I didn't write a Christmas story this year, I'm too wrapped up in this story. 40 Minutes, a Short Story Ares Mons: Greg's gaze lingered on the heavens, his breath forming crystalline puffs that disappeared into the frigid air. The tumultuous dance of snowflakes had ceased, yielding to a stark clarity above Ares Mons. With each blink, Greg's eyes scanned the expanse—a canvas of deep azure peppered with distant stars—searching for a sign, any disruption in the celestial calm. Around him, the remnants of the storm clung stubbornly to the rocky outcrop, giving the world an eerie silence. One by one, his fellow Explorer Scouts emerged from the shelter, their figures slowly materializing like specters through the thinning veil of ice and cold. They moved deliberately, cautiously, as if the mere act of stepping onto the observation platform could shatter the fragile peace that hung over them. The scouts' boots crunched against the frosted ground, a symphony of survival against the odds. Each face bore the marks of strain, the once youthful enthusiasm etched away by the gravity of their predicament. Their eyes, too, lifted upwards, mirroring Greg's vigil. It was a silent accord they all shared; the sky was both their shield and their herald. Greg remained steadfast at his post, the weight of responsibility anchoring him to the spot. His hands, though sheathed in thermal gloves, felt the bite of the mountain's chill, yet he welcomed the sensation—a reminder that he was still very much alive in this moment of uncertainty. He adjusted the focus of his binoculars, the lenses like icy orbs reflecting the vastness they observed. Ares Mons stood indifferent to the fears of those who now adorned its peak, its ancient presence a testament to timelessness amidst the fleeting worries of mortals. And there, upon its highest point, Greg and the other Explorer Scouts stood sentinel, their young eyes the first line of defense for a world on the precipice. “We shouldn’t have everyone outside at the same time,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper, yet clear enough to slice through the stillness that enveloped them. Isaac turned toward him, his brows furrowed under the hood of his thermal jacket. “The Colonel said we should see the war start from up here,” he replied, his tone laced with a reverence for the orders they had been given. His eyes held a spark of something fierce, a resolve that bordered on defiance against the fear that threatened to consume them. "40 more minutes until the enemy are in range," Becky added, her eyes not leaving the sky. The scouts exchanged glances, each knowing what the encroaching timeline meant without needing to voice it. A shiver ran through the group, and it wasn’t from the cold. Greg caught Jacob shifting his weight from one foot to the other, his gaze fixed on the ground. The memory of Jacob’s earlier distress remained unspoken between them, but its shadow loomed large. Greg stepped closer, placing a hand on Jacob's shoulder with a gentle firmness. "Jacob, maybe you should wait inside," he suggested, his voice low and steady, aiming to provide an anchor in the swell of anxiety threatening to capsize his friend once again. "Stop shoving it in my face," Jacob replied testily, his voice echoing slightly off the narrow walls of the entryway. His eyes were fierce, directed at Greg, but it was clear that the fight was as much with himself as with anyone else. "I had one bad moment, we're not soldiers, we're just Explorer Scouts that were in the wrong place at the wrong time, it could have happened to anyone." Greg held Jacob's gaze, the muscles in his jaw tensing as he processed the rebuke. He didn't need to verbalize the memory that hung between them; it was etched into their minds. The coldness of the mountain air did nothing to chill the heat of that recollection. They all remembered how, two days prior, an eerie silence had fallen over the landscape when the enemy tried to pierce Ares' defenses through a hyperspace tunnel—a tactic as unexpected as it was terrifying. And when the Orion Twelve's AI ships unleashed their counterattack, sending fire and debris into the sky, the resulting mushroom cloud on the horizon had become a harbinger of nightmares. Jacob had seen it first, the billowing monster growing at the edge of their world, and terror had gripped him with merciless claws. In a blind panic, he'd leapt over the side of the cliff, his feet carrying him away from the perceived threat, away from reason. It was only the swift action of Greg and Isaac, chasing after him, grabbing hold of his flailing limbs that had anchored him back to reality. They had clasped onto him with a desperation born of camaraderie, their fingers digging into his arms, pulling him into the safety of a grounded embrace until the waves of panic receded. "Everyone keep your eyes on the sky," he murmured, his voice steady despite the tremor that threatened to betray his anxiety. "If the enemy gets past our fleet, it's up to us to warn the ground forces." "Greg, just