Invasion: Book 1 of the Homefront Trilogy

Also by Scott James Magner

THE FOREWORLD SAGA

Hearts of Iron

Blood and Ashes

THE TRANSGENIC WARS

Homefront

The Homefront trilogy:

Invasion

Landfall

Beachhead

The Reclamation’s End trilogy:

Starfarer’s Legacy

Red Genesis

Black Destiny

THE HUNTERS CHRONICLE

Seasons of Truth

Empire of Night

Crusade of Shadows

INVASION

A Novel of the Transgenic Wars

Scott James Magner

Invasion is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination, or are used in an absolutely fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons—living or dead—is entirely coincidental.

Portions of this book previously appeared in Homefront, published by Arche Press, an imprint of Resurrection House.

Copyright © 2014, 2019 by Scott James Magner

All rights reserved. No portion of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted, in any form or any means, without the express written permission of the publisher.

Published by ARUS Entertainment (Seattle, WA).

This book is catalog #ARUS4001-E, and has an ISBN of 978-1-954394-00-1

Edited by Mark Teppo, Fleetwood Robbins, and Darin Bradley

Original Homefront cover art and design by Jennifer Tough and Darin Bradley

Cover art and design by Al’n Duong and Honor Zavatta-MacDonald

www.arusentertainment.com

For Onkel Sven. No words I can ever write will pay my debt to you, or fill the hole you left behind.

Special session of the 110th World Congress

July 20, 2169

(Partial Transcript)

CHAIRMAN DAVIS:

We’re looking for a little clarity here, Dr. Harrison. You said in your report that the Transgenic virus was a part of the natural course of human evolution, but in your testimony today you are indicating otherwise. Were you lying then, or are you lying now?

(silence of approximately 12 seconds)

Nothing to say, Doctor?

(further silence of 10 seconds)

DR. MICAH HARRISON:

I have a great deal to say, Mr. Chairman, but I’m trying to figure out exactly which parts of my study your aides decided to misinterpret. If they had read the entire report, they might have gleaned the relevant words, rather than just the ones you wanted to hear.

DAVIS:

Please, enlighten us. And don’t be afraid of the big words. We’re all intelligent people here.

HARRISON:

With respect, sir, there are no words big enough for what’s been done to us.

DAVIS:

To us, Doctor?

HARRISON:

If you, or your lackeys, had actually read the report, instead of the summaries meant for exobiology students, you’d already understand my position. But for the record, and to dispel the confusion you yourself have now injected into the issue, I will state definitively that the human race has not evolved as a result of contact with the virus.

DAVIS:

So you are reversing yourself then!

HARRISON:

Hardly, sir. Evolution is a long, chaotic process of genetic mutation in living creatures. Over time, favorable mutations are more likely to survive and reproduce. What’s happened-what’s happening-to the human race is not evolution. It is a biological attack by an unknown factor.

(silence of approximately 20 seconds)

SENATOR CLARK:

Doctor, are you suggesting . . .

DAVIS:

Preposterous! In over two hundred years of space exploration there has never been any conclusive proof of . . .

(general shouting, gavel pounding)

Order, order! Doctor Harrison, please explain yourself!

HARRISON:

Again, I refer the committee to my study. Evolutionary mutations are a response to environmental factors or species imperatives. They do not occur in adult organisms; nor could random chance produce mutations like functional body parts. Additional arms and legs, third or fourth eyes that can read radio waves, that sort of thing. And evolution certainly does not produce these results essentially overnight in widely separated populations and genetically diverse individuals.

The Transgenic virus, as you name it, affects—is affecting—specific portions of the human genome. In fact, it might be more accurate to say it targets them. It transforms a normal human being into a fully functional member of another species.

No technology we possess does this. No process we have can stop or reverse these mutations, nor can we explain why some people are affected and others are not. Moreover, we—

(gavel pounding)

DAVIS:

Doctor Harrison! This is a serious inquiry, not a . . . a . . .

