by Greg Bear
Litvinov steps back and pings his troops. “Welcome to our American comrades!” Half of them salute without enthusiasm. The others just stare or glower.
A pair of tech sergeants with black, bug-green, and gold blazes—spent matter specialists—prepare to set charges to destroy the damaged Russian vehicles. Once the charges have been placed and primed, Litvinov assigns the four efreitors to drive or push them half a klick away—what he seems to think might be a safe distance.
Litvinov’s second-in-command, Major Karl Rodniansky, a squat, bluff-shouldered rectangle with white-blond hair low on his brow, arranges with Kennedy and Clover for transfer of depot fuel to the lifters. “Use it up!” Rodniansky tells Kennedy. “Cruel bastards out here. They do not deserve.”
I’m not sure if he means Antags.
Both landers will lift off once we’re clear. The sled will be left behind. Thousands of such sleds litter Mars—along with as many artifacts not our own.
The colonel, satisfied that orders and obligations are being fulfilled, returns to Borden and Kumar. “We are told Antags stay up near northern frost,” the colonel says. “Maybe that is true. Our attackers use human tactics, not like Antagonista. And why do they not take out depot?” The colonel points to the poorly camouflaged tanks and fountains. “Antagonista would not need this to get home. But others…”
“Sappers,” Jacobi confirms with a sour face. She doesn’t seem to catch Litvinov’s total message. Maybe she doesn’t want to.
“Why not both?” Ishida asks. “We’re special. Everybody’s out to get us.”
Nothing better.
Litvinov turns and moves his head close to mine. “Master Sergeant Michael Venn. We have history, you and me,” he says. “In Nevada, at Hawthorne dive bar. Like Old West rowdies. You throw me in filthy alley. Remember?”
“No, sir,” I say. I don’t remember the colonel, but I remember the wicked, navy-issue Iglas the Russians waved in that long, antique saloon. The colonel could still be carrying an Igla and a grudge. Borden is sticking to my side like a shadow. And I notice Jacobi is alert, too.
“Good fight,” Litvinov says. “We were green, brash. We learn well—and months later, join and share hero action on the Red. Now you remember?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Venn,” Litvinov says, getting closer, “we have fought against and alongside. You swear to me, we speak truth, nothing else?”
“I’ll do my best,” I say.
His brows compress. “Swear to me on famous Marine’s grave,” he insists. “Tell me only truth, not Earth bullshit.”
“On General Puller’s blood-soaked grave, I swear to tell only truth,” I say.
“Chesty Puller! Namesake, real bastard in Nicaragua, true imperialist American villain. Is good. Damned good.” Litvinov shakes my hand. He means it. I mean it. Funny how you can feel such things.
Then he gestures for Kumar, Borden, Jacobi, and Rodniansky to join us. We touch our helms, excluding the others. “Two relocation camps have been attacked and evacuated,” Litvinov says. “Many settlers die. Witnesses, survivors, say it is not Antagonista—it is humans in small teams, well supplied. Fast ships, small ships, arrive, depart, carrying these teams. I know they are not Russian. That leaves same forces that worked to destroy mine in old moon—multinational, American-commanded Skyrines, like you. Kumarji, you are servant of Skyfolk—but top commander in Division Four?”
“To our purpose, yes,” Kumar says.
“Is destruction of moons and camps ordered by Gurus?”
“We think so,” Kumar says.
“So, safe to say, other divisions on Earth do not approve of your actions?”
“That is safe to say,” Kumar confirms.
“Chërt voz’mi! Deeper and deeper pile,” the colonel says. “Our commanders long suspect Gurus not on up-and-up. Last orders from Rossiya Sky Defense instruct to cross desert and escort new arrivals to resettlement, to what Skyrines call Fiddler’s Green—and protect Master Sergeant Michael Venn at all cost. Sound like Russians belong Division Four?”
Everyone looks at me, but Kumar answers. “I believe both the Russians and the Japanese have signed on to Division Four and its goals.”
Litvinov shakes his head. “But not Americans?”
“Not entirely,” Kumar says.
“Not yet,” Borden adds.
