Martian Rainbow
(1991)**
Robert L. Forward
Contents
CHAPTER 1 Attack On Mars
CHAPTER 2 Landing On Mars
CHAPTER 3 The Conqueror
CHAPTER 4 Independence Day
CHAPTER 5 Return Of The Hero
CHAPTER 6 Oven Olympus
CHAPTER 7 The Making Of A God
CHAPTER 8 Boreal Base
CHAPTER 9 The Church Of The Unifier
CHAPTER 10 The Calm
CHAPTER 11 Defiance
CHAPTER 12 The Shadow Of His Wings
CHAPTER 13 Found Uninteresting
CHAPTER 14 Rescue From The Moon
CHAPTER 15 Escape To Mars
CHAPTER 16 The Right Hand Of God
CHAPTER 17 Designing Eden
CHAPTER 18 The Lineups Help
CHAPTER 19 Mars Reborn
CHAPTER 20 The Left Hand Of God
CHAPTER 21 Earth Released
NEW COLONISTS' GUIDE TO MARS
About the Author
Book information
CHAPTER 1
Attack On Mars
TWO IDENTICAL men floated on opposite sides of a circular railing as they looked down at a large three-dimensional image of the globe of Mars under attack by the arrowlike swarm of their invasion fleet. General Alexander Armstrong grinned with satisfaction as he looked down at the sight; and crow's-feet inherited from his famous astronaut great-grandfather formed to point arrowlike at his steel-gray eyes. He raised his left hand, brushed it meditatively over his chin, and looked up at the stocky figure on the other side of the display. His glance met an identical set of steel-gray eyes. He waited for his twin brother to say something, for Dr. Augustus "Gus" Armstrong, ranking civilian, was in nominal charge of the multinational invasion force.
Gus said nothing, but his left hand, too, raised to brush meditatively over his chin. Alexander watched the motion with detachment, noticing once again the difference ... the defect ... that was the only way anyone could tell them apart. The thumb and forefinger on Gus' left hand had been reduced to short stubs in an automobile accident shortly before they both were to graduate from the Space Academy. Alexander had been driving.
After waiting awhile longer for Gus to say something, the smile on Alexander's face hardened into a determined look.
"It's time to go into action, Gus," he said, his jaw musdes twitching. "We passed through the L-l point over a week ago and we're well into our free-fall drop toward the planet."
"They haven't even noticed we're here yet, Alex," Gus said thoughtfully. "Not a sign of a spacecraft except for a few orbiters. Not even a ping from a radar."
"My invasion plan took them by surprise." Alexander allowed his face to return to a pleased smile. The crow's-feet appeared again at the corners of his eyes. "The new antimatter rockets gave us the power to come straight at them out of the Sun. Their spies on Earth saw us leave along the standard slow trajectory, but no one but the comets saw us leave decoys in our place—while we took a shortcut around the Sun."
"I'll call a council of war for 2300," said Gus.
GUS LOOKED out at ten solemn faces individually inset into the high-resolution video screen covering one wall of his office on the flagship Yorktown. In back of the ten squadron commanders were more faces, the spacecraft commanders of each of the four interplanetary transport spacecraft that made up that squadron, the flight leaders that commanded the four attack groups that each spacecraft carried, and the attack group captains that would lead each group of landers into battle. Most of the images wore U.S. Space Force blues, with the remainder in the uniform of some friendly foreign spacefaring nation.
"Our brief trip to Mars is nearly over," Gus said. "We must now proceed with our next task, disagreeable as it may be to some of you. But as you well know, the time for negotiations passed long ago, with no success. It is now time for action.
"I would consider it a personal favor if you would all put aside your doubts and hesitations, and listen carefully to my brother, Alexander Armstrong, major general of the U.S. Space Force, and brevet general and commander of the UN Mars Expeditionary Force. The time for war is here and he is now in command. If we follow his orders, we can achieve the goals that we and the rest of Earth desire, and carry out the invasion with a minimum of damage and casualties on both sides."
