“I am sorry, Burke, I have no reinforcements to provide at this moment.

  I have spoken with Major General Dexter, 1st Astralis Division. He has agreed to redeploy 2nd AIBCT to reinforce 3rd Brigade. The crossroads must be held or the Pamlinitie Kingdom will outflank your position, and fortify Virc’Veria. General Sherman made it clear that cannot happen.

  1st Astralis DIVARTY are deeply engaged in an artillery duel against Tarvass. The other Brigade is needed to secure our rear flank, just in case the Unity attempts an second airborne assault. The National Guard 169th Field Artillery Brigade is engaged with Artie and Unity artillery around Harff.

  The 101st Division is busy supporting Operation Sky Haven, recovering Hispana forces from the Hastsano Gap, protecting flight corridors. They were our primary reserves force.

  I been informed that the 9th Infantry Division was forced to remain in Mexico City to help the local government restore order and suppress local rebels. With the riots still ongoing, the 82nd Airborne and 10th Mountain Division deployments have been delayed. I have been told law and order operations have been successful and that one of the Divisions will be instantly deployed, hopefully by the end of the week.

  Until then, we must do with what we got. I am deploying any available Ranger Companies to your position. Keep me informed.” – Major General Webster, 4th Infantry Division Headquarters

  May 14th, 2069 (Military Calendar)

  Colorado Springs, Colorado, United States

  North America, Earth

  *****

  General Sherman marched briskly down the corridor, flanked by his security team, listening to clipped radio chatter. The facility was under full lockdown, base guards sweeping for Colonel Fraser—or whoever had replaced him.

  “Are the VIPs secured?” Sherman asked.

  “Yes, Sir,” Bentley replied, eyes locked on his tablet.

  “Good. Keep five guards on that door. Everyone else stays clear. I don't want Blue-on-Blue.”

  As the patrol team navigated through the Space Force hallways, the General ran through all the possible powers that could pull such an espionage operation. The first to mind were the Indians and the French, as they had the technology and motive. The Indians, being the primary global rival, were not thrilled by the President's announcement. However, political assassination seemed extreme to them, so he was doubtful. The left the French.

  The Western Europeans became more xenophobic after their war with the Turkish State, and when news about aliens from another world was reported, they demanded the destruction of the Bridge. Their naval and space vessels have conducted probing actions against US and allied ships, but nothing has resulted in live fire—just harassment campaigns.

  At first, he considered the Iranian-Russian Alliance and Türkiye, but quickly ruled them out. The Islamic nation is a rising power within the Middle East and is a concern to USAM geopolitics; however, it mostly keeps to its region of the globe. While powerful, they are not in the position to conduct such operations and risk the fallout. That left the IRA; however, he was also doubtful. They each have a motive, and being a loose coalition of circumstances, only one needed to go rogue, which fits in with their tactics. But he still didn’t believe they would have done such a mission. Their response to the announcement about Alagore was lackluster, and they were the ones who attempted to seal the command orb that activated Earth’s Bridge, meaning they could have other alternative motives.

  The other options were domestic terrorist groups like environments, human traffickers, or a growing trend, those who hate aliens since the first contact. But to pull off such an operation, especially in such a short timespan seemed impractical.

  The question was who gained the most. None of them gained anything for killing a young Princess who was seeking an alliance with the United States. Same with them killing half a dozen senior politicians, which would result in total war, if not nuclear. Without further evidence, only one other came to mind. A Alagore hostile. The Unity would wish to stop this alliance and hoped that this terrorist attack could

  He didn’t know what the Unity agent’s objective was, but the Princess and the American political delegation seemed likely targets. And with no understanding of how Fraser had moved so freely, Sherman had given a grim order: those five guards were to kill anything that approached until this was over.

  Sherman’s gaze drifted to the dual bars on Bentley’s shoulder. The new head of security. The former—Fraser—was either dead or something far worse. Princess Assiaya had exposed the deception, but not before the Major and security command center were wiped out. Someone had surgically removed command authority before making their move.

  “Do you want him alive?” Bentley asked.

  Sherman noticed one of the guards hefting an M25 Electrolaser. Designed for crowd control or anti-drone use, the long rifle was non-lethal in theory, but highly effective. It fired a guiding laser that opened a plasma channel, through which a high-voltage current could jump and incapacitate a target from range.

  “Kill on sight,” Sherman said coldly. “We’re not taking chances. Now—everyone locked down?”

