“We do assume a high likelihood of another encounter with the Discs, possibly imminent. That means one of our mission priorities is to establish a fortified foothold on the surface, in order to facilitate secure relief operations. To that end, we will not only be reinforcing both Melas bases, but we will also be investigating what might be salvageable on Phobos and hardening a base there. I myself I will be directing the re-establishment of an orbital staging facility to replace Ares’ Station, this one designed to resist Disc weapons.
“I don’t want you to see this as a move to replace you in command, Colonel. The Council considers you a valuable asset. I will oversee operations in orbit, while Colonel Burns will eventually step into Colonel Burke’s former position as Melas Two Military Operations Commander, serving under you as Planetary CO. Colonel Ava will remain in command of Melas Three, and her promotion to full colonel will be transmitted by Earthside Command within the day.
“Other promotions are also pending: Captain Jill Metzger and Captain Timothy Kastl will both be promoted to the rank of Major. First Lieutenants Juan Rios, Margo Thomas, Maria Acaveda and Wilson Smith will be promoted to captain. First Sergeant Stanley Horst, and Technical Sergeants Madea Morales and Victor Thomasen will be given field commissions to the rank of second lieutenant.”
He takes a moment, breathes, looks like he’s trying to decide the wisdom or timing of what he’s thinking about telling me.
“One other thing you should be aware of, Colonel: Our analysis of the Disc attack on your base showed a pattern in the way that the Discs engaged the ETE that were present. The Discs appeared to give priority to testing the ETE defenses and weaponry. Their pattern of attack against your assets was similar to previous encounters: take out defensive guns, shoot down aircraft, make suicide runs at critical command structures. If they had followed this pattern against the ETE, the ETE would have taken them down easily, but the Discs showed unusual caution in systematically probing the ETE weapons and shields.
“The Discs restraint in engaging the ETE aircraft might have supported old suspicions that the ETE were involved in the original Disc attacks, but when that last drone made a run at your position—and we’ve reviewed this footage extensively, Colonel—it looks like it intentionally veered at the last instant in order to collide directly with Mr. Stilson. Simon Stilson was too late, Colonel, if only by a few tenths of a second: he would not have gotten between the Disc and the Ops Tower in time to prevent the impact that would very likely have killed you and Captain Kastl. Either the Disc made a split-second decision that Stilson was a higher value target, or its true intention in attacking your position was to draw the ETE away from the greater protection of their ship. If the drone was capable of detecting that Mr. Stilson’s defenses had been depleted, the second scenario becomes highly likely.
“In any case, your orders stand: Your priority is the protection of your people until we arrive to reinforce you. You are not to devote material resources to the defense of the ETE, no matter what personal debt you may think you owe them.
“I do look forward to working closely with you in the months to come, Colonel Ram. Message ends.”
I call Lisa after my second spin to relay the news of her promotion, and bounce Richards’ odd revelations off of her. I realize it’s the first real conversation we’ve had since Matthew died.
“No stars for your uniform?” she says, barely joking.
“I did recently get arrested for defying a direct order,” I remind her with a similarly frail veil of humor. “I seem to remember it being you that arrested me.”
I immediately regret saying it. It can’t be a joke, not yet. I can feel her withdraw into her official posture even from over a hundred miles away.
“Sorry, Colonel,” I try to apologize—but I call her by her rank, not by her name. “That was uncalled-for. You did what needed to be done.”
“Apparently it got me the bird,” she tries making light of her promotion. I give her a smile.
“You finally caught up with me,” I give her, flashing back to how badly we pushed the code of conduct when we were sleeping together and she was a lieutenant and I was a major. But those were different times, a different war, where none of us could have any life at all outside of UNACT, because it would give the enemy a target.
“Only because you let me,” she gives back. And she looks like she wants to say more, and I want to say more, but not over the Link.
“Don’t be a stranger just because you’ve got your own command,” I tell her.