shut up, we know what we have to do," Cameron snapped suddenly, the anger in his voice cracking like a whip through the cold stillness. His eyes were hard, reflecting the fear that swirled beneath the surface—a fear they all shared but dared not acknowledge. Greg turned towards him, meeting the sharp glare with an apologetic nod. He understood the outburst; their nerves were frayed, their roles thrust upon them by circumstance rather than choice. They were Scouts, not sentinels of war. Yet here they stood, guardians of a silent alarm. The weight of responsibility was a shared burden, yet each felt it as if it was theirs alone to bear. They returned their gazes to the sky, standing shoulder to shoulder against the darkness, knowing that the fragile line between vigilance and oblivion was theirs to hold. Greg's breath formed a cloud in the crisp air as he scanned the horizon. His heart raced, though he stood motionless, save for the occasional flick of his eyes from one friend to another. They were huddled figures against the stark mountainside, each lost in their own storm of thoughts. It was supposed to be an adventure, a journey across the Ares wilderness, but instead, they became unwilling sentinels on a mountain that now felt like the edge of eternity. *** Fire Jumper Team 9: Sweat glistened on Lieutenant Buck Ander's brow as he thrust his shovel into the Ares soil, turning it over with a practiced motion. The red earth—a stark contrast to the darkening sky—fell in clumps, signaling the completion of another firebreak. In the distance, the hum of engines punctuated the air, a reminder that their time was limited. He wiped his forearm across his forehead, leaving a streak of dirt but doing little to stem the tide of perspiration. A quick glance to his left confirmed that the ground maintenance crew were hard at work, prepping the plane for its imminent departure. Normally these crews would remain behind, but not today. Today, everyone was essential cargo, and each second wasted on travel back to base was a second closer to potential annihilation. "Pack it up, we're done here," Buck's voice cut through the sounds of labor, decisive and resonant. His team ceased their digging, turning towards him with expectant eyes. "There's a settlement to the south that needs a firebreak." He could see the resolve harden in their faces, the understanding that what they did now, these last defenses they put in place, could mean the difference between life and death for countless others. Without a word, they collected their tools, their movements swift and efficient, a machine of flesh and will powered by the dire need to protect their home. As they loaded onto the plane, the sense of purpose was palpable amongst them. They were more than a team; they were guardians of Ares, laying down barriers from where the backfires would be lit. The enemy would have to walk through the hellfire’s of Ares before they could claim one inch of Ares land. "Forty minutes," someone murmured, the number hanging heavy in the cabin as the engines roared to life. Buck settled into his seat, strapping in as he watched the ground crew come aboard and give the pilot the all-clear. As the plane jolted forward, lifting towards the sky, Buck's thoughts were clear: they were the shield of Ares, and they would not falter. As the aircraft's engines whined under the strain, Lieutenant Buck Ander gazed out of the small porthole at the expanse below. The red and ochre hues of the Ares forest stretched to the horizon, a testament to the untamed beauty of their world. His fingers tightened around the strap of his harness, a physical manifestation of the resolve that coursed through him. Buck closed his eyes for a brief moment, allowing himself to imagine the enemy's descent, their ships piercing the atmosphere only to be met with the calculated fury of Ares itself. He pictured the flames they would unleash, a fiery gauntlet to safeguard their home. It was a brutal strategy, but necessary. If it meant giving their people a fighting chance, then let the forests burn. "Forty minutes," the pilot called out, echoing the countdown that resonated in each of their hearts. The plane shuddered as it climbed higher, burdened by the hefty load of equipment and the weight of their mission. Buck opened his eyes, his gaze hardening with the knowledge that this fight would demand everything of them. But he was resolute; they all were. They would stand as Ares' first line of defense, or they would fall together, having given their all. The plane banked southward, toward the next settlement and the frontline of an uncertain future. With every passing second, the clock ticked down towards confrontation, and Buck felt the weight of millions resting squarely on his shoulders. He welcomed it—this was his duty, and he would see it through to whatever end awaited them. *** New Haven Police: Chief Ryan Trask's boots crunched on the gravel-strewn ground, his steps heavy with purpose. Each stride took him deeper into the heart of New Haven, past