text: Hours pass in the sleeping area where the off-duty medical attendants take their rest. You're no medic, of course, but this was where the white-haired doctor wanted you to stay until the end of her shift, away from all of the other patients in quarantine. She introduced herself as Dr. Mary Redskeach, and she seemed curious to speak with you further. But there were over a dozen people in critical care here, with just a minimal staff to attend to them, so instead she withdrew some blood from your arm and promised to run tests while you rested. You weren't really tired, but your body clearly did need time to adapt to the ship's ArtGrav.
  
  It's not until 1930 hours ship's time — about four hours after your arrival — when Dr. Redskeach returns. She looks exhausted.
  
  "Four of them died this afternoon, one of them a six-year-old child," she says. "The rest probably won't make it either."
  
  "Who were they?" you ask.
  
  "A family from Naya Pune, trying to escape the Locust siege in a stolen cruiser. We recovered them two days ago, but they were already indicating lung failure."
  
  "Have there been a lot of survivors?" you say, with two people in particular on your mind.
  
  "Some, but not as many as we had hoped," Dr. Redskeach says, inviting you to sit next to her at a small table. It's just a few steps from your assigned cot, but you can't make the journey without holding onto the back of the chair.
  
  She regards you with tired interest: clearly exhausted, but also curious about the one healthy person to be "recovered" today.
  
  "So, Mrs. Ureste," she says, "you were on Chhota Chandrama all this time?"
  
  "Yes, myself and six other people. My former employees."
  
  "And where are they?"
  
  "Heading for Tyuu, as of mid-morning local time."
  
  "And you didn't go with them?"
  
  "No, ma'am. I have family back home."
  
  "Where?" she asks.
  
  "A jhabbe just outside Ummeed ka Shahar."
  
  "Oh." Her expression is flat, and not encouraging of much hope.
  
  "Was that area hit hard by the Iib Ch'iib?" you ask.
  
  "The who?"
  
  At that moment you remember that "Iib Ch'iib" was Rufus Tello's invented name. These people here, who were so much closer to the attack and who are still dealing with its emotional shock, haven't had the chance (or the inclination) to think of a more clever name.
  
  "The Locusts, I mean."
  
  "Ummeed ka Shahar was gassed as hard as any other city. But we've heard rumors there are pockets of survivors all over the planet. That's why the Commodore decided to stay a while longer, to rescue as many people as possible."
  
  "How is it this ship hasn't been attacked?"
  
  "This is a Chupake-class vessel, armed with all sorts of classified sensor-defeating technology. So far the Locusts haven't even realized we're here. Do you like coffee?"
  
  "Sure," you say. It's kind of late in the day, but whatever.
  
  Dr. Redskeach gets up from the table, walks down to the far end of the long, narrow room, and returns a moment later with two cups of coffee.
  
  "It's all synth, of course. If you want cream or sugar, it's right there."
  
  "Thank you."
  
  "So I'm just trying to understand your story, Mrs. Ureste," she says. "You were on Chhota Chandrama at the time of the attack... with how many people did you say?"
  
  "I had six employees with me."
  
  "And you said you sent them off to Tyuu today. So if you don't mind my asking, where were you going?"
  
  You're not quite sure how to answer in a way that won't make you sound out of touch with reality. Here she has been, holed up in a quarantined section of this stealth ship, hoping to recover and treat as many refugees from Chaandria as possible... with limited success, apparently. And here you are, picked up on your way to Chaandria.
  
  But the doctor is a smart woman, and when you hesitate to answer she pieces together the clues. "You were going to try and find your family, weren't you?"
  
  "My husband and my son, yes."
  
  "How old is your son?"
  
  "Five. He'll turn six in the month of Bhadra."
  
  "I see. Have you had any contact with them since the attack?"
  
  "We haven't had any contact with anybody since the first month. Once the wireless transmissions went silent, we had no idea what was going on anymore."
  
