When we began to land, we all stood up, gathering our rucksacks and equipment, and waited for the loading ramp to open. The ramp opened and we exited the craft stepping onto the beach. I presumed Antarctica by now wouldn’t look like how my parents described what it used to be. Somehow, I still found it jarring by how humid, iceless, and dead the land looked, and I mean dead by how the shores were littered with penguin and marine animal skeletons. Further ahead of us was the tent city, and up in the air above them I saw alien drones flitting about, taking off and landing all around the camp. A bunch were going into and out of a large spire-like hub, in what I assumed to be the center of the camp. As the dropship closed and took off, looking up and down the coast I saw the other EPC militia and allies coming together further in on the beach, as their dropships left them too. The craft then made a 180° turn and instantly jetted off into the horizon, while about ten more slowed their approach to the coast. I followed my group to the rendezvous.

Everyone got together and waited for our escort to our camping plot. The flag bearer unfolded and prepared the EPC flag, while the martial band tested their instruments and checked their portable rechargeable amp for the electric guitar. I headed to Comandanta E as she finished talking to one of her subcomandantes, and I asked her about Xandra. Why, in a group where the main criteria to join is to be both, willing to fight and die for the cause of bettering the world and be either from an indigenous Latin American population – like our martial band from Peru – or, fluent in speaking Spanish – which, Xandra was not. I and several others didn’t meet these standards in one form or another either, but apart from us not wanting to join in the first place, we know how to fight, and we’ve had experience. From what Xandra told me, she only had basic combat training and was never in anything so much as a slap fight.

E, revealed to me how their group were meeting less new people and new communities for the past couple years. What’s more distressing, their HAM operators have been gradually losing contact with a few of the old, allied communities, with the biggest being a place up in Canada called Ombendam. No one has the faintest idea what befell them, whether it was a raid, extreme weather or what have you, but that loss notably shook her.

I remember her telling me, “Indigenous folk already had enough problems before the End of the Show, but now we’re hanging by our fingers. Though this Apiary promises to make the world better, I trust them less than white people. I hate to say it but we’re in such a position that we need to find as many comrades as we can, wherever they come from. In all honesty, the girl can get a little irritating and still needs to improve, but I do appreciate the amount of effort she’s been putting forth. Just don’t let her know that; don’t want her getting complacent.”

Soon, a drone came to us. This was my first time seeing one of them up close and not hearing of them from secondhand accounts. It looked like a floating, pearly bronze, upside-down teardrop, with a cyclopean eye. We all placed in the Apiary’s earpieces so we could understand the drone. It asked for the identity of the group so it could show us to our designated plot in the camp. E introduced herself, the EPC, and their associates, which prompted the drone to lead the way to our spot. Comandanta E gave a nod to one of her subcomandantes, who then blew a whistle and ordered everyone to take up a marching formation. Once everyone got into their formation, a second blow of the whistle initiated the band, which started playing what sounded like a rockified version of native folk music. We marched in place while the music took about 10 seconds to wind up, then on the third whistle blow, the main part kicked in and we marched after our robotic escort as it led the way.

Moving our way through camp, many people we passed by were doing drills, playing field sports, eating, and other common activities I’d normally see when someone is waiting to be sent off to fight. However, I saw many more people – unsavory people, who looked like the types I’d normally track down for a bounty – doing things to pass the time with a bit more disturbing flair. When we arrived at our assigned section, the drone told us a specific time when we would be debriefed before it rose into the air and flew away.

While setting up our site, I saw Xandra walk away from propping up her tent and away from the rest of the group. I went after her and asked if there was something wrong. She came up with some flimsy excuses, but I’ve dealt with plenty of people in the past trying to hide things to be fooled. I pressed, until she told me that right across from our plot, was a man she knew from Max’s enterprise. I forgot what she told me his name was, but I remembered he had a prosthetic hook for a hand, so I just called him Hook. Anyway, this guy was a monster to all females, and he even tried to make unwanted advances on Xandra when she was younger. One day, she caught the man sexually assaulting one of the slaves and told her stepfather, who then proceeded to cut Hook’s hand off and kick him out of the gang; of course, Max being sure no one thought he’s going soft, didn’t forget to dispose of the so-called “damaged goods”. Since then, along with the guilt of getting the slave girl killed, she grew up with the lingering fear that Hook would one day find her and enact his revenge.