HARRISON:

What it is, sir, is the end of the human race. Ladies and gentleman of the committee, I cannot stress this point enough. The virus is real, and did not originate on this world. The more planets we explore, the more likely it is that we will find other organisms like this one, which will have similar interactions with our biology.

No sir, the virus is not evolution, but it’s foolish in the extreme to assume the evolution of our species has ended. It will happen, must happen because of the virus. It’s inevitable.

Superior forms of life now inhabit this planet with us, and there’s a clear pattern for what happens next. Like our own species displaced those that came before us, we will eventually give way to these new forms of human.

DAVIS:

Unless we take steps to stop it. Quarantine the infected, limit new exposures . . .

HARRISON:

Steps? Steps? Mr. Chairman, every man, woman and child on this planet is infected. For now, most of us have not expressed any effects. But our children, and our children’s children, will quite literally see things we cannot imagine.

You can attempt containment, but you will fail. You can hound and harry and treat your children like animals, but in the end you will only destroy yourselves.

CLARK:

Doctor, for the benefit of those who have not read your study and are watching these proceedings, how would you recommend we proceed?

HARRISON:

With patience, Senator. This is all so new, and there’s so much we do not understand. In time, we’ll learn to manage the effects, perhaps even guide them. But the one thing we must not, cannot do is act out of fear.

DAVIS:

And why is that, Dr. Harrison?

HARRISON:

Because for now, they still remember being human. And there’s one thing that children, animals, and all living things have in common.

When threatened, our transformed descendants will defend themselves . . .

16 July, 2640 OER

Jantine

As suicide missions go, thought Jantine, this one could do with a bit more excitement.

Maybe it was the lack of activity, or that she and her team had no way to alter their course through hyperspace. Maybe it was that she really didn't understand their mission, or that despite their training her team seemed ill-suited for it.

Maybe if they'd given us a proper spaceship, instead of stuffing a bunch of mods barely old enough to leave the crèche into a cargo container and firing us into another dimension. But three weeks of travel for what might only be seconds of activity makes even the best of us a bit restless.

Malik, time to insertion?

Her second-in-command's face glowed in the light of his computer screen. She and Malik were alone, but he made a point of looking around before answering.

Fifteen minutes less than when you last asked. Three hours, twenty-five minutes, and odd seconds remaining. You should make the call.

Malik was right, of course. The others needed to prepare as best they could. But delaying the call meant she could push back the reality of their mission a short while longer, and savor what little life she had left.

Jantine got up from her chair and stretched, careful not to extend her arms all the way and touch the fabric of the temporary shelter that served as their command center. She'd made that mistake on their first day out, and Malik had barely made it outside with the portable terminal before the tent collapsed around her. Everything about this mission was temporary, including its personnel. But Jantine couldn't fault the Alphas for their accommodations. After all, why spend money on equipment you'd never need again?

I need to take a walk. Give a shout if something happens.

Will do, boss.

Jantine shut down her own computer. It was a near duplicate of Malik's, built into a carrying case of ballistic plating and powerful enough to run an entire city if necessary. But instead of scanning the not-landscape of hyperspace for threats as her second-in-command did, her daily routine consisted of comparing crew readiness reports and preparing training schedules.

My first command, and it's like I never left the training center. Reports for everything, including how many reports there are.

Closing her eyes and twisting so as to not touch the sides of the opening, she eased herself out of the tent. It was one of many tiny exercises she'd assigned herself every day to keep sharp, and her engineered body was as responsive as ever.

As Betas, Jantine and Malik were the finest soldiers the Colonies could produce. Her specialty was operational command, and he was designed for tactics and interpersonal relations. Physically, their strength and speed were nearly matched, but despite a higher combat aptitude she'd never been able to best him while sparring. Malik always found a way to win, no matter how hopeless the situation was.

