Night of Man: The Novella

The following is an excerpt from the novella that will release as part of the Night of Man Kickstarter package. It depicts a American National Guard units encounter with the aliens. Not too long, but I have more, lot's more.

Night of Man: Twilight War

    Captain Robert Black studied the light gray asphalt of Highway 29. Below and three quarters of a mile distant from Black, the road ran south from Charlottesville, Virginia toward Greensboro, and eventually Charlotte, North Carolina. It was spring in Virginia. The pink and white dogwoods speckled the slopes below him, maples, oaks, and poplars all shaded the hills with their own, unique hue of green.

It was the best of times.

It was the worst of times.

Black pulled the binoculars from his eyes, and rubbed his forehead beneath the CVC helmet. No amount of spring would replace the sleep that he and his men needed, no collection of flowers would replace the hope they had lost.

"Contact." The voice hissed in his ear.

    
"Spotrep," he replied. He switched to his company frequency "Standby"

Eighty meters to his right, Sergeant Hugh Matt, or Hazmat  as his crew called him, glanced back to his commander before pulling the charging handle on the turret-mounted .50 cal on his M1A4 Abrams tank. Nothing else remained to be done, the men and weapons of Alpha Company, 1st Battalion, 116th Infantry Regiment, American National Guard, had been on standby since they positioned themselves two hours previously. Dotting his hill were five, well- camouflaged M1A4 Abrams tanks. Across the way, two TOW 2B teams sighted on the very same road, and at the spread in the handful of houses closer to the road his infantry waited patiently, their machine guns, LAW rocket launchers and M4 assault rifles at the ready. An impressive force, but Black knew that his men were no more than flies waiting for the swatter.

    
Once again the cracking in his ear. He knew it would be Corporal Alberto Diaz, the soldier in charge of the listening team, positioned a kilometer north of the company. The man who had notified him of the initial contact.

    
"Spot rep to follow. Three rollers, three transports, and..." The voice hesitated. There was no time for hesitation. "Spill it, Diaz," Black commanded.

     
"Yes, sir," Diaz responded, his voice strident, close to panic. "And sir, they have a Walker."

     
Black's stomach tightened. He could feel sweat under his CVC despite the coolness of the April day.

    
"Roger, he responded. Lay low." Diaz, and the other soldier with him, a chubby boy from Staunton, had done their job. Anything more would be suicide.

     
A kilometer north of his company's positions the road curved east, ducking between a pair of hills, it was from this curve that Black saw his first alien.

Earlier

Pharon Eckter Mnansui regarded the bustle of the space port through the window of his office. Directly below, dun-colored cargo containers sat in even rows, waiting their turn aboard the orbital lifters. Each held a portion of the critical supplies, his fleet would need to survive, would need to conquer. Food, medicine, portable weapons; ammunition for those that needed such. Lifts, driven by either young males or those not suitable for colonization, methodically moved the containers from this staging area to the hulking lifters waiting ten rods distant.

The second sun hung low in the sky, it's yellow light bathing the scene in gold, glinting off the windshields of the light transports awaiting embarkation, washing out the mottled gray camouflage of the troopers resting beside.  The red sun had set an hour past, not that it's feeble red rays did much to light Mowet.

And that was the problem, wasn't it, Mnansui chided himself. It had been the problem for all of his life, and for many generations previously. Mowet was dying, or to be more precise, the suns it orbited were dying, and with their death life would end on Mowet.

Behind him the door to his office hissed. Mnansui turned, knowing before sight that an unannounced entry could only be one of two: Genald Rasou his clerical assistant or the mowman who had indeed strode into his office, General of the Military Bensur Ramet. 

A tall mowman, Ramet easily stood three poles tall, hair black, cut short, military, face strong, almost bronze, with a strong chin and piercing black eyes. He covered the distance from door to work station in three strides, and drew himself to full height, placing his palm on stomach, inclining his head, he spoke, his voice deep.

"Pharon. I live to serve."

Mnansui laughed. "That's not true at all, Bensur. You live to make my life miserable. Osirit himself would be a better companion."

Ramet relaxed, answering the jibe with a deep laugh. " I only tell you the things that you need to hear, Pharon. Unlike others who tell you what they feel will either make you happy, or further their own desires."

Mnansui rubbed his hand over his face, feeling the lines of age. "Too true, my old friend. Only too true." He turned back to the window, gesturing for Ramet to join him. For a moment they both gazed at the immense spaceport. A squadron of Pharettes stomped across the staging area, as tall as any four mowman, their weapon mounts bristling with a variety of lethality.  Their cockpit canopies glistening gold in the evening sun. The Pharettes passed a remen of Raptons, the newest Mowetan fighting vehicle. The wheeled tanks were ordered by squadrons in five rows of three. Their sleek, low lines, the viper-like turret, and the long, slender gauss rifle swelled Mnansui's heart with pride, but it was a tainted pride. The Rapton represented a microcosm of Mowet's problems. No doubt the tank was technologically advanced, a fine work of engineering, but it was also cheap, lacking in protective armor, and propelled by wheels instead of tracks. Mnansui shook his head. When he was a boy, he'd stand at this very spaceport, watching uncounted tanks, tracked, and even hover, lifting to the waiting invasion fleets. Now?

"You are troubled." Ramet's sentence wasn't a question.

Mnansui nodded without turning. He gestured to the assembly area below. "Remember when we were children? You and I used to play sticks on the edge of that field, bear witness as fleets that dwarfed ours set off to colonize."

Ramet chuckled. "I remember that you were not very good at sticks." 

Now Mnansui turned, smiling at Ramet. "Will it be enough?"

Ramet walked to the window. "This army is no match for the armies of the past. I cannot argue that. We are a poor people now, our resources drained by our need to birth and equip a never ending parade of colonization fleets. By our need to escape this husk of a planet. Mowet's resources are mined almost dry, our ability to feed our population, even this diminished population, strained. But I know two things."

He pivoted, regarding Mnansui evenly. Ramet held up a single finger. "First, this fleet does not have to fight the fleets of the past, it needs only conquer the target colony world. And second," he held up a second finger. "I never saw you quit a game of sticks, no matter how tough it became."

NIGHT OF MAN is a science-fiction, card-driven, board and counter, tactical battle game, designed by Mark H. Walker. It is on Kickstarter until December 31st. You can view the Kickstarter page and place a pledge right here.  http://tinyurl.com/pmapcv9