In Defense of Earth

By GA Douglass

In the world Post First Contact, as the new planetary defense organization begins to take shape, the world it was formed to protect faces new threats. From beyond our solar system arrive hostile forces intent on our eradication. From within, the desperate grasping hands of the elite move to destroy that which they cannot control.
Once again Sarah Thompson finds herself at the heart of the crucible. To face these dangers Sarah is joined by new allies, and the first class of the new international volunteer defense force. Together they must answer the question of how far they are willing to go In Defense of Earth.

• Language: English
• Publisher: GA Douglass
• Release date: Aug 28, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310909085

GA Douglass

GA Douglass is a trained IT professional holding a BS from SLU who served in the United States Navy and has worked in the electronic security industry. Aside from writing science fiction his interests include history, science, and creation of the odd artistic doodle. He lives in Dacula, Georgia with the obligatory cat.

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IN DEFENSE OF EARTH

Published by GA Douglass

Copyright© 2014 by GA Douglass, all rights reserved

Cover art by GA Douglass

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

In Defense of Earth is a work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed in this book are, fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.

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In Defense of Earth

By GA Douglass

Chapter 1: Rules of War

With the perfect clarity of hindsight it was inevitable that our leaving of the cradle would be tainted by the madness of one last irrational tantrum so destructive that the mindless brutality of it would force us to grow up, admit to ourselves what we were, and finally determine to be better.

-Ernst Wallace, History: Post First Contact, Published 15 P.F.C. (Post First Contact)

A Moment in the Battle of 11 Minutes 25 Degrees Nadir Echo

For weeks System Patrol Craft 'Ghost' had maneuvered in the face of an advancing swarm of hostile invaders. The lone ship skirted the extreme firing range of the alien armada, darting in to pick off vessels at the edge of the formation, only to retreat before organized attempts at retaliation. It was a desperate tactic designed to delay the hostile force long enough for something to intervene and save the distant Earth. In spite of these efforts, little by little over the immense distances of the inner solar system, the hostile forces closed on Humanity’s homeworld.

Out so far from the Earth there were few constant landmarks. Only a set of abstract and somewhat arbitrary definitions provided any sense of the geography to work with. Defining their position began with the sun whose light took eleven minutes to reach their location and those light minutes provided a rough gauge of their distance without resulting to absurdly high numbers of miles of kilometers. At that distance they were located within one of the numerous wedge shaped slices that were now used to define a sphere of space around their sun, with this section of space was designated as section Echo, and within it they were twenty five degrees below the plane of the solar system, where the main sequence planets orbited.

With a slow grace fitting her simple design the Ghost rolled to bring her armament to bear on the nearest threat. Her only weapon was a single multi-kilojoule laser so large that it required the vessel be pointed at its targets with only a small window for independent aiming. The Ghost was five thousand of tons of metal, synthetics, and fuel wedded for the sole purpose bringing this laser to bear on a target long enough to burn through critical systems.

Commonly referred to as SPCs the System Patrol Craft were the pinnacle of thousands of years of trial and error development, and could be found as the backbone of almost every inhabited world’s defense. For all its complexity the common SPC represented the simplest of all the warship designs found in the embassy database and therefore it was the first attempted, the first completed, as well as the first to enter service. The craft and its technology had been a gift, within its hull a crew of two dozen worked in shifts to maintain the machine’s many components, plan its attacks, and guide it through the deadly dance of space combat as they struggled to master use and understanding of the gift under conditions more desperate then they had yet to fully grasp.

Damage Control, status? The Ghost’s Captain inquired, her features illuminated only dimly by the constantly shifting glow emanating from multipurpose display panels mounted around her command chair on articulated swing arms. Within the small room the dim light resulting from the numerous console displays revealed only anonymous figures dressed in uniformly unadorned dark coveralls focused on the information presented at their workstations.

