The Blitzkrieg

by Yuri Hamaganov

  The black nail folds like an antenna. Elena removes the scalpel and steps back, Wolff covering her. The passenger sits down, kneads her aching neck, and then turns to the surgeon.

  “I'm sorry; I've had an exceptionally unpleasant day. Emily Norton, Lieutenant of the Republican Army. Thank you for saving me.”

  “With this misunderstanding left behind, let's take a look at your hand, Comrade Lieutenant, and then the captain awaits you.”

  The situation clears up. Ticonderoga is the second orbital station of the colonists, the last distant outpost of the Republic. After the first two stations were destroyed as a result of sabotage, the colonists seriously engaged its defense, hastily rebuilding this civilian object into a kind of military base.

  However, in preparing to repel an external attack, they made the old mistake of underestimating the danger of an internal enemy. Meanwhile, several civilian officers were bribed by Supernova, and having organized a mutiny, they captured the unfinished fortress. Just before the mutiny began, the Republic staff suspected something was wrong, but a small detachment sent from Mars couldn’t change anything. The Martians took on an unequal battle and were either killed or taken prisoner. Only Lieutenant Norton managed to escape.

  “I had to immediately paint the coffin in black and break the beacon or they would track me and shoot me down in the first few seconds of the flight. I decided to move away from the planet to meet you. I knew the Bolshevik’s approximate course.”

  “I hope you realize that you were just lucky, Ms. Norton. You made a mistake in your course calculations, and the probability of finding a black coffin with an idle beacon at this distance is one in five hundred.”

  “It's better than a lottery. They aimed a laser at my back, so I wasn’t thinking about the probabilities.”

  The dinner is over. Klimov offers their guest a small glass of vodka, then asks, “What were the plans of the rebels? Were they planning to capture our ship?”

  “I don’t think so; they were in a hurry with the revolt. Just as the rebels seized the Ticonderoga, they filed an application for the sale of the station to the corporation, which was immediately granted. And the Bolshevik won’t moor to Supernova’s property.

  Now we have only the Enterprise station at our disposal. The formation of a trading squadron has already been completed. Based on all that has happened, what are your plans, Comrade Captain?”

  “The Red Star will sit in a private parking lot of the Olympic cosmodrome, after which we’ll deliver your cargo and you to the Valley by rail, and the Bolshevik will leave for the Enterprise.”

  “I'm asking about the Ticonderoga. Perhaps our command will launch a counterattack to return the station, and then your firepower will be very useful . . . ”

  “Excluded. An attack on Supernova’s station will be regarded as a legitimate occasion for war, in which you’ll be declared an aggressor. What you really need to do now is reinforce your counterintelligence; its work isn’t effective. If you have a sufficient number of traitors to hand over the most important object to the enemy, and you didn’t have time to find and neutralize them, your victory seems unlikely to me.”

  Emily twitches, as if she has been electrocuted.

  “With all due respect, you aren’t Martian, Comrade Captain, and you don’t know our people. We have enough patriots ready to give their lives for the Republic. Live for at least a year in the Valley, and you won’t doubt our people.”

  “With all due respect, Comrade Lieutenant, the Republic has just lost an important battle. Now we must not lose the war …”

  * * *

  The Red Star freezes in the void for a second, then the shunting engines begin to drive her away from the cruiser. When the distance reaches one kilometer, the Bolshevik starts its main engine and instantly disappears, continuing the flight to the Enterprise station, while the Red Star descends to Mars.

  The cockpit is empty, and in the landing compartment are the four of them—Domcheev, Olga, Lieutenant Norton, and Lobo—with the transport container of Antonina between them.

  “Ninety seconds.”

  Mars is approaching swiftly, a dark disk with golden edges obscuring the starry sky. The shuttle must land at the Olympic cosmodrome—the base of the Union, built on the top of Olympus, the largest mountain in the solar system. The giant volcano towers above the Tharsis Desert at twenty-seven kilometers. The peak is actually in space, which makes landing quite simple.

