Planet America (34 page)

He'd arrived during the second day of the invasion, at the height of its intensity. The jump over from Planet America had taken almost an hour, and he'd been forced to enter this atmosphere high and slow, just like his reentries on PA. This meant an anxious ten minutes of descent, much of which he spent dodging the rain of BMK invasion craft still descending on the planet. The slow reentry gave him an opportunity to see the destruction the invaders had wrought. Every major city was in flames. Frightened citizens jammed the roadways, trying to flee the nightmare from space. Mass graves ...

He'd set down just outside of Le Mans, folded the flying machine into his Twenty 'n Six, and then walked into the city, wearing the clothes of an American farmer as his disguise. The rumpled shirt and frayed pants fit in perfectly with the people numbly walking the streets. Le Mans had been one of the first cities to fall, and by the time Hunter got there, most of the pillage had subsided. He'd found this cafe open for business, had taken a table in the corner, and had not moved for almost twenty-four hours. The waiters paid him little mind; they just kept the lattes coming and accepted his very PA-looking coins as payment. It was the perfect spy post.

Though more than five hundred thousand troops were down on Planet France, everything Hunter needed to know about the invaders he could tell just from watching the four BMK soldiers standing guard at the nearby intersection. They were wearing old Zanker suits, bulky, ribbed, bubble-top garbs first introduced almost a thousand years before. The bubble helmets had been tinted black, as had the rest of the suit, making the BMK soldiers look anonymous and frightening at the same time.

These soldiers did not appear happy. Not that every occupying force was required to maintain cruel smiles all day long, but these guys were miserable. It was soon evident why. In all the time Hunter had watched them, the soldiers had been given no downtime, no meal break. He'd spotted them popping wrist injections occasionally, essentially doping themselves against hunger and fatigue. A telling sign.

Despite stern appearances, the BMK was not an army that adapted well to occupation duties. They were killers and not suited for anything else. What's more, just watching this foursome. Hunter could tell the invading forces were stretched thin. Since all of the major fighting had already ceased, it would have seemed that at least some front-line troops would have been called back to the city for relief, but that was not the case here in Le Mans.

Reports from other major cities were just about the same. Hunter had managed to carry a squad of CIA men in his Twenty 'n Six with him on this journey. They had fanned out across the landmass, infiltrating the major cities and gathering intelligence on the invaders. The picture they drew was the same as what Hunter saw before him. The BMK shock troops had been brutal during the first phase of the invasion, lazy and sullen once the action had died down. Few would actually be involved in the genocide of the population, scheduled to begin soon. That job was given to special units of soldiers whose superiors had attained favor with Xirstix.

For most of these grunts then, the killing spree was over. From here on out, they were just marking time, just doing a job.

Hunter drained the last of his fifteenth latte and ordered one more for the road.

He'd seen all he needed to. It was time to start picking up his CIA colleagues for the trip back to America. A real war was coming. It would not be fought here on Planet France. This place was lost as soon as the Love Rocket reached orbit. But the war would take place somewhere else; that was a foregone conclusion. And Hunter knew who the enemy would be. Four of them were standing no more than one hundred feet away from him, sweating in their ancient Zanker suits, looking tired, bored, and dopey. The problem was, they were ruthless in battle, and there were more than a million of them. Not real good numbers against planets that literally had no armies, no military equipment, no technology of flight. There were only forty thousand cops in all of America. They were the closest thing to an army the planet had. Hunter wondered if the cops had tried to defend the planet the last time the BMK came calling. He wondered how long such a defense lasted.

But even that could not change what was about to come. There was only one thing worse than allowing the BMK to have its way with the Home Planets; that was not challenging them at all. Knowing what he did now about the circumstances that brought the army of thugs down on Planet France, Hunter vowed to fight them to the death, alone, if he had to. That's how strongly he felt about it. But not only would those odds be overwhelming, he would have to fight this impending conflict with clipped wings because of the two-second problem. If just several short bursts of full ultraoverdrive had caused near devastation on America and (as he now knew) around the entire system, how could he possibly operate against the BMK in the stormy days ahead? In some ways, he had the capacity to cause more destruction than they did.

He'd done some calculations. As he wasn't so sure just how fast his machine could go in full ultraoverdrive, he picked a small fraction—.007—and then set his throttle to go no higher than that number. From now on, his only choice was to fly at about .007 full power, hoping that would cause only .007 the disruption.

But traveling at that fraction, while still very quick, would also mean a big change in the rules. He wouldn't be able to fly ahead of himself and become invisible. He wouldn't be able to appear in two places at once. There would be no chance to destroy the entire BMK fleet as he did the death star's space fighters. There would be no twenty-second sorties like the one he'd flown against the enemy troops on Tonk.

No, bumping down to .007 would be like flying with his air brakes on. And it actually went deeper than that. It made him a lot more human in this place. A superhero who wasn't so super anymore. He would have to make up for that somehow. He knew there were worse things than just being human. He would use his human instincts, his brains, his guile, instead of speed. He would have to figure out how best to hit this enemy, how to fool him. Confuse him. Suck him in. That's what this trip to conquered France was all about. He knew the enemy better now.

He knew something else, too.

Whatever was to come, it was going to be very down and dirty.

20

Pater Tomm was waiting for Hunter when he returned
to Andrews Field.

These flights in and out of the isolated field were routine now. Lately, his only welcoming committee had been a black tinted van and a tight-lipped CIA driver. But this time, the priest was on hand, along with some CIA medical personnel to check out the infiltration squad that had accompanied Hunter to the conquered French planet.

The agents had survived their journey back and forth inside the Twenty 'n Six with just a few bumps and bruises; they were loaded into one van, which departed immediately. Hunter folded his plane up and joined Tomm at the second vehicle.

