direction, almost falling over from his rifle’s recoil. He limped out of cover to find a better angle to clear off the rest of the roof.

  Another shot punctured his already-wounded leg. The paralysis expanded as he kept firing at his dwindling adversaries.

  Finally, the last of the defenders on this fort collapsed.

  The private sank to the concrete and rested his head against a sandbag. He breathed heavily, practically being choked by the sheer volume of rain filling the air.

  Nearly motionless, he let the faraway fort’s gunfire subside and felt the anesthetics crawl up his leg like a mass of numbing, prickly insects. After several minutes, the drumming raindrops seemed to be trying to drown his thoughts, which kept returning to the same dismal message:

  This training exercise would end as a stalemate.

  Groggy, the private sat in the punitive wind, torrential rain, and grueling humidity, one leg frozen in a small pool thanks to the anesthetic training bullets.

  This was not the statement win he had sought. One of the instructors’ forts stood strong. But, then again, he had beaten this one single-handedly. Maybe that would be enough to earn a spot in the program. Maybe.

  The private’s hopes rested on how his commanders judged his performance. Would they be impressed or unmoved? Authority figures could crush the greatest of dreams with little more than the bat of an eyelash.

  He stared up into the sky and couldn’t shake the impression that he was being bathed in tears. After all that preparing, all that worrying, had he failed?

  Somewhere up there, past the rain, clouds, and above even the atmosphere, somewhere on a planet light-years away, his family was rooting for him. He yearned for the opportunity to bring them news that he had succeeded. They certainly believed in him. He needed to believe in himself.

  Thunder rumbled in the distance. The rain kept pouring.

  Ultimately, the odds pointed toward failure, toward being crushed and deflated.

  And what would he do then?

  KIEVAN

  One

  The Hopeful

  JUNE 11, 2247 (EXTRASOLAR STANDARD TIME);

  PLANET HORIZON IV, IPGN CAMP VALOR

  Steam billowed f
rom the coffee mug. Freeman felt the heat, but he bravely decided to test the beverage’s flavor anyway. The result was unpleasant: a singed upper lip. Grimacing, he set the mug down next to a crowd of papers near the edge of his disorganized wooden desk. Then he looked up to who stood in front of the desk – someone who had caused quite a stir recently. There, Freeman saw a young man standing with textbook-perfect composure. His innocent eyes were a mild blue, almost as lightly colored as the sky, which contrasted his short brown hair. As Freeman shuffled papers and clipboards around his desk, the private seated himself without permission.

  Major Freeman spoke with a coarse voice, “You want to stand out from the crowd, Private Beck. Hopefully forgetting to salute wasn’t part of your plan to do so.”

  Ronald Beck’s eyes grew wide with fright, and he instantly jumped back up, snapped a crisp salute, and said, “No, sir!” He was slightly taller than average, a fact noticeable even from the major’s relaxed sitting position.

  Freeman preempted any forthcoming apology with a patronizing chuckle. “I don’t care for formalities, boy. Just never make the mistake again. Sit down.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Beck replied as he slowly sank back into his chair.

  Freeman heard shakiness in Beck’s voice, but interpreted it as genuine sorrow, not weakness. He moved on. “I heard about that stunt you pulled off during yesterday’s training exercise. Twenty instructors held those forts, and you routed over half of them, basically alone. Good work.”

  “I appreciate the commendation, sir.”

  “Sure you do, but what allowed it? If you could give one simple explanation for your victory, what would it be?”

  The private paused to weigh his response before saying, “They had a massive advantage, and so didn’t see me as a credible threat. I recognized that overconfidence and knew creating confusion faster than they could react to it was my best option.”