Outcast Marines series Boxed Set 2

by James David Victor

  13

  The Only Card he had…

  “HALT! In the name of Mars!”

  Voices screamed at Solomon and Karamov as floodlights illuminated them on the Martian cobbles, hideously exposed and with nowhere to run to.

  Oh frack oh frack oh frack… Solomon’s mind was racing. He couldn’t see anything beyond the glare of lights. Could he shoot them out? Make some darkness? Give Karamov time to escape?

  Click-click! Whirr-click!

  But already he could hear safeties being released and booted feet approaching them from under the light and on all sides. They were everywhere, they had been caught, and there was nothing they could do…

  Scrape. Thud. Thud. Scraaaape. Something was eclipsing the light ahead of them, a lumbering silhouette approaching them behind the sound of booted feet.

  “We mean you no harm!” Solomon called out, lying through his teeth.

  “Really, Commander?” Karamov hissed behind him. The medical specialist had his back to the commander, covering the advancing line of guards with his pistol. Neither of the Outcasts had enough bullets to win.

  “Well… Might as well try…” Solomon thought, but unsurprisingly, the Martians weren’t buying it.

  “WEAPONS DOWN!” someone barked at them as the scraping got nearer, and the floodlights on the top of every warehouse around them started to catch the tops of the insect-like helmets of the Chosen of Mars/First Martians.

  And a killer robot.

  “What the—” Solomon was so surprised that he did actually lower his gun as he saw the large rectangular object stalking forward on its servo-assisted legs. It looked like a giant, murderous, maniacal metal table.

  And it was precisely the same sort of ‘experimental robot’ thing that the Outcasts had fought in the depths of the Erisian Asteroid Field, trapped in the belly of a deep-field station-ship on route from Proxima.

  On route to Mars, Solomon remembered from the colonel’s end of situation report.

  “Uh… Commander?” Karamov had now turned to face the new enemy beside the Martian guards, seeing the same thing as before.

  “I see it. I can’t really avoid it, can I?” Solomon said despairingly. Last time, they had only managed to defeat the thing because, one, Solomon had dropped a service lift on its head, and two, they had a Malady at their side. Now, Solomon had access to neither.

  And besides which, we also appear to be surrounded by about a dozen armed guards.

  Specialist Commander Solomon Cready of the Outcasts reluctantly came to a decision.

  “Fair enough. You boys seem to be a bit worked up,” he said easily, slowly bending down to set his pistol on the ground in a very showy, and exceedingly slow and non-threatening way.

  “Commander?” Karamov said nervously at his side.

  “Do as the nice man says, please,” Solomon whispered, beckoning his Marine to set his gun down.

  Any minute now, the generator’s going to blow. Any minute now… Solomon was thinking over and over, waiting for the ground beneath them to rupture and spurt flame. It was the only card he had left. One big, monumental distraction that might just give them enough time…

  But nothing happened. Nothing at all.

  “Seize them!” barked one of the insect-helmeted Martians, and the surrounding guards closed in on them, only too eager to use their fists, boots, and the butts of their weapons against the helpless Outcast Marines…

  “Urggggh…” When Solomon awoke some time later, it was to a world of hurt.

  His head felt like he had been pulverized by a gang of angered Martians… Oh, wait… He had been, hadn’t he? When he tried to move his limbs, he found that they weren’t moving at all. For a second, he was terrified that the Chosen of Mars had done some terrible, irreversible damage to his body like snap his spinal cord or something, but then he was relieved—a little—to see that he was actually tied to a chair.

  “Commander?” a very thick voice said beside him. It sounded a little like Karamov, but only if he was also submerged under water and speaking through a sock. Solomon’s eyes hurt with the glare of bright lights, but when he blinked several painful times, his image resolved to see the shape of Karamov similarly tied to a chair beside him, and with a face that was purple and red with bruises as he presumed his own was.

  “Karamov. Thank the stars you’re alive,” he murmured.