  Bentley checked his tablet. “All non-essentials are confirmed in rooms. But if Fraser’s among them, we can’t confirm. The PI system’s still offline.”

  “Until the 10th SF gets here, we’re blind. We don’t have the manpower to verify every ID. Containment is our only option. He won't stay hidden for long—not if he has an objective.”

  As they moved, gunfire erupted nearby, echoing through the concrete halls—then cut off, abruptly.

  The team sprinted forward, coordinating by radio. One team wasn’t responding.

  When they reached the section, the air stank of ozone and blood. The hallway was painted in gore. Three bodies lay mangled. A fourth, barely alive, leaned against the wall, breathing in shallow gasps. Another security team had already arrived.

  “Status?” Sherman barked.

  A shaken Sergeant approached, eyes fixed on the red-slick floor. These weren’t front-line troops—they’d never seen war, never seen this.

  “Sir, we just arrived. Three KIA, one WIA. He's... probably in shock.”

  Sherman stepped past the Guardians and knelt before the wounded man.

  “I know it’s bad. But I need you to focus. Where did Colonel Fraser go?”

  No response—just labored breathing. The man wouldn’t meet his eyes.

  Sherman stood with a sigh—then the building rocked violently. The ceiling lights flickered.

  Explosion.

  He turned sharply to Bentley, who was already on the radio.

  “The server room?” Sherman asked, cold dread filling his chest.

  “Still secure,” Bentley confirmed. “But we’re getting new reports. Two detonations—outside.”

  Sherman froze. It wasn’t just a rogue agent. It was a coordinated strike. While they chased Fraser, others executed phase two.

  One of the guards was staring down at the floor near a sealed door. Blood pooled beneath it—expected, maybe—but something about it caught the man’s eye. He opened the door.

  He gagged immediately, covering his mouth.

  Sherman and Bentley rushed over.

  Inside was carnage. Gore caked the walls. In the center: what remained of a naked male body, ravaged beyond recognition. Chunks were missing—as if devoured. The form had no identity left. DNA testing might be the only option.

  Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  Bentley paled. “What the hell is Fraser?”

  Sherman didn’t answer at first. Something about the scene... he’d seen this before. When the Rangers first crossed the Bridge, five bodies had been found mutilated in the same way. The investigation was inconclusive. Cause unknown.

  A scream shattered the silence, making everyone turn.

  The wounded Guardian, the one who’d refused to speak, tore out the medic’s throat with his bare hands. He stood with unnatural rigidity, seized the dead guard’s sidearm, and opened fire on another—dropping him.

  The Colonel was back.

  He tackled a Guardian, using him as a human shield. With terrifying speed, he wrapped an arm around the man and fired his sidearm down the hallway.

  The hostage screamed for help. The imposter shifted, grabbing a nearby riot shield with its free hand—too coordinated, too strong.

  “Flashbang!” Sherman shouted.

  A guard complied. The hallway lit up in a searing pulse of white.

  The impostor screeched—inhuman. It tightened its grip, the hostage shrieking in pain.

  Sherman leveled the M25 Electrolaser and fired. Blue-white current slammed into the shield-bearing guard, forcing the impostor to react. The hostage’s body convulsed.

  The shock was enough.

  The creature released the Guardian and leapt sideways, rebounding off the wall before fleeing down the corridor.

  “Watch the wounded!” Sherman snapped. He dropped the M25, grabbed a fallen P52, and sprinted after it.

  Gunfire echoed ahead, near the windows.

  “He moves fast,” Bentley said.

  “What’s over there?”

  “A roaming IRiSS. Just got word—it engaged him. Couldn’t breach the armor.”

  Finally, a break.

  They rounded the bend. The IRiSS lay crumpled. Its arm was ripped off like a child tearing limbs from a doll. The torso—peppered with bullet holes. Something had been desperate to crack it open.

  “There!” Bentley shouted.

  Colonel Fraser—or what remained of him—stood at the end of the hallway. One arm had swollen grotesquely. His face twisted. His eyes glowed red.

  The thing turned toward them before running away.

  Weapons opened fire. Bullets struck. But the creature didn’t fall.

  Fraser raised his weapon, blasted the window, and then crashed through it.

  For a moment, no one moved.

  “Secure the area!” Sherman barked before rushing to the window himself.

  Three stories down, the grounds sprawled below. He scanned the area, but there was no sign of Fraser.

  Then he looked farther.

  Smoke billowed from the street beyond. A crater had replaced the crowd of protesters.

