Supplanted
Chapter 1: The Freedom Fighters

I was tending to the bat lures in my field. Once a week, each box must be restocked with stale baked goods. Cinnamon buns work best. The stale bakery bait attracts flies, which attract bats, which fertilize the field as they feed overhead. It’s the circle of life. The wheat that I grow in my field is used to bake more cinnamon buns, and to feed our livestock and ourselves.

What we call flies and bats here on Wilson’s World would not be found in any Earth encyclopedia. The native creatures of this planet have multiple wings and grow to be a foot long; each. The wheat is from Earth. It was discovered early on that native bat guano made the best fertilizer, possibly by the original settlers; although no one knows why, or has ever tried to figure out why; it’s just an accepted fact. The smell takes some getting used to, but the benefits are miraculous. With proper irrigation and some luck with the weather, a well tended field can be harvested six to eight times a year. My field tends to skew those numbers a bit; last year I managed twelve harvests, and this year I’ve already had five, and the growing season is barely half over.

As I was finishing up with my chores, Rollo, my eight foot tall red rooster sounded the alarm. Someone was coming. Since his crow was not one of distress, I rightly assumed that the coming intruder was someone Rollo and I knew, so I didn’t take any defensive action; not that I’ve had to on many prior occasions of hearing the alarm; I know almost everyone around here; as does Rollo. (I say “almost everyone” because so many people come and go around here these days; either running from or to something; mostly to a refuge from the war.) Five minutes later, Sergeant Major Gamble came loping across the yard and up to the field fence.

“How’s the crop today, Cap?” the SGM asked.

“Same as always, in need of attention,” I answered. “What can I do for your, Ron? From your manner I’m guessing this is a social visit and we’re not about to be put under alert or anything.”

“New commandant’s arrivin’ in about twenty minutes,” he said rather blasé. “Thought you’d like to go see what all the fuss is about.”

“Love to,” I said smiling. I seldom got to travel into the big city for anything other than supplies. Most of my off duty hours were spent farming. On duty hours were spent on patrol in the space around our solar system. I jumped at the chance to experience the company of another human being on an occasion other than battle or barter. I all but ran to accompany my friend on this adventure. I almost forgot to clean myself up first.

Ron and I got into his four-wheeler, which he had parked on the main road that ran past my quarters. He had taken the precaution of not parking directly on my property since Rollo is a notorious wheel pecker and even now the sneaky rooster was eying the big black tires of the vehicle from his sentry perch atop the chicken coop half way between the main road and the house thinking some giant chicken thoughts about how to get at those tires through the barrier fences (and thank goodness for control collars and electric range limiters). Some people might cringe at the sight of an eight foot tall red rooster glaring at them from atop a two story chicken coop, but not Ron Gamble; he may be the only man in the gamma sector who has never backed down from a giant chicken, and he has the scars to prove it.

The two stroke ethanol engine roared to life and we began our bouncing dash down the paved strip of road toward the tall turrets of the nearest city some ten miles away. Although the city is a mere fifty buildings or so, they are all dozens of stories high. Each monolith houses hundreds of human residents.

The major industry of every colonial city nowadays is support of the local military. Here, as in similar metropolises throughout the Earth territories, may be found the fuel depot, food processing, distribution, mining operations, ground maintenance, and social distractions nestled among a labyrinth of minor wheelings and dealings, or “so the brochure says.” (A quote from my father.) Since there are no speed limits on colonial out roads, we arrived at the city gates in less than five minutes.

“Open sez me,” Ron quipped to the guard on duty.

“Yes, sir, Sergeant Major; and your passenger is?” the sentry officially queried. He knew who I was. Everyone knows practically everyone on Wilson’s World. Only new immigrants would be unknown here, and then only if little or no information had been forwarded to the Office of Immigration, Relocation and Residency Restriction about them. Not much goes on in the outer fringe without it being everybody’s business, and the office of I3R is more like an open forum for snooping than an official bureau of the government.

The sentry was only doing his duty. We were obviously a welcomed distraction from his usually dull and uneventful day of watching the gate to an empty road for people he already knew to come to the city to perform some equally dull tasks. It was best that I play along.

“Captain James Johansson, senior officer, Wilson’s Wildmen, first squadron,” I stated in my most nonchalant official tone. The gates had swung open even before I’d finished speaking.