Eyes still shut, she let the red glow on the other side of her lids move her dark-adjusted eyes back to normal. When she opened them, the simulated light of the cargo container came at her from every direction, banishing shadows and approximating the ground-level light of their destination. If the surface currently serving as a floor weren't darker in color than the walls around them, the appearance of their camp would be even more surreal.

At present, her command consisted of a handful of tents and a few dozen crates of equipment neatly arranged on the deck plating—everything they'd need if the mission lasted longer than a few seconds after landing. Only her combat team and the support crew were awake during this phase, and a group of them were far enough away at the other end of the container that the gently arcing floor put them above her.

The remainder of her people were in cryosleep in a second container, waiting for Jantine to make the most important decision of her young life. Of everyone's lives, really, but the responsibility was hers. She'd been training for this moment almost since she took her first steps, and it still didn't seem right to her.

A dozen mods, with the weight of the worlds on our shoulders. And only half of us have military training. Me and Malik, Katra, Jarl, and the Deltas. What were the Alphas thinking?

About half the support team civvies were watching Crassus and Artemus walk through their paces under Katra's watchful eye. Unlike the Gamma's subtle genetic advantages, there was no mistaking the Deltas for baseline humans. Almost four meters tall, their extra arms and hardened gray skin were easy indicators of their primary function as combat infantry.

Both mods were carrying an unpowered squad weapon in the upper set of arms, and deflection panels in the lower. By the looks of it, Katra had them executing a defensive sim, projecting holographic opponents directly into their eyes. The Gamma's fair hair was a shade lighter than Jantine's, but she had a similar lanky build.

The speed at which the Deltas moved was impressive, and the civvies watching them seemed a bit confused as to what they were actually doing. To Jantine's trained eye, the Deltas were adjusting to incoming fire from imaginary combatants, moving the barriers in front of simulated beams and bullets that would otherwise make sticky paste of the unprotected scientists and technicians sitting behind them. The audience was an unknowing part of the training exercise, and in the long run, the most important part of their mission.

Assuming, of course, that we survive the landing. And then make it out into the open. And then find a place to defend. And then...

Three hours, twenty-some minutes. She needed to make the call.

Jantine thought about keying into Katra's sim, and giving the Deltas some real opposition. Not physically—either one could rip her apart if she let them get close enough—but strategically. Katra's sims were straight out of the training manuals. Although the Gamma was a talented instructor, she didn't have the right mindset for improvising a chaotic battle—Katra and Jarl were combat infiltrators, not leaders.

Speaking of whom...

The hairs on the back of Jantine's neck stood up, and her senses went into overdrive. She bent her right knee and kicked out with her left leg, while at the same time tasting the air around her for some hint as to Jarl's direction of attack. She smelled nothing but the sterile blandness of recycled air and the slightly greasy feel of tent material.

Jantine rolled forward when she hit the ground, adjusting for the curving surface of the container. But her maneuver came to an abrupt halt when her back slammed into something that shouldn't be there, and she knew she'd guessed wrong as to Jarl's location.

Again.

Before she could twist away, strong hands pulled her arms behind her back and the full weight of her opponent pressed her into the floor. She scissored her legs in an attempt to get free, but Jarl was a heartbeat faster, and locked one of her thighs behind one of his knees.

Stabby Stabby. Dead.

Jarl's throaty whisper was close enough to her ear that she could feel his breath moving across her skin, and still she couldn't smell him. He held her down long enough for her hypothetically slit throat to bleed out, and then pulled her to her feet.

When she looked at him, the dark outfit Jarl was wearing told her how he'd done it. Instead of the non-descript brown coveralls the rest of the team was wearing, he'd somehow fashioned a spare shelter into a flowing garment that not only broke up the lines of his body, but allowed him a full range of movement. She'd smelled a tent because she was attacked by one, and the knowledge made her smile at her earlier thoughts regarding Gammas not being able to improvise.

How long?

Two hours. Malik spotted me when I came inside, and scored a kill. So I waited for you to come out instead.