“Then future is unpredictable. If most Sky Defense signatories want us dead, what if someone here, among your squad, this squad, agrees?” the colonel asks. “What if your troops turn weapons, finish what others could not?”
Kumar faces Litvinov’s sad, serious gaze. “These men and women were handpicked, and all are determined to do the right thing.” Echoes of civilian corporate bullshit. Kumar isn’t used to hanging out with warriors, much less reassuring them. The morale here is nonexistent. He needs to up his game.
Litvinov looks out from under those tight, shadowy brows, straightens, and scoffs. “Fuck right thing,” he says. “We do this to piss off goddamn Skyfolk! They treat Rossiya different from UK and USA? Hold back secrets, let us die wholesale—poor rewards, not same prize as America! Again, Slavs are disrespected. Pfahh!” He grinds his thumb against his forearm, then lifts his chin and shivers off that long, bad history.
This done, the colonel says, “We stay until ships launch—then roll to Fiddler’s Green. Name of afterworld where dancing and singing never stop, favorite of American warriors—true?”
Borden darts her eyes between Litvinov and the other Russians. We’re on margin here, but Litvinov seems to be well in control. Everything depends on him, then—and not on Kumar’s social skills.
The Skyrines line up to climb into the assigned vehicles. Ishida and Jennings scope me again, but Jacobi refuses to look at me. The Russians’ mood is infectious, and Skyrines despise poorly defined relationships as much as they hate unclear missions and muddled orders. Litvinov—a Russian!—picked me out of the crowd. What am I—hero, MacGuffin, prisoner, or worse, a renegade? Somebody who fucked up so badly they locked him away at Madigan, just to measure how screwy a Skyrine can get?
Makes my cockles warm to think of how much they could end up hating me if things turn bad.
FIREWORKS
The Russians finish laying charges in the damaged and stripped vehicles. The muffled crumps unite into one impressive, upward-flaring blast. Fragments fly off mostly to the south, but a few flaming scraps loft over us. Oops. One piece of fender tinks from the side of the orbiter but causes no damage—though much concern to Kennedy, who prances and rants. But quickly he decides it’s not major. He hastily preps to depart. He wants off this rock bad.
The busted and damaged TE-86, Skells, and Tonkas smolder and join the wreckage of the Chryse hero action. The one still useful and four new vehicles form an outward-facing cordon around the landers as the pilots perform their preflight check, all this under a sky graying rapidly to night.
Kennedy informs Borden that the depot has enough hydrogen and oxygen to get the ships to orbit on burn alone, without dipping into spent matter reserves. That improves their chances of getting home in a timely fashion. As well, the depot resupplies our vehicles—and by extension our skintights—with fuel and water and oxygen. A couple of hours more for each of us. No gas stations between here and Fiddler’s Green. Last gasps and sips for six hundred klicks.
Twilight is short on the Red, mere minutes in a low-dust sky. It’s remarkably clear and cold. Walking around in skintights is a mostly quiet affair. Loud sounds come through, but blunt and dreamlike; other sounds simply don’t cross the distance. Brief digital snaps of radio comm are restricted to necessities. Not much in the way of chatter. I stick with Borden and a couple of Russian corporals not the least interested in striking up a conversation, possibly because they don’t trust angels to adequately translate their anger and resentment. Dead friends. I get that.
Borden’s head is on a swivel as she checks out everyone and everything. I have to say she’s adapted quickly to w
alking on the Red, an economy of motion that speaks to training back on Earth, possibly in harness at drop school—or maybe she’s just a natural.
I still don’t know what to think of Kumar. Skyrines have never been happy with civilian authority. But alien authority? Are the Wait Staff civilians, prophets, or demigods? Going along with Borden and Kumar has gotten me out of Madigan and transvac and down on the Red in relative comfort. And a chance to meet up with Joe and Teal. I don’t deserve to feel resentment against anyone here, except Kumar, and other than being scoped as a POG—but I do have doubts. Deep, severe doubts. My thoughts are an unruly churn of speculation lit up by sharp flashes of dread.
So far, at least, no more Captain Coyle. But there is just a hint of other, inside, that I can’t give shape—can’t make out or force to come forward. Brain is still not my friend.