The first site in this city, named Kaletown, was the social distraction section; commonly known as the red light district. Forty-eight story hotels lined the road for one city block. Each hotel half filled with soldiers on leave, the other half stocked with women of the oldest profession. Wilson’s World is one of many colonies that have legalized prostitution, as well as gambling and giant cock fights. Our business was not here, so we rattled through the district as nonchalantly as we could manage. The second city block housed the casinos.

Outer rim casinos are traditionally one hundred stories high. The casinos of Kaletown are no exceptions. A single casino building fills each city block on either side of the road, and beyond them for two more city blocks, more casinos take up more city blocks for a total of twenty four such buildings in all. Completely self contained, it is rumored that each building is actually a spaceship in disguise that can vacate a planet before the order to evacuate is given. Our destination was eight more blocks away: the Kaletown Spaceport and Military Installation.

“Fancy a drink?” Ron asked me.

“No thanks. Unless you think we’ll need one.”

“Maybe on the way back.” We snickered.

It took longer to traverse the city than it did to arrive from ten miles out, mainly due to the traffic congestion and the overused condition of the streets. When we got there, the spaceport was packed with carriers, all covered with fighter craft. From a distance, it appeared that the city was three times its actual size as there were currently twice as many carriers on the ground as there were city buildings. Each carrier held fifty attack fighters and six support ships. They stood six hundred feet high. Almost every citizen of Kaletown and the surrounding area had come out to witness the arrival of the new commanding officer. We didn’t have to wait long.

Major General Eric Josten disembarked from his already docked carrier amid the thrall of tens of thousands of people. Many more were watching the occasion on holographic-video screens from the comfort of their own homes planet wide and many miles from our local city. The military cadre which was to escort the General to his command post was lost in the sea of onlookers. As Ron and I parked and walked the last block to the tarmac, it became difficult to replace space to breathe.

“Who’d’ve thought it would be this crowded?” Ron complained.

“It’s the most interesting thing to hit this backwater world since the arrival of the sixth fleet,” I unnecessarily informed him. “It’s not every day that a high profile celebrity comes to town.”

Ron laughed. “Still, you’d think these squatters had never seen a command carrier before.”

I had to admit that I had never seen a command carrier before, not even the one that had come with the sixth fleet. The one that brought the new commandant dwarfed the assembled fleet that stood around it on the landing field in front of us by almost half as much. It was smoother around its girth as the fighter complement that served it had been launched to herald its coming. They were still gliding about the sky as we watched, performing fancy formations and maneuvers that had no place in actual combat. It was being done just to impress the crowd. An army band faintly played a welcoming ruffles and flourishes. The Major General strode regally to a prepared podium crowned with a giant video screen so that everyone in attendance, even Ron and I, could see him up close.

He began to speak to the assembled crowd. “Is this thing on?” his voice boomed through the open microphone. He cleared his throat. “As of eleven hundred hours military standard time, gamma sector of the Earth Alliance Defense Perimeter is now officially under the command of the Freedom Fighters regiment; Major General Eric Josten commanding.” He had to stop for the thunderous applause.

“I, Major General Eric Josten, do hereby accept this post, with abject humility.” (More applause and cheers.) “Duly authorized and notarized this day and date, time and place . . . by such and so . . . Yes, I believe that should do it. Well, I guess I should say something to the effect of ‘Long live the Republic’, or some such nonsense.” He placed his hand over the microphone (a little late) as one of his aides whispered into his ear.

“Oh, yes, well,” he cleared his throat again. “In conclusion, all deputy officers of each subordinate outfit now under this command shall report to the regimental briefing room at 1530 hours. That is all.” He exited the podium with a friendly wave and a forced smile accompanied by more thunderous applause. The band was barely audible.

“Not exactly military protocol,” I observed.

“I hear tell that he bought his commission and has no business leading a parade let alone a combat regiment,” SGM Gamble added.

“Then let’s hope he has underlings competent enough to keep our fat out of the fire,” I countered.

“You mean us,” Ron said almost defensively. I snickered my agreement to his hypothesis.

“C’mon, I need to get back home and feed the chickens.”