She takes a few moments to digest that, fragments of a lifetime of memories dancing behind her eyes, then finally: “I won’t.” And she signs off.
Tru is waiting for me when I go back to my quarters.
“Stalking me?” I deflect.
“Seems to be the only way to speak with you face-to-face with any kind of privacy,” she gives me back. “I haven’t spoken to you without a Link since the funeral, and you weren’t in the mood for talking much then.” She nods her head in the direction of my quarters, letting me know she wants “any kind of privacy” for whatever she has to say.
“I haven’t spoken to anyone much since the funeral,” I excuse superficially, but nod to let her know I understand what she wants.
Sakina is waiting just inside the hatch, standing at attention in her armor like she’d been waiting there for some time. Tru, for her part, doesn’t startle visibly as she almost walks into the intimidating display.
Sakina hardly acknowledges Tru at all, but I know a performance for unappreciated company when I see it. Still, she doesn’t need me to tell her to click the room’s sentry systems to “privacy.”
“Have a seat,” I offer Tru as soon as the hatch seals behind us. Tru takes the bed, darting a brief defiant glance at Sakina, who continues to pretend that Tru is insignificant, and certainly not a threat. But Sakina doesn’t sit—just keeps standing, playing bodyguard. The stark difference between her behavior this time and the last time Tru visited—before we’d become intimate—is uncomfortably glaring. Sakina is being territorial as more than a bodyguard.
“You can’t be okay with any of this,” Tru lays into her reason for coming, sounding like she’s keeping a lot of rage in check.
“News travels,” I downplay.
“You gave me access to the communications,” she reminds me pointedly. “And I didn’t need to hear Richards’ latest performances to know that Earthside is playing the worst kind of game with us.”
“The Discs hurt all of us,” I make the excuse I’m obligated to. “Badly. They all but destroyed both worlds with the attack in ‘65. And no one got any chance at all to fight back.”
“Which means no one got revenge,” she bites.
“Or any sense of safety,” I counter. “Now the Discs are back, and apparently just as strong as ever.”
“And the news that they’re very likely automated and self-replicating only makes it worse,” she gives me some kind of agreement. “It means we can’t stop them just by stopping the monster that sent them. But that’s no excuse for what Earthside is doing.”
“What are they doing?” I play coolly dumb.
“Besides sticking us out to get killed,” she’s almost shouting, “they’re heading into military escalation, even quicker than in the colony days.” She pulls herself down a few degrees. “We talked about what scary bullshit they might do because we’ve had hostile encounters with the locals, or because of what the ETE have been up to. But now…”
“I know,” I try to agree without agreeing.
“They’re not coming to relieve us, they’re coming to garrison us,” she specifies her fear. “They’ll send guns and troops and bigger and better weapons, and they will start shooting. And when shooting doesn’t work, they’ll bomb. They may or may not manage to stop the Discs for good, but they will go hard after anyone who gets in the way of their agenda—locals, the ETE, maybe even us if we don’t like what they’re doing and try to stop it. What was th
e famous Bushwar Doctrine? ‘You’re either with us or you’re with the enemy.’ I’m sure you remember that, Colonel Ram.”
I’m not sure if she meant that to sting or not, but it’s been too many years to feel slaps like that anymore. Instead, I allow her a thoughtful nod, settle into the one chair in the room, lean into her to let her know I’m hearing her. But then I shift focus, try to get to the root of it:
“What about the civvies? What are they saying?”
“There’s a lot of anxiety,” she tells me after regrouping. “Maybe a third—and only a third—want to try to go home, no matter what home is anymore. The rest still want to make some kind of a life here. But the way Earthside is playing us, the bullshit orders and ultimatums they’ve dropped, the way they’ve gone so completely stranger, there’s a lot of talk about walking, just packing up necessaries and leaving the base, getting the hell away from all things UNMAC. Maybe settling in with the Nomads, maybe finding some other promising ground far away from here. We could talk to the ETE, see if they would recommend some choice real estate.”
