EIGHT LIGHT YEARS FROM HOME

      “All is quiet on the perimeter, Captain,” Aiken said. “Sounds like the Frogs’re pretty riled up in the ’ville, though. Do you think they’ll attack us?”

      “It could happen,” Pearson replied. “The ambassador still hasn’t answered Geremelet’s ultimatum.”

      “They’re not talking about … surrendering, are they?”

      “Not that I’ve heard, Master Sergeant. Don’t worry, it won’t come to that.”

      “Yeah. The Marines never surrender.”

      “That’s what they say. Keep a sharp watch.”

      “Aye aye, sir.”

      Aiken turned and looked into the southern sky, where the first stars were beginning to appear. Eight light-years from home had not much altered the familiar constellations, though the dome of the sky was strangely canted against the cardinal directions. There was a bright star, however, in the otherwise dim and unremarkable constellation Scutum, not far from the white beacon of Fomalhaut.

      Sol. Earth’s sun. As always, the sight of that star sent a shiver down Aiken’s spine. So far away, in both space and time.

      Eight point three light-years. Help from home could not possibly arrive in time …