Both the Damage Control and Communications Console (DC3) and the Tactical Control Console (TCC) crew stations were located to the captain’s immediate right from where she sat in the center rear of the ship’s bridge, as it was commonly referred to out of a habit borrowed by the naval veterans in the service, rather than using the more accurate designation of the Command Information Center (CIC). Opposite those stations to the captain’s left were the Navigation Console (HNC) and the Sensor Systems Console (SSC). Filling out the small room to the left behind the captain’s chair was access to the ladder well that connected all decks below and to the right was access to the normally unmanned equipment compartments above their heads. There was just enough room for the crew to move past each other at watch shift change and little noise aside from the almost rhythmic flow of orders and the occasional soft chimes and tones generated by various console alerts.

If under acceleration the ship’s bridge seemed to sit nearly at the top of the squat tower of compartments that made up the habitable sections of the ship. Under those conditions the all critical engineering compartments were at the bottom of the craft behind as much mass as possible to protect them from any enemies to the front. When not under acceleration the concepts of position and direction within the ship were much more arbitrary.

Fuel cells alpha three and four ruptured and sealed. The crewman manning the DC3 responded with a crispness indicating that they’d only recently come on duty. The vast distances involved in combat just within the solar system coupled with the relatively low accelerations of the vehicles designed to undertake it resulted in skirmishes that could last for weeks or even months, and this necessitated crews be rotated off of watch regularly even in the midst of battle.

The DC3 crewman continued, Mass sensors are registering a seven percent loss of fuel. No further damage. That seven percent was a percentage of total fuel capacity and represented a significant loss, but the Ghost’s Captain reminded herself that things could easily have been much worse. It was perhaps luck more than anything else that had spared the vital drive and reactor systems located in the aft sections of the ship during each of their too frequent withdraws.

Reaction mass was just one of the jobs performed by their supply of water lining the exterior of the ship’s hull. It could be fed into the fission drives as hydrogen and oxygen for propulsion, it could be treated to make it drinkable, broken down to replace lost oxygen, the hydrogen was vital in the coolant systems to keep them from baking in the sun’s direct light, and it could stay where it was in the tanks providing armor absorbing incoming attacks as well as general radiation hazards. The importance of water was so critical that it hadn’t taken long before it became the subject of a mantra for those tasked with mastering the alien warships; water is fuel, water is armor, water is life.

With the ship not in any immediate danger of exploding the Ghost’s Captain turned their attention outward. Sensor Station, target status?

Cossale responded from the Sensor Systems Console with a resigned weariness, Looks like the target is dropping out of formation, but still maneuvering. Damaged but not destroyed. Hostile formation turning back on planetary intercept course.

We can’t save the Earth like this. The Ghost’s Captain made a low angry noise. She absently slammed the heel of her palm into the arm of the command chair. Adjusting the ill-fitting generic blue covers, which they all wore in lieu of a more formal uniform, for what seemed like the thousandth time. The impossibility of their situation gnawed at her, and in fact she knew that she shouldn’t have been there.

When Indiana signed on to support the newly created defense force Janet Brice had applied for a transfer. With her police training her thought was that she could help with security. Aptitude tests administered shortly after her arrival pegged her as command material, and so she’d begrudgingly agreed to attempt the training.

Saving the Earth is our day job, Cossale commented to himself more than to the Ghost’s Captain or anyone else, and it’s always night in space.

That’s arbitrary. You could just as easily say it’s always day in space. Brice snapped back. She found the former United States Navy enlisted man’s casual attitude almost as annoying as his insistence on adding quips and verbal sparring to his station reports. It was the sort of thing that would have gotten most crew relegated to isolated life support equipment maintenance duties, however he was inarguably exceedingly good at discerning useful tidbits of information from what the signal analysis computer systems software simply dismissed as background noise.

Agitating matters for the Captain was her new hair style. She'd had it cut in the now popular short style that left her neck feeling annoyingly exposed. Cossale had insisted this would be practical for the microgravity conditions that were likely to be omnipresent in her new career.

In which case saving the Earth is our night job. Cossale commented. However the Captain likes it. Brice knew better than to encourage the man, but it was a somewhat a more winnable scenario than their tactical one.

There was a pause in activity, a lull in the battle. Gradually the soft indicator tones from the various control consoles became more apparent. It was the sort of break in activity they’d become familiar with in the constant fighting at these mind boggling ranges.

