Meet the Thradons

By J. D. Austin

In the sequel to Bobby's Girl, Bobby, an independent filmmaker, and a few of his friends accompany Bobby's gorgeous, extraterrestrial new wife back to her home on the planet Thradon to meet her parents, but Bobby's plans to introduce the Thradons to Earthling popular culture take an unexpected detour when aliens invade the planet.

• Language: English
• Publisher: ReAnimus Press
• Release date: Jul 25, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463904909

Book preview

MEET THE THRADONS

by

J. D. AUSTIN

Produced by ReAnimus Press

Other books by J. D. Austin:

Bobby's Girl

Timeshare

Timeshare: Second Time Around

Timeshare: A Time for War

© 2019, 2005 by J. D. Austin. All rights reserved.

https://ReAnimus.com/store?author=jdaustin

Smashwords Edition License Notes

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR

1

RODIMA PLAIN, JORSK ISLAND, TEN CLICS OFF NORTHWESTERN DALYI

Sergeant Dez Kelar lived for the calm before storms.

Ever since childhood, he had never missed the chance to stand in a meadow when he first smelled the scent of rain about to pour, or the middle of a lane when he knew it would soon be covered by snow.

When he grew up, he eschewed normal etiquette for the chance to enjoy the last moments of quiet before the other guests arrived and a big party began in earnest. He liked stadiums before they filled for a big contest, empty terminals before rush hour, and bars before happy hour.

He secretly referred to those instances as Dez’s Time, his time, those moments when he alone owned a tense and fleeting peace.

When he became a soldier, his need to find the ultimate in those final moments of tranquility reached even further and more dangerous extremes. He discovered the greatest kick for his singular passion, the battlefield before the battle. Nothing else matched it. The last birdsong, the last calming view of an open expanse or deserted city street moments before the first shell burst, the last heavenly minutes of the most intense quiet imaginable.

He had in fact remained in the army for this reason above all others. He told no one of this passion, of course, not wishing to see his second-largest pleasure diminished and trivialized by someone else’s uncomprehending and unappreciative smirk. But what Kelar himself failed to understand was that this singular passion of his helped to make him the fine soldier that he was.

It was nighttime in Rodima Plain on the far end of Jorsk Island, and his troops were bedded down for the night. Kelar himself was sleepy, uncharacteristically so. He couldn’t explain why; he usually turned in at midnight and awoke at five, fatigue not even a part of the equation. But now, almost an hour earlier than his accustomed bedtime, he could barely keep his eyes open. He supposed it was the bracing salt air of Jorsk Island, but he didn’t really believe that either.

Because deep down, he knew. It was Dez’s Time.

Even as he rose from bed and began to dress as quickly and as quietly as possible to avoid awakening his sleeping fellow sergeants, he kept one ear cocked. There was something in the air that only he could recognize. The signs were there: The quiet would accelerate. That was the way Dez put it in his mind, and if no one understood that, it wasn’t their deal anyway. Yes, the silence was quickening, and he armed himself just as quickly. Then, fully dressed and equipped, he lay back down on his cot. That was the prize; the next few moments to come. He smiled to himself and gloried in it.

A sickening crash exploded right outside the barracks, and the moment was gone, his consciousness immediate and total. Dez’s Time was over; the battle had begun.

He jumped off his cot and into his boots, grabbing his pulse rifle on the fly. He was almost out the door when instinct drove him to the floor. Another crash, this one much closer and so loud his eardrums stung, kept him there until a nearby shower of glass and timber had subsided. Then he sprang to his feet and ran headlong for the nearest barracks.

His platoon were already up and gathering their equipment. They were well trained for this type of situation. No Marine would dare climb into his or her rack at bedtime unless all clothing and equipment were within easy reach. Thirty seconds from the first alarm to full combat readiness; that was the number one requirement that was pounded into all Dalyinese Marines from day one of basic training.

Hit the deck! Another explosion, this one seemingly right outside the door, sent every grunt in the room flat on their bellies. When the rounds came this close, thought Kelar, that was when it all began to feel personal, as if they were directed at him and no one else. He even had the image of a faceless artillery crew off in the distance, writing his name on a pulse shell, the gun captain warning, Get the bastard this time.

Let’s hear a checklist! he shouted.