  “Better than you, from the looks of it,” Karamov slurred—which, considering how his medical specialist currently looked, Solomon thought was no great recommendation. Still, he had to try and look on the bright side. He wasn’t dead.

  “And it doesn’t hurt as much as getting shot,” he whispered. He’d only been given a beating as Karamov had, and Solomon had had plenty of beatings in his life before. Living as one of the most audacious and wanted thieves in New Kowloon was just the sort of lifestyle choice that also led to plenty of beatings.

  I’ll be okay. I’ll hurt for a week probably, but I’ll be okay, he told himself. Just so long as the First Martians didn’t decide to come back and finish the job.

  As it was, it appeared that the First Martians nearest them weren’t even paying attention to the two captured Confederate Marines.

  Now that Solomon’s eyes were starting to work again, he saw that they must be in one of those warehouses—perhaps the very same one that they had been trying to break into to steal the Martian battleplans.

  It was a long and wide space, separated by two higher floors accessed by ladders and gantries. It was on one of these that they were tied, overlooking the railings to the warehouse floor below.

  Which looked to be an entire industrial workshop.

  The floor had been excavated pretty extensively, dropped several meters and with multiple metal machines and large metal beds with overhead standing lights so that more Martians could work fitting and soldering metal components.

  “What are they doing?” Solomon whispered.

  “Dunno, but they’ve been at it for the best part of an hour, I reckon…”” Karamov shrugged.

  “How do you know?” was Solomon’s first question, and then, “Have I been unconscious for that long?”

  “Look, it’s light outside.” Karamov nodded towards a line of high windows near the roof of the warehouse, just above one of the gantry levels that hugged the walls. They were apparently glass, now flaring with the dim reddish-yellow light of another Martian day.

  “We infiltrated Armstrong near dusk, didn’t we? And it must at least be morning, so…” Karamov reasoned. “And yeah, you were out cold for all that time. I think the Martians took a greater delight in beating the frack out of you than they did me…”

  “No one likes a pretty face…” Solomon murmured, although he was sure that he wouldn’t have to worry about that for a while yet. His nose felt very broken indeed. But a new thought pushed aside his own vanity.

  “The generator didn’t blow, clearly…” he said, as all the lights were still on and the machine production beds were still whirring away ceaselessly. “Unless this place has its own backup generator?”

  “Maybe, but I don’t think that even we were that lucky, Commander…” Karamov said. “I haven’t heard any explosions, and there’s been no alarms going off…”

  Oh crap. Solomon growled inwardly. Just how much worse could this mission get!?

  As it turned out, it was about to get a whole lot worse.

  “Gentlemen,” said a voice as a figure stepped in front of them. It was a tall, thin man in his later fifties, perhaps, but who had avoided giving over to the middle-aged spread. Instead, his form was almost austere. He had slicked-back black hair with streaks of silver-gray, glossy and oiled, and he wore a plum and dark blue suit.

  He doesn’t look like a Martian, Solomon thought. His skin was too pale—it didn’t have the tell-tale darker tan of a life spent being irradiated. Even if the Martians always lived behind their helmets and habitat domes, they still had a higher dose of solar radiation, similar to the Me
diterranean regions of Earth.

  “Who the frack are you?” Solomon said, his words coming out mumbled.

  The man wore gold rings on his fingers that he twisted as he scowled at them.

  He’s nervous, Commander Solomon realized, which was never actually a good sign. A nervous kidnapper meant that they were unsure of how to proceed. They could decide to kill them or to let them go…or to start cutting bits off.

  “Ah, well, I am sure that you would like me to tell you, so perhaps if you survive all of this, then your superiors can send some elite Confederate Marine kill squad after me?” the man said with a scowl.

  “The Marines don’t operate kill squads,” Solomon said immediately. This man was worried about getting caught, Solomon realized. That meant that he wasn’t just based on Mars, and he was certainly no Martian… So he must be a regular in Confederate space. Confederate bases. Earth. And, from the looks of him, Solomon was sure that he was a corporate man.

