Battleship

I’m going. Cover my ass.

Hopper returned his gaze to the array toward the top. At first he thought he was seeing some sort of trick of light, but then he realized that wasn’t the case. What he was actually seeing was some sort of blue and red shimmering being emitted from the top of the array. That has to be what’s screwing with the magnetism. But what’s it for? Why is it even here? I’ve never seen something that looks so alien to…

Alien. Yeah, right. That’s a laugh.

Hopper tested the support of the narrow ledge upon which he was perched. It seemed solid enough. Slowly he started making his way toward the tower, which appeared to be the center of this thing’s activity. To an onlooker, he might have seemed to be walking on water, since the ledge along which he was moving wasn’t visible from more than a few feet away.

He drew close enough to the tower that all he had to do was reach out, get a grip on it and climb up. The closer he drew to it, the more intrigued he became. It was a unique collection of shapes, materials and colors, which seemed to be shimmering in time to the blue and red pulses that were being emitted from the top.

“What the hell—?” he whispered as he reached out toward its surface. His fingers brushed against it…

The instant he made contact with it, an electromagnetic pulse ripped across the structure. As if it had a mind of its own, it zeroed in on Hopper in a split second and blasted him clear off the tower.

Hopper hurtled forty feet through the air. He would have been better served if he’d landed in the water. Instead the trajectory of his fall sent him slamming into the metal surface of the structure itself. He slid across it and barely managed to hang on. The world was spinning around him. He heard Raikes and Beast shouting from a distance, but he couldn’t determine how far they were.

He could, however, make out the tower. Apparently it was just getting warmed up. The panels that ran along its height were starting to glow, and there was a building cascade of electronic noise. Most bizarrely, from high overhead in what had been a previously clear sky, dark and fearsome clouds were rolling in and lightning bolts were ripping through the heavens.

Well, this can’t be good, thought Hopper, desperately trying not to pass out.

An F-18, dispatched from USS Reagan, had been sent to monitor the situation. The pilot observed the American Navy officer attempting a slow approach, and on his instrument board the monitor was broadcasting a live feed. “This is Rough Rider 404,” said the pilot, whose actual name was the far less intimidating “Kenny Johnson.” “Boarding crew from the John Paul Jones has made contact with the object…”

And then he watched in horror as the officer was blasted backwards, sent tumbling off the whatever-it-was. “Man down! Man down!”

The strange structure below him was starting to glow. His instruments went haywire, and suddenly, inexplicably, he was flashing back to that moment in Close Encounters of the Third Kind when vehicles went berserk in the presence of alien technology. Rough Rider was no big believer in UFOs, but he didn’t like the way this was shaping up. He endeavored to seize control of his F-18, which was fighting him as if they were suddenly opponents. “Reagan control, Rough Rider 404. I don’t know what this is! There’s some kind of energy field forming. There’s an incredible amount of turbu—”

That was when the F-18 abruptly angled downward, all control lost. Desperate, Rough Rider punched “Eject,” even though he was so close to the surface it was unlikely the chute would deploy fast enough to save him.

It didn’t matter. The eject ignored him. The canopy didn’t blow. Nor did the Reagan respond, which made him think that nothing was getting through. Then his frustration with his inability to carry out his mission gave way to his realization that he was in a spiraling death trap with no means of escape.

And he was no longer Rough Rider. Instead he was just plain old Kenny Johnson, screaming at the top of his lungs as the F-18 crashed into the side of the uncanny structure and exploded into a ball of flame.

The bridge of the Sampson became a hive of activity as Stone saw what was happening at the structure. “Condition Zebra!” he shouted. “Raise the fleet!”

The communications officer, Ron Sinclair, was already on the horn. “This is the Sampson. Alert, alert. Condition Zebra. We’re encountering something that appears to be of…” He hesitated, having trouble believing that the next words were about to emerge from his mouth. “… of alien origin. We advise all…”

Then he stopped talking as he noticed that the dials measuring the volume of his output were flatlined. He tried to up the amps and got nowhere. The entire array wasn’t responding. “Crap. Sorry, sir. She went dead. All comms fully disabled.”

It wasn’t just the communications units. All the bridge screens had gone blank as well.

“Do you think it’s happening on the other ships?” asked Stone.

“That would be my best guess, sir,” said Sinclair. “If you like, I could get some string and a couple of tin cans and see if we can communicate with those.”

“Let’s save that for a last resort.” Stone stared helplessly toward the array in the distance. Alien origin? That’s what Sinclair had said. It seemed ridiculous. But the most ridiculous thing of all was that Stone Hopper wasn’t in a position to rule it out.

The weather roils the ocean, ionizing the air, seizing control of the waters, using them as the natural resource that they are, in ways that the pathetic residents of Earth could not begin to imagine. How blind they have been to the possibilities that their own world presents them. How inept they have been at exploiting them.

The churning waves grow, higher and higher. They reach up toward the clouds, and the pouring rain stretches down to meet them. The result is a massive wall of water, encircling the island of Oahu for a three- hundred-mile radius. Fishermen, marine vessels and two-thirds of the array of naval destroyers gape in astonishment at the barrier that has sprung up out of nowhere, an impossible wall of water that cuts them off from the remainder of the fleet. One of the vessels tries to power forward, but the contrary thrust is too strong; it literally pushes them back, the great propellers churning the water behind them with utter futility.

The commanders of the Regents fleet look upon the work that their machinations have accomplished, and find it to be good.

Now… on to the game. A game to test the resilience and cleverness of the natives of this world. These are their best warriors, and the game will see what they have to offer in terms of resistance. Not that the outcome is in the slightest doubt. It is simply required in order to see the level of resources the Regents will need to devote to this world.

If the Regents are nothing else, they are efficient.

An order is issued. It is not spoken; Regents need not waste efforts on something as primitive as simple speech. Communications off-world require technology, but every member of the Regents who dwells on this sphere, within range of the jamming array, knows what needs to be done as soon as a commander desires it be carried out.

And the desire in this instance is quite simple:

“Bring attack ships online.”

PACIFIC OCEAN, IMPACT POINT

Hopper was trying to pull himself together, keeping conscious being his top priority. You won’t do anyone any good if you pass out. That was what kept going through his mind, right until he passed out and lost his grip, sliding backwards into the water. But he was jolted to wakefulness as Raikes caught him before he could hit it and submerge. “Hopps!” she shouted in his ear, snapping him back to full awareness. It was the only way she could make herself heard as the water churned around her as if someone had turned on a vast, unseen stove top and the ocean was being brought to a boil.