  "I'm afraid no one here is going to be able to tell you much, either. All we know is that the government fell on the second week, and we lost all contact with the last remaining Sanrakshak units on the third. So far as we know, we're all that remains of the military."
  
  "So how foolish was I for trying to go back?" you say.
  
  "Do you believe they are still alive?"
  
  "I have to. Or I thought I did. Maybe it was just some kind of closure I was seeking. I don't know anymore."
  
  Dr. Redskeach stares blankly at her coffee. For a moment you worry she is about to fall asleep sitting up. Then she looks up at you.
  
  "If I was in your place, I don't know what I'd do," she says. "Me, I know what happened to my family. I was on a video call with my husband, Narayan, the morning of the attack. He was home, and so were our two sons, both on holiday from university. Johan had even brought his girlfriend with him. They were all excited about the cricket match they were going to see that afternoon. A cricket match — how ironic, right?
  
  "But the first wave of the attack from these other crickets, the Locusts, snuck past all of our defenses. We didn't even realize that their ships were actually ships; they look like rocks, even up close, so Command thought that a handful of stray asteroids had drifted into the system. No big deal. Their first target was Bhagavaan ka Kila, the capital. Narayan never even saw it, because he had his back to the window talking to me. But I saw it: a flash of white light in the background, and the transmission went immediately dead. No one survived that one; we can see the burn mark where the city once stood every day as the planet spins around on its axis."
  
  "Heavens, that's horrible!" you say.
  
  She shrugs her shoulders weakly. "What can you do? Sometimes I think it was easier for them. The rest have had it worse. Much worse."
  
  "So what have they been gassing the planet with? You mentioned something about a biological agent before."
  
  "Mmm-hmm. It's a nasty little bug they've concocted for us, like they knew exactly how best to kill us. In small doses it might not be so bad, but they just unloaded it in mass quantities over each of the remaining major cities. Most people were dead within two weeks. The rest seem to be taking a little longer."
  
  "No one is going to survive?"
  
  "Maybe a small number will. There are a few of us who seem resistant to this strain. Myself, for instance, and all the other medics working in this quarantine area. Maybe 2.8% of the population, if our models are correct."
  
  "And what will happen to those people? The ones who survive?"
  
  "We have no idea," Dr. Redskeach says. "Right now the Locusts seem to be hanging out in orbit, waiting for the virus to die off. They engineered it with a six-month lifespan, probably so they could go in later and have the entire planet to themselves: few if any human survivors, but most of the infrastructure still intact."
  
  "So I was naive to think my son and husband were still alive, wasn't I?"
  
  "Knowledge, belief; I'm starting to think the differences don't matter at this point. From a mathematical standpoint, the odds of any one person — or in your case, any two people — still being alive and healthy aren't too good. But at the same time, we do know that some people will survive the six-month period, and they'll still be around when this massive alien fleet lands and the Locusts take over. What did you call them?"
  
  "The Iib Ch'iib," you say. "We were listening to their communications, and that's what their language sounded like to us."
  
  "The Commodore will be amused to hear that. No one here could think of anything more creative. You probably haven't seen one, have you? We got a frozen body up in the morgue; once you see it, it's hard to get the name 'Locust' out of your mind."
  
  "I appreciate you taking the time to tell me all this," you say. "Back at the mine, all we could do was speculate."
  
  "My pleasure," Dr. Redskeach says. "It's not often I get to converse with one of our patients down here. Which reminds me: I ran your blood tests, and you'll be happy to know the results confirm your story. You don't have the virus in your system, nor do you possess any antibodies. You clearly haven't been on Chaandria in the last three months, and I can tell just by looking at you that you've been living in a low-gravity environment for quite a while. Congratulations: it means that after a quick decon, I can release you to the general population of the ship."
  