Gus moved back as Alexander stepped in front of the screen. The two images were almost perfect copies of each other, except for the subtle color change as Alexander's meticulously tailored space-blue uniform replaced Gus' meticulously tailored black civilian coveralls.
"There has been no response indicating they are aware of our presence, so we will use the primary invasion plan," Alexander began. "Although the antimatter main engines are turned off, and we are well hidden in the glare of the Sun, it is important that they remain unaware we are coming. From this point on, you and your men are to obey low-observability rules. All communication is to be by direct optical link. No hot thruster is to be pointed within thirty degrees of the planet.
"Now for the plan of battle. The U.S. First Squadron augmented by Japan's East Wind will land on Deimos.
"U.S. Second Squadron and Ireland's Shillelagh will land on Phobos.
"U.S. Third through Fifth, augmented by Israel's Shalom, Great Britain's King William V, and the Royal Canadians will hit the main city at the base of Olympus Mons.
"U.S. Sixth along with Brasilia will neutralize the base at the North Pole, while U.S. Seventh and India's White Tiger will cover the South Pole base ..."
EACH OF the forty interplanetary transport spacecrafts began to unload its cargo of attack landers, medical support landers, quartermaster support landers, and robotic support spacecraft. Soon the forty interplanetary arrows aimed at the heart of Mars had been transformed into a cloud of winged bullets.
As preparations intensified, Alexander, flanked by his personal guard of crack troops, headed for an inspection tour of the fleet in his personal attack lander, Bucephalus. He stopped at the airlock of the Yorktown to put on his battle suit. This was war, and although the enemy had so far failed to notice their approach, the probability that his lander would lose air in the next few hours was not determined solely by the chance random micrometeorite.
The battle suits had self-sealing armor, with automatic tourniquets built into each extremity. In the vacuum of space or the near-vacuum of Mars, the blood in a punctured arm or leg would bubble, then freeze. But with the tourniquet operating properly, the soldier would survive—with his limb—if the rescue crews were fast enough and the doctors good enough. Even the helmet had an emergency flexible inner liner that sprang out of the neck seal area if the strong Diamondhard faceplate failed.
Alexander's personal battle suit had an extra outer plating of vapor-deposited pure gold that made him glisten in the sunlight. His gold-plated boots had risers that added a number of centimeters to his height, while his helmet sported a slotted solid-gold metal crest. Ostensibly, the crest was necessary as an antenna for the high-frequency data links needed for his unique command and control requirements. The crested helmet and the golden sheen gave him a unique profile that his troops could identify at great distances.
Alexander checked his personal weapon. It had been a long time since he had held one, but nothing could beat the simplicity, reliability, and deadliness of a .45 rocketgun. As he inserted the clip, he looked at the armor-piercing bullets, glistening slightly with their teflon solid lubricant. They were the same size as standard .45 automatic bullets, but in place of the powder cartridge was a miniature rocket engine that gave the bullet the punch of a .45 automatic without producing a recoil kick when it left the gun. He shoved the clip into the butt and pointed
the rocketgun at the end of the corridor. As his gloved finger entered the enlarged trigger guard, a bright red laser beam sprang from the end of the gun and made a red dot on the far wall, showing where the flat trajectory of the rocket-propelled projectile would take it if the trigger were pulled. He cocked the weapon and returned it to its holster under his chestpack.
"Sir!" the first sergeant in charge of his personal guard objected. "You should have your weapon on safety. If you made a mistake—"
"What's your name, Sergeant?" Alexander roared, knowing full well the name of the leader of his personal guard.
"First Sergeant Thomas L. Riley, sir!" the sergeant replied stiffly.
Alexander tongued the command microphone built into the neckband of his suit. "Sergeant Riley is relieved of his duties as of this moment." He looked up at the sergeant.
"I do not make mistakes, Private Riley! But you did. Report to the brig at once and stay there until I return." He nodded to a master sergeant.
"You are in charge. Hand me my helmet."
Alexander lifted the crested globe with its large battle visor and locked it into place. He pulled down the battle visor and was instantly in the center of an enormous, three-dimensional, computer-generated, imaginary control room—the Battle Control Center. The far wall of the imaginary room was covered with displays, each showing some activity that the computer was monitoring. As Alexander turned his head, more screens, containing less-important information, came into view out of the corner of his eye.
