John walked beside Ambassador Samantha Crowe through the tattered remains of what had once been Park Trail. It had been transformed into a jagged scar of churned mud, melted signage, and makeshift burial mounds.

  “How did you find me?” John said.

  “The tracker in your cellphone,” Sam said. “That’s how I recovered President Carthage’s body.”

  “Is the President really dead?”

  “Yes, it’s a mess. We report to Admiral Valentine, now. Mark wants us at Camp Jericho.”

  “This is a disaster and I let it happen.”

  “Don’t talk like that.”

  “I can’t process it. I let them in. I let them do this.”

  “Just…stop talking like that. You can’t be blamed for this. Camp Jericho isn’t far. Come on, commander. We’re at war.”

  On the way to Camp Jericho, the air hung heavy with smoke and dampness. It carried the copper tang of blood and scorched plastic. Every few steps they passed someone new: a man with hollow eyes who stared into a flaming building, a little girl who clutched a small black poodle, a tattered mail man who collected blood soaked parcels and shoved them into his bag. They kept their heads low and voices quiet.

  The gates of Camp Jericho groaned open on rusted hinges and revealed a patchwork city of blue tarps and field tents. Solar powered lanterns hung on big nails hammered into wooden posts that surrounded the perimeter of the chain link fence. A line of hungry and frightened families waited for their bowl of soup. Most of them wore blood speckled bandages. Others held onto their loved ones and stared vacantly at John as they passed by.

  The air smelled of chemicals, boiled rice, and burned rubber. UEF soldiers in dirt-stained uniforms moved briskly between stations. They carried boxes of ammo and crates of rations, Some distributed supplies while others tagged new arrivals and scanned them into the system. Other teams formed squads and jogged fully geared out into the New York ruins to find other survivors. He sometimes heard the crackle of gunfire. For looters, they faced sudden lethal judgement.

  A UEF soldier stepped forward, on gate duty. His face was half-obscured by a rebreather mask. He held up a scanner. “Identification,” he said flatly.

  John lifted his ID.

  The scanner chirped.

  Sam did the same.

  “Commander Drayton. Ambassador Crowe. Welcome to Camp Jericho, a little haven from the chaos. The officer’s tents are in the center. We’re low on rations, but airdrops are incoming. Assuming the drop ships can make it past the Hyperions. The infirmary is packed. We could use volunteers.”

  “How are you holding up?” John said. “Are you from here?”

  “No sir. My family lives in an orbital habitat off Venus. I haven’t been able to get through to them. The SOC laser is offline, sir. Long range transmission is spotty at the best of times.” He lowered his head for a brief moment, then snapped back into attention. “Sir, we can’t let these monsters get away with this.”

  John squeezed the man’s shoulder. “I hope you see your family again soon. The work you’re doing here is heroic. Stay brave, soldier.”

  Through the mask, the guard’s eyes glistened with moisture. “Yes sir. Thank you sir.”

  “More help is coming,” Sam said.

  The guard nodded. “You’re free to pass. Welcome to Jericho.”

  As they stepped through the checkpoint, a child bolted across the path with a bowl of soup sloshing in his hands. Laughter trailed behind him. More kids raced behind. The innocence made it all a bit much for John.

  At the edge of camp, a tent flapped.

  John walked inside.

  “Where are you going?” Sam said.

  “Just need a minute.”

  She followed him.

  Inside, the low glow of an old projector played a cartoon on a stretched out white cloth bolted between two posts. Kids sat scattered on the dirt floor wrapped in blankets or each other. They wore torn clothes. Soot streaked their faces.

  John stepped inside. The warmth of their chuckles hit him like a blunt force. He sat down in the back beside another kid who chewed on a pillow and watched Elmer Fudd chase Bugs Bunny with his shotgun. But Bugs Bunny always escaped and that made the kids laugh. The colors moved. The characters danced. His chest felt heavy but numb like a pain that calcified. Sam sat beside him. She didn’t say anything. She didn’t need to. For a brief moment. John forgot about the smell of fire and blood. He watched Tom the cat chase Jerry the mouse. He let that time in the tent patch over his wounds like gauze, a temporary solution to a galactic problem.

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  A sharp voice crackled through Sam’s radio. It was Admiral Valentine. His words were static-choked but clear. The Hyperions hadn’t left. They were somewhere in the Kuiper Belt. They wrecked colonies. They hid, then hunted, then evaded again.

  “What can we do?” Sam said.

  “Evade and defend,” Valentine said. “That’s the mandate.”

