Killing Titan

  “Down in three,” Clover says. “Sled reports no G2O. We’ll descend through our corridor until we pass two klicks—then hard DC. Stay strapped until I give thumbs-up. If we get painted in corridor, tug on your grips, flip the plastic cover, double press the diddle—curtains will drop, you’ll spin into your pod, pod will punch free—orbiter will be history. Be ready for anything.”

  As always.

  “Sled is safe on the Red,” Clover announces.

  Final DC—deceleration—rattles my bones like a cartoon skeleton. I hear the lander stage interact with the orbiter, loud squeals and nerve-racking bangs, like maybe it wasn’t strapped on too well. Spent matter plasma retros deliver a final quivering kick up my spine, all the way into my skull—

  Our backs and butts sink deep into the couches—

  The lander shivers like a horse stung by a bee—

  Drops a meter or two—

  And settles with a deep, final crunch, like a boot stomping gravel.

  “Beautiful!” Clover shouts over the mournful decline of the plasma turbines. “Exceptional if I say so myself. And I do.” His relief is a little obvious. Follows ten seconds of comparative quiet while angels assess our health. “Will three of our passengers kindly remove their thumbs from the diddles?” Clover requests. “That’s two demerits. We’re down firm, we’re alive, and better yet, we’ve been recognized by resident authority. Such as it is. Welcome to Mars.”

  The pods retract. Rope ladders unwind and fall down the core between the couches. I look at Borden and Jacobi, peer around my seat and along the pods—rubberneck fore and aft. Behind her faceplate, Borden is pale and shiny. Kumar looks asleep. Beyond them stretches a descending spiral of impassive grunt faces, all the way down to the Winter Soldier. We’re all going to be great friends, I just know it.

  Thanks for the excitement, thanks for liberation from Madigan, thanks for saving my life, maybe—but even with all that, I just want to know why the fuck we’re here.

  BATTLEGROUND

  First we tap up from the orbiter’s gasps and sips, each of us making sure we get a day or so if the welcome wagon doesn’t show. We pass through the orbiter lock in phases and I stand in a group of six on the fenced-off platform between the lander and the orbiter, feeling the cozy warmth radiating from the lander’s rainbow-scorched skin.

  A metal ladder unspools and our group descends. I reach bottom, third in line after two Skyrines, then step back to let Borden and Kumar join us. Next group, and then the last, until we all stand on the dust.

  Our skintights hold suck. Readout is optimal. The angel in my helm—quiet until now—perks up with a puzzled report that all is well but there are no instructions, no maps, nothing. As the sled pilot said, pure snake: Brief On Arrival.

  I have to note again that I have never dropped like this in my life. All told, it’s less exciting than aero and puff and no doubt more expensive. Plus sheer group suicide if the Antags are waiting.

  I look through heat shimmer over the pebbly ground and locate the sled about a hundred meters off, still vertical and attached to its lander. The landscape is eerily familiar. Flat—monstrously flat, with high, filmy ice clouds obscuring much of the pinkish-brown sky and more than the usual number of dust devils twisting far to the south. I know this place. This is where I was hoisted from the Red over two years ago, right in the middle of a pitched battle with the largest force of Antags I’d ever seen. On the northwestern horizon lies scattered wreckage: Tonkas, Chestys, and Trundles broken and burned in a ragged line about a klick and a half away.

  We’re back on Chryse. Our dead are still out there. Hundreds of them. My whole body shudders. We’d just broken out of the Drifter, or what was left of it—trying to avoid flying, crushing chunks of rock as everyone in the universe seemed dead set on blowing that old piece of moon to rubble. We beat a retreat, leaving a lot of comrades behind. Skyrines can’t bring back the fallen with the fidelity we once guaranteed our troops on Earth. I’ve said that before, but you just may not know how much it hurts.

  I slowly turn, letting my helm map the local features. Angel also tallies the wrecks in the middle distance, those that can still be identified.

  Borden leans in like she’s going to kiss me and taps her helm against mine. “War grave,” she says.

  I’m too choked to answer. A lot of Mars is sacred ground.