Damn. Should have thought of that. Make the score: Jantine, 0; Malik, more than 0; and Jarl, 37.

Jantine gave Jarl a small bow and ducked back into the tent. He'd heard Malik's timetable announcements and knew as well as she did where the mission stood. It was time to make the call, and prepare for the rest of her life.

She didn't bother sneaking up on Malik—his senses were better than hers, and he'd likely heard everything that transpired outside. Malik's intense focus on the screen in front of him didn't blunt his perceptions of the world around him, and this heightened awareness was one of the many reasons she liked working with him.

Settling back into her chair, she spent some time looking at Malik's face in the dim light of his screen. It was similar to her own, but with enough differences to mark him as belonging to another crèche.

Betas were bred to serve, be it as officers, underlings, ambassadors, or teachers. Gammas like Jarl and Katra were carefully designed tools meant for a specific task, but Betas were the ones qualified to use them. Most of the team outside were Betas, as were about ten percent of the sleepers in the second container. But before partnering up with Malik, she'd never really considered what it meant to just like somebody for who they were.

And she did like him. His casual efficiency at everyday tasks, the way he kept her on track, and the occasional smile that escaped his inbred professionalism. If she didn't know better, Malik could almost pass for an Alpha, but they were far too valuable to send on a mission like this.

Jantine saw a slight movement of Malik's left eye before he spoke, the only acknowledgement he ever gave that he noticed her scrutiny.

Are you ready?

The implications of those three words were almost too much for Jantine to handle. Malik knew the most likely outcome of their mission, and the prospect of permanent exile on a hostile planet should they survive it didn't seem to bother him. He only wanted to know that she was prepared to command him to his death when necessary, and was more than capable of activating the container's destruct sequence if she was not.

Because a Beta who would not do her duty was as big a threat to the Colonies as the enemy, and Malik would certainly do his. The rest of the team would never know it had happened, and their mission would disappear from the universe as if it had never launched in the first place.

Yes. Open a channel for me.

Malik nodded, and mumbled a phrase that both disarmed the destruct system ready to burn them to ashes and activated the communications array. As a result of her choice, life in the containers would become interesting over the next few hours.

The next words Jantine spoke to her team would pale in comparison to the message she was about to send, possibly the most important words ever spoken aloud since humans first went out into space. She knew the message so well she could recite it in her sleep, and she would deliver the words of the Alphas to the universe without a single change.

It's ready, Jantine.

Jantine was still watching Malik for some sign that he returned her almost-affection, and was surprised when he turned his head to look her in the eyes. It had been eighteen days, seventeen hours and thirty-seven minutes since they'd been sealed into the container and fired into hyperspace, and in all that time Malik had displayed nothing but perfect Beta obedience and efficiency. But as the last day of their lives slowly counted down, she saw in his eyes how much he'd wanted to not activate the destruct sequence, and in his smile how happy he was to be alive for just a little bit longer.

Malik gave her a nod, then rose and left the tent. Jantine pulled his portable unit over to her, placing her palm on the scanner and verifying her willingness to die for the Colonies.

"This is JTN-B34256-O. Streamship 7 is a go. Time to insertion is three hours, ten minutes, twenty-six seconds. Message begins.

"This is JTN-B34256-O. In accordance with Interstellar Compact and the Magellan Accords, I state now for the record that my actions are mine and mine alone. I hereby declare myself free of the tyranny of the Outer Colonies, and ask that my actions be viewed in the context of the greater good.

"On March 17, 2640 OER, I commandeered the freighter Argo and killed its crew, appropriating its cargo of workers and colonists for my own use and freeing them from lives of genetic servitude.

"Do not attempt to find us. Do not attempt to reclaim us. We are armed, we are free, and will defend ourselves to the utmost of our abilities.

You have been warned...