After a moment of contemplation on their tactical situation Brice filled the silence by observing, Mister Cossale, you have quite an attitude about the extinction of our species.

I never could grasp that big picture stuff. Cossale admitted dismissively.

Brice snorted derisively. Everything out here is the big picture. If you’re not here to save the world, why exactly are you here? Brice asked aloud the question she’d been asking herself off and on since she’d joined the terrestrial defense force.

Join the navy see the world. Cossale explained obliquely.

Brice pointed at a speck on the tactical display. "If you want to see the world it’s the pale blue dot that fleet is closing on, and until that changes we’re going to hit them again.

Navigation, full forward thrust. The crewman manning the navigation console acknowledged the order, and the Ghost began to edge once more into firing distance.

With that much thrust we won’t be able to back out fast enough. Cossale observed.

With the damage we’re taking in each attack we won’t have enough fuel to make another run anyway. Brice reasoned.

After a moment Cossale seemed to agree. All right I’ll jump, but the next time I say we go someplace like Bolivia, let’s go someplace like Bolivia.

What? Brice asked perplexed.

Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid… don’t tell me you’ve never seen it. Cossale’s expression of horror was mock, and it switched off the second he had something to report. Contact Hotel Sierra Three coming into firing range in fifteen... mark.

Can’t say as I have. Brice responded, having grown accustomed to the rapid shift in focus Cossale brought with him to his work. Tactical, begin tracking hostile target designated Hotel Sierra Three. The crewman manning the Tactical Control Console responded affirmatively to the order.

It looks like it has exposed fuel pumps on the starboard facing side. Cossale announced, having derived the information solely from minute differences in the heat distribution patterns that barely registered on the passive sensor arrays.

Tactical, direct our battery onto those pumps. The crewman at the TCC responded affirmatively a bit more reluctantly to the order while momentarily daunted at the complexity of making pin point shots at distances of several light minutes.

I’ve got a copy in my quarters. Cossale mentioned suggestively, before shifting back to the topic at hand. Lead element breaking formation to port, starboard, zenith, and nadir. Cossale used the old naval words to describe movement left and right as well as the terms adopted to describe movement up and down. All of this motion was tracked relative to an artificially projected plane that was relative to the Ghost’s position and movement in space; as opposed to true tracking relative to the Sun itself.

Where are they going? Brice wondered aloud.

It looks like they’re going to try to envelop us. Cossale responded in quick analysis before adding, We can watch it over dinner. I’ve got some prepackaged stuff left over from a care package.

Mister Cossale, are you trying to ask your commanding officer on a date?

Yes, and I’m not hearing a no. Cossale admitted. They’re forming a bowl with us in the middle, and I point out that we do not have enough thrust to withdraw before it closes around us.

Brice could see on her own display that it was not a perfect bowl, there were weak points where they'd damaged the enemy in prior skirmishes. Break hard to port. Tactical, target the lead element closing on us. Navigation, take us in thirteen degrees off the center of that formation. As both stations acknowledged the orders Brice added, We’ll punch a hole in the bowl.

That’s not a no either.

We’ll see… if we live through this.

I hate to be the one to say it, but we’re not living through this, so can we get together after we die?

Fine. Brice cursed dismissively. This isn’t fair. They outnumber us eight to one.

I warned you not to beat them too badly the last time. Cossale admonished her. It makes them all kinds of vengeful, then in a much lower voice he added, but no one ever listens to me.

Sometimes there’s nothing in between a decisive victory and a decisive defeat. Brice grumbled. I can make life and death decisions, I’ve trained on the use of deadly force, and this isn’t that different. You take the information you have and act. Black and white. Win or lose. Right or wrong.

Finding the in between is part of a captain’s job. Cossale argued. You have to learn look beyond the information at hand.

Then maybe I’m not cut out for the job. Of course Brice had been saying this to herself since she was first asked to participate in a evaluation simulation shortly after her arriving on the island.