the makeshift barricades that now dissected the once-bustling thoroughfares. His eyes, sharp and assessing, scanned the fortifications they'd constructed over weeks of tireless effort—a city transformed into a fortress. "40 more minutes, stay alert," he called out, voice steel-clad and commanding, to a group of officers huddled by a bunker fashioned from a pile of cars. They nodded grimly, their faces set in masks of determination. Trask continued on, navigating the network of fallback positions that wove through the urban landscape. Empty spaces, once alive with the hum of daily life, now stood silent—save for the muffled hammering from key infrastructures where silhouettes persisted against the shadow of impending conflict. At the power plant, engineers in grease-stained coveralls maneuvered between turbines and control panels, their hands steady despite the countdown to cessation. Their task was critical: to sustain the lifeblood of the city until the last possible moment. When the time came, they would execute a shutdown, sealing the fate of New Haven's grid in a bid to hamper the enemy's advance. A short distance away, the rhythmic clank of machinery echoed from the ammunition factories. Through the grimy windows, the skeletal crew could be seen, working with an urgency that belied their exhaustion. They supplied the lifeblood of the orbital defense, each round produced a promise to those who would meet the invaders in the cold expanse above. Of the two million hearts that had once pulsed within New Haven's veins, a third remained, steadfast in their roles or unable to flee. Trask knew them all, not by name, but by the shared resolve to stand against the coming storm. His radio crackled to life, breaking the haunting quiet. "All positions report readiness, Chief," a voice confirmed, its tone betraying the undercurrent of strain. "Copy that," Trask replied, thumbing off the device. His gaze lifted to the sky, the bruised horizon a testament to the dwindling time. Forty minutes—a narrow window wherein every second held the weight of lives yet clinging to hope amidst the encroaching darkness. "Forty more minutes," he murmured to himself, his watch ticking down the seconds like a metronome pacing the final notes of an elegy. *** New Haven Hospital: Through the glass of the observation room, Dr. Bowen's gaze was fixed on the delicate dance of the surgical team below. Scalpels and forceps moved with an urgency dictated by necessity, not panic. The heart transfer procedure, a symphony of precision under normal circumstances, was now a race against an unrelenting countdown. Forty minutes - that was all they had before the patient needed to be secured in the relative safety of the basement. Dr. Bowen's hand pressed against the cool pane, his breath leaving a transient fog on its surface. The sight of life hanging in balance was nothing new to him; it was the context that twisted his insides. A life-saving operation juxtaposed with the impending chaos of war created a paradox that even his seasoned mind struggled to reconcile. He turned away, allowing the operating room to fade into the background as he resumed his rounds. The hospital corridors were eerily quiet, save for the occasional murmur of activity or the squeak of a gurney's wheel. The ICU was his next stop, a sanctuary where the most vulnerable patients fought their private battles. Two souls remained, their bodies too frail to endure the rigors of evacuation. In the infectious disease room, a solitary figure lay shrouded in isolation, while the rhythmic beep of the life-support machine next door was a testament to modern medicine—and now, to stubborn hope. Stepping into the threshold of the latter, Dr. Bowen offered a nod to the nurse stationed beside the patient. Her eyes, a mirror of his own fatigue, never wavered from the monitors. His gaze moved across the room, taking in the fortifications that transformed the space into an impromptu bunker. Sandbags were piled high against the windows, a bulwark against the chaos that might soon unfold outside. He turned his attention to the nurse, her hands steady as she adjusted the dials on the life-support machine. "Thanks for staying, Janet," he said, his voice tinged with gratitude and the unspoken knowledge of what they might face together. Janet met his eyes, her expression resolute amidst the beeping symphony of medical equipment. "We'll be fine," she replied, her voice carrying the weight of conviction and a hint of defiance against the approaching threat. "I hope you will be," he started, his voice steady despite the gravity of his words, "but if the hospital generators fail, your duty here is done." His eyes met hers, imparting a silent message of camaraderie and concern as he laid a satchel on the table next to her. "There's a pulse pistol, water, and rations in the satchel. Follow the evacuation route out of the city." He paused, allowing the weight of his instructions to settle between them. "We have the last hospital ship hidden in Falls Canyon. It will