“Are you thinking of joining this exodus?” I confront her.
“I don’t know,” she admits with some difficulty. “I guess I’m like you. I know Earthiside is going to fuck me and mine. But if I’m not here I’ve got even less chance at doing anything about it. And odds are running and hiding won’t help: they’ll come after us eventually, enforce their righteous will…”
“It’s tempting to take that walk, though. Isn’t it?” I give her lightly, softening.
“Abbas would take you in,” she reminds needlessly.
“So would Paul,” I add lightly. “But I think the ETE would house me in some kind of zoo for primitive wildlife.”
“You won’t go.” It isn’t a question.
“I don’t think I’m done just yet,” I tell her.
She looks me in the eye. “Your message to the survivors we’ve encountered, about how we need to stand together… That applies to us as well. I’m not going anywhere.” Then she looks up at Sakina, forces a grin. “You still think your boyfriend has a shot at saving the planet?”
Sakina doesn’t answer Tru, but I turn and look into her eyes. She takes a long, deep breath, gives me the slightest of nods.
I finish the day by confronting what I’ve put off—what I‘ve ordered put off—for three months.
The room smells stale. It’s been shut up since he left it. The bed is made up but wrinkled. I remember we’d both been confined to quarters just before the attack. We both jumped up and ran for Ops when the Discs came. Then he left for the Lancer.
“I love you, too.”
Famous last words.
I open his foot locker. His closet. His drawers. Open his life. Sit on his bed.
He didn’t bring much with him when he got on the shuttle. His old 10mm sidearm, finish worn from decades of use. Two of his ugly Hawaiian shirts—the rest of his clothing is all issue. A few old paper books, well-thumbed and spines broken. One is our old friend Charlie Waters’ story about raising his autistic daughter (which sold based on the one brief chapter where I crashed into his life). Five more are what he called his “penny dreadfuls,” the pulp bestsellers he wrote with Charlie during his attempt at retirement. Stories about me. Us. Ridiculous adventures we never had. Spoofs and satires of our ugly fame. Fun reads. One is the memoir of General Thomas Richards—grandfather of the current one—in which he actually attempts to speak fondly of us. And fails, if you read between the lines. (But he is remarkably candid about the ugly politics that ran us.)
He’s got a personal flash card loaded with old stills and videos. Of us. Of those we served with. Rick, when he was younger. Lisa. Amber, the first girl I really believe he loved, killed by a sniper’s bullet probably meant for him. Or for me, but I failed to show up that night.
Then he’s older. Hanging out with me and Charlie. No longer a soldier, not then. But he’s happier. He looks happy. We’re smiling. Honestly smiling. Enjoying the company of friends. Eating. Drinking. Telling old stories. Laughing.
No pictures of Mars. Not a single file.
“I love you, too.”
Chapter 2: The Shadowman
24 October, 2116:
“What the hell is that?”
Kastl tries to get better imaging from the surface sentries, with MAI using radar and heat to enhance. But it’s still dark with the sunrise only beginning to purple the eastern sky, and the morning dust blow is heavy.
MAI manages to enhance the images of at least three sizable aircraft, hovering less than fifty meters off the desert, a klick west-northwest of the base perimeter. Their profiles become quickly recognizable: Zodangan airships of the Dutchman class, holding formation in an inverse triangle.
But then something else starts to show in the haze: it looks like some kind of large, cross-shaped fixed wing aircraft, larger than an AAV, with perhaps a thirty meter wingspan. As MAI pieces the image together, this new ship seems to be kept aloft by large rotors underneath each broad wing, and a pair of rotating engine pods on the rear. The fuselage is wide and relatively flat, giving the impression of a low-draft boat, and a few dozen warm, human-shapes can be seen standing on its “deck.” And it hovers surrounded by the three Zodangan airships.