"Was it as bad as we envisioned?" the priest asked, handing him a flask of Seagram's.

"Worse," Hunter replied, taking a healthy slug of the whiskey. He loved the way it burned going down his throat.

"Gordon has arranged a huge meeting," Tomm told him. "They are expecting your report. I fear you will have no good news to tell them."

Hunter took another drink from the flask. "I don't think there will be anything resembling good news for a very long time, Father."

"Well, there is one unusual thing," Tomm told him cautiously. "I was able to talk to the individual representatives from the other Home Planets before you took them home. I checked with Gordon, too, on the damage reports caused that day you went off to recon the sentinel moons. A very odd circumstance has emerged."

Hunter felt his whole body sag. The devastation he'd caused that day throughout the system, though unwittingly, had haunted him ever since. Damage could be repaired, and injuries could heal, but he alone was responsible for the lives that had been lost.

"That's just it," Tomm said, reading his mind. "I checked Gordon's damage report and those of the thirty-five other planets. It's very curious—"

Hunter took a third swig from the flask. "Are you saying you now know how many people I killed that day?"

Tomm had a strange twinkle in his eye. "Yes, I do," he replied. "None."

Hunter stared back at him, the flask halfway to his lips for a fourth time.

"None?"

Tomm nodded. "There were injuries, and there was destruction, but no deaths. Not a single soul lost."

Hunter was dumbfounded. The aftereffects of his time shifting within the time bubble had been catastrophic. He'd seen a lot of the destruction himself. He'd thought the death toll would be in the thousands.

"But how, Padre?" was all he could say.

Tomm just shook his head. "Do you believe in miracles, my son?"

Relief was swelling inside Hunter's chest. It seemed impossible that everyone in the entire system had survived the bout with reversed time. Yet miracles were essentially the impossible coming true. But could that be the only explanation?

"Miracles? I don't know, Father," Hunter finally replied. "That's your department."

The CIA blue room was crowded.

The place had been built big for a reason, but never with this many people in mind.

They were called simply the Space Crisis Group. A hastily picked collection of American government, scientific, religious, and law enforcement bigwigs, they were close to four hundred in all. They'd been whisked here under the tightest security and briefed individually or in small groups by Gordon's people. Then they'd been introduced to Hunter, Zarex, and Tomm and told where the spacemen had come from. They'd been given a demonstration of the spacemen's exotic technology, from losing things into a Twenty 'n Six to seeing Hunter's flying machine make its dramatic entrance. Even the danker 33418 was finally brought out of the twenty-sixth to show his remarkable talents. Zarex was very relieved to have him back at his side.

All this had been done to convince those assembled very quickly that there was no question that the three visitors
were
from outer space and that they had discovered a grave threat to the people of Planet America and on the other Home Planets as well.

The oval table had been replaced with a smaller one, and a stage had been erected in front of the room's big screen. Five people were sitting at this table: Gordon, the President, Hunter, Zarex, and Tomm. The Space Crisis Group was sitting as an audience in many squeaky folding chairs. Armed guards ringed the room.

The meeting was called to order. Gordon explained now that the team had been briefed on the Moon 39 problem, it was time to talk about how best to prepare the planet should there be an invasion from space. This would be no easy task. Up until two weeks ago, the planet didn't even know what a war was, never mind having a military to fight one.

Gordon gave the microphone over to Hunter. He briefed the crisis team on his spy mission to Planet France. Then he proceeded to drop a bombshell.

"I don't know who," he began, "but someone once said the best defense is a good offense. Once the BMK has finished with Planet France, they will go back to Moon 39, and just as long as Planet America doesn't launch any spacecraft, things will be as they always were. There will be peace, and life will go on. But it certainly won't be
real
peace. That only comes when people are truly free. Free to make up their own minds on where they want their culture to go. If we do nothing, the people of this planet will have everything except what they need the most: the freedom to leave. To go out into the Galaxy. To expand to new horizons.

"These things will never happen unless the BMK is con-fronted. We are the only ones who can do it. It won't be easy. They outnumber us many times over, and even with help from the other Home Planets, the numbers will always be in their favor. Yet I believe it has to be done. And done now."

That's when someone in back—a cop—stood up and shouted, "My question is: Why are we Americans suddenly taking advice from a bunch of freaks?"

Someone else piped up, "How do we know that
they
aren't in cahoots with these space invaders? They're from outer space, too. They probably all stick together."

Gordon angrily leapt to the spacemen's defense. He began ticking off the contributions they had made—especially Hunter—during the search for truth on Moon 39. But Hunter just lifted his hand, politely cutting Gordon off.

The room got very silent. Hunter stared into his whiskey glass. These were good questions that had been asked. He would have felt uneasy had someone not asked them.

"There was a time not too long ago," he began, "when I thought I would never know where I came from. It's a strange thing, not being able to call someplace your home. I think there is something very human about it. We all need someplace to be from. Now, I will probably never know how I wound up here, in this time and space. But I do know one thing: I believe there is a reason that I came
here
—to America and the Home Planets. I believe that I am
supposed
to be here."

He stopped and contemplated his whiskey glass for a few more seconds. An absolute hush had come over the room.

He went on, "I don't know any other way to explain it other than I
feel
that I am an American. I feel it in my bones. I think that's what drove me across billions of miles of space just to get here. In a way, I've been called home. Not to this place. This system isn't anyone's
real
home. This is our home in exile. Our real home is Earth ... the center of the Galaxy. Someone back there owes us an explanation as to why the original Americans were sent here. If that means using force to find out the truth, then I think that's the way it has to be. That's just the
American
way of doing things."

More silence. No one moved. No one spoke—for at least a minute.