Each Marine’s personal inventory was numbered, everything from (1) the MK240-AP Pulse Rifle to the spare socks (34) that were every bit as important to a foot soldier, even at the far end of another galaxy. That made it simple for Marines to be sure that they were not missing a single piece of equipment. No Marine ever went to sleep without a complete checklist, but all conscientious sergeants doublechecked anyway.

Number one, checklist complete! shouted the Marine designated number one.

Number two, complete!

Three!

Four!

It took less than a minute for the platoon to sound off. Kelar was proud of his Marines; they always did it right. Another gut-wrenching explosion, and the sergeant promptly returned to business.

Second platoon, threat-confirmed deployment GO!

A threat-confirmed deployment meant that since the platoon was already under attack, the very act of leaving the barracks demanded the utmost care. There was no way of knowing whether or not the compound had been breached, and it was very possible, even likely, that they could go out the door and straight into an ambush. The situation called for an exit not unlike an entrance into a hostile environment; one man covers, the next man moves and clears, and so on until the entire platoon was secured.

There was no immediate threat save the artillery blasts slamming through the general area of the compound. Kelar saw his platoon commander, Lieutenant Pex, and called for his Marines to stop and get down.

He crawled over to where the lieutenant was cowering behind a transport.

Orders, sir! shouted Kelar.

I don’t know! Pex screamed back.

Do we know where—

NO! They’re all dead! Don’t you understand?

Oh, this is just terrific, Kelar thought, he’s lost it. But Marine NCOs were taught how to deal with this, as well. If a superior freaks out under fire, there’s no point in arguing with him, any more than there is in arguing with a drunk. It only wastes precious time and helps no one. Instead, firmly guide the superior into action—by taking action.

His head was tot—

That must have been awful for you, sir, Kelar interrupted. Sir, with your permission, I’d like to get this platoon moving and check for a breach. He stared meaningfully at his lieutenant. The officer stopped rocking back and forth for a moment and returned the stare.

Very good, Sergeant, Pex replied with a shred of his former dignity. I’ll... see to things here.

Right, sir. Platoon, he called over his shoulder, on me!

Sarge! A private shouted. Infantry attacking! There’s a whole— The private was cut down by three pulse rounds before he could finish.

Take cover! Kelar bellowed. Suppressing fire! Solar grenade teams, launch on my mark! Pulse rifles, make it count! Ready—

SARGE! LOOK OU—

There was a brilliant white flash, then a crack so loud that the sergeant was blown off his feet and out of the battle.

COMMAND CENTER, RODIMA PLAIN

Nev Hederes, the premier of Dalyi, had been the highest-ranking general in his nation’s military before his election to its highest office, so he wasn’t looked upon as merely a clueless politician taking up space and forcing all sorts of unsolicited (wrong) advice on the boys and girls in the field.

That damned well shouldn’t have happened, he said.

You don’t have to tell me that, sir, Lieutenant Colonel Groula Feeh replied miserably. During the last war, Feeh had been Hederes’s aide-de-camp, and knew full well that the premier went in for neither idle flattery nor idle criticism.

You see where it all went wrong? Hederes asked instructionally, pointing to the section on the wall screen where the compound had been breached.

Yes, sir, Feeh said. But fortunately, this is why we train.

Hederes smiled, and the two said together, with exaggerated weariness, and train. And train. And train.

How well I remember, the premier mused.

Permission to halt the exercise, sir? The premier nodded, and Feeh passed his hand over a console. There was a bright flash, and all of the participants in the battle fell unconscious where they stood.

I’d say that Lieutenant Pex has a few battle issues to work out, Feeh remarked.

He’ll be fine, the premier replied. Everybody loses it their first time on the CombatSIM. Watch him on the next exercise. You’ll see. That Sergeant Kelar is one to watch, though. How could he have known what was about to happen? He wasn’t in on it, was he?

No, sir. There’s no way he could have known.

Then he’s someone we want to keep. I suggest you promote him to first at the next vacancy.

Yes, sir. Groula smiled at the thought of the battalion gala that was sure to follow the news of Kelar’s good fortune. Promotion to first sergeant was a big one for an enlisted soldier, and not many achieved it. It virtually guaranteed elevation to warrant officer by retirement, which qualified for the same pension grade as a major.

If you don’t mind my asking, sir, Feeh began, did you lose it your first time out on the SIM?

Hederes shifted uncomfortably. Uh, well, no. Did you?

