by Graham Brown
Collins took a breath. Lines were about to be crossed; the falsehood of the alliance between the government and the Cartel was about to be stripped bare. Collins knew that, but if he didn’t rein Lucien and the others in now there would be no legitimacy left.
“There will be no slaves on Mars,” he said. “Or anywhere else for that matter.” “You will obey my directive, whether you agree with it or not, or I will seize your factories, your homes, your compounds. I will destroy you, imprison your family to the last man, woman and child and obliterate your hated name from the face of the Earth.”
Lucien sat unmoving, his jaw clenched as if he were calculating the amount of truth in the president’s threat. Finally, a wry smile formed on his face. “You should have done that when you had the chance, Mr. President. We have our own armies now.”
Without another word, Lucien stood, turned his back on Collins and walked out of the room.
CHAPTER 4
New Amsterdam Burial Complex, 2137
James Collins stood in the dimly lit space beneath a sprawling canopy of glass. The soft patter of rain could be heard tapping away at the clear roof, but looking up, he could see only heavy clouds and the night sky.
New Amsterdam Cemetery was a military only facility. Each of its four sections, designed like giant greenhouses, covered a full square mile. But instead of nourishing food or hothouse flowers, it held only cold granite tombs and marble vaults, as long furrows of the dead ran in straight lines from wall to distant wall.
At an hour well past midnight, the facility was empty and was supposed to be closed. But the caretakers had let James in. Maybe they knew who he was, or maybe they did it for every soldier who’d just buried a friend. Either way James was grateful.
He stood in front of a freshly sealed crypt. Freshly engraved letters on it read:
Lieutenant Leonardo M. Perrera, 2105-2137
United World Forces, 41st Armored Division
As James stared at the name, he tried to guess the number of brothers in arms he’d buried over the years. In the big war, the War of Unification, there had been far too many to count and in fact far too many to actually bury. Lists of the dead were read off each night. Drinks were raised to their memories and bitter curses spat out toward them for cutting to the front of the line and heading off to a better place before the rest of the group.
And then the drinks were knocked down, one after the other until the bars ran dry. All save one, a single glass that went untouched no matter how bad the night got.
Since the unification, things had become more formal. With more time on their hands, real burials and cremations had become the norm, official ceremonies with crying and weeping and strained attempts to explain what it meant to live and die.
In all honesty, James preferred the old way.
“I don’t know if you’ve found peace my friend,” he said. “But in case you haven’t.”
He pulled a small bottle of scotch and two shot glasses from his coat pocket. He set the glasses on top of Lt. Perrera’s crypt and began to pour the scotch.
“One for the living…” he said, filling his glass to the rim. “And one…one for the dead.”
With both glasses topped up, he put the bottle down and picked up his shot. “You’re nothing but a low-life bastard for leaving us behind,” he muttered. “But damn, I’m gonna miss you, brother.”
With a lump in his throat that he could hardly choke back, James held the shot up high and then knocked it down in one gulp.
As the fiery liquor burned away the emotion welling up inside him, James placed the empty glass beside the full one and stared up through the rain-streaked panes above them. Skittering around up there was a small bird that had found its way into the building and now couldn’t find its way out. Endlessly it searched without rest. Like a soul trying to escape to the heavens.
It occurred to James that the bird might be better off in the quiet and shelter of the cemetery than out in the endless rain. It didn’t take long for him to realize that he felt the same.
He sat back on a small bench, his shoulders slumping, his mind so numb it didn’t even wander. He’d been there for quite some time when the sound of a heavy door opening and then closing again echoed from the end of the path.
In its wake the sound of footsteps coming his way were easy to make out.
James listened to them intently. Every man walked differently. Some light on their feet and quick, squirrels skittering from tree to tree; others were ponderous and slow, like big animals grazing in the field. The steps he heard now were measured and steady, heavy and precise. Military steps he thought. Those of a man in control.
He figured someone other than the caretakers had come to see him off.
“Looks like I have to go,” he said toward Perrera’s crypt. “Tell the boys, I’m sure I’ll see them soon.”
As he stood a voice called out.
“The dead should be cremated,” it insisted. “Burial is a waste of valuable land. I thought that’s one thing we agreed on, at least.”
James held his ground as President Jackson Collins emerged from the shadows. Further down, he could see a group of bodyguards keeping a respectful distance. No doubt there were other security measures in place, both in the building and outside.
“We do agree on that,” James replied. “Perrera’s family felt otherwise. He served fifteen years. He earned the right.”
In a time of constant war, there were a myriad of rights those in the military could accrue that were not bestowed upon regular civilians. They were earned with time and pain. And the right to come mourn the dead was among them, at least it was for those who’d served a decade or more.
President Collins knew that. He nodded slowly. “That he has.”
An awkward silence followed and James blurted out the first thought that came to mind, just to end it.
“What are you doing here?” he asked. “I didn’t think you left the Fortress much these days.”