Finally Litvinov breaks from yet another huddle with two of his captains and tells Borden, Kumar, Jacobi, Jennings, and Ishida—and me—that we’ll ride one of the new Tonkas, now rolling forward. “Keep group tight-knit, no?”
A gruff, hatchet-faced Russian chief named Kalenov finishes passing out vehicle assignments. The rest of our U.S. and Japanese Skyrines will ride in the second Tonka with three more Russians and the driver/shotgun. Litvinov’s being extra prudent. None of our Skyrines will ride in the Chesty or the Trundle, denying us immediate access to decisive weapons. For the time being, we’re passengers.
AS ALWAYS, THERE’S a delay—the landers have to wait for something, the pilots don’t say what. A few Russians get picked for sentinel duty. Most of us climb into our assigned vehicles to stay warm. It’s toasty inside the new Tonka, toasty and stuffy and boring. The sisters are making small talk in the back. They seem to be picking up from a previous conversation.
“Meeting the guy just before you go transvac,” Jennings says to Ishida. “That’s luck.”
“Is he nice?” Jacobi asks Ishida.
Despite myself, I’m fascinated—their talk is low and private, but I can still wonder how a Winter Soldier gets along that way.
“A little,” Ishida says. “He was curious at first. Then… after, very gentle, sweet. Yeah. Nice.”
“I’ll bet he’s curious,” Jennings says. “Shiny sister, strong like tank.”
“Fortress heart,” Jacobi says.
Ishida takes this stoically. “Right after, he asked about my nick.”
“Did you tell him?” Jennings asks.
Ishida suddenly looks forward and sees I’m listening. She leans in, looks sharp straight up the aisle, and says loudly, “It’s Gadget, sir. Inspector Gadget. Like the TV show.”
The others raise their eyes to the roof. I am such a perv. I want to say something clever and complimentary to make up for my blunder, for being who I am—make up to her for what she has become, but really, that’s not in it. I don’t know what I want. I’m like a kid caught staring into the girls’ shower in high school.
“Athena, bringer of victory, whose glory shines in war and peace,” I say. “None dare look on her nakedness without fear and envy.”
A long, stunned silence. Borden regards me with honest pity.
“What the fuck?” Ishikawa says.
“Cut the guy some slack,” Jacobi says. “You’d blast him like a stump, Gadget.”
“I would, wouldn’t I?” Ishida says, languorous.
I lean back, scorched wasteland. Victory is theirs.
I USE THE next hour to close my faceplate and study the battle reports screed to our helms. Some are still locked, orders of Commander Borden. No doubt she wants to explain them to us personally, with Kumar watching over her shoulder. There are a few open launch and landing reports, however. We didn’t see any of the first part of the so-called Battle of Mars, since my platoon arrived later and was spread out across Chryse by a badly broken drop. I flip back through the logistics, looking for Russian and Korean launch dates. Their fast frames were sent out after our own frames departed from Earth orbit, but arrived nearly a month earlier. As some of us surmised, command on Earth—generals? Wait Staff? Gurus?—had decided something big had to be done and done quickly—and so they had arranged for a major and very expensive push.
And fucked it up.
ELEVEN HOURS. EVERYONE’S asleep in the Tonka except the Russian shotgun. It’s totally black out. Low clouds obscure the stars. One small moon rises, a swift, misty little ball. I catch a light doze myself.
Then Litvinov radios that the ships are leaving and we’re about to move out. Everyone rouses. One of the Russian corporals, perhaps fresh from a good dream, rubs his eyes through his open faceplate, bumps arms with me, smiles. He has a clean, square little-boy face. I return his smile. He sobers, looks away. Warm and cozy in here.
We focus on the growing roar outside. Two brilliant blue torches rise through the dark on silvery plumes. Vapor drifts back in the diminishing glow and freezes to a fine, powdery snow, like confectioner’s sugar, vanishing before it touches the dust. We’re on our own.
The perimeter guards climb onto the Skells. We begin to roll. Kumar keeps his eyes on the dark flats out beyond the wreckage. The first Drifter—what’s left of it—is about ten klicks away, maybe fifteen or twenty minutes. I’m not at all sure I want to go back. Our fallen are still out there, freeze-dried into rag-shrouded jerky.…
Or buried deep in the Drifter.