  "Thanks. I guess?" The question mark comes because you've come to realize during the course of this conversation that you no longer know what your future holds, or where you belong. There is no reason to return to the mine, and Dr. Redskeach has given you much reason to doubt there is anything left for you to find on Chaandria. That leaves what, a life of some kind aboard this ship?
  
  "Ha ha, I like you," she says. "I'm not sure I'll be doing you any favors, either. Morale has been very low around here. The Commodore has ordered everyone to surrender their service weapons when they go off-duty, to reduce the suicide rate."
  
  "Where does this Commodore of yours plan to go?" you ask. "I assume you can't just remain here forever."
  
  "No one knows anymore. Even he has become demoralized, I've heard."
  
  "Does this ship have a Hoshino Drive?"
  
  "No, this isn't a faster-than-light ship. The Pavitr Yoddha is a stealth ship, and there is no way to shield a singularity from detection. Our mission was to patrol orbital space for smuggling operations, and you don't need FTL for that."
  
  "So you can't even escape to Tyuu," you say.
  
  "In the early days we had been hoping assistance would come from Tyuu or one of the other colonies, but obviously that never happened."
  
  You remember your instructions to Rufus Tello earlier today, before you left the mine. "I told my people to tell the Tyuuan authorities what was going on here. Maybe that will make a difference?"
  
  "I think it's pretty clear that if the Tyuu Guard were coming, they would've been here months ago," Dr. Redskeach says. She leans back in her chair, her cup of coffee barely touched in front of her. "I don't know anymore. It's all so hopeless, isn't it?"
  
  "I never thought I'd live to see anything like this," you agree.
  
  "Look, despite everything, the safest place for any of us is here on this ship," she says. "The future looks bleak right now, but I'm sure everything will work out for us in the end. However."
  
  You wait for the doctor to continue, but she seems distracted by a thought. "Were you going to add something?"
  
  "I was just thinking," she says. "You know, I could probably talk the ship's captain into letting you continue on your mission to find your family. If that's what you still wanted. It would be highly irregular, sending a civilian off into danger instead of rescuing them from it. But Mrs. Ureste, you are the most hopeful thing I've seen in a long time. You have a young son who might still be down on the planet, and his birthday will be coming up in a couple months! That's a damn good story. The crew might rally around it."
  
  This is certainly an unexpected idea, and continuing to Chaandria was an option you were in the process of abandoning ever since you first sat at this table. You have no connection with this crew, other than the doctor herself, and so you don't know the first thing about the state of their morale, or how your actions might affect that. However, the affirmation that your search for Diden and Ihon has merit despite the circumstances is intriguing, and it has your mind considering options for the future once more.
  
  Nevertheless there are two competing facts that gnaw at your thoughts:
  
  It is safer here on this ship, whereas returning to Chaandria means almost certain death; but
  
  If you don't learn what happened to your family, you will feel forever like you abandoned them.
  
  > continue to Chaandria.
  Marine Troop Transport 3, five days later.
  
  The marine sergeant stands beside you just behind the cockpit of the troop lander. "Ma'am, things're going to get very rough around here real soon. I need everyone to take their seats. Please."
  
  You look up at the man... and up. He is big, both in height and breadth. The respect that he commands from his men is almost automatic, considering his bearing. Someone like this hardly needs to add the word "please" to the end of a request; the fact that he does anyway hints at character.
  
  You turn around, seeing the cramped compartment filled with men sitting shoulder-to-shoulder along each side of a narrow aisle. Each marine eyes you silently, but you have no idea what it is they are looking for within you. Meaning, perhaps; since the Iib Ch'iib attack began, never have any of them felt so needed. Now each young face examines yours, and you can sense them attaching to it the purpose for why they are all here, the reason why they are embarking on this mission back to Chaandria — a mission that would've been impossible to consider before you arrived.
  
  "Mrs. Ureste, you can sit next to me."
  