  FORMING A THIRD point with the two landers is a half-buried line of red-and-tan depot storage tanks, like those erected when a base plans to stick around a few months. Beyond the tanks are revetments like molehills that probably conceal fountains, used to draw moisture from the Martian atmosphere. But there’s no sign of domiciles. Maybe they’re dug in away from the depot. I picture the enemy sitting like Indians on the surrounding hills, but there isn’t much out there in the way of hills, and as cavalry goes, our force is puny compared to the Antag brigades that once smothered this theater.

  The Skyrines open belt pouches and strap on their combat blazes. I have no blaze but everybody seems to know me, like they’ve been shown pictures.

  They gather around Borden. “Time to share, ma’am,” says First Lieutenant Vera Jennings. Jennings sat to the rear of the orbiter, showing a strong instinct for self-preservation, however misapplied. I remember her naked—stocky, heavy shoulders, fuzzcut pate streaked black and brown. Sharp gray eyes behind her plate. She tries to be heard through her helm—she assumes we’re in blackout mode. “Where’s our camp? When do we get logistics?”

  But Borden’s comm pings and our helms link to hers. The Skyrines give each other skeptical looks. No blackout, no cordon, no sentinels—nothing?

  Borden announces, “I’ve got daylight, just a little. This is a temporary resource depot, set up here to take care of us and our landers. Nobody stays long.”

  “Sappers?” Jennings asks.

  “Probably,” Sergeant Ishida says.

  “Too exposed,” says Tech Sergeant Jun Yoshinaga. She’s small, so small her skintight has cinched up around her knees, but from what I saw during transfer—smooth, flat abs; round, tight lumps of shoulder; huge forearms but long fingers like twisted rope—I wouldn’t willingly match up against her.

  “I don’t know,” Borden says. She looks around as if expecting company. The horizon is mostly empty, but I can’t see beyond the clutter of charred vehicles. “We’re scheduled to rendezvous with friendlies. They’ll transport us to a relocation camp, where we’ll pick up additional personnel.”

  “Who’s been relocated?” Jennings asks.

  “Settlers,” Borden says. “They’re being protected by our forces.”

  We all note that she doesn’t say Joint Sky Defense—JSD.

  “You mean Muskies? Why?” Captain Jacobi asks.

  “Muskies, as you call them, are the reason we’re here,” Kumar says.

  “This is Mr. Aram Kumar,” Borden says. “He’s part of Division Four, our civilian command. I’d listen to him.”

  That’s keeping it simple. The rest of the grunts turn.

  “Who gives a fuck about Muskies?” Jennings asks.

  “They may be the most important people you’ll ever meet,” Kumar says.

  Jacobi puts on a wry expression and looks my way.

  “We have three missions,” Kumar says. “We are to investigate the remains of the mining operation called the Drifter and assess its condition. We will then proceed to the relocation camp and evaluate those individuals who have been exposed to the interiors of the old mines. And if there is time, we will organize a travel team to visit where mining continues on a second remnant of old moon. Division Four believes our work there is critical.”

  “Sir—Kumarji—what about security?” asks Sergeant Chihiro Ishida—the Winter Soldier.

  Kumar actually smiles at her, perhaps at the honorific. “For now, according to our best information, the last of the Antagonists on Mars have retreated to the northern polar regions. As for their orbital assets, they have either scuttled or withdrawn them to
Mars L-5, shielded by one or more trojans.”

  No cracks about being shielded by Trojans. He means asteroids. Mars L-5 is the trailing Mars Lagrange point. The trojans—small t—are asteroids stuck at either the leading or trailing Lagrange points in the Martian solar orbit. I thought we had scrubbed them years ago—Operation Rubber or something like that. I guess not.

  Borden extends her arm northwest. Four Skell-Jeeps, three Tonkas, and a Russian-style Trundle, a TE-86, have skirted the charred wreckage and are cautiously rolling in. “Those are for us, I think,” she says.

  “They don’t look good,” Ishida says.

  We magnify and inspect. Ishida has at least one very sharp eye—all of the Skells, the Trundle, and two of the Tonkas have suffered damage. One Tonka is rolling on four out of six wheels, and the Trundle still smokes where something took out a corner of the cabin.

  “They’re painting us,” Jacobi says. Our helms confirm—we’re lit up. No alarms, however—friendlies, right?

  “Hey, they’ve charged bolts and slung the ballista!” Ishikawa calls out.