The lieutenant colonel was unabashed. Totally, he nodded. Soiled myself and everything.

"Yes, and as a result, when you went into a real battle, you came out with a bravery cluster. Don’t be so hard on the men and women under your command, Groula. Anyone who agrees to risk their life on your orders deserves your love and respect. Train them hard, yes—you owe them that—but don’t be hard on them. When are your men due for the deployment to Sparda Krivo?"

Three weeks, sir. I’d like them to have another go on the SIM before then.

You’ll have to let them rest at least ten days before putting them through it again.

I know, sir. I remember.

The CombatSIM was a key element of the training that made the Dalyinese military the finest on the planet. It was top secret—so secret, in fact, that anyone who joined the armed forces in Dalyi was required to sign a confidentiality oath promising to keep the secret or face dire consequences. So far, no one had violated the oath in the 170 years since CombatSIM training had been introduced.

Ever since the beginning of organized warfare, armies had always tried to make their training as realistic as possible in order to prepare their soldiers for the horrors and stresses of combat. Many came close, but there was always the single most important ingredient missing—genuine fear for one’s life. It was, and on most planets, still is, the ultimate training enigma: How can you duplicate that fear without actually endangering the soldier’s life?

The CombatSIM finally defeated the riddle.

The CombatSIM was developed by Dalyinese Army psychiatrists, and it was surprisingly simple. A training cadre would be moved to a remote and geographically vulnerable location—such as Rodima Plain—and without their knowledge, placed under a light drug-induced hypnosis. In a twilight state, they would be given the suggestion that the threat of an attack was imminent. A big show would be given of the issuing of what they believed was live ammunition. They would then be ordered to turn in early. A special soporific would be released into the barracks to plunge them into a deep sleep.

Several hours later, when they would be shocked awake by enemy fire, they would already have been convinced that the attack was real, as would be the battle to follow.

Of course, every soldier’s every action was meticulously observed in the command center. No soldier was actually wounded but when struck by enemy fire lost consciousness immediately. When the exercise was over, the training commander would hit a switch that would cause everyone on the battlefield to lose consciousness.

But it didn’t end when the battle was over. Soldiers were gently revived by trained psych-medics and informed that the battle had been only a drill. After a recovery period, each soldier would then sit with an observer and monitor his or her actions during the battle from start to finish. The medical staff would study each soldier as well, determining where each soldier’s strengths and weaknesses lay and whether or not he or she would be effective in real combat.

It was a long, involved, and exhausting process, but ultimately worth it. For CombatSIM first-timers, it was a rite of passage, as well. A few would discover that they simply could not function in combat, or even that they never wanted to experience it. This was no disgrace in the Dalyinese military; it was better for all concerned to find this out before it was too late. Such soldiers were allowed to choose noncombatant duty, or if they wished, to resign from the service without prejudice or loss of benefits. Those who served in the Dalyinese military understood that theirs was not a job for everyone.

For those such as Lieutenant Pex, who had the makings of a good Marine but failed his initial CombatSIM, it was a relief to discover their weaknesses and be given an opportunity to work them out. Like Pex, most would go through counseling and, if necessary, therapy, and usually passed the next SIM with flying colors. That was why Premier Hederes was not overly concerned with Pex’s failure. He knew that the man would either overcome his difficulties and learn to function in a combat environment, or he’d resign and cease to be the military’s problem. It was a good deal all around.

Very well, Premier, Feeh said. I’ll reschedule a new exercise in ten days.

Good. No sooner, now. They need to recover psychologically. He peered closer at his former aide. What’s bothering you, Groula?

Sir?

Come on, I know you too well.

Feeh took a deep breath and decided the hell with it. If Nev Hederes, the soldier’s general, couldn’t understand what irked him, then he was wasting his time staying in the military to begin with. It was not for nothing that Hederes, as yet unmarried and childless, had been referred to as Pops by his adoring troops.

All right, sir. There are two things.

I see. And they are?

One: this Sparda Krivo deployment. The troops all hate the idea. He held up his hands in what he hoped was a polite gesture to forestall interruption, but none was forthcoming from the patient Hederes.

It’s not so much that the idea of guarding Thrado-formers on a barren planet will be horribly boring—and it will be, from what I’ve been able to find out about Thrado-forming—but the men are afraid of what a six-month deployment in a place where hard training won’t be possible will do to their skills. These are Marines, sir.