  “Oh, don’t they?” The man raised one brow. “How little they tell you, their foot soldiers…” he said idly, shaking his head as he turned to look back down at the production line.

  So this is how the Chosen of Mars are getting their money to buy black market Marine weaponry? the commander thought. It made sense. The mega-corporations were the richest players in the Confederate and colonial space. They were richer than some cities, some entire colonies. It was always a push and pull war between them and the Confederate lawmakers as to who really wielded power.

  But why would the corps want to start a war between the Confederacy and Mars? he wondered—before, of course, the answer came to him.

  War was always good for business. The corps could sell arms and armor to any side, both sides, and they would come out on top—no matter how many thousands of lives were lost. It had always been that way in the history of modern warfare, after all…

  “Anyway, you will be pleased to know that I have managed to convince the good men and women of Mars not to string you up, even though you infiltrated their sovereign territory with every attempt, it would seem, to blow up Armstrong Habitat.”

  “What!?” Solomon burst out. “What on Mars are you talking about? You will never be able to make that stick…”

  “Erm…” In response, the ascetic man in front of them only raised a thumb and forefinger to the ceiling and mimed ‘pulling’ the trigger. “I am right in thinking that it was you who shot a hole through the habitat just earlier, Marine?”

  Damn. Solomon glowered at him. “That was only one tiny hole. Nothing personal…”

  “As I am sure that the Confederate Marine dreadnaughts circling above are nothing personal, either?” the man pointed out with a heavy sigh, shaking his head as he reached into his pocket to draw out a portable data-screen, tapping its surface a few times until he had in his hands one of the local Martian newswire feeds.

  The Martian Chronicles…every hour, every day!

  TOP STORY: Rising Tensions between Confederate Aggressors and Mars…

  UPDATE: Two Confederate agents were captured last night as they attempted to break into Martian industries and buildings, presumably to continue their acts of industrial sabotage on patriotic Martian businesses.

  This level of aggression against sovereign Martian civilians simply cannot continue!

  The two Confederate agents are believed to be a part of a much larger taskforce, sent here by the Confederacy of Earth either to disrupt or outright attack Armstrong Habitat. They are believed to be a part of the same force who, earlier yesterday, managed to cause a major incident and shut down central Armstrong when the habitat membrane itself was ruptured, apparently during a firefight between them and the First Martian guards seeking to protect all of us.

  BACKGROUND: As you are aware, tensions flared just a few days ago when our spokesperson and leader, the Imprimatur of Mars—along with Father Ultor, the figurehead behind the First Martians/Chosen of Mars—was imprisoned by the Confederacy on spurious charges that they had orchestrated an attack on Titan!

  Despite providing no evidence, the Confederacy have continued to hold the two leaders of Mars and put into place a complete embargo on all Martian goods and services, moving so far as to blockade the planet with elements of their Rapid Response and Near-Earth Confederate Marine Fleet.

  As yet, the Chosen of Mars have refused to back down, and they demand the return of their leaders. The Confederacy has issued no calls for peace talks.

  What will this volatile situation mean for the future of the Red Planet and its citizens? Have YOUR say by contacting our free toll channel, on…

  “Nice attack piece,” Solomon muttered, before looking up at the man. “Was it you and your people, though? Who attacked us on Titan?”

  The corporate man—probably some kind of junior executive, Solomon had decided—looked taken aback for a second, blinked, and said nothing as he turned off the data-screen and slid it back into his pocket.

  “Anyway, gentlemen. We have the Confederacy over a barrel. They cannot justify their blockade anymore…” the man said.

  “But we were attacked!” Solomon remembered the grinding crash of the Titan ice mine as it had slid into the pit of its own devising, crashing and crumbling all around him.

  “But the Martians are not stupid…” The man ignored him. “They know that they cannot win in an outright confrontation against the Confederate Marine Corps.”

  “Damn right they can’t…” Karamov said as the corporate executive continued.