That’s an officer decision. Cossale said, dismissing Brice’s misgivings. I just run the simulators and offer advice and commentary for you to ignore.

In a series of delayed reactions stemming from the extreme ranges involved the alien formation moved to counter the Ghost’s own maneuvering as they entered each other’s firing arcs. Coherent beams of energy swept back and forth invisibly across the vast empty distance between the two forces damage registered and reported on both sides as the Ghost and her crew took down one, two and then three opponents. Inevitably the Ghost was overwhelmed, the damage dealt to her steadily grew, and systems shut down until all capacity to respond failed her. Unwilling to admit defeat Brice went through the systems list over and over, trying to find something that could save them or at least something to lash out with.

Did I ever tell you that I lived through one of these once? Cossale asked cheerily.

What? Brice demanded distractedly, not willing to fully accept that the younger man may have pertinent information, and still fuming over their impeding defeat.

Yeah, it’s true. Cossale began in what everyone now understood to be his standard opening for stories that were not actually true. The guys running the simulator left for lunch and we all lived to fight another day.

As if on cue the systems all reset their status to normal and the crew began to secure their stations as they concluded what had been an exhausting exercise. Simulator runs could last for hours or days, and much longer if the instructors running the simulation didn’t condense the rate at which events took place. Even with time compressed within the scenarios it managed to be a very grueling and immersive experience. This latest round of training had meant spending the better part of a day and a half inside the simulator, treating it as if it had been their whole world.

Brice rolled her eyes at Cossale’s anecdote. Are you trying to tell me that it’s all a matter of timing?

Cossale attempted to provide perspective. I’m trying to tell you that you’re right. These simulations aren’t fair. You’re supposed to lose. It’s kind of the point.

They followed the rest of the simulation crew out of the bridge and down the ladder connecting the various simulator decks to the exit airlock that served as entrance. Above the hatch to the simulator someone had taped a piece of paper with the word Ghost on it, the trainees’ unofficial name for the modular simulator, and it flicked in the breeze of exiting students. Outside the simulator corridors, that seemed to look out across tropical vistas, stretched away in three directions leading to the administrative office complex, the dormitories, and the recreation and cafeteria buildings.

Of the three corridors the one leading to the administrative complex was the only one that was empty, and it was the one that Brice had to take to receive her performance review. Grading of individual performance was largely an automated affair in what was a work-in-progress learning process except for the command positions that had immediate debriefings to immediately gauge and discuss whatever issues had arisen in the process. Brice steeled herself for the under the microscope ordeal to come allowing one big yawn to help force wakefulness into her system.

I hate losing. Brice commented to no one in particular as she started towards the debriefing. In fact it wasn’t the losing that made her angry it was the fact that the game was rigged so that she’d lose no matter what she did that truly enraged her.

Give yourself a break, you got half of them. Cossale consoled her. Cossale could afford to be casual about performance since he had no stake in the outcome. His main role was to provide hands on training in the simulators, fill in wherever there was a shortage, and guide the programming of simulator scenarios based on a first hand perspective. Basically he was an instructor and so his performance would not be graded, although that wouldn’t have mattered anyway since his skill with the sensor equipment bordered on the impossible.

Being lectured by the younger man was more than a bit annoying for Brice. Taking everything seriously had always gotten her what she wanted in life, and what she wanted was to win. Unfortunately the simulator scenarios made that a goal that kept moving further away the closer she got. And what exactly are we supposed to learn from fighting an impossible fight?

We’re training for an impossible fight to make the real thing seem easy. Not seeing the explanation making an impact Cossale changed tactics reciting, We train because in the heat of battle you don't remember very much, you don't think very fast. You act by instinct, which is really training. So you've got to be trained for battle so you react exactly the way you did in training. Pausing for dramatic effect he concluded, That’s Halsey by the way, no wait, maybe it was Burke? Anyway, I don’t think it was Sheridan.

It made a certain amount of sense, but that presumed that Brice was truly training for a command position, and that still didn’t feel real to her. All I know is that I lost and I want to win.

Stop beating yourself up, you did everything you were supposed to for as long as you could until it was over. We died, I got a date, and life goes on. That’s all that matters.

