The Spartans

The Invasion (Part I)

"...Our own galaxy had developed only one species of an intelligence great enough to develop a technological society, but what do we know of the other galaxies? Our [galaxy] may be atypical...there may be many competing intelligent species struggling with each other...but if one species, in some galaxy, gains domination over the rest and then has time to consider the possibility of penetrating other galaxies.... An intruder that finds us divided against ourselves will dominate us all, or destroy us all."

—Isaac Asimov, American Author

Foundation & Earth, Part VII, page 498

                                                         ONE

     It was bitter cold that evening, evidenced by the fact that temperatures were dropping below the freezing point (194.6 Kelvin), and the fading sunlight only contributed to this detriment in heat. Soon, the sun would disappear for another six months, and with its disappearance, winter would arrive.

     The peaks of jagged mountains stood formidable as always, ever since the first astronauts came to this mysterious world, many centuries ago. Here in the dense, western region thirty leagues from the city of Maxwell the landscape was quite frozen, though not fully solidified as the finger of summer had touched this place beforehand. Now winter was coming. The travelers knew that.

     Deep within a vale, cut off from sunlight, and surrounded on all sides by this stretch of mountains, a line of men traversed the frozen terrain. High-speed winds came, and with the chill wind, came legions of snowflakes, that in turn, brought a dense cloud of ice and frost that soon obscured the horizon from the sight of the explorers. They must keep pushing forward, otherwise they would not make it.

     All the men were clad in thick coats and wore protective masks to shield their faces from the onslaught of tiny ice projectiles. Nearly arrived at their destination, they had been forced to abandon the crawler vehicles and trek the remaining distance on foot. Only one crawler proved operational, and this they used to haul their supplies. Another hour of walking brought the surviving eight men into the foothills of the mountains. The man with the tracking device computed that they still had a mile to go. It seemed unlikely that any of them would survive that night.

     Despite the odds against them, the explorers did reach the destination point. The man with the tracker pointed to the entrance of a cavern mouth, and the weary band moved inside. But weariness could not hold back their excitement, for here it was said to have fallen from space.

     Shielded from the wrath of the blizzard, the survivors set up shelter for the night. Frost-bitten, foot-sore, and weary of the cold as well as of time itself, the men made immediate use of the portable heat generator in their possession. They all took turns warming by it, except for one.

     The scowling man was the trek leader of this expedition. He stood akimbo, staring at the others, still covered from head to foot in a heavy coat and mask. In fact, he was only one who kept the garb on. But the cold did not phase him. Where as the others struggled to keep the blood flowing through their arms and legs, the leader demonstrated no effects from the cold.

     With impatience, he set them to work. The equipment they brought with them had to be opened from sealed packages, plasma rifles had to charged should any predators roam the caves, and still the shelter required some last finishing touches. Once he had seen that the operation would be accomplished without his attention, he and the man with the tracker continued deeper into the tunnel in search of their quarry.

     His accomplice muttered something about waiting for the next day, but the leader would not be deterred from his goal now, he had come so far, and now he was very close. He could sense that it was here.