  *****

  Sitting in the conference room chair with its attached booster seat, Assiaya felt a creeping dread as she watched the American politicians debate the crisis unfolding before them. The meeting wasn’t about recognizing her House or Salva’s sovereignty. It was about the attack.

  The Americans were afraid—visibly so. And she understood why. A man had stolen Colonel Fraser’s identity. He murdered multiple people and escaped undetected, bypassing every layer of surveillance in the facility, as if none of it existed. Only a handful of Earth’s nations even had the capability to fool PI-assisted security systems, yet it was unlikely a foreign power was behind it. The entire facility had been under the exclusive control of American forces. That left only one logical suspect: Alagore.

  No one could confirm the hostile's identity, since the imposter escaped. But the general consensus was clear—this had to be an agent from Alagore.

  Secretary Roberson and Tsar Holloway dominated the discussion, hammering the General with questions and accusations on behalf of the White House and the military. The bomb planted beneath the very room they were in had been found and defused—but the relief was short-lived. Two others had detonated across Colorado Springs: one outside a hotel where pro-war protestors gathered, and another at the gates of Fort Carson.

  “General,” Holloway demanded, “do you have the final casualty numbers?”

  “Seventy-three dead. Seventy-nine wounded,” Sherman replied.

  “I can’t believe it,” muttered Harrington.

  “Good thing it was raining,” Sullivan said. “If it’d been sunny, casualties could’ve tripled.”

  “Not the time for jokes,” Harrington snapped back.

  “General,” Roberson interrupted. “Please show what the FBI discovered.”

  The digital whiteboard lit up with video footage from one of the guards. Fraser’s face was confirmed by the Oracle PI, and yet, the video showed him moving in ways no human could. He leapt to the ceiling, crawling into a horizontal vent—impossible for a normal man. Then came footage of the imposter fighting General Sherman, and the unknown intruder. A Congresswoman whispered that the man moved like a demon possessing a corpse.

  “What about his home?” West asked.

  “10th SF and MPs already secured it,” Sherman answered. The footage shifted to scenes of devastation. “Don’t look, Princess,” he added gently.

  Assiaya obeyed.

  The screen showed a shattered home soaked in blood. Everything torn apart. A struggle evident. There was little doubt—the real Colonel Fraser was dead.

  “General,” Holloway asked quietly. “What exactly did we just watch?”

  “Better question,” said Sullivan. “Were we the target?”

  “That is what I believe,” Sherman said. “No one left to interrogate, but yes.”

  “What about the other bombings?” Atkinson pressed.

  “No confirmed military or political targets,” Sherman replied.

  “You’re saying they were random?” Harrington asked.

  Roberson cleared his throat. “Director Hunter says the targets were deliberate—the pro-war hotel and Fort Carson. The victims were mostly anti-war protestors.”

  “Why is that?” Assiaya asked softly.

  “Was it intentional?” Harrington echoed.

  “Yes,” Roberson confirmed. “The anti-war protestors had been on that side of the street for two weeks. It was calculated.”

  “Wait!” Assiaya leaned forward. “Why would the Unity want to push you into war?”

  She had been silent for most of the meeting, overwhelmed. She’d grown up watching royal debates and serving Lord Kallem. She thought the Altaerrie’s lack of rigid etiquette meant simpler politics. But this—this was far more layered than she expected. She wanted to contribute, to help, but often found herself unsure how.

  “I have to admit,” Atkinson said, “that’s a good question. Fueling the fire does seem like a secondary objective. Killing everyone in this room would’ve sealed it.”

  “They want a war,” Sherman said. “If anti-war sentiment grows, it pressures our government to seek peace or withdraw. This was a precise strike.”

  Sullivan stared at the bloody images from Fraser’s home. “Crazy thought—could this be tied to the Rangers who were mysteriously killed?”

  “My Corps staff have come to the same conclusion,” Sherman said. “I suspect the infiltrators entered early in our expedition.”

  “When the Bridge was still active?” Sullivan asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Then why didn’t our allies warn us about these… creatures?” Holloway demanded.

  “I was told Natilite and Fraeya disclosed everything,” Atkinson said.

  “That’ll be my first question,” Sherman replied.

  Tension mounted. Assiaya could feel the air shift as anger swelled in the room. They were turning against her friends.

  She acted quickly. “May I speak?” she asked.

  “Is it relevant?” Holloway asked impatiently.

  She nodded. “I don’t know if this helps, but when I served Lord Kallem, I never heard him speak of such monsters.”

  “Why would he tell you?” West said skeptically.