  It's Lieutenant Montola, who is patting an empty seat beside him near the rear of the troop lander. Getting there requires that you walk down the length of aisle, your legs brushing past the padded knees of each marine. None of them respond as you do so, except to continue assessing you in silence. There is nothing salacious about it; every single one has addressed you as "Mrs." during the course of the week, acknowledging that you're a married woman and that the objective of this mission is to locate your husband and son. The fact that Diden was a former staff sergeant in the Sanrakshak himself makes this outing all the more honorable to them.
  
  "I was hoping to get a look at the alien fleet," you say to the lieutenant as you take your seat beside him and buckle yourself in.
  
  "Their ships look like rocks. There's not much to see," he says. "Besides, this isn't a sightseeing cruise."
  
  Lieutenant Indray Montola is a bit harsher in tone than his gunnery sergeant, although perhaps this is just compensation for his less imposing physical bearing. He sometimes adds a barb to his speech that makes him undesirable to be around, although you suspect it's an intentional act; were it not necessary to maintain discipline, he might be a different person.
  
  This was certainly not how you envisioned your return to Chaandria, although you have to admit the company of this marine platoon does perhaps enhance your odds of survival. Success, on the other hand, is going to depend on where Diden is; if he is not near the one site selected for this mission, the marines will not be interested in going on an Easter Egg hunt across the planet looking for him.
  
  You were told the other day by a Major So-and-So, the highest-ranking officer left in this unit, that you were the best thing his men were ever likely to see in what was left of their military careers.
  
  "We've just been sitting around the last three months," the major said, "cleaning our weapons, imagining someday being called upon to actually use them. They told us the best thing we could possibly do was hide here and not do anything to call attention to this ship. Now we have you to thank for inspiring a rescue mission. It's been a long time since I've seen these men so motivated."
  
  Indeed, when you followed Dr. Redskeach's advice and allowed her to bring your story up to the senior staff of the CNS Pavitr Yoddha, you were bowled over by the hearty response. Captain Pardogan had been in the command center with Commodore Noth when the doctor introduced you and told them about your search. Hearing another person describe the single-minded purpose to which your life had been reduced made it sound pathetic to your ears, and you expected these high-ranking officers with their decades of combined life experiences to immediately dismiss the idea as frivolous. Instead, they immediately embraced it — especially Captain Pardogan.
  
  "Of course, there is a tremendous amount of risk," he had said, "but it's a mission with a clear objective. The crew has been in stasis here for so long we're beginning to lose our focus. Wouldn't you agree, Commodore?"
  
  "It's your call, Addo," the Commodore said to him. "Normally I'd say the odds of success weren't worth the cost in resources, but if you see the morale value in this operation, I'll back it."
  
  When you followed Dr. Redskeach to the Pavitr Yoddha's command center, you had thought it was for the purpose of seeking permission to leave the ship alone in your own cargo pod. What you were given, however, was this marine platoon of nearly thirty men under the command of Lieutenant Montola. Their mission (thanks to you, you were repeatedly told) became the same as yours: return to the Ummeed ka Shahar region, ascertain the status of Staff Sergeant Ureste and his male child, and if possible retrieve both individuals.
  
  Now, as you sit beside the lieutenant in the troop transport ship as it hurtles toward Chaandria, it is surreal to consider that every man here possesses a replicate of your family photo — the same one you chose to take from your quarters at the mine just before you left, but slightly altered to project what Ihon should look like at his current age. Each marine in the unit, you've been told, has memorized the appearance of your husband and son.
  
  The only person who is still standing is the huge gunnery sergeant who first asked you to sit. You watch as he makes his way down the narrow aisle, his bulk making this confined space seem all the more cramped.
  
  "Sir," he says upon reaching Lieutenant Montola. His face looks gravely concerned, but then it's the nature of his job to always look that way.
  
  "Yes, Gunny?"
  
  "We require your services up front."
  