Andreison

0332 ship time, SDF City of Lights

Instead of breaking his hand off at the wrist, Sub-Lieutenant Marya Andreison swiveled her chair to dislodge Lieutenant Mitchell Williams' grip and leave him floating helpless for a few seconds. There was never a good time to deal with this sort of thing, but the cramped confines of Forward Sensor Pod Alpha were one of the worst places she could think of to fend off unwanted advances, especially with the chair's safety harness restricting her movements.

Williams either didn't take the hint, or chose to ignore it. Anchoring himself against the pod's hatch, he put on his best approximation of a seductive smile.

Come on, one drink. I'm just trying to get to know you, that's all.

Williams had been trying to get to know her for weeks now, ever since Marya's transfer aboard. Her wedding rings, her rank, and her clear disinterest weren't the deterrents they should have been, and her service record meant any waves she made now could wash her right back to monitoring deep space communications from a planet-side observatory instead of doing the same duty aboard a Redstone dreadnaught.

Most of City of Lights' other officers left her alone; a stint in a military prison, however unjustified, left a stain on an officer's career that took years—if not decades—to fully erase. But as a section head, Williams—in theory—had legitimate reasons to talk to her. About hydroponics and power allocations, anyway, neither of which had anything to do with her current assignment.

Just another few months in grade, and I can either retire like Deb wants, or transfer somewhere where a pig like Williams can't affect my destiny.

So, what do you say, Marya? Are we going to be friends?

Ok. That does it.

Marya turned her head away, not bothering to hide her contempt. Williams' smile was still in place, and she knew she'd lost a few points by rising to the bait. But his too-smug face was very punchable, and his signature stale sweat plus depilatory odor was particularly offensive today. She triggered both the security monitors and a portable data recorder before speaking, so this time at her disciplinary review there would at least be some record of what had happened.

No. We're not. My friends act like human beings, and leave me alone when I ask them to. Marya was biting back a lot of comments like this lately, and each one moved her a little closer to her Deb's way of thinking.

Not only would my wives not approve—of me slumming it with the worst the Fleet has to offer—but I have a lot of work to do this shift. I'm still cleaning up the mess this section was in when I came aboard. There is a lot of space to monitor, Lieutenant.

Marya activated a holo display with her left hand, making a point to flash her rings at him again as a miniature representation of City of Lights coalesced in the air between them.

Williams' smirk twisted into a scowl. You should start making friends instead of mistakes, Andreison. No one wants you on this ship, and if you ever want out of this hole, Williams said, waving a hand through the display to indicate the cramped compartment-you'd better come around to the right way of thinking.

Marya surged against her harness, fists and teeth clenched. Like many would-be and unwanted suitors, Williams was convinced that he was the right man she'd always been yearning for. And like some of the others who wouldn't take no for an answer, he was about to lose a few teeth.

But before she could release her harness and add another black mark to her service record, a buzzing alert pulled her attention back to the board. It showed an imminent hyperspace emergence, and the schedule floating next to it showed no ships due to arrive for at least a day.

Get out or strap in, Williams. I don't much care which.

Technically, protocol demanded she close the hatch immediately and jettison the pod regardless of his decision, but the thought of being stuck in a sensor pod with Mitchell Williams' infamous wandering hands and too-ripe stench was more than Marya could bear right now. As he scrambled back through the access tube to the ship proper, she triggered the pod's ejection sequence, taking no small amount of pleasure from the panicked look on Williams' face through the closing airlock as she launched herself into space.

Once she was surrounded by nothing but stars she put him out of her mind and focused on the task at hand. Marya's hands flew through holos and established a tight beam link with City of Lights' main array. Once the two systems were talking to one another, she commed the control deck.

Ships, Andreison. Hyperspace emergence detected at 0339 shiptime, no scheduled arrivals. I repeat, no scheduled arrivals. Hostile incursion protocols engaged.

Confirmed, Andreison. We're on lockdown. Good hunting.

Commander Phillips sent a telemetry packet back through the link before signing off, indicating the rest of Marya's team had launched and the dreadnaught's weapon systems were powering up.

As a widening cloud of information formed around City of