  The moment snapped like dry wood inside John’s mind. He blinked and looked toward the tent flap. Outside, two kids dragged a heavy ice chest. Their legs buckled and their arms trembled. Without thinking, John exited the tent and took it from them. “Go inside. It’s okay. Watch the movie. Thank you for helping. You’re strong boys.” His voice was firm but not unkind. The kids lit up. They nodded and scrambled inside. John’s muscles ached as he carried the chest. But it felt right. It distracted him. It gave him some purpose. Behind him, Sam emerged from the tent and silently grabbed a second chest from another pair of struggling kids. Sam met his eyes. For the first time since the massacre, John felt something stir beneath him. If those kids were strong enough, he could be strong too.

  John’s hands ached. They were blistered and raw beneath the gloves but he kept driving the stake into the ground. Each tent that went up felt like a small reclamation. It was a tiny corner of order carved from the chaotic void left behind. Sam worked beside him in silence. She tied her hair back and rolled her sleeves up. Sweat streaked across her soot-covered skin. They didn’t speak much. They served food to lines of quiet hollow eyed survivors. They poured water into trembling hands. They carried the wounded to the triage tents. They pulled lifeless bodies from the rubble and covered them with sheets. The worst were the children, when nobody came looking for them. John read them stories and checked on them often.

  By the third day, they dug graves with UEF shovels that bent too easily against the rocky soil. On the fifth day, they helped a young medic amputate a crushed leg. On the sixth day, John found a golden wedding band in the mud. He pocketed it without thinking. Each action dulled the pain and sharpened his focus. He later discovered the ring belonged to a man in camp so he returned it.

  Something shifted.

  The Hyperion war still raged, but it was more distant and toward the Kuiper Belt colonies. There wasn’t much that could be done besides evacuation and evasion. There certainly wasn’t anything John could do about the Hyperions from the crumpled ruins of the city except help his neighbors survive. Even though, for the first time, on that seventh day, it felt like more than surviving. Already they were rebuilding a strong resistance. It felt like an evolving sense of hope brewed.

  On the seventh day, Admiral Valentine arrived from the outer colonies. He entered the war tent with John and Sam. Other UEF officers joined them, wearing clean suits.

  “I have a video,” said Admiral Valentine.

  He projected it onto the table in front of them.

  They all stood silently inside the command tent as President Nathaniel Bridges appeared on the flickering screen, flanked by the tattered flags of a dying Earth. He was in his late 50s, tall and broad-shouldered with piercing blue eyes and impeccably dressed in deep navy blue exuding statesmanship combined with an intimidating calm. His voice was raw but steady as he accepted the presidency, not out of ambition, but necessity after the death of President Carthage. He spoke not of vengeance but of survival, promising to carry the weight of leadership and guide humanity through its darkest hour. When the screen went black, no one spoke. The only sound was the distant wind stirring the ash outside, and the quiet confidence settling in John’s chest: they still had something worth fighting for.

  “That was a good speech,” John said. “Can he deliver?”

  “He brokered treaties with the separatists,” Sam said. “He’s been the Ambassador of Neptune for years. Some admirals say he has an iron fist. He has the experience.”

  “I worked with him on Mars,” Valentine said. “He’s a good man.”

  “I hope he’s ready,” John said.

  “How could he be?” Sam said. “With this on his plate? Talk about an impossible first one hundred days.”

  Admiral Valentine stood over the battle map. Sam poured him a mug of black coffee while John leaned on the edge of the table; he locked eyes on the blinking red markers spread across every planet and major colony in their solar system.

  “They put the count at fifty million dead,” said Admiral Valentine. “That number will grow.”

  “Where are the Hyperions now?” John asked.

  “We don’t know,” said Valentine. “Every fleet we have is scanning the Kuiper Belt. If they’re still here—and I pray to God that isn’t the case—we believe they’re hiding in an asteroid cavern or tunnel system. We can’t confirm it. Our sensors don’t pick them up.”

  “Is there any chance of diplomacy after this?” Sam asked.

  Valentine shook his head, no.

  He pointed to the comm logs which streamed down the edge of the war table. “We believe this was a premeditated attack.”

  “They planned this?” John said.

  “Yes,” Valentine said.

  Tremors spread across the ground. He felt it in his toes then it crawled up his legs.

  “Do you feel that?” Sam said.

  They rushed outside.

  Thariel hovered above the ruins of New York City. He was distant, but even from their view outside the tent they spotted the alabaster colossus flying in place, staring down into the decimated Central Park. His armor gleamed in the orange dusk. He looked like a statue of a forgotten god. His wings hummed. They ejected red ion particles. He didn’t attack or speak. He didn’t notice Camp Jericho. He just…observed. He glided in place above the cratered remains like a serial killer returning to the scene of the crime.

  John’s stomach twisted.

  He spun on his heel. “Sam. Armory. Now.”

  She didn’t ask questions. Valentine rushed back inside the command tent. John heard him yelling commands over comms. They sprinted together toward the weapons tent. Their boots slammed against gravel. Dust kicked up in their wake. John’s voice cut the air. “There has to be something. A launcher. A railgun. I don’t care…we’re killing that monster!”