  The lieutenant unbuckles himself and follows the sergeant up to the cockpit, where the two pilots sit. You can see Chaandria growing larger in the window in front of them, which is the only window in this entire transport. The two platoon leaders consult with the pilots, who have apparently observed something of some concern on their sensors. The CO and his gunny nod in agreement over some mutual decision, and Montola turns to address his men.
  
  "Listen up! None of this should come as any surprise, but the Locusts have taken notice of us. One ship is breaking formation and moving in our direction. This is what we trained for, nothing more, nothing less. It goes without saying that the ride is about to get a little rough. Puking will be permitted."
  
  At that last bit, the gunny pivots to stand next to his CO. "Please puke in your own head gear. Any man who pukes in his neighbor's head gear will answer to me: fifty push-ups upon return to the ship, on an ArtGrav plate cranked up to the gravity setting of my choosing. Any man who soils any part of this vessel with his bile will be remanded to the pilot for a punishment of his choosing."
  
  "Gunny makes a good point," the lieutenant adds. "Puking is permitted, but only in your own head gear. Is that understood?"
  
  The men respond with a few "oorahs," but as there are no new recruits here, none seem terribly concerned by the pronouncement. You, on the other hand....
  
  "This is your first ride on a transport, ma'am?"
  
  You turn your head and see the marine sitting next to you looking back. Like most of his comrades he seems inexplicably calm, as if you were all riding in the back of a truck on the way to a camping trip. You notice the red corporal's chevrons stamped on his combat helmet.
  
  "No need to worry," the corporal continues. "Eagle Ailes is our pilot. They ain't invented the gun that can shoot him out of the sky!"
  
  "Enough with the chatter!" the lieutenant chastises without turning from the flight station. "We need to maintain strict mission focus!"
  
  The marines quickly fall silent.
  
  It is indeed a rough ride as the transport ship descends toward Chaandria, made all the rougher by the lack of an outside view. Having a window so you could see the relative movement of the planet and the surrounding stars might help your brain and body anticipate the sudden shifts the pilots are making, and thus feel less like a pebble being randomly rattled around the inside of a metal bucket. But when you overhear someone say the pilots are dodging shots fired by the enemy Locusts, you decide you are perhaps better off not knowing everything.
  
  "Marines, listen up!" Lieutenant Montola shouts, walking down the length of the aisle while holding onto a strap affixed to the ceiling for balance. "We made it through the enemy blockade, but now we have a couple Locusts on our tail. Rest assured, Eagle Ailes tells me these aren't anything he can't handle. We've got fifteen minutes on these genocidal bastards, and that's it. Landfall in the outskirts of Ummeed ka Shahar will occur in twelve minutes. I know every single one of you flunked basic math, so let me explain to you this leaves a margin of approximately three minutes for us to disembark and allow our ace pilot to take this bird to safety."
  
  At that moment the gunnery sergeant speaks up. "But we're not going to need three minutes, are we, marines?"
  
  Several of the men reply. "No, Gunny!" "Sir, no, sir!"
  
  "That's right!" Gunny continues. "A marine doesn't require three minutes to vacate a transport in a combat situation. A marine doesn't need to analyze the environment first to determine if it's safe to step outside. A marine doesn't wait until somebody starts firing at him to have his weapon ready to fire back. A marine is ready for combat the moment his boots hit the ground. Isn't that right, marines?"
  
  "Oorah!"
  
  You have to admit, it's fascinating to witness the dynamics of this unit, but all this talk of weapons and combat readiness leaves you with an unanswered question: what is your role to be in all of this?
  
  A few minutes before the landing, that question is answered when the lieutenant approaches you. "Mrs. Ureste, I'm going to need you with me at all times. You're our subject matter expert. None of my men know Ummeed ka Shahar or the surrounding jhabbe villages, so we're going to be depending on you to find our way around. Are you OK with that?"
  
  And if you answered no at this late stage in the operation?
  