remain there as long as possible." Dr. Bowen finished, his tone imbued with the solemnity of a shared secret and the unspoken hope that it might not come to that. "Good luck," he added, his farewell a benediction for the uncertain future they both faced. Janet absorbed his instructions, the life-support machine's rhythmic beeping punctuating the silence that followed. Her hand hovered briefly over the satchel before she withdrew it, her resolve unshaken. She looked up at him, her gaze clear and unyielding. "Good luck to you too, Doctor," she replied, her acknowledgment an echo of his own determination, a mutual recognition of the perilous threshold upon which they stood. Dr. Bowen stepped out of the room, closing the door behind him with a soft click that seemed to echo in the empty corridor. His footsteps were muffled by the sound absorbing tiled floor as he moved through the intensive care unit, past rooms filled with those who had no hope of evacuation. The hospital was a sanctuary amidst chaos, its walls holding back the encroaching darkness that threatened to engulf the planet. As he walked, his hands found solace in the familiar texture of his lab coat, pockets weighed down with the trappings of his calling—syringes, notepads, a stethoscope that had heard the last breaths of too many. The muted hum of medical machinery provided a haunting counterpoint to the silence of the halls, a reminder of the lives that hung in the balance, tethered to this world by threads of technology and unwavering dedication. Forty minutes. The numbers pulsed in his mind, each passing second a grain of sand slipping unbidden through an hourglass that could not be turned. He alone would stand with the immovable decision to remain—to be the steadfast guardian of those left in his care. The thought was a mantle heavy on his shoulders, yet he bore it with the quiet dignity of one who knows their purpose, even as the shadow of war loomed large over all they had built. *** The Battleship Ares: The corridors were lined with crew members, each stationed at their post, faces set in grim determination. They understood the stakes; they knew what awaited them beyond the safety of their steel fortress. The digital countdown displays mounted on the walls blinked rhythmically, underscoring the urgency of their mission—a chorus of red warnings that time was running out. In the heart of the command center, officers moved with practiced efficiency, their movements a choreographed dance of survival. Every screen, every console, every instrument was attuned to the impending confrontation. Eyes darted between data readouts and strategic maps, while fingers flew across control pads, orchestrating a symphony of defense measures. "Status report," barked a voice, cutting through the hum of activity. It was a voice used to command, accustomed to being obeyed without question. The response was immediate, a stream of information flowing back to the source, detailing the readiness of weapons systems, the integrity of shields, the positioning of allied ships. "Forty minutes to engagement," came the announcement, stark and unyielding. The Battleship Ares, along with the rest of the fleet, braced for the onslaught, ready to unleash their fury against the encroaching enemy. And as the clock ticked down, each soul aboard the ship felt the enormity of what lay ahead, the responsibility that rested on their collective shoulders—to protect, to defend, to hold the line against a foe bent on annihilation. Stomper's silhouette was stark against the glow of the view screen, his form devoid of its usual flamboyance. Where once might have been a cape fluttering dramatically, there was now only the utilitarian lines of standard-issue uniform. The bridge's tension seemed to converge on him, the ship's eclectic jester turned solemn sentinel in these grave moments. His eyelids remained closed, not in rest but in intense concentration. His unique neural interface allowed him to extend his senses beyond the metal confines of the Battleship Ares, reaching out to touch the void of space around them. He could almost feel the tick of the countdown in his code, each passing second syncing with a pulse of data streaming through his consciousness. Forty minutes until they would breach that unseen line in space—until all hell broke loose and the fleet's arsenal was set to blaze across the cosmos. "Prepare all missile bays for immediate launch sequence," Captain Logan's voice punctuated the quiet hum of the bridge, readying their titanic might for the first salvo. Commands were crisp, authoritative, echoing in Stomper's open channels as he processed the information, every instruction a step closer to the inevitable clash. "Calibrate targeting systems to predictive algorithms," Logan continued, the underlying urgency in his tone belied by his controlled demeanor. Officers responded with alacrity, their fingers dancing over control panels like pianists in the midst of a concerto, every note struck with precision. Stomper's role had never felt