Arrayed out in radial rows in front of him were computer images of the squadron commanders, flight leaders, and attack group captains, sitting at consoles. Some of the commanders were looking at the screens on their consoles, indicating they had their battle visors up and were busy looking at things around them. Others were looking directly at him, indicating that they had their visors down and could see him in the imaginary Battle Control Center. The rows were uneven, being arranged partially by organizational grouping, partially by task grouping, and partially by physical distance from Alexander.
Each console had an identifying rectangular sign in the upper left corner. The most prominent one in the first row had the insignia of the U.S. First Squadron on a gold background. The console of the squadron commander, Colonel Bradshaw, was flanked by three consoles with signs containing red, white, and blue backgrounds to the U.S. First Squadron insignia. Beside each console sat a lieutenant colonel, each a flight leader in charge of a flight of lander spacecraft. One of the lieutenant colonels was looking at one of his console screens, his computer-generated mouth silently giving orders. Alexander identified him as Lieutenant Colonel Pinkerton. Alexander took a quick glance at the screen Pinkerton was looking at and saw a space tug chasing an errant cargo container. He blinked his left eye and the computer flagged that scene for later analysis.
"I'll make someone pay for that foul-up!" Alexander thought to himself.
Next to the three U.S. consoles was a console with a bright red ball on the sign. Admiral Takahashi sat there, his almond eyes staring blankly in Alexander's direction. Alexander looked at Colonel Bradshaw, then at Admiral Takahashi, widening his eyes each time to signal the computer. The scene zoomed down on the computer-generated images of Colonel Bradshaw and Admiral Takahashi. "Is everything in order?" he asked.
The icons came to life and replied.
"Japan's East Wind is ready to unleash its fury on the dark gray dust of Deimos," Admiral Takahashi replied.
"U.S. First Squadron all ready, General Armstrong," Colonel Bradshaw said.
"I don't think so, Colonel Bradshaw," Alexander started softly. "You might have a talk with your blue flight leader, Colonel Pinkerton. I think he knows something he has neglected to tell you." He raised his voice to a roar. "And I expect you and Colonel Pinkerton to have it under control before the attack is due to start!"
Alexander gave a self-satisfied smile and switched his glance from Colonel Bradshaw to another squadron commander in front of him. It was the commander of the U.S. Third Squadron, Colonel White. Somewhere during the zoom-in on Colonel White, the computer-generated image was replaced with a video image.
"Yes, General Armstrong?" Colonel White said expectantly.
"I'll be inspecting your squadron first. I should arrive in about twenty minutes."
"We'll be ready, sir," the colonel responded.
Alexander glanced around the Battle Control Center one last time. On the back wall, each screen showed a scene of activity—attack troops suiting up and filing onto the attack landers, stevedores struggling to load bulky special-purpose weapons aboard quartermaster landers, and space tugs lining up robotic support spacecraft. Off to one side, Alexander noticed with satisfaction that Colonel Bradshaw was silently jawing at Colonel Pinkerton. He raised his battle visor and was back in the corridor outside his personal lander.
The airlock to Bucephalus was open and most of his private guard were inside. Alexander took off his helmet and handed it to a nearby trooper. He pulled his floating body through the port and stuck his head into the flight deck. Major Thomas and Captain Harrison were there. He gave orders to the pilot, one of the best in the space force.
"Take me over to the main attack group, Betsy, and fly along each ship in turn. Start with the U.S. Third."
"Yes, General Armstrong," Major Thomas said.
"Captain Harrison," Alexander continued, "tell U.S. Fourth Squadron they're next. I won't bother with the foreigners, but will skip over to the Deimos attack group next."
"Yes, General Armstrong," Captain Harrison said.