  "Yes, I'm fine with it," you say. And you think that's true; like the marines, you are outfitted with body armor; you still have your father's old plasgun, now fully charged; and every person on this transport has been treated with blood plasma donated by Dr. Redskeach and her staff, their acquired antibodies to the Iib Ch'iib plague now flowing freely through your bodies, albeit in diluted quantities. Considering that your original plan had been to come here alone, you reassure yourself that you're already in a much better position.
  
  "That's good," Montola says to you, before turning to address his men once again. "Now everyone, I need you to pay attention. When that red light turns green, this hatch is going to open. We're going to exit that hatch, and we're going to be standing on Chaandria once more.
  
  "But this will not be the Chaandria you remember. This will not be the world where you grew up, where just last year you were finally weaned off your momma's teats. The Sovereign World of Chaandria is no more. It has been ripped from our hands, taken by six-legged beasts and transformed into something that we're quite likely not going to recognize. Do you understand?
  
  "Now I need each and every one of you to also understand that our mission is not to seek vengeance for the death and destruction we're going to witness. Our sorry asses won't be enough to take Chaandria back for our kind. This is not the kind of heroism we're here to perform.
  
  "Our mission, handed down by Captain Pardogan himself, is to locate this woman's home and ascertain the status of her spouse and child. Should we find them expired, we will give them the proper tribute. Should we find them alive, we will recover them and bring them back to Dr. Redskeach. These are our mission parameters. There will be no going off-script. If you do, you and your fellow marines will die. Is that understood?"
  
  Once more, "Oorah!" seems to be the general consensus.
  
  The lieutenant's speech takes up most of the remaining time before planetfall occurs, and it seems like mere seconds later when the transport makes its jarring landing and the light turns green. Your seat at the rear of the ship while it was in flight becomes the nearest to the opening hatch, so you and Montola are the first to step down the ramp, with Gunny right behind you.
  
  As previously arranged, the transport has touched down in the village square, just a block away from where you first met Diden during his bout with public drunkenness. The entire platoon spills out of the shuttle, and you are rushed out of the open square toward one of the narrower side streets. The last man's boots are barely off the ramp when the hatch begins to close and the transport begins to take off again. However it is that "Eagle Ailes" plans to evade the incoming Iib Ch'iib / Locust pursuers, it is a mystery to you.
  
  Your first impression of your former hometown is that not much has changed. The rowhouses all look the same, and the kaee trees that shade them are rustling in a gentle breeze. But there are no people anywhere, and the air is filled with the smell of smoke.
  
  "All right, Mrs. Ureste," Montola says. "Do you recognize this neighborhood?"
  
  "Yes," you say. "We're in Pahalee Galee. First Street."
  
  "Mark," a corporal says, confirming on his printed map that this is precisely where you are expected to be at this stage in the operation. "The target destination is five hundred meters westward."
  
  "Can you take us there?" Montola asks you.
  
  "Yes," you say again, careful to refrain from any floridity in your responses.
  
  "Ogona, Grinsha, I need you on point. All right, let's proceed."
  
  As you follow the street in the direction of your home, the differences gradually begin to sink in, replacing that original sense of ordinariness you had thought you felt when you first landed. Yes, the buildings that make up the village still stand, and so from an architectural standpoint that much is the same; but they now seem like empty shells, not places of human habitation. Window panes are broken, front doors swing eerily ajar, all interiors are dark. As you pass near the open door of one house, a putrid odor drifts out onto the street from inside.
  
  It appears to be the role of one corporal in the unit to maintain contact with the Pavitr Yoddha, as he is giving a running commentary into his headset. "Bachaav One to Command, Bachaav One to Command, we are on the ground. Repeat, we are on the ground. Proceeding to target. Bachaav One is on the ground and proceeding to target. Do you copy?"
  
  "They're jamming all signals, Corporal," the Gunny says. "It's as we expected."
  
  "Yes, Gunny."
  
  "Just maintain a link with Eagle and we'll be fine," Montola says.
  
