The wooden fort that crouched on a hillside overlooking the snow covered valley could have been in the American Wild West in the nineteenth century rather than the twenty-third. It could have even have been Washington or perhaps north of the border in British Columbia, Canada with the towering mountains stretching across the horizon but was neither.

New Seattle, the fortified village of a little over a thousand humans was so far removed in distance and time that, except for Jordan Wittenburg and the handful of Generation 4 centenarians, the inhabitants had forgotten their ancestry. They didn't know the significance of the flag that blew from the corners of the fort's four-metre high log walls. It was a light blue with white circle of symbols around the centre, the long forgotten United Nations. The history of it had been purposely withheld from Generation 5 eighty years earlier by the unanimous vote in the Survival of Humanity Protocol.

But the flag survived to represent the last bastion of humanity on the entire planet of Delpe, hundreds of light years from their ancestors' Earth, Information about this planet was also withheld from the younger generations.

On this 16th day of February 2248, True Time, the inhabitants had more pressing problems on their minds. A scout had returned with important information. The clickers were already across the international boundary at the New Colorado River. Over the summer and autumn, the lower plains had been evacuated as the enemy had moved through the human state. Worse, though, were the creatures' new body suits that were equipped with thermal heating so their cold blood could remain functional in the winter climate that normally froze them into immobility. It was also believed twenty or more flying females were assembling behind the front line. This was unusual as these females were normally only used for reproduction of the species.

The native inhabitants of the planet were only slightly shorter than a human and stood on two legs with the other four limbs used like human arms. In intelligence, they were equal to the humans but lacked any kind of morality or conscience to go with it. Old Jordan Wittenburg called them giant ants, another word lost in antiquity, but to the succeeding generations they were simply clickers because of the sound they supposedly made when they were annoyed or surprised. Most Generation 6 and 7 humans could speak Crucnon but preferred to converse in English, the language of their ancestors. The alphabet the enemy used was identical to theirs but the theory was that clickers had stolen it more than a century earlier to replace less functional hieroglyphics. Nobody, though, could give a reason why the structure of both languages were similar, in fact Crucnon was closer in syntax to English than Russian, another Earth language that had been phased out two generations earlier.

However, more practical problems were being discussed in the besieged village that day. Proctor Andrea Jurjevics, dressed in her usual blue jeans and red woollen pullover, sat in the underground council chambers and frowned.

"What else have you found out, Ron?" she asked.

The Generation 6 man wiped a somewhat dirty hand across his brow and grimaced. "They have mechanical vehicles with gigantic wheels that can travel up our highway from the river in a few hours. The ones we saw can hold twenty or more clickers and have reinforced bars at the front. I believe they intend to batter our walls down or perhaps surround New Seattle and starve us into surrendering."

"Have they learned to manufacture gunpowder in sufficient quantities to make explosive weapons, yet?"

"I don't believe so," Ron Cotterell replied. "The mechanical vehicles have been seen pulling gigantic catapults on skids. I earnestly believe they are preparing for one last attack on our walls. By attacking in mid-winter they are hoping to catch us with our defences down."

"I see," muttered Commander Toby Evans, the tall grey-headed officer who was head of the village's Defence and Police Force, colloquially called the DPF. "This supports other information I have gathered."

Andrea glanced up but refrained from inquiring how Commander Evans gained his information. It was believed he had contact with an underground clickers' movement that supported coexistence on the planet with humans. She, instead, glanced around at the members of the Inner Council and spoke in a hushed voice.

"It appears we have little time, fellow councillors," she said. "We may need to prepare to evacuate New Seattle and withdraw to the caves beneath the mountains."

"But how long will we last there?" grumbled Councillor Malone Davidson. "They merely have to wait and starve us out. Without access to our farms in spring we will be out of food before October."

"So what do we do?" snapped Andrea. This councillor was quick to criticize but never bothered to offer constructive help. "Become their slaves or be wiped out? We all know what happened whenever any of our ancestors attempted to reason with the clickers?"

"Yes," supported Ron solemnly. "Records show the few humans that ventured into their lands were never heard of again. That was eighty years back."

"That's my point," Malone added with her own voice raised in anger. "The clickers are a much more advanced society now. They may agree to speak to us."

"Only the Blue Watch will," Toby replied. "They're small in number, young and really just a student protest group with no power."

The proctor sighed. They had survived four attacks over the last summer with their farms wiped out and domesticated animals slaughtered. Now there were barely enough cattle, dairy cows or sheep to supply the village, the conditions in these northern latitudes were too cold to grow wheat and even the native vegetables really needed a warmer climate. Each year became more desperate and, with the clickers now capable of mounting a winter offensive, it seemed their days were numbered.

The Inner Council discussed the situation throughout the day and into the evening without really solving the problem. Withdrawal to the underground tunnels seemed the only solution if clickers broke through the outer defences.

"I'll consult with Jordan Wittenburg and the elders," Andrea finally suggested.

"Those stupid old fools who live in dream of a far world somewhere out there," Malone waved her hands out in exasperation, "They think there is a great silver flying machine to take us away to the heavens. It's all fantasy, I tell you!"

"We all know your opinions, Malone but there may be some fact behind the legends." Andrea stood up and fixed the other woman with an icy glare. "I'll speak to Jordan. It will do no harm."

"Not much good, either," Melanie muttered as she gathered up her papers, nodded at the flag attached to the front wall and strutted out of the chamber.