“I came to find you,” his father said, a hint of disgust in his voice. “You’ve been in the city for ten days and you haven’t made an appearance yet. From what I heard you haven’t even checked in at the base.”
“I’ve been a little busy,” James said.
His father glanced at the bottle and then back to James. “If by busy, you mean drinking and letting yourself go, then yes, I can see that you have been.”
James knew he looked like hell. He hadn’t shaved in a week. His uniform was grungy. He’d barely been eating.
He couldn’t explain why, but this time, after so many rounds and so many body blows, he was having a hard time getting up off the mat. That was only half the reason he hadn’t gone home yet; his father knew the rest.
“I thought you might want to court martial me,” James said flippantly. “Not only did we lose the drilling rig, but we failed to protect the civilians. In fact we shot them up by the hundreds. That can’t have looked good.”
“You can’t take that on yourself,” his father said.
“Then who takes it?” James asked. “Or do all those dead citizens just roll off the ledger somehow.”
“I read the report. You did everything you could have.”
“I could have done more if I had some armor with me,” James said. “We all knew the Black Death were targeting those rigs, and yet someone took our heavy equipment away and sent us out there with a skeleton force. If we had a full brigade, those cowards would have never risked setting foot on that base.”
“So blame it on me then,” the president said. “The units were diverted on my orders.”
James had already guessed that answer. Being the president’s son was a pain in the ass, but it usually meant his requisitions got answered without much delay. When the armor was diverted over his strenuous objections, and no answers as to why were forthcoming, he guessed the order came from the top.
“Why?” he demanded.
“I needed it sent elsewhere,” the president said bl
untly.
“Where?”
The president eyed his son harshly. “To the Olympia colony on Mars.”
James was stunned into silence for a moment. “What? Why?”
“We’re dealing with a threat out there,” the president said. “One we never expected to face.”
“And you had to send my unit? My armor?”
“I chose them for a reason. And now I need you to join them.”
James found himself baffled. He’d never heard of any threats to Mars. The distance alone kept them safe. Not to mention the fact that every colonist and worker sent there was handpicked, screened and checked by the government’s best thought police to make sure no one dangerous slipped through. Even if a few bad eggs did make it there, it seemed absurd to think an entire armored brigade would be needed to deal with them.
“It’s the Cartel,” his father said.
“The Cartel?” In some ways this made less sense than anything else. The Cartel and the military had been thick as thieves for the past thirty years. That very alliance had put Collins in power. And it was the forces at the president’s disposal that kept the hordes of humanity from overrunning the wealthy and devouring them.
“You’ll have to forgive me for sounding shocked,” he said, “But I thought we were on the same side.”
“We were,” the president replied, “while it suited their purposes.”
James shook his head in disgust. “Imagine that. Thirty years of war and all we’ve managed to do is make another enemy.”
“They’ve become our enemy because they no longer share our goals. They no longer believe Earth can be saved.”
“Maybe they’re right about that.”
“They’re not,” the president insisted. “But without Mars to feed us, billions here will starve and the fragile order we’ve constructed will be shattered once again. With it goes any hope of healing our planet.”
James just stared. Personally he hated the arrogance of the Cartel, hated it almost as much as he hated the Black Death and their gleeful murder. But the regular people, the ones his father wanted so desperately to save, were not much better. Easily swayed to one side or another, they were as much an impediment to peace as they were the victims of its absence.
It was a never-ending cycle, a spiral that seemed impossible to break.
“Do you have any idea who it is you’re trying to save?” James whispered. “Have you seen these people? Do you ever come down from the mountain and walk around with them? Of course you don’t. Half of them would rip your throat out if they could get to you. The other half would watch and cheer them on. They hate you. They hate us all.”
“Only because they don’t understand,” his father said.
“Or maybe they’re just pissed off about all the things we’ve done in the name of saving them,” James said.
“Like in Kansas,” his father guessed.
“And a hundred other places.”
The president exhaled. James wasn’t sure if it was a sigh of disappointment or a hint of understanding.
“Listen to me, James. We do what we have to, because there’s no other choice. At the end of the day we have to forgive ourselves for that. They feel as they do because their emotions control them and because they’re ignorant or misled or unable to see the bigger picture. We have to forgive them for that.
“But none of it gets any better if we don’t keep fighting. We have to carry on. Even if it takes everything we have, every day of our lives and our very last breath, we have to keep going. Whatever it costs, we have to take the pain and carry on.”
For some reason hearing this brought a new wave of grief to James. How much more pain could any of them stand?
“Mom died twenty years ago,” he said. “And then Ben and then Kelly. And a thousand other friends since. How much blood do we have to shed before it’s enough?”
“Your mother died in the plague.”
“The plague that came from the first war.”
“Exactly,” the president said, as if that proved his point somehow. “And your brother and sister died fighting to stop civilization from collapsing in the aftermath of that plague. You owe it to them to keep -”
Something in James snapped and he stepped toward his father menacingly. From the corner of his eye he saw the bodyguards react. “I don’t owe anybody a god-damned thing,” James snapped. “I’ve done my time. More than both of them combined before they were killed.”