  “I was his personal slave for six years,” Assiaya replied without shame. “I heard many things.”

  “She has a point,” Sullivan said. “Never underestimate what the servant class overhears.”

  “Or your mistress,” Harrington commented.

  “I think the Princess’s point is,” Sherman added, wanting to gently keep the conversation going, “Natilite and Fraeya might not have known. We’re assuming these are Unity agents. They may not know either.”

  “The truth is,” Roberson added. “We do not have enough information. It could be the French, Iranians, or Atlantis.”

  “And Unity wouldn’t advertise a secret weapon,” Holloway said darkly.

  “And thanks to Natilite,” Roberson said. “That this world has experimented with genetic modifications. I hate to say it, we are going have to let things play out.”

  Assiaya scanned their expressions. Weariness. Fear. Doubt. All emotions she now shared. Though she was young and new to warfare, she understood—this is how it must’ve felt to face Unity after two decades of war.

  “I have a question,” she said softly. “Was this to stop the treaty?”

  “There’s not enough information to say,” Sherman replied. “But it could be a factor.”

  “BS,” Holloway snapped. “She’s right. It was to stop the treaty.”

  “How do you know?” Harrington asked.

  “This wasn’t random,” Holloway said. “We’ve had these meetings since discovering the Bridge. If Unity had agents here, they could’ve struck at any time. Why now?”

  “Maybe this was their first real opportunity,” Harrington argued. “It’s only been a few months since Hackett and the Rangers crossed.”

  The Tsar turned to the Congresswoman. “You don’t have the clearance to know how many political assassinations I carried out in the Army. The other bombs were to divert attention. This imposter was the strike team—meant to end this summit.”

  The room fell into stunned silence.

  “I believe Holloway is correct,” Sherman said. “This treaty legitimizes our presence on Alagore. If the bomb succeeded, it would’ve dragged us deeper into the war—and shattered our credibility.”

  “It would’ve told Alagore we can’t protect their leaders,” Atkinson added. “Especially after how much we’ve promoted the Princess.”

  “Atkinson, West,” Roberson said dryly, “seems you’re not the only ones concerned about her appointment.”

  Assiaya couldn’t help but giggle. A small, unguarded sound. It surprised her—and the others. No one scolded her. If anything, they welcomed the levity.

  The idea that two superpowers might be fighting over her was absurd. And amusing.

  “Back to the treaty,” Holloway said. “We’re shaken, yes, but we move forward. We cannot show the world we’re faltering.”

  “Agreed,” said Atkinson. “Princess, my department reviewed your amendments. We accept them—with a few changes.”

  He outlined revisions: increased U.S. oversight, reduced funding, a tax to offset aid. The Tsar would oversee implementation to prevent fraud. The major sticking point was the Daru’uie Legion—they wanted an American to command it.

  “That cannot be done,” Yeldan said firmly. “We created our Legion to serve our people and support you as equals—not subordinates.”

  “It’s not about subordination,” Roberson said. “You lack trained officers. Hackett’s NCOs are still trying to get your militia in shape.”

  “Can Uncle—” Assiaya caught herself. “I mean, Colonel Hackett—can he lead it?”

  The room paused.

  “Did you just call him uncle?” Holloway asked, surprised.

  “I apologize,” she said quickly. “That’s just how I address him.”

  A long silence followed. People exchanged glances. The General wore a slight smile, like he’d been quietly proven right about something.

  “What just happened?” she whispered to Yeldan.

  “You just confirmed your loyalty,” he said. “And validated the General’s plan.”

  She tilted her head, confused. She didn’t understand why that simple statement elevated her. But she did know Sherman had staked his reputation on her, and now, her critics were silent.

  “I think the Princess just made a compelling compromise,” Sherman said. “The Daru’uie Legion will remain under their command—but operate within the Minutemen’s command structure.”

  “That’s acceptable,” Atkinson said.

  “Then we’re in agreement,” Holloway said. “Sullivan, how soon can the treaty go forward?”

  “I’ll begin tomorrow,” Sullivan said. “It should take a week.”

  Assiaya was stunned her tactic had worked. The General had said strength mattered, that showing she wanted to build rather than just receive was key. She had done that. Exposing the Fraser imposter hadn’t hurt either. Even Atkinson was speaking to her with respect.

  She rose from her seat. The General stepped in quickly to assist her.

  After a short curtsy, she said, “Thank you for your aid. If you help us build our country, I will honor this Protectorate agreement. Salva will stand beside the Altaerrie—and we will fight our common enemies.”