  The Skyrines reach for their spent matter packs.

  “Don’t charge, damn it!” Borden barks. “Keep your weapons slung!”

  Slowly, all comply—against instinct and training. I look at Kumar to see if he’s reacting. He is—just barely. His hands curl into fists.

  “Fuck this,” Jennings mutters.

  Two of the Skells and the fenders of the four-wheeling Tonka are smeared with freeze-dried blood.

  “Casualties,” Ishida says.

  Our group tightens.

  “No Ants, right?” Ishikawa asks.

  “Nobody make a move,” Borden orders. “Let me do the talking, but stay on my band.”

  The roughed-up vehicles pause at fifty meters, then, after thorough inspection, wheel forward at the same measured pace. They still light us up. The vehicles are naked of insignia, not unusual on the Red, but I see the Skells are driven by Russians—helm colors and skintights obvious—and I see Russian colors moving as well through the narrow windscreens of the badly damaged Trundle and the Tonkas. My faceplate manages to capture and magnify a couple of their blue and gold blazes. Special Ops—Spetsnaz, I’m guessing Russian Airborne. We trained with 45th Nevsky back at Hawthorne—not always on good terms—and fought together during my third drop. I might know these guys. I itch to communicate and ease things back, but this is on Borden’s plate.

  Dead silence on the comm. Nobody looks happy—nobody looks like they know what to expect.

  “Cold and calm,” Borden says. “Do not stare, do not charge weapons or make a move to target.”

  “No, ma’am,” Jacobi says.

  “Don’t even twitch!” Borden’s eyes are like a hawk’s intent on a distant mouse. Our unhappy grunts keep their hands low and weapons slung or holstered.

  Finally, wide comm pings and Russian fills our helms. A smooth, deep male voice identifies himself as Polkovnik (Colonel) Litvinov and asks who is in charge. Borden raises her hand. Follows a direct burst of data from the Trundle’s laser to Borden’s helm.

  Borden visibly relaxes. “These are our escorts. They didn’t get notice we were arriving until last sol. They’ve been traveling since. They were hit four hours ago, probably by Antags—about fifty klicks from here. Four dead.”

  That gives everyone pause.

  “How can they not know it was Antags?” Jennings asks nervously. “Who else would it be?”

  Jacobi nudges the back of Jennings’s calf with her toe. Jennings shuts up.

  The vehicles stop again. Polkovnik Litvinov steps down from the lock of the damaged Trundle and pulls a soft brown cap with a green and gold eagle cockade from under his right shoulder strap, then perches it atop his helm.

  Borden crosses to meet him. She opens the conversation with name and rank, says she’s glad they’re here, commiserates with their losses. None of us have twitched but the rest of the Russians keep to their vehicles, ready to return fire if we offer any trouble—ready as well to depart in quick order.

  “You are first in three months,” Litvinov says as he studies the way we’re grouped. Jacobi has spaced her Skyrines into five fire teams, weapons visible but not at ready. The rest of us hang apart, very still.

  Litvinov’s sharp eyes miss nothing. “We too are glad to meet. It is confused on Earth, last few months. I learn to pick and choose which instructions to obey. Not good for peace of mind.”

  I’m guessing the chain of command up here is missing quite a few links. I do not like this one bit, and neither does Borden.

  “Sorry to hear that,” Borden says. “Our primary instructions are clear.”

  The colonel points toward the sled lander. “Is that for us?”

  “We’ve been told to make a delivery, yes, sir,” Borden says. “In exchange for transport and assistance.”

  If they want what we have, and don’t want to give what we need, things will happen soon and they’ll happen fast. The colonel, however, walks a few deliberate paces away from the Tonka and toward Borden, putting himself in any feasible line of fire. “Yours is unauthorized operation, no?”

  Borden keeps quiet.

  “Division Four?”

  “Yes, sir,” she says.

  “Important division—newly disruptive. Puzzling.” He walks by the commander and into the shadow of our orbiter, studying our Skyrines. Ishida’s mechanical arm is steady. Her real arm has a light quiver.

  “Yes, sir,” Borden says.

  The colonel’s a bold one. Passing me, he leans in with a wolfish grin. “Are you called Vinnie?”