Ron and I returned to his four-wheeler after much elbowing our way through the still growing crowd. It was only slightly easier to exit the town than it was to arrive. Most of the townspeople that we passed chose to crane their necks in the streets for one or more last glimpses of the new arrivals. The gate sentry yawned officially as we sped back down the empty rural road.

Rollo was shooing his eight hen wives back into the coop upon our arrival. It was nearing feeding time, but intruders (or non-residents of the farm like Ron) were met with great caution in any case. Rollo took up his sentry position and waited for me to say goodbye to the Sergeant Major.

“1530 hours,” Ron observed. “That doesn’t give you much time to get to the meeting.”

“I’m sure I can attend by holo-vid. After all, a bunch of undisciplined farmers can’t be expected to show up in full dress uniforms at the drop of a hat.” My sarcasm was wasted on the SGM.

“Don’t be so sure,” the career man warned. “New CO’s tend to bring in new headaches, and we forgot to have our liquid reinforcement on the way out of town.” We said our departing pleasantries and went back to our respective homes.

As I entered my four room farmhouse, the holo-vid alert was sounding more urgently than to which I was accustomed. Since the time was 1345, I ignored the message and proceeded to feed my chickens.

Rollo had the flock at the ready for my emergence. Giant chickens feed on a combination of corn, wheat and indigenous berries that are suspected to be at least partly responsible for their unusual growth. Luckily for us, the berries also seem to curb their giant appetites, otherwise there’d be no food left for human consumption. I opened the sluice gate and filled the feed trough. After a short inspection by Rollo, the flock was allowed to eat their dinner. I refilled their water pans and returned to the house.

The waiting holo-vid message now took precedence. I pressed the appropriate button and was greeted by a handsome, well uniformed First Lieutenant no older than twenty who relayed the message more like a personal order than a general request.

“All senior officers and staff now under the command of Major General Eric Josten are hereby ordered to report in person to the command ready room at 1530 hours for a full briefing. No holo-vid attendance will be permitted. The uniform shall be full dress greens. That is all.”

“Full dress greens?” I mused. I wondered if I even owned a set of full dress greens. My wardrobe consisted of three sets of farming coveralls, one flight suit, one military issued regular uniform, one blue parade uniform (never worn), five sets of daily wear assorted clothing, boots, shoes and daily footwear. Before I could decide to question the order and request a stay, there was a knock at the door.

Strange that Rollo hadn’t sounded an alarm. I answered the door with my sidearm at the ready and found a delivery hover-bot holding a box addressed to me.

“Signify reception of parcel by thumb print identification, please,” the metallic voice droned. I pressed my thumb to the proffered pad. “Thank you. Have a nice day.” The box slid to the ground in front of me. The hover-bot departed straight up. No wonder Rollo had missed it; his head was currently bent over the feeding trough so deeply as not to notice a vertical intrusion. I picked up the box.

I opened the package at my open door. It contained a full dress green uniform in my size completely outfitted with my rank and unit insignia. A small card inside loosely credited the local military uniform issue office for the delivery. Apparently, our new CO had the necessary clout to procure dress uniforms for his subordinates who needed them whenever he felt it was necessary. Oh, well, I resigned myself to dress up and attend the meeting. I also wondered if my own little used four-wheeler was up to the task of getting me back to the city.

Entry 1a

A Brief Confession

Some time in the near future I will have to confess to the Sergeant Major that I know Eric Josten from a previous life.

He and I were kids together. We attended the same education and indoctrination training facility in the Beta sector since we were four years old. Our families were close. We were separated at the age of twelve; that was when we were assigned to our respective military units. I was sent to Wilson’s World, his first assignment was on the front lines somewhere in or near the Alpha sector, I think; it was just as likely to be the Epsilon sector, or Shangri-La for all that it mattered. News of his whereabouts and activities was strictly controlled (as well as everyone else’s who’d been sent to the front lines); we lost touch soon after our parting and hadn’t seen or heard a word about each other since.

However, I was pretty sure that he was still alive during our long separation, because casualty reports never listed his name, and casualty reports have never been wrong, unfortunately. It is a sad fact of modern life that regular perusal of the posting of casualties suffered by our side in this war is an acceptable activity to fill a soldier’s free time.

Little did I know that the time for my confession would be closer at hand than I would have liked.