posted on Jun, 25 2014 @ 11:02 PM
“what is this exactly?” asks Roger Stevens, Commander-in-Chief of the Planetary Resistance Alliance.
“well, sir, what we appear to be looking at here is a Tarvinian Close Combat Vessel. As of right now it has not entered our atmosphere but it is
indeed stationary above Washington. We don’t expect them to attack, they will wait for us to do that.” His second in command, Georgie Weathers,
reported diligently albeit shakily.
“So what do you propose we do about it Georgie?” asked Commander Stevens.
“Sir, with our current technology we can’t exactly reach the CCV to engage, it’s just too far away. The closest we can get to space without help
from the Planetary Brotherhood is just breaching the troposphere. This, as you know, does nothing to help us now, sir.”
His unease was palpable but Roger was used to that. Though intellectually superior, Georgie always seems to feel pressure when conferring with the
commander. Roger couldn’t blame him. Commander Stevens is a man that simply oozes confidence but asserts his unyielding authority every chance he
Looking into Georgie’s eyes Roger instructs, “I want every man possible monitoring this damn thing Georgie! Do not, I repeat Lieutenant, do not
let this thing slip away! If it moves so much as an inch I want to know!”
Shaking more violently now, Georgie replies, “Sir, yes sir! Consider it done sir!”
“Good, now get out of here before you piss all over that beautiful eagle Lieutenant Commander.” Said Stevens gesturing at the carpet meticulously
placed on the floor.
“Sir!” was the lieutenant’s only response before turning abruptly on his heel and exiting the Oval Office.
What I wouldn’t do for scotch right about know. I don’t know how they all expect me to do this sober.
The Tarvinian “relief” force had arrived on Earth seventy-three years ago, as of last week. Since then they have taken nearly all of Europe,
Arabia, Asia and half of Africa. Lord knows what those Martian bastards are up to down there. No one knows; not even Simon Suns, the President of the
Planetary Brotherhood, or in other words Europe, Asia, Arabia and half of Africa.
The bastards were beginning to move into Canada but Roger and his Army were succeeding at keeping them at bay, for now that is.
When the Martians, or Tarvinians as they call themselves, reached earth it was 1808 A.D. and the steam engine was just becoming widely used. The first
country they began to invade was Russia which, surprisingly, gave in with almost no fight, governmentally anyhow. Most civilians fought against the
Tarvinians until their dying breath, though the governing bodies denounced the behavior as “barbaric”.
From there, the reign of the Martians began to spread all across Europe. They took all of Eastern Europe by storm, felling Germany and France with
little to no resistance. When you offer salvation not many deny the handout. Arabia and Africa must have been a breeze for them, not to mention an
unneeded ego boost, but being hailed as gods, it’s easy to understand.
Then, in 1834, the Planetary Brotherhood Treaty was signed basically giving half the globe to an invading alien force. What were the people of that
time to do? The Martian technology was beyond anything ever witnessed on earth at the time, most worshiped the aliens as gods. Others, like the
legendary Fathers of the New World, seen them for what they were, an outside force conquering and enslaving everyone on Earth.
But… since then we have learned so much, even if it was all because of those aristocratic bastards.
Standing, Roger takes several small steps toward a cabinet pressed against the east wall of the Oval Office, the door on the cabinet opens with a
creaking whine, Roger looks to the door of the Office, still no one. Reaching inside he makes to grab a carafe of bourbon, thinks better of it,
settles for the wine, a French vintage from 1799 a wonderful wine. The bourbon calls his name again. He sighs with self disappointment, replaces the
wine and grabs the bourbon in one meaty fist.
“To hell with it then.” Roger mutters under his breath as he jerks the bourbon from its home.
No sooner had Commander Stevens begun displacing the glass topped cork stopping up the carafe did there come a sharp rap on the door.
Damn it all.
Roger quickly re-closes the carafe of liquid courage and stashes it in a drawer beneath his desk. “Enter.” He bellows, irritated.
It’s damned Georgie again. “What is it now Lieutenant Commander? Has the Tarvinian CCV made its move?”
Speaking slowly Georgie replies, “Sir, no Sir! It is not that Sir. Something else.” The poor bastard is still shaking notices the Commander.
“Well then, care to explain why you are standing in my office with your legs crossed Georgie? Couldn’t piss on your own? Needed a little
encouragement? Well? Speak up soldier!”
Looking unbelievably uncomfortable the Lieutenant Commander of the PRA says, “Sir, it is Balwyn, Sir! He has returned from London and seeks a
conference with you, Sir.”
“Balwyn? But Georgie, you told me last week Balwyn stopped checking in. We thought the bastard went back over. You said it Georgie, now you’re
telling me that report was inaccurate? Is that what you are saying here Georgie?”
“Sir, yes, Sir Commander! It was mine own blunder. I take full responsibility Sir, if I may speak freely Commander?
Rogers gives a brief nod to assure acquiescence.
“That is not important right now, will you see Mr. Fynn sir?”
“Send the Martian in Georgie, let’s hear what the bastard has learned.”
On that note, having shown as much courage as he could muster for one day of interacting with the most brilliant military mind on Earth at the time,
young Lieutenant Commander Georgie Weathers exits the presidential Oval Office.
He returned minutes later with the Martian turncloak, Balwyn Fynn, in tow behind him, looking as though he had just lost a drinking contest to death