“That looks a little too high tech to be a pirate ship,” Metzger assesses from AirCom. “Shinkyo?”
“Your guess is as good as any,” I tell her.
“They used the dust to sneak in, minimal radar profile,” Kastl explains. “They may have been hanging out there for quite some time.”
“Just sitting?” Metzger criticizes. “The zeppelins float, but that new hybrid craft must burn power staying up.”
“They’re within battery range,” Kastl lets me know.
“I’m sure they know that,” I consider.
“We could send a flight to buzz them,” Metzger suggests.
“I’ve got standing orders to avoid engagements,” I remind her. “Still, prep our ASVs. Did Morales clear the Lancer yet?”
“It’ll fly, sir,” I hear her cut in. “And it’ll shoot. I can have it fueled and warm in twenty.”
“Get Captain Smith suited,” I order. “Then everybody sits tight.”
“We’ve got another problem, Colonel,” Kastl tells me almost immediately, sounding unsettled. He shows me the EM signatures MAI has detected. “Discs. Lots of them.”
“Nothing on radar?”
“Signals seem to be clustered inside that new bogie.”
We sit and wait. Anton rolls up to join us. Rick comes in a few minutes behind him. Both look anxious, but Anton looks pale. He’s anxiously kneading at his legs.
Nothing happens—the visiting airships just hover in position—until the sun clears the valley rim.
The daylight reveals the new ship’s bright paint job: black and red and yellow, like an exotic insect. The “crew” standing on deck are all in some kind of black sealsuit and mask. Closer zooms on the Zodangan airships show a similar uniformity of dress in the crewmen manning the gun decks and flyer bays—no more random wild pirate gear.
“What are those?” Metzger sees first, indicating the new machines hanging from each airship where the pirates’ primitive gliders once were: squat cylinders with short, broad wings on struts that suggest the ancient comedy of a man strapping two wings on his arms. A tail unit contains what looks like a simple turbine and an “H”-shaped tail. Each fuselage appears just barely big enough to hold one pilot.
“Someone’s been very busy,” Morales assesses from her bays, sounding impressed.
“Is that consistent with what you’ve seen of Zodangan tech?” I ask her.
“Definite negative, Colonel” she tells me. “They tinker at an early twentieth century steam-punky level. I’ve never seen anything like this, not even from the Shinkyo. There’s some high-tech fabrication going on somewhere, and in production quantity. And the guns…” She zooms in on one of the deceptively simple hulls, showing where short,
stout barrels protrude. “Those look a lot like Disc guns. And here…” She zooms on the broad wings of the large aircraft, showing us a somewhat larger version of the familiar Disc turret mounted on each flank.
“Send this Earthside,” I order. “Best images you can give them.”
“We’ve got another—Colonel, I’ve got no Link to the Uplink,” Kastl returns within seconds, his voice edged with frustration. “I’ve lost Link to Melas Three as well. We’re jammed. We’ve got short-range only.”
“They don’t want us calling for help,” Rick calculates uncomfortably, while Anton tries to punch a signal through to anybody to no avail.
“Or they don’t want Earth to see this,” Metzger offers.
Which also means I can’t clarify where my orders stand.
“They’re just sitting there,” Anton says needlessly, sounding impatient.
“Standing,” Kastl considers, zooming in on the crews on the decks. “At attention. At station.”
“The pirates weren’t that disciplined before,” Rick agrees.
“The pirates didn’t have Disc tech either,” Anton almost snaps.
“Do they expect us to make a move?” Metzger asks.
“Not planning to,” I let them know. “Let’s see if they blink first.”
We wait almost another half an hour. Then we get visual confirmation of what MAI’s EM scans warned: A half-dozen Discs drop out of the big flyer’s underbelly, hang in midair for a few seconds, then fly straight for us.
“Firing solutions, Colonel,” Kastl offers.
The God Mars Book Two: Lost Worlds Page 20