Alexander went to the center of his specially outfitted attack lander. On a set of gimbals in the exact center of the lander was a command chair surrounded by a miniature control console. Set in the ceilings, walls, and floors were large viewports that would provide Alexander with maximum vision of what was happening outside. Alexander floated over to the command chair and the master sergeant buckled him in, while the trooper put the gold-crested helmet in the holder next to the chair, where Alexander could get it in a hurry. Alexander pulled down the battle visor built into the headrest of the command chair and was instantly back in the cavernous imaginary Battle Control Center. He searched through a cluster of support people below him and found the icon of Major Thomas, the pilot of Bucephalus. He widened his eyes and the computer zoomed his view in on her.
"I'm ready. Let's move it, Betsy!"
"Moving, sir," the video image of Major Thomas said, and the attack lander instantly jumped to two gravities, its gold-plating glittering in the sunlight as it moved out of the shadow of the Yorktown.
Alexander gave a pleased grin. He liked the way that girl flew. Once this little chore was over, he should give her a little of his time. If she made love like she flew spacecraft, she might be worth a long weekend.
They came up on the Lexington from the rear. Major Thomas had reversed power and Bucephalus was decelerating at a half gravity. The trajectory was programmed to bring them to a halt at the nose of the two-kilometer-long interplanetary spacecraft.
With its pointed crew compartment at one end of its long open truss central shaft and the large, glowing, liquid droplet radiators at the other end, the Lexington looked like a flaming war arrow. It was not under acceleration, so the main antimatter engines were cold and black.
Alexander swiveled around to look through the six superconducting rings of varying sizes that outlined the shape of a spherical combustion chamber attached to a bell-shaped exhaust nozzle. Although he could look right through the structure to the stars on the other side, the blazing plasma formed by the annihilation energy of the antimatter would be trapped in the combustion chamber by the strong magnetic fields from the superconducting rings, and could only escape out through the nozzle. These revolutionary antimatter plasma engines used the new hot superconductors that stayed superconducting even when running white hot. In addition, the high operating temperature annealed away any radiation damage in the superconducting rings the instant
it occurred.
Of course, no one ever had directly watched an antimatter rocket operate. Out through the same gaps in the rings came a deadly shower of gamma rays generated in the antimatter plasma. That was why the crew compartment was two kilometers away down the shaft of the ship, safe in a shadow made in the gamma ray glow by a disklike shield of heavy tungsten metal placed just in front of the engine.
Tucked up between the now-dark antimatter rocket engine and the disk-shaped shadow shield was a glowing cylinder of white-hot metal. This was the heat source that provided electrical power to operate the ship. A little under a meter long and a meter in diameter, it supplied enough energy to power a small city, which is what the Lexington was. A tiny stream of antimatter was injected into the center of the cylinder and annihilated. All the gamma rays and charged particles that came out of the annihilation process were stopped in the tungsten metal of the cylinder, heating it up. Through channels in the tungsten flowed hydrogen gas, which in turn became superheated and ionized and flowed out through a magnetohydrodynamic generator to produce electricity.
The waste heat from the power generator was ejected into the cold of space by the radiators that gave the Lexington and the other ships of its class their arrowlike shape. Squirters that stretched three hundred meters up the spine of the ship sent out a triangular spray of hot liquid droplets that were caught by three three-hundred-meter-long booms that stuck out at right angles to the spine of the ship just in front of the shadow shield. The three glowing vanes shaded from bright red near the shaft of the ship to dull gray near the catchers.
Bucephalus continued on down the shaft and came to the large tanks of liquid hydrogen propellant near the center of the ship. They were still more than half full, ready for the triumphant return to Earth. Just in front of them, huddled behind all the fuel and out of the way of the gamma rays, was the tiny container that held the small amount of antimatter that was needed to take the Lexington to Mars and back. Even at the one gravity acceleration that the Lexington and her sister ships employed, only milligrams of antimatter, no larger than a single grain of salt, were all that was needed to heat a ton of hydrogen propellant to a blazing plasma. Still, the Lexington was a large ship and carried a cargo of four attack landers and their accompanying medic and quartermaster landers. The antimatter storage container had once held twelve kilograms of antihydrogen ice. Now it only held four kilograms, for they would not be in as much of a hurry on their return.
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