The Ghost Brigades by John Scalzi
PART I
ONE
No one noticed the rock.
And for a very good reason. The rock was nondescript, one of millions of chunks of rock and ice floating in the parabolic orbit of a long-dead short-period comet, looking just like any chunk of that deceased comet might. The rock was smaller than some, larger than others, but on a distribution scale there was nothing to distinguish it one way or another. On the almost unfathomably small chance that the rock was spotted by a planetary defense grid, a cursory examination would show the rock to be composed of silicates and some ores. Which is to say: a rock, not nearly large enough to cause any real damage.
This was an academic matter for the planet currently intersecting the path of the rock and several thousand of its brethren; it had no planetary defense grid. It did, however, have a gravity well, into which the rock fell, along with those many brethren. Together they would form a meteor shower, as so many chunks of ice and rock did each time the planet intersected the comet’s orbit, once per planetary revolution. No intelligent creature stood on the surface of this bitterly cold planet, but if one had it could have looked up and seen the pretty streaks and smears of these little chunks of matter as they burned in the atmosphere, superheated by the friction of air against rock.
The vast majority of these newly minted meteors would vaporize in the atmosphere, their matter transmuted during their incandescent fall from a discrete and solid clump to a long smudge of microscopic particles. These would remain in the atmosphere indefinitely, until they became the nuclei of water droplets, and the sheer mass of the water dragged them to the ground as rain (or, more likely given the nature of the planet, snow).
This rock, however, had mass on its side. Chunks flew as the atmospheric pressure tore open hairline cracks in the rock’s structure, the stress of plummeting through the thickening mat of gases exposing structural flaws and weaknesses and exploiting them violently. Fragments sheared off, sparkled brilliantly and momentarily and were consumed by the sky. And yet at the end of its journey through the atmosphere, enough remained to impact the planet surface, the flaming bolus smacking hard and fast onto a plain of rock that had been blown clean of ice and snow by high winds.
The impact vaporized the rock and a modest amount of the plain, excavating an equally modest crater. The rock plain, which extended for a significant distance on and below the planet surface, rang with the impact like a bell, harmonics pealing several octaves below the hearing range of most known intelligent species.
The ground trembled.
And in the distance, beneath the planet surface, someone finally noticed the rock.
“Quake,” said Sharan. She didn’t look up from her monitor.
Several moments later, another tremor followed.
“Quake,” said Sharan.
Cainen looked over to his assistant from his own monitor. “Are you planning to do this every time?” he asked.
“I want to keep you informed of events as they happen,” Sharan said.
“I appreciate the sentiment,” Cainen said, “but you really don’t have to mention it every single time. I am a scientist. I understand that when the ground moves we’re experiencing a quake. Your first declaration was useful. By the fifth or sixth time, it gets monotonous.”
Another rumble. “Quake,” said Sharan. “That’s number seven. Anyway, you’re not a tectonicist. This is outside your many fields of expertise.” Despite Sharan’s typical deadpan delivery, the sarcasm was hard to miss.
If Cainen hadn’t been sleeping with his assistant, he might have been irritated. As it was, he allowed himself to be tolerantly amused. “I don’t recall you being a master tectonicist,” he said.
“It’s a hobby,” said Sharan.
Cainen opened his mouth to respond and then the ground suddenly and violently launched itself up to meet him. It took a moment for Cainen to realize it wasn’t the floor that jerked up to meet him, he’d been suddenly driven to the floor. He was now haphazardly sprawled on the tiles, along with about half the objects formerly positioned on his workstation. Cainen’s work stool lay capsized a body length to the right, still teetering from the upheaval.
He looked over to Sharan, who was no longer looking at her monitor, in part because it lay shattered on the ground, near where Sharan herself was toppled.
“What was that?” Cainen asked.