  “Sixty seconds before the Olympus tower takes control.”

  Olga turns on a folding seat and sees the rapidly approaching landing lights through the narrow quartz porthole. The base is built on a wide plateau at the side of the volcanic caldera. Neat rows of artificial craters—parking lines—stretch to a gigantic natural caldera.

  “Five seconds.”

  The Red Star shakes slightly, and she hears a quiet whistle—some atmosphere is still present here.

  “Contact.”

  The ski chassis touches rough concrete, and the shuttle swings on the supports and freezes.

  “Welcome to Mars, folks. Wait for the inspection team; don’t leave the shuttle before the team’s arrival. We are approaching the Enterprise, over and out.”

  Two minutes later, a buggy all-terrain vehicle with a customs officer and two local Marines drives to the shuttle, after which an automatic tractor crawls to the parking lot, ordered in advance. Customs inspection, document verification, and duty collection takes five minutes, then the official departs, leaving them alone.

  “Home, sweet home,” Emily says cheerfully and runs down the ramp. The Bolsheviks follow her.

  The sun hasn’t yet risen, but the entire eastern side of the world is already flooded with golden-red fire. Two small moons shine in the sky like exceptionally large stars. Olympus is so high and wide that it is impossible to see the colossal deserts from its top; the slopes of the volcano go beyond the horizon. The temperature is negative 180 degrees Celsius, and there is dead silence. Private parking lots occupy the outskirts of the plateau. The main cosmodrome extends to the crater with numerous docks and port facilities. The Mariner Valleys, the final destination of their voyage, lie in the southeast, beyond the highlands, where the sun is about to rise.

  “Confirmation—the Bolshevik arrived at the Enterprise. We have five hours.”

  Domcheev and Lobo lower the container to the tractor platform. Olga and Emily occupy the cockpit and leave for the nearest cable car station.

  “Down there, we’ll meet our convoy and board the Union freight train, which will go to the last station, the outpost New Brest, near the Labyrinth of the Night, on the border of the Republic.”

  “It's your planet, Lieutenant, it's up to you.”

  From the top to the desert, several railway tunnels and mountain roads run down, but private traders usually use a funicular—a small open cabin awaits them at the upper terminal.

  “Comrade Olga, as far as I know, this is your first time on Mars, so now you’ll have an impressive sight. It might be silly to ask, but I hope that nobody has a fear of heights?”

  Emily doesn’t wait for an answer. The cabin starts to move, the speed increases rapidly, and ahead appears the perimeter lights and the last port warehouses. At the moment the cabin is on the border of the cosmodrome, the artificial sun of the launching ship rises behind their backs.

  The cratered plateau has ended. The cabin travels down, gently rocking on the cables. The longest section of the road begins—a gentle slope two hundred kilometers wide. The orange flame flares up more and more, and the stars are no longer visible. A few more seconds and the first rays of the sun illuminate the Olympus. Only now does Olga look closely at the slope far below—piles of rocks dotted with narrow deep gorges, like the beds of dried-up rivers created not by water but by lava that ran down millions of years ago. In the southeast, she sees the peaks of three more giant volcanoes—Pavonis, Arsia, and Ascraeus—behind which lie the Mariner Valleys.

  “I must admit, th
e spectacle is really impressive!”

  “Wait, Olga, you haven’t seen the cliff yet. Let’s see what you say about that.”

  Their speed reaches 250 kilometers. Basalt fields and lava gorges float beneath them, and with each kilometer of descent, the density of the atmosphere increases, as does the temperature.

  “One minute to the cliff.”

  The gentle descent ended, they quickly approach the ridge where the slopes of Olympus steeply drop down, forming a gigantic abyss. Olga involuntarily squeezes the handrails when their cabin crosses the edge and quickly rolls down. Suddenly, the red rocks and brown sands disappear, falling down eight kilometers. Their little cabin swims in the sun rays over the endless Tharsis Desert.

  Olga looks at her companions, and only now notices that Veniamin is bending over an old paper notebook, making sketches with a vacuum watercolor marker. Seeing her glance, the lieutenant briefly stops his work and smiles broadly.