  “So, they will be offering you as hostages in return for Father Ultor and Imprimatur Valance. Two for two.” The man continued to twist his gold rings. “That seems a rather nice, balanced number, doesn’t it?” He turned to gesture across the balcony space where the two soldiers sat, above where the Chosen of Mars busily continued to construct the strange, experimental robots that Solomon and his team had seen—and fought—before. There, they could see a much larger data-screen flickering to life.

  I’m glad they think that we’re as important as the imprimatur and Father Ultor… Solomon thought. But he was sure that he already knew what the Confederate answer would be, even as he saw the corporate man nod. Their chairs were turned to face the wall, where a small tripod and a camera sat almost directly in front of them, with two of the insect-helmeted Martian guards standing on either side.

  From this angle, that small camera won’t be able to pick up the rest of the workshop, Solomon saw. If they were about to be broadcast to the nation or to whomever, then the Chosen of Mars—and their corporate financiers—didn’t want the rest of the universe knowing what they were doing here.

  But just what WERE they doing here? They were building more of those experimental robot things, right? Which had come from Proxima. To Mars. And were being financed by the corporations.

  “N-something…” Solomon muttered under his breath as a small red light started flashing on the camera. If only he could remember what that corporate logo had been that they had found in the belly of the deep-field ship, along with its own murderous experimental robot.

  Novis? Neuro? Solomon couldn’t remember. It wasn’t one that he remembered hearing of, back on Earth, which meant that it couldn’t have been that big a company, right? Most of the largest mega-corporations were so big as to be as popular as major drinks brands.

  But Solomon had been sure that it had been the company that made the experimental, murderous robots—it was the only clue they had to go on, after all—which meant that this executive here had to be from the same firm, right?

  “Who am I speaking to!?” Both Solomon and Karamov jumped as a very familiar voice suddenly swam into the warehouse space. There was nothing in front of them apart from the camera, but when Solomon turned his head to the display screen over the workhouse, he could see the austere, grim face of none other than Colonel Asquew, sitting at her desk with the many-starred flag of the Confederacy emblazoned on the wall behind her. Her surroundings looked to be rich—some kind of Marine
or Confederate audience chamber, with a marble-topped desk with sunk-in modules for data-screens, and pillars on either side of the flag behind her.

  I wonder if that is some room up above us in her dreadnaught? Solomon found himself wondering. “Hi, Colonel,” he hazarded.

  “Good grief… Is that…” Asquew blinked, looking shocked at the fact that she must be able to see Cready and Karamov through the small camera.

  “I see that you know each other, Colonel,” the corporate man said, but staying out of sight. Only the two Martian guards, still and impassive and holding their rifles in their hands, were visible—apart from the wounded Marines, that was.

  “Who am I speaking to!?” Asquew demanded once again.

  “We are the Chosen of Mars,” voiced the guard at Solomon’s side. “The First Martians. The rightful inheritors of Mars. We are the ones who were born here. Who stayed here. Who are the first truly extra-planetary citizens. And we reject all claims that the Confederacy has to rule over us!” the guard said passionately.

  Solomon wondered for how many years that particular guard had been waiting to make that particular speech to some Confederate bigwig like Colonel Asquew.

  “Yes, yes, very well.” Asquew brushed aside the Martian’s rhetoric. “I know full well your grievances, Martian. What I want to know is: what do you want!?” Asquew snapped back.

  “We REJECT the claim that we have to abide by Confederate laws. We REJECT the fact that we can only trade with Confederate-approved traders, or that Martian citizens who have worked every day of their lives to keep the Red happy have to pay taxes to a different planet many miles away! We REJECT…” The guard was starting to get on a roll, Solomon thought.

  “Yes, yes, but how do you think your goods are transported? Protected from the raiders and pirates?” the colonel pointed out. “Does Mars have its own Barr-Hawking jump-ships? Do they know how much their fuel costs? Do you realize that the Confederacy were the ones to colonize Mars in the first place? And it was the Confederacy who built your habitats and wells, your infrastructure and life-support? Mars relies upon the Confederacy for everything!” Asquew spat back.