What?

You’re in training for a command position, so it’s not the result that matters. For officers what’s important is that you went through the process as you were taught. Unless you were what-ing the second part because you are seriously on the hook for dinner and a movie.

So we’re training to do the right thing, even if the right thing gets everyone killed. Brice remarked caustically. I’m ignoring the second part.

Cheer up, we’re dead, it can’t get any worse.

Now you're ignoring the second part, and you forgot the training debriefing. Brice grimaced, hating the post simulator everything you did wrong reviews presented with perfect hindsight. Or were you talking about the date?

No, actually I didn’t forget the debriefing, but that’s just El-tee, he’s a sweetheart. Cossale assured her, but as far as Brice was concerned having her failure examined in detail was more than enough reason to dread the debriefing. By the way can I give you a bit of advice for the debriefing?

Will you shut up if I decline? Brice asked sarcastically and not truly meaning it. In fact the younger enlisted man had proved a useful source of insights into the subtly nonsensical aspects of an officer’s job. That the mentoring was accompanied by attempts to ingratiate himself with her romantically was a minor nuisance she was willing to put up with.

No, actually I won’t. Cossale confessed, and then bulled ahead into his advice giving. Don’t focus on yourself. Talk about the accomplishments of the crew.

What? Was I that bad?

Your performance has nothing to do with it. Cossale explained, You were in charge. You need to show that you understand that the role of a ship’s captain is management and that you’re not responsible for actually doing anything.

The absurdity of the logic caught Brice off guard causing her to repeat herself. What?

Cossale took on a bad accent for his reply, You keep using that word. I do not think it means what you think it means.

That movie I’ve seen. Brice countered, rolling her eyes.

Good to know you didn’t live a completely deprived life before we met.

And now my life is complete. Brice sighed in exasperation.

Cossale concurred sheepishly, Well, yeah, we just died.

Don’t remind me. Brice responded, not needing any reminders as she replayed the entire simulated scenario in her mind from beginning to end for the third time in the handful of minutes since it had ended.

Soon they arrived at what had been a nondescript office adjoining a cubical farm that was being used as the administrative center for the fledgling force. Here someone had reprogrammed the walls, from their nondescript beige that all the office spaces defaulted to, into a gallery of high resolution impressionist paintings. The gallery wrapped around the cubical farm, ducking in and out of the adjoining offices, with works loosely grouped by artist. Within the office where Burgess performed his relatively mundane administrative work the works of Serebryakova hung flush against the walls.

Most of the administrative concerns centered on scheduling for classroom and simulator time as well as finding something for the forces membership to do afterhours aside from trying their hand in the robust home brewing and distilling industry that had sprung up on the island. Perhaps the biggest problem of all was what to teach to whom since there was no gauge they could use to determine aptitude for such a new field as space crew resulting in the view that everyone was a candidate for every position.

They found William Burgess, a naval officer on loan from the United States Navy and the default primary administrative authority, pouring over spreadsheets. At a glance they could tell these that compared various aspects of each individual’s performance in the simulator to other trainees in the same position. While strictly going by simulator performance and discounting classroom results entirely was admittedly unorthodox, Burgess had decided that there was little they actually needed to test for beyond the actual ability to do the job for any given station. As a result classroom performance had been relegated to a tool for the students use in honing their abilities in preparation for the next simulation run.

Candidate Brice, have a seat. Burgess said distractedly and without turning his attention from the scrolling data in front of his eyes. Brice took the offered seat while Cossale, who was accustomed to being ignored, took the office’s other chair.

Burgess finished with the data and rubbed his eyes before turning his attention to the anxious Brice. So what is your assessment of your performance? Burgess asked.

We died. Brice stated, suppressing her irritation at the question. She had put on the stolid demeanor she’d cultivated for the initial questioning suspects during an investigation. The consciously imposed set of facial features had impressed her colleagues in the Indianapolis Police Department and actually did help separate her emotional state of mind from the situation at hand. Even with the added layer of separation from the events in the simulator it remained gratingly frustrating.