I was about to use this and find some way to convince her to sit the battle out, when I got sidetracked by a familiar voice yelling very familiar French insults at me. I looked in the direction of the approaching bile and it was exactly who I thought it was. It was Shaun Bordeaux, followed by four of his goons, all armed with melee weapons on account of the aliens requiring us all to leave the firearms home. Guess he was still sore about the EPC destroying their budding expat ethnostate as a distraction, or me killing his uncle while I freed the family they held hostage, but either way he was coming to get his pound of flesh from me. They moved their way towards me until a drone got in between us. He spat and threatened, but the robot reminded them of the terms and conditions they agreed to with the Apiary. Human allies must not do harm to any other allies, otherwise their promised rewards would become null and void. Not wanting to be a bad righthand man to his dear leader, he called off his buddies and threatened me one last time as they walked away, then the drone flew away. Strike one.

A robot soon landed in the center of our plot and gave us all a rundown of the situation. The place we were going to launch an assault on was the last operational Minare outpost in the world, after the three other outposts of theirs were abandoned for some unknown reason. It was estimated there were ten minare and about over ten thousand Baggsab dwelling within the semi-earthen structure. The defenses had twenty-four turret guns and eight Minare gunports positioned all around the walls, plus a huge trench around the structure’s perimeter. If that wasn’t enough, the garrison introduced a species of animal from their home planet to add an extra layer of defense to the surrounding area. Lucky us, one thing we didn’t have to worry about was the spaceship that visited to resupply the base and transport personnel and cargo. It shouldn’t come back until sometime next year according to the drone, so no worries about any possible aerial attacks. Meanwhile, attaining victory was going to be a two-step process, and both steps could easily be described as suicidal. First, the outpost only had one way in and out, being the front door. Gaining entry required blowing a hole through it with heavy weaponry. Said heavy weaponry has less range than the enemy’s defenses, which meant we were going to have to be within firing range before getting to the door. Second, the best way to defeat the minare garrisoned at the outpost was by defeating their champion. This was discovered in one of the unprecedented instances of humans killing a minare. A champion of a raiding party was killed only once before by pure luck, compelling the rest of the minare to abort the raid. This cause and effect imply a strict cultural tradition that they adhere to, which could mean instant surrender if the garrison’s champion is defeated.

Once it finished debriefing, the group began asking questions, but the drone ignored us all to give our designated numbers for weapons training. I, Xandra, Comandanta E, and near two hundred others were assigned for firearms, while the rest got various combat vehicles. My training group was sent to a machine able to project holograms of fully functional weapons into all our hands. We got familiarized with some sort of railgun-lite assault rifle, grenades that use a sonic blast to destroy targets, and plasma rocket launchers. They were neat. After a half hour of training, we were given a break, so Xandra and I decided to check on the others training with the combat vehicles. Like us, a machine projected hologram-produced versions of what they would operate, except they sat or stood on platforms equal to the height of what positions they’d take. Some types they practiced for looked like light armor vehicles, such as bipedal mechs and hovering trucks, and the only type of heavy armor vehicle they practiced for looked like a hovering tank.

Xandra and I headed on our way back to training, when three dudes we were passing by started catcalling and making lewd comments at us. One guy kept calling me, “sweet chocolate,” which goaded Xandra to call him a sexist and racist pig. He responded with that thing, where someone sarcastically agrees and sets about listing stuff off, which they hope dispels the obvious notion they are what they are, yet you can tell they knew they’re full of crap. Yeah, it irritates me to no end. If this was a different setting, I would’ve put the hurt on them, not just because they’re gratingly obnoxious, but from past experiences with some of the more cowardly types – which these douchebags definitely exuded. If you let disrespect slide, it makes you a target for a late-night visit. Instead, I tried something to get them to leave us both alone.

“What are your names?” I asked.

They seemed confused. “What?” one asked.

“I asked what your names were.”

“Why you want to know?” asked another in a skeptical tone and a thick Bostonian accent.

“Just want to know.”

“So you can report us or something? We’re not telling you shit, lady!”

Then, just when they were laughing it off, a drone dropped by and said, “Jacob Snook, Tad Foster, Ryan Derricks, your continued attendance for artillery training is required.”

All three stormed off cursing under their breath among themselves. Xandra and I had a good chuckle. Wasn’t what I had planned but it was satisfying.