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alone prohibited them from getting in and out of small spaces. But Leon did notice there were other vessels about when he’d first arrived, more like excavation and utility vehicles stored within the ship’s flight deck. He wasn’t sure if any of them were space faring, and only hoped he’d have time to find out.
    Leon felt through the soles of his shoes the unmistakable pounding of multiple Pharloms on the move up ahead—the deck vibrated as if dual pile drivers were approaching. A klaxon alarm blared and he heard the computerized voice of an AI. His internal nano-devices were already translating, as the sectional coordinates of his current position were given out. He looked for somewhere to hide—a hatchway or an intersecting corridor … anything. What he found was neither right nor left, but overhead, where a wide support girder ran the width of the ship. How do I get up there? From the deck to the beam, he guessed, was about ten feet. Taking large, quick steps backward, he took a deep breath and ran. He angled toward the side bulkhead and jumped, using his right foot to push off halfway up the bulkhead. That gave him the extra few inches he needed to reach up and grab the girder with the fingertips of both hands. He hung there, swaying back and forth for several seconds, expecting to see Pharloms come into view around the curve of the corridor any moment. He managed to pull himself high enough that he could reach one hand up, and over, the cross beam, which gave him enough of a secure handhold to pull his torso and legs up. The girder was no more than nine inches across but it was wide enough for him to lie down sideways. Leon had no sooner pulled his legs up on the beam when three Pharloms appeared. He knew from experience they were all out running. Any other species would see him lying up there, pretty much in plain view—but these rock people didn’t have a neck to swivel. They slowed … here were the coordinates the AI had most recently indicated for his position. They passed by beneath him and thundered on. As soon as they were around the bend, he jumped down and continued toward the stern.
    More Pharloms were looking for him. Twice, Leon needed to repeat the same maneuver—jumping up, grabbing onto, then lying on an overhead support girder. Eventually, he was certain, they would see him. He figured he’d already traversed a quarter mile when he heard, in the distance, noise coming from the flight deck ahead. He slowed his pace and stayed close to the bulkhead. At a wide hatchway, he peered around the corner.
    Leon had wondered about his relatively easy escape—the lack of any real initiative by the Pharloms to apprehend him. All that was answered now. The Pharlom ship was no longer in space; in fact, from what he could see through the wide open doors of the flight deck, they were already on the ground. Beyond the doors was the misty-blue world of Trom. They’d landed at the edge of a city. From his perspective, Leon guessed it was the capital city of Cammilon. No less than two hundred Pharlom soldiers, each loaded up with immense packs, and equally immense energy rifles, were methodically heading off the ship onto Trom soil. The invasion there had begun.
    Leon was not new to war … to battle. As early as his teens, he’d been involved in the Craing War … personally killing hundreds of Craing, or those they’d sent into battle on their behalf. He’d also been wounded and nearly killed. As a Seaman in the Allied forces, he’d served under several commanders, most notably Admiral Perry Reynolds. He was taken under the admiral’s wing from age seventeen on, and had learned much, until the small destroyer he was assigned to was hit by three consecutive plasma blasts and forced to make an emergency crash landing onto a desolate, pretty much uninhabited planet nicknamed Genocide 5, or more commonly Gen5. Leon, the only survivor on board the mangled destroyer, suffered a broken arm and ankle. Gen5