  When you turn onto Kaee Galee, the scene becomes more chaotic. Half the buildings here have burned to the ground, and debris fills the street. However, this fire looks like it occurred months ago; it is not the source of the smoke you smelled earlier. There is an odor of burned rubbish, acrid to your nose, but there is no longer any signs that the collapsed structures are still smoldering.
  
  "Eighty meters to target," the corporal with the map announces. As you make your way down the burned-down street, you wish he'd start keeping this information to himself.
  
  With so many landmarks gone, you almost miss the next crucial turn: the left onto Pavitr Pyaar Galee, or "Blessed Love" Street. The Naya Gyaan left their cultish marks everywhere on this world, including these street names here in the Ganda neighborhoods where only immigrants made their homes. But this is no ordinary moment for you: Pavitr Pyaar Galee was the street where you yourself once lived, the street where your house stood, the place where Diden and you had planned to raise your son. Expecting that you'd get only one chance to look for your family before the Iib Ch'iib intervened, this was the site the marines gave the best odds for the mission's success. You are less optimistic, because it would not be like Diden to remain in one place for long, especially if he thought he had an opportunity to get your son out of here. Nevertheless, whatever artifacts of your old existence still remain in this place of blessed love, you are about to confront them face-to-face. For better or worse.
  
  "Fifty meters to target."
  
  The house should be on the right side of the street, away from the block that burned down. Indeed, the buildings here are still standing. The house you and Diden purchased was built with greenstone quarried less than sixty kilometers away; it had previously been owned by a tool manufacturer, whose father had constructed it soon after the Second Immigration. Two stories, hardwood floors, good neighborhood, reasonable price because of its age, but otherwise in good maintenance at the time you signed the mortgage.
  
  "Sir, I'm detecting movement. Eight bodies, two hundred meters northeast. Make that twelve bodies, one-eighty meters. Moving fast."
  
  "All right, we need to set up a periphery around this house. You and you, set up a covering position in the top floor of that residence. You and you, do the same over there. Ogona, take your guys out back. No one gets anywhere near this street without us knowing who it is first. Is that understood?"
  
  "Yes, sir." And the marines split off to their assigned posts.
  
  Montola turns to you. "Mrs. Ureste, is this your house?"
  
  Indeed it is. And to your dismay (or maybe your relief, it's really hard to say) it looks as abandoned as every other house you've passed. No windows are smashed on this side, but the curtains in the den appear to be dangling from a broken rod, and the copper-colored door is half open.
  
  "Yes. Yes it is," you say.
  
  "Are you ready to enter?" he asks.
  
  No, but it's best not to admit that; too much has already been set in motion. You nod instead.
  
  "All right, let's do this. After you, ma'am."
  
  Tentatively, you take the first steps up the front stoop, inching closer to that gaping doorway. The fear of what you might find inside nearly halts your progress, like two negative poles of opposing magnets repelling each other away. The only way you can proceed is if you stop thinking about the darkness ahead of you, and think instead of the determination of the marines — two of whom quickly step past you, rifles raised, to begin the process of securing the inside.
  
  Upon stepping across the threshold you are greeted with disarray, but no death. It looks exactly like a place that has been abandoned for three months. Diden left an empty glass on the end table next to his preferred lounger; a house that Ihon was building out of magblocks sits on the floor in the hallway. It almost looks like they are gone for the afternoon, due back any moment. As a coterie of marines makes a systematic sweep of your old house before declaring it to be safe, you move from room to room too, but more slowly, more deliberately. The den, the kitchen, the bedrooms — they all look more or less as they should, except that leaks in the roof and a handful of open windows have been exposing many of your old belongings to the elements.
  
  As you stand in the moldy ruins of what had once been the bedroom you shared with Diden Ureste, you hear footsteps approaching up the staircase behind you.
  
  "Mrs. Ureste?"
  