  “Yes, sir,” I say. “Master Sergeant Michael Venn.”

  “We are Russian Airborne, Aerospace Forces, Detached—45th Nevsky. Do you recognize us?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good to be memorable. We are told to expect you—in particularly, you, Master Sergeant.” Litvinov slings his rifle and cuts bolt charge. The Russian soldiers stand down. “We are to protect and deliver you to specified location. Mutual colleague pays respect. Says hello.”

  I ask, “Who, sir?”

  The colonel reaches into his belt pouch and withdraws a worn photo. He holds it in front of my plate. It’s Joe, wearing gray long johns but apparently none the worse for wear. He seems to be standing inside a cluttered, crowded domicile, and looks apprehensive but not under duress. Joe just doesn’t like having his picture taken, underwear or no. He’s beside someone so tall her head almost doesn’t fit in the photo. Someone I’ve been thinking about ever since I departed Mars. Tealullah Mackenzie Green.

  Teal.

  Borden and Kumar step in to peer at the colonel’s picture. Kumar nods to Borden.

  “You recognize?” the colonel asks me.

  “My friends,” I say.

  He pockets the photo and examines my face behind the plate. His eyes are determined, sad. “They are twelve hours away, if we encounter no other setbacks. Which one is Skyfolk agent, Guru man name of Aram Kumar?”

  Kumar says that’s him. The colonel compares Kumar’s face with another photo extracted from the same pouch. “Our orders were to come to site of previous hero action, where depot has been dropped months past, with fountains to collect fuel. Here, the orders say, we will take passengers, reinforcements, and supplies. Yet why drop depot so far out there, I ask? And I am told, to allow passengers to conduct recon of former site of moon fragment. Is this correct?”

  Borden nods. She’s hearing what she wants to hear.

  “Then comes complete blackout, no more orders, no other explanation, and so we travel on faith, and already we have paid dearly. We get our supplies?”

  “Absolutely,” Borden says.

  Ten more Russians climb down from their worn and damaged vehicles. Most are sergeants or lieutenants. One is a captain, another is a major. Several are female—I think. The Russian skintights are not flattering and carry heavier armor than ours—useless in my estimation, but maybe reassuring to them.

>   Lieutenant Kennedy has exited the sled lander and joined Borden and Kumar. Borden tells him to unload the sled, and Kennedy hustles back with a few experimental leaps—which the Russians scrutinize like weary dogs tracking a squirrel—to let down the high, broad white cylinder. The sled angles away from the lander until its support rails crunch on the hard ground. Then it pops its round cap and begins to roll out vehicles. When the vehicles are out, a pallet of supplies in four plastic containers—about a metric ton’s worth—is winched down from the lander’s cargo deck.

  Kennedy then returns with his little slate. Litvinov studies the slate briefly and signs off. Formalities observed. Apparently even under the current circumstances, and even on Mars, we’re still bound by paperwork.

  Jacobi’s Skyrines have stood in place, observant but hardly calm or patient. Jacobi, Jennings, and Ishida now huddle to speak helm to helm. Borden notices but lets it go. I’m a couple of meters away from this triad of discontent, but I can just make out what they’re saying.

  “I don’t see it,” Ishida says.

  “What’s our real goddamned mission?” Jennings asks. “Looks to me like the only way they could get these dudes to come out here was by promising resupply. I’ll bet the settlements are down to pucker.”

  “And what’s that crap about no Antags within three thousand klicks?” Ishida says. “If not Antags, what hit the Russians? We’re in eclipse and carrying an Ugly tight with Blue—that’s fucking off the drum.” By Blue, Ishida means Navy—Commander Borden. I’m the Ugly—Ugly fucking POG, a stick-beat off the drum and maybe even a Jonah.

  Jacobi catches me looking their way and ends the confab. They split with dark glances. Nobody wants to talk to me. Cheery times.

  More Russians depart the vehicles. There are twenty-five altogether, more than doubling our force. We’re going to need the new transports.

  Within a few minutes, four Russian efreitors, or lance corporals, led by a slender female starshina, or sergeant major, have sliced away the plexanyl packaging and taken charge of a new Trundle, two Tonkas, and a Chesty replete with righteous hurt. The supply pallet is hoisted by crane onto the back of the Trundle.