The statement came from James with a great deal of emotion but it provoked little from his father. The old man just stared at him. Sometimes James wondered if he felt anything at all.
To the relief of the bodyguards, James stepped back and leaned against the stone crypt. The silence was so complete he could hear the rain falling again; the rain that never seemed to stop, just like the wars out there in the world and the one between him and his father.
“Maybe I don’t want to do this anymore,” he said with a weary voice. “Maybe I’ve had enough.”
The president remained silent for a moment. In all their arguments this was something he’d never heard. “You can’t just turn away. Like it or not, this is our burden.”
“No,” James said. “It’s your burden. I didn’t choose this. You’re the one who decided to pick up the world and carry it on your shoulders. Maybe I don’t want that for myself. Maybe I want to feel some of the good things in life before I die and turn to dust.”
James knew his father wouldn’t like hearing that. The career military man expected his son to fight to the end. James had no problem with that plan, except he was pretty sure there would never be an end. One war finished and another began. One enemy destroyed brought two more out of the woodwork. This news about the Cartel was only the latest proof.
“Indulge yourself?” the president said with revulsion. “Is that what you’d choose?”
“Why not?” James shouted. “I have as much right to it as anyone else.”
As his father took this in, the disgust was so evident on his face that James had to turn away.
“So you live while others die,” his father said. “You enjoy a taste of life while others starve. And then what? How long do you think it will last? How long till death and destruction find you anyway? Can you really be that naïve, James? Do you really think you can save just yourself ?”
It was a rhetorical question of course. The main plank in everything President Collins did and felt and thought. The core of his beliefs. Either we all live or we all die, but humanity would rise or fall together. James had always accepted it as truth. But recently he’d begun to wonder—not whether his father was right or wrong—but whether they might be asking the wrong question all together.
“I think it’s open for debate,” he said, “as to whether any of us are even worth saving,” he said. “Least of all, you and I, Mr. President.”
At this, the president’s back stiffened. He stared down at his son; angry leader and frustrated father all wrapped up in one. The disappointment in his eyes quickly changed to anger. Most likely because James now sounded like the real enemy, like the nihilists of the Black Death who considered mankind the scourge of the Earth, who wanted a catastrophe that would eliminate most, if not all, humans on the planet and leave the Earth to recover or die on its own.
“Then I won’t ask you,” the president said bluntly. “You’re still in the service. You’ll damn well do as your told. The next transport for Mars leaves in three days. You will be on it, or I’ll throw your ass in the worst stockade I can find. Maybe rotting away in some deeper, darker hell will help you understand why this society—as bad as it may be —is still worth fighting for.”
The president didn’t wait around for an answer, he turned and stormed off and James remained where he was, listening to the sound of the slamming door and then the silence that followed.
CHAPTER 5
Lucien Rex stood in a garden, bathed in brilliant daylight. Green grass, trees and scented flowers surr
ounded a small lake. White clouds floated in a sky of brilliant blue.
“The resolution of the sky is excellent,” a voice said. “I can even feel heat from the sun.”
Lucien turned to see Arthur Inyo standing in a doorway.
“Infrared emitters hidden in the screens,” Lucien said. “We even have a UV version in case you want to get a tan.”
Inyo came forward. “Next time I’ll bring sunglasses,” he said. “Assuming I can find any.”
“Antique stores are full of them,” Lucien said, then tilted his head a little. “System off,” he called out.
Somewhere in the ceiling a heavy switch disengaged and the sky above faded to grey. The warmth vanished with the light, while the lake and distant trees disappeared, replaced by a curved wall.
An area of one acre remained. Real grass, real plants, real trees.
“One day we won’t need these anymore,” Lucien said. “I understand that the soil on Mars and the low gravity environment promotes phenomenal vegetative growth.”
“Only where we’ve blocked the UV rays,” Inyo corrected him. “The rest of the planet is sterile. Outside the protected zones, the solar radiation is still deadly during the day. A few hours in the sunlight are all a man can take.”
“Yes I know,” Lucien said cryptically. “That’s why they work at night. But don’t worry, over time the safe zones will grow, and you and I will enjoy them before too long.”
“Not if you keep pushing Collins, we won’t,” Inyo said. “You know he’s sent more units to Mars.”
“An inconvenience. We have more men in place than you might think.”
“It won’t be enough,” Inyo insisted. “Collins has sent in heavy equipment. Part of the 26th Armored Division and half of the 41st. Your forces—our forces—won’t stand a chance.”
Lucien wasn’t surprised. In fact, he’d expected some push back from Collins. In some ways it fit into his plan.
“It takes thirty days for the fastest transport to reach Mars,” he reminded Inyo. “By the time they land we’ll already be in control. When the ships touch down, we’ll take them by force. The MRVs and all the heavy weapons will be buttoned up for travel. Locked down and secured. Our men will swoop in and secure them like so many birthday presents. There will be some bloodshed of course, but I assure you it will be minimal.”