I quite agree, Hederes replied. It’s a rotten deal, and there is no doubt that it will be, as you say, horribly boring. Although not quite as tedious as Thrado-forming itself, from what I’ve been told.

But why are we needed, sir?

Groula, we’ve never done this before. We don’t know what kind of dangers await our scientific personnel, if any. But we can’t ship them off to another world without some kind of security. Maybe we won’t need to next time, but for now there’s no way of knowing.

Hederes saw from Groula’s expression that his answer was unsatisfactory, but that was the best he could do. These had been his government’s plans long before he became premier, and it was, in any event, in the nature of the Dalyinese to explore. They were the first to see all of Thradon, the first to see other worlds, and now they would be the first to breathe life into a dead planet.

Groula, I know, he said kindly, noting the colonel’s dubious expression. But that’s all I can tell you.

I understand, sir, Feeh replied, taking at least a little comfort in the fact that Hederes was a man whose word could be trusted.

What was the other thing?

Sir?

You said there were two things.

Feeh winced and once again decided to go ahead with it. The morale of the men and women under his command, if not the entire military, was at stake.

Sir, he began tentatively, I may be way out of line here, but I believe these unusual circumstances warrant it.

Go on.

Feeh took a deep breath before continuing. The premier was an understanding and sensitive man, but this would be a stretch, even for him.

Sir, our country has been through a lot in the last few years. We were invaded and occupied for a full year before turning things around. Now we’re starting to get back to normal, and most of that is because you’re the premier.

Go on. Hederes was a modest man, always made uncomfortable to the point of irritation by any sort of praise.

Sir, when the Ebereans took over, the first thing they did was to kill off all of our senior commanders. This might have doomed any other force but ours, because we train for command. Corporals are taught to run companies in a crisis, a sergeant can handle a regiment if he has to, and captains can command divisions in a pinch. Maybe not permanently, because they haven’t been to staff college and learned the minutiae of high command, but at least for the duration of a crisis.

Hederes nodded. That sort of philosophy had stood the Dalyinese military in nothing but good stead throughout its long and mostly victorious existence. And your point, Groula?

Sir, it’s been over a year since we won our country back. The nation’s moving again—hell, we’re even going to try and Thrado-form a planet. But, sir, the armed forces...

Groula had trailed off, working up courage.

Yes, Colonel, Hederes urged him with a slight edge.

Sir, we still don’t have a supreme commander, he said as if expelling breath in a rush. The office of high marshal of defense is still vacant. You’ve been helping us out, sir, and there’s no one better, but eventually your own duties as premier—

I understand, Colonel.

Sir, we need a commander.

Hederes looked piercingly at the young colonel, who he considered to be the closest thing to a son he would ever have. He understood how difficult it must have been to confront his premier with so important—and impudent—a question. But he also knew that there was even more to it than all that.

Give it to me straight, Groula, he demanded. What’s really on your mind?

All right, sir. Groula had straightened up, and all tentativeness was gone, replaced by the steely resolve that Hederes knew the boy had always possessed. "But if you want to demote me for saying this, I’ll understand. I’m probably too young to be a lieutenant colonel, anyway.

Sir: You are not going to give the job to General Col, are you?

General Col was the highest-ranking officer on active duty to survive the war. He was brilliant, a fine general in many ways, combat-proven and accomplished, almost certain to become high marshal eventually. But he was also very young and very arrogant. Most of his subordinates couldn’t stand him, and the premier had the gut feeling that if Col were appointed high marshal without further seasoning, mass resignations would invariably follow. And that was the last thing his beloved but currently troubled military needed.

You are way out of line, Colonel, the premier warned Groula.

I am, sir. You can have my resignation if you want it.

Hederes glared at his young protege, who stared back evenly, giving not an inch of ground.

All right, Groula. He sighed. What I’m about to say next goes no further than the ground we’re standing on. Clear?

Of course, Premier, Feeh replied. A sense of relief flooded over him. He wasn’t going to appoint that pompous bastard after all!

Sit down, Colonel. Now listen: I’m going to take no end of heat for this, but I don’t care. I’ve known all along who the next high marshal is going to be. I just haven’t been able to make it official because he hasn’t returned from Earth yet.

Feeh’s eyes widened, and it was all he