  “In my free time, I indulge in watercolor.”

  Traveling to the border outpost New Brest, the Martian train has little in common with the impetuous lunar bullet—a dozen open platforms, cisterns, ore storage silos, and airtight passenger cars, as if descending to the Martian rails from the time of the Great Patriotic War. And just like during the war, they have to go along with the troops going to the front.

  The Republican army unit meets them at the station; they just arrived to buy weapons. Antonina and her escorts will go on a two-link caterpillar all-terrain vehicle. A platoon of motorized infantry on wheeled armored cars provides a cover. The rarefied atmosphere over the freight station is being chopped by a link of unmanned attack helicopters; a silvery long-range radar detection airship is rocking high in the sky. The colonists load the container, but Domcheev isn’t going to reduce his vigilance and meticulously inspects the transport machine, then turns to Emily.

  “The Red Star will return for Olga in five days. Now you are securing the protection of one of the Bolsheviks, and if she is killed on your land, I’ll personally see you responsible. Agreed?”

  “Agreed, comrade. I’ll return her safe and sound. All on board!”

  The “Good, Bad, Evil” theme is heard; the armored cars creep onto the platforms, turning the gun turrets in different directions. Two more minutes, and giving a long signal, the train moves to the east.

  CHAPTER EIGHT: NO COUNTRY FOR LONERS

  On the way to New Brest, Olga doesn’t utter a word, in silent awe as she watches the vast expanses of the Tharsis Desert. The road is going to the southeast, connecting several domed cities and automatic mines. The train rushes through without stopping, leaving behind the gigantic wall of Olympus, rising from horizon to horizon. Straight ahead are other mountains; the road passes in the valley between Pavonis and Ascraeus, enabling Olga to view the cyclopean volcanoes in all their primordial majesty.

  “Too bad Veniamin didn’t come with us. He missed such beautiful watercolors!”

  The frontier post New Brest is the last stop. The armored vehicles leave the platforms, briefly refuel, bypass a small settlement, and continue on their way to the east, coming out on a wide tract, trailed by millions of wheels and caterpillars.

  On the right hand are the bottomless gorges of the Labyrinth of the Night, with water clouds hovering in the pale red sky, and far ahead are the main canyons of the Mariner Valleys. Voronov decides that she has enough impressions and closes her eyes—the last time she managed to get some sleep was ten hours before the Libra catastrophe.

  When she wakes up, Olga discovers that the caravan is still moving along the path. Wind is whistling through the armor, and a small sun is sloping toward evening.

  “Get up, soldiers! How do you like our trip?”

  Emily has changed into a combat suit from a Martian kit, consisting of a compensating overall and a light helmet with an open visor.

  “Beautiful, only slightly deserted. By the way, where can I get such a fashionable suit?”

  “There are a couple of free kits in the lock chamber. Go, help yourself, and I'll do dinner”

  When Olga returns in the new overalls, Emily extends her a food ration of an unknown brand.

  “Try, you will like it. It’s our production, an extremely popular product. This isn’t enriched plankton, which poisons the colonies; this is real meat plus wheat spaghetti. In the best New York restaurants, such a plate costs thirty-five to fifty liters of clean water, and you have the opportunity to eat it for free. My parents have a pair of wheat greenhouses; this may be my flour.”

  “And what about meat?” Olga asks, suspiciously poking the ruddy slices with a fork.

  “Don’t be afraid; it's not a broiled hamster. It's a bird, like a turkey, but a little smaller—a local breed. We also have fish, but pork and beef are still in short supply, as large animals are difficult to grow. Well, what do you say?”

  “Yes, it’s definitely more delicious than a hamster. Such juicy meat, and even soft bones!" Olga mumbles. “Now I understand why so many people want to move here.”

  “Then stay—we need sensible girls.”

  “Thank you, but I'm used to emptiness and the black sky. Your blue-red firmament is getting on my nerves. Maybe in fifty years …”

  During the meal, the girls begin to talk, although Olga tries not to reveal too much about herself. It turns out that Emily is not a local resident either.