  It's Lieutenant Montola; his tone seems much softer now that none of his men are present. You turn to him, saying, "They're not here."
  
  "We know. But that's good, right? They might've gotten out."
  
  You nod, fighting back a wave of emotion that no one needs to see right now. "Diden would've gone to the Nabee Hills, if he thought it was going to come down to a matter of survival."
  
  "The Nabee Hills are fifty clicks from here, correct?"
  
  "More like a hundred," you say.
  
  "Did he leave behind any clues? Something to indicate what might've happened here?"
  
  "None that I can find."
  
  Montola seems to be stifling a reaction, as if he doesn't want to consider the fact you came all this way, risking so much, just to learn so little. "If it means anything," he says, "my men are reporting no bodies in any of your neighbors' homes, either."
  
  But before you can process this information, you hear the sounds of plasgun fire in the street outside. Montola reaches for his headset. "Gunny! Report!"
  
  "Locusts, sir. They've just ambushed us."
  
  The lieutenant looks momentarily confused; despite all the sentries and snipers he posted, the enemy still somehow managed to score a tactical surprise. "Stay here!" he says to you as he disappears down the stairs to go rejoin his men, leaving you alone in the wreckage of your own personal history.
  
  The relatively familiar zapping sound of plasgun fire is interrupted by something even more startling: the loud staccato of analog gunshots — bullets instead of energy beams. Rushing to the window, you brush aside a yellowed curtain to view the scene down on the street. Montola's men have set up an impressive perimeter around your house, but the enemy is advancing on them swiftly as if testing their resolve. You've never seen beings anything like these: horizontal bodies, four legs for walking, two other prehensile limbs for holding over-sized weapons, large heads, faceted eyes — very much like locusts indeed, minus the large hind legs for leaping.
  
  "Bachaav One to Eagle! Bachaav One to Eagle!"
  
  "Three more at two o'clock!"
  
  "I need covering fire!"
  
  The Iib Ch'iib seem to be speaking in a grating rattle, which sounds like a rusty rake dragged across a concrete slab. There do not appear to be many of them at the moment, and so they approach the marines as if trying to hold them down while more alien reinforcements arrive. From your vantage you can see them spreading out, preparing to surround Montola's unit from at least three sides. Who knows what's coming on the side of the house you can't see.
  
  Is this what Diden saw the last time he looked out this same window? Were these locust-like invaders sweeping down the so-called "Street of Blessed Love" three months ago, intent on exterminating all human life before them? And what impression could this have left on young Ihon? Only now, as you stand in this house, in the same space where your family lived while you busied yourself on Chhota Chandrama, do you begin to realize that even if they were still alive — even if by some miracle you were to reconnect with them ever again — they would have been changed by their experiences. While your months of sheltering in place have held you in a kind of emotional stasis, your husband and son have been on a forced evolution, courtesy of the horror of this new existence.
  
  Assuming they are still alive, carving out a small pocket of safety for themselves somewhere on this bloody planet.
  
  The gunfight below is frantic; the marines are holding their ground for the moment, but they are dealing with a foe that has somehow managed to eliminate every other Sanrakshak force on this planet within a matter of weeks. Each man must know a single unit of marines can't possibly last more than a few minutes.
  
  You hear more footsteps running up the stairs, and then a harried private rushes into your room.
  
  "Mrs. Ureste, you need to come with me!" he says. "We've made contact with Eagle. He's getting us out!"
  
  Turning quickly to comply, you are stopped by the unsettling sound of broken glass under your boot. Looking down, you see your family portrait in a shattered frame, a copy of the same image you took from the mine. The three of you smiling dumbly, unaware of the malice that would soon split you asunder — the wife you once were, the man you once married, the child you once carried to term, all crushed inadvertently under the heel of your own boot.
  
  "Hurry! There's no time," the private insists, and you agree. You follow him down the staircase, warped by moisture, abandoning forever this place that can never be your home again.