I keep expecting Captain Coyle to fill in more word balloons, to call out for vengeance from her grave. But I still don’t feel her. Maybe I left her back on Earth. How do ghosts find their way around?
The cordon forms a loose W with Skells taking the rear and sides, the Chesty and Trundle on points, weapons bristling, and Tonkas rear and center. Litvinov rides in the Chesty—namesake of imperialist bastard. I would, too, if I had a choice. Chestys are packed with good, strong hurt. I don’t see the point of returning to the Drifter, really; if the bombardment was anything like what I remember, and went on after we departed, we’ll find nothing but a big ditch. But Kumar’s goal is clear. We’re here to see for ourselves.
He wants me to look.
MESSAGE UNCLEAR
Morning begins with high, pale clouds turning orange before light touches the land. Winds are at work up there, cross-shredding the clouds into faded lace. Then the flats of Chryse emerge from darkness. We’re rolling at about thirty klicks over smooth basalt, but that’s going to change; I remember the terrain, some of it, far too well.
Wind doodles are everywhere. Dust devils scour random lines across the flats like phantom fingers. I count seven through the windscreen: thin, high, twisting pillars, bright pink this early, far out near the northern horizon as dawn throws rosy light through the Tonka’s side ports. They’ve been scribbling on the Red for billions of years and nothing comes of it, they never remember what it is they really want to say, but they never get bored trying.
Our ride turns bumpy. I move away from the pilot’s nest and peer through the dust-fogged plastic of the nearest side port. The landscape looking west is rugged and fresh. Recent craters dimple the basalt, bright at the center and surrounded by silver-gray rays. More chewed over than I remember—what little I remember before we were lifted off.
“Familiar?” Kumar asks.
The entire cabin listens.
“I don’t recognize any of it,” I say. “Too much has changed.” It’s not hard to figure out, from the nature of the craters, that a lot more heavy shit fell from on high, whether comets or meteoroids or asteroids, no way of knowing. One crater on our right is easily three hundred meters across. “Must be Antag bombardment,” I say. “We don’t drop comets… do we?”
Kumar shakes his head.
We’re passing signs of less cosmic conflict: blasted revetments, crushed and burned space frames, the melted ribs and skins of big vehicles: Chestys, deuces, Trundles. We roll past six slagged weapons platforms in a hundred-meter stretch, just off the path we’re following, which curls through the worst of the wreckage. I assume this action
took place not far from our retrieval. But it spread over dozens, maybe hundreds of klicks.
“What were they fighting for?” I ask. “To hold ground, repel occupation?”
“I thought you could tell us,” Kumar says.
“I didn’t see that much. But this was big. This was nasty.”
Is Kumar trying to draw me out, open up my head and see if I know important shit but am too stupid to realize it—just as he did back in the cell at Madigan? He’s still the whirly-eyed inquisitor. He can’t help himself. My gloved fingers form claws. I work to maintain.
“After we left, there must have been more campaigns lasting weeks, months,” I say. “They wouldn’t have kept concentrations of troops or stable positions. They would have moved, or been lifted out, then replaced by more drops—”
“Was four battalions,” the Russian driver says in heavily accented English. We look up front. His blaze identifies him as Sergeant Kiril Durov. This is the first time he’s spoken. He looks to be in his late thirties, with a rugged, finely wrinkled face and experienced brown eyes. He and the copilot, Efreitor Igor Federov—riding shotgun on a bolt cannon—scan the terrain, perhaps remembering the carnage. “Hero action. We do not bury Antags, what are left. But many.”
We pass within meters of the remains of a big Millie—an Antag millipede transport—carved down the middle, broken and burned, windblown dust obscuring the low-lying pieces of hull and canted wheels.
“Why Chryse, why the Drifter?” I ask.
“I cannot speak for the Antagonists,” Kumar says, “but Sky Defense was told that control of this sector was important enough to mount a major invasion force, earlier in this extended season than any of us had believed was even possible.”
Borden says, “They were instructed to defend the site and deny it to others, or, failing that, to render it inaccessible.”