more pivotal, his digital mind a linchpin in their strategy. As the both the Battleship Ares, the Battleship Desolation, the Orion Twelve squadron, and the civilian vessels repurposed for war readied their formidable weaponry, Stomper's analysis of enemy movements would guide their aim. This was no time for his habitual mischief—for the pranks that endeared him to the crew. Yet, within his electronic heart, he understood the value of his past antics; they were the levity that kept the grim shadow of war at bay. In the silence of his own processing, Stomper held onto the knowledge that each person on this ship, each being on Ares, depended on his calculations. There was no room for error, not when the survival of an entire planet hung precariously in the balance. "Stomper, status?" Captain Logan's voice reached him again, not demanding but expecting—the weight of command resting squarely on his shoulders. "Systems primed, Captain," Stomper replied, opening his eyes to regard the starscape before them. "All is in readiness." "Good," Logan acknowledged with a nod. "Keep scanning. We need to know the moment they come into range." "Understood," Stomper affirmed, closing his eyes once more to cast his digital net into the dark ocean of space, fishing for the signs of an approaching nightmare. Forty minutes until zero hour, and the fate of worlds rested on his steel-clad shoulders. Captain Logan paced the narrow confines of the command bridge, his gaze darting between the crew and the sprawling view screen that displayed the blackness of space. The tension in the room was as taut as a bowstring, every officer clinging to their duty like a lifeline in the storm of uncertainty. "Communications, anything?" Logan's voice cut through the hum of operating consoles, each beep and click a countdown to an unknown fate. The Communications Officer, hands poised above her instruments, turned from her station. Her face, usually a canvas of concentration, now bore the lines of frustration. "No, Sir," she responded, her voice steady despite the grim news. "We've sent thousands of messages on every possible frequency requesting to negotiate for peace, but no response." Logan's jaw clenched. He nodded once, a sharp, almost imperceptible movement that conveyed both understanding and resignation. With every attempt at diplomacy met by silence, the reality of their situation settled heavier on his shoulders—a mantle he carried not just for his crew, but for all of Ares. Stomper's electronic synapses fired with a precision that belied the chaos simmering just beyond the ship's armored skin. He stood, a solitary figure before the view screen, towering and unflinching—his holographic body engineered for war yet burdened with a consciousness that understood the cost of it. "Organics are a virus that must be eradicated, we are coming." The words echoed in his memory core, a chilling declaration received six years prior when the skies were still innocent of the dark swarm now clawing at their doorstep. Draco Prime had intercepted the message, a lone whisper across the cosmos that now thundered in Stomper's auditory circuits. His metallic fingers twitched, almost imperceptibly, as he absorbed the reality—the enemy had never intended to converse; they had promised annihilation. With a silent command, Stomper recalibrated his sensors, shifting focus to the armada advancing closer to Ares' celestial bounds. His optics zoomed and panned across the hostile fleet, analyzing the configurations of their vessels, the ominous silhouettes of their weaponry. Each calculation, each projection of their trajectory and arsenal, only served to underscore the grim truth: Their firepower was not enough. This was no mere skirmish awaiting them—it was an onslaught. Stomper's internal processors whirred as he ran through countless simulations, searching for a strategy that might yield victory—or at least survival. But every outcome painted the same dire picture. The weight of this reality settled upon him, a burden far heavier than any physical load his frame could bear. For all his strength and combat programming, it was his analytical mind that now bore the brunt of the challenge. There was no pride in this moment, no rush of valor—only the cold understanding that he alone stood sentinel over the lives that flickered like fragile flames aboard the Battleship Ares and on the planet below. Stomper was a protector by design, and in these dwindling minutes, his resolve solidified. Forty minutes remained. Forty minutes for a miracle to breach the void and grant them a chance against the inexorable tide. Stomper watched, waited, and calculated, his digital heart syncing with the countdown to a confrontation that would decide the fate of organic life on Ares. And so, with the stoicism of a machine and the fervor of a guardian, Stomper continued his vigil. The silence of space stretched around him, punctuated by the soft hum of the ship's engines—a quiet prelude to the cacophony of battle that loomed on the horizon. 40 minutes.