  “Mars is my home, but I was born on Earth, in Austin, Pennsylvania.”

  “Wow, we’re almost neighbors,” Voronov thinks.

  “My Chinese ancestors moved to the States in the nineteenth century, right after the Civil War. They probably helped build the railway. Dad and Mom owned an agricultural company and were millionaires, but their days of wealth were coming to an end, and they understood that perfectly. Depleted land yielded less harvest, despite all the tricks of genetic engineering, and the cost of water steadily increased. In addition, the monopolist—the supplier of seeds—constantly raised the prices, and it’s impossible to avoid buying them. The seeds are disposable, and the land is already accustomed to their chemicals. It was necessary to change something urgently.

  “And then my father found out that the perennial Mars agricultural programs were finally producing steady positive results. You have no idea what started after that. The previously abandoned Mars was turned into a food Klondike, and everyone had to urgently stake out a plot.

  “When I was five, my parents sold their company. They sold everything they had, bought a huge plot of land in the Valley along with a set of equipment, raw materials, seeds, and water for three years. The sum was huge; the rest was only enough for tickets for third-class transport.”

  Olga knows such transports well, as they provided the main stream of space expansion, and involuntarily sympathizes with Emily—such a flight can’t be called pleasant.

  “Your Bolshevik will easily pass from Earth to Mars in fifty hours. And we had to spend eleven months in flight, assuming nothing happened along the way. Something did happen, though. One of the three engines stuck right after the start, and the thrust decreased sharply, so the journey took a little longer than indicated in the brochure. Seventeen months and nineteen days—almost a year and a half in the cattle wagon.”

  Voronov remembers this case. Accidents on such transports aren’t uncommon, and she studied several similar disasters in Arina’s lessons of engineering safety. Now she’ll have the opportunity to learn the other side from an actual participant.

  Each passenger travels the flight in a hibernation capsule, being in a deep sleep, which allows the builders and operators to conserve almost everything—space, oxygen, water, provisions, heat, and crew. The trouble is that the capsules are designed to work for a certain amount of time, and when the charge ends, the passengers wake up automatically.

  “Well, we woke up one beautiful morning, and still had six and a half months to Mars. Fun, huh?”

  Emily smiled savagely.

  “Your surgeon was surprised
that I was conscious in the coffin, but it isn’t difficult to lie there for a dozen hours after spending six months in the same capsule as a child. Damage of the joints, dehydration, dystrophy—I got it all. The water you get is 250 grams per day, the food ration is 150 grams, and the available oxygen is so rare that every sigh is a feast. Two hundred got exhausted and died; even more went crazy in their coffins of constant oxygen starvation. Still, the day came when we reached Mars, and I celebrate that day as a second birthday.”

  Emily's family managed to join the Valley society, although it wasn’t easy. Fortunately, they immediately realized the first rule of survival on Mars— mavericks don’t belong there. No matter how strong and smart you are, the ruthless, lifeless planet is stronger and smarter, and it can kill you without even noticing your presence. You can’t survive alone: you can only withstand a poisonous atmosphere, sandstorms, cold, hunger, thirst, and radiation together, effectively joining efforts and forgetting, if necessary, your own interests.

  “Too many misunderstood the essence of this place, and it was costly for them, deadly costly. They thought that the Valleys are an analogue of the Hollywood Wild West, a triumph of individualism, private capital, and personal initiative—each for himself, independence above all, and other bullshit. As a reward for their beliefs, they received a permanent residence at the Cemetery of Losers.

  Remember, my friend—no one can stand alone in the desert. We have to work together, helping our neighbors and sharing the most necessary things with strangers, knowing that it is only in this way that we’ll be able to get help when we need it. If you can’t think about others and build reliable relationships, it’s better for you to not come to Mars.”

  Olga listens with interest, remembering the little that she knows about the Valley. There isn’t much reliable information—the colonists don’t share valuable knowledge for free.