Yes, well, that happens to everyone eventually. Burgess noted, recalling his own training and the many simulator deaths involved. Up until then how did you do?

We got seven of them. Two destroyed, three crippled, and two damaged. Brice noted and then remembered Cossale’s advice. The crew know their jobs. Everything gets done, when it’s supposed to, in the way it’s supposed to get done. I’d say we’re getting close to having crews ready to send up.

True. Burgess had been worrying over that same point and come to the same conclusion in spite of his concerns over what the training might have missed. We’ll need another month of simulation runs just focusing on fire suppression, depressurization, and other ordinary disasters before we send a group out on their own. Burgess frowned at himself for having allowed the conversation to go off on a tangent. How do you think you’re handling the stress?

Well enough, I guess. Brice admitted, a bit surprised by the question. But it’s just a simulation so it’s hard to say how well that would translate into the real thing.

Any problems with personalities or egos? Burgess asked probingly. Any problems handling the crew at all?

No, everyone seems to be focusing on their jobs. Brice answered uncertainly, Sometimes there are arguments over procedure, but nothing major.

Like the engine pre-pressure tests? Burgess continued to ask his vague generalities. It was a strange departure from the usual debriefing routine of going into details about what Brice had done wrong in the simulator.

That situation practically resolved itself. Brice commented, trying to dismiss the simple procedure list that had nearly resulted in a brawl among the trainee engineering crew.

So you’re telling me there are no problems with the crew?

Brice managed a simple, Yes. It was an irritatingly vague question. Of course the crew had problems, everyone always has problems. There were countless minor disagreements, quarrels, and personality conflicts, but so long as she didn’t have to knock heads together she counted these issues as being routine.

Any problems with yourself, either personal or professional?

No, no problems. Brice wasn’t sure where the conversation was going, but the absence of critique in the debriefing was an increasingly troublesome divergence from the normal procedure.

Okay then, the data agrees with you. Burgess concluded.

It does? How could the data possible agree with her life having no problems? Was there some statistical performance evaluation that managed to predict the quantity and degree of complications in a person’s life?

Yes. In fact crew numbers in general. Crew who’ve had performance issues under other candidates seem to perform better under you. Burgess tapped a pen on his desk as if the anomaly in the data annoyed him. Do you have any idea why that might be?

To Brice it sounded as if she was being accused of cheating. It was an accusation that didn’t sit well with her, and she was rapidly becoming annoyed. Fortunately she retained enough self control to avoid expressing her annoyance directly. Well, we have all been training for a while now so in part it can be attributed to most of us just hitting our stride… so to speak.

Maybe, Burgess conceded, or maybe there’s something else. I ask because we’ll need to replicate those factors in future training, if at all possible. Either way I want you to start going through the available personnel lists and selecting a crew to train with on a regular basis.

With me in command? Brice found the notion shockingly absurd. She’d only even signed on to the service thinking her police training would be useful on the artificial alien creation they’d taken to calling The Island. She’d only agreed to the training in order to help critique the training system for use when the real officer candidates started to arrive. The idea that she was being considered to take command of one of the tiny handful of spaceships yet produced was surreal and disturbing.

Yes. Following your performance on this last simulation you’re on the short list for taking command of one of the SPCs he pronounced it es-pea-cees for a shakedown cruise.

Command? You’re putting me in command? It gave Brice pause to even consider the possibility seriously.

Maybe put you in command, and just for the shakedown cruise. Burgess corrected her. Final approval rests with the Council… he trailed off muttering, presuming they ever actually meet to decide anything.

If you manage not to wreck it they’ll probably give it to you. Cossale speculated cheerfully.

Maybe assign you to command. Burgess corrected.

The thought of being responsible for so many lives on the ship as well as the defense of the whole world was a bit overwhelming, but Brice tried not to let it show. So… what’s a shakedown cruise anyway?

Sorry. Burgess apologized, finding it hard to remember that not everyone was from a naval background. It’s a comprehensive test of all systems before any ship is put into full service. He pointed out the cubical farm beyond his door. "There’s a terminal