by Chris Lowry
"It brought me here."
"How the hell are we supposed to get home?" Weber sighed.
"That's what the body bags are for," said Bellhop.
"Who picks those up?" Renard said.
"We got a whole Corp to do that and if you don't can the chatter, you'll all pull duty in it. They don't get to shoot back at the Licks."
A Lick popped up out of the sand and blasted Stoker.
"Ambush!" their voices shouted across the open com.
Weber dropped and spun, firing blasts at the Lick as it slid back into the tunnel under the sand.
The rest of the squad fell to the ground as they searched the perimeter.
It was quiet except for breathing in their helmets.
Renard heard a click on the line.
"Someone. Please," Stoker whimpered. "God help me. Someone."
Renard crawled across the sand towards his smoking body. He could see swirls of sand twirling up off the body as air vented into the atmosphere.
He reached the man but couldn't see his face through the reflective visor, just the burnt hole in his suit that went all the way through.
Suit was fused to flesh, flash sealed for the most part except for tiny leaks. It was impossible for him to be alive, but he was.
"He's still alive," Renard hissed. He hovered over the body.
They didn't cover medical care in training.
The expectation was when you were hit on Mars, you either died or lived.
If you lived they could ship you back on a shuttle. But most died.
"We got that Renard, now shut the fuck up."
"Help me Renard," Stoker gasped. "Please. I don't want to die up here."
"You're going to be alright, Stoker."
"Shut up."
The men searched for more Licks, waited.
Weber shimmied across the sand toward the tunnel hole.
Bellhop slid up next to Renard and pushed him aside so he could tend to Stoker.
Weber reached the edge of the hole, shoved his gun through the sand and squeezed off a few blasts.
Desmond jumped up and ran over to help him. He slammed down into the ground next to him, offered cover.
Weber slid over the side of the hole and landed with a plop at the bottom. He stared into the black expanse of a hole, rolled right.
Blaster bolts seared through the darkness and turned the sand next to him into glass.
Desmond returned fire as Weber rolled upright and shot back. Their blasts filled the darkness with strobes of brilliant energy.
Stoker gripped Renard's arm, dragged him closer.
"Don't leave me out here."
"How the hell is he still breathing?" Bellhop whispered.
"Quiet man," Renard patted Stoker's arm.
"Holy shit."
"I can't feel my legs," Stoker croaked. "Could you make sure my legs are straight?"
Desmond crunched across the sand and knelt next to him.
"They're straight son."
He put a strong hand on Stoker's shoulder and pressed down, reassuring him that they were close.
Weber moved next to Renard and tapped Stoker's visor. The reflective material retracted. Weber gave him a wink and a grin.
“I got that scaly son of a bitch for you Stoker.”
"I'm dying," Stoker told him.
"Why don't you go on and do it then,"
Bellhop sniffed.
They all watched the horizon, the perimeter, eyes roving from the land to the dying man and back up again.
"You got your med kit?" Desmond asked.
"I used all mine," Bellhop answered.
"Renard?"
Renard patted his leg and arm pockets, but all he has is the laser knife hilt.
"I don't know."
"God damn designers," Desmond growled. "Fucking med kits always fall out."
He grabbed the hilt out of Renard's hand and pressed it into Stoker's neck.
"What are you doing?" Renard lunged, but Weber grabbed his arm and dragged him back.
"Sleep tight, son," Desmond said.
"It hurts-"
Desmond cut him off with the blade. It slid through his neck and erupted out of the top of his helmet.
Renard gagged in his helmet.
Weber lifted him up and passed him over to Bellhop.
"Don't do it man," Bellhop walked him a few paces away and made him kneel in the sand. "You throw up in your can and you can't get out of it."
"We could have saved him," Renard gurgled.
"With what?" Bellhop asked. "The med kits have morphine, could have eased his last few minutes, maybe. This stopped it."
"What the hell are we doing?" Renard shouted.
"We're blowing up a gun emplacement,"
Desmond stood next to him and passed the laser knife back to Renard.
"I mean on this fucking planet? Why are we out here? What do we care if a bunch of aliens want to make a home out of this damn place? We don't belong here."
Bellhop moved back to Stoker and helped Weber strip the body of supplies they divvied up.
"You're damn right," Bellhop grabbed Renard by the arm and lifted him up. "So let's go blow the hell out of that god damn laser bank and get the hell up out of here."
Desmond led them back toward the hole with the tunnel.
"They're tracking us," Weber stared into the darkness under the red sand. "They'll pick us off one at a time."
"Where do those tunnels go?"
"We could find out."
Desmond nodded.
"Check the Global first," he turned toward the ship. "See if there are survivors or supplies. You get everything?"
"He's clean," Bellhop answered.
"Let's move out. Eyes open."
"We still don't see them."
"That's going to have to change or we're dead men."
Weber led them toward the Global.
12
They made the shadows of the Global as the sun settled lower in the Martian sky.
This close the damage was extensive, the outline of the ship a massive structure of twisted metal and scorched plating, more an outline of an interplanetary cruiser than actual vessel.
The ground around it rippled in dunes and ridges created by the impact crater.
The ship hit the ground nose first and even as it crumpled the decking, shifted over to fall on one side, breaking in half.
The Marines could see into some of the rooms and cargo bays cracked open to atmosphere and the debris field which spread along the crust of the crater making it difficult to traverse in a straight line.
Three shadow drenched forms detached from the underbelly of one of the metal plates and fought up the side of the crater toward the patrol.
Desmond called a halt with an upheld fist.
"Damn glad to see you," Davis huffed.
He wore a mismatched space suit sealed against the atmosphere, as if hastily donned during a rapid escape. His other two companions were similarly clad.
Their names were painted on their sleeves, veterans of the Mars campaign.
"You boys are a long way from home," Desmond cracked a smile.
He couldn't see their faces through the reflective visors but retracted his.
"Damn automated pilots in the life pods brought us to the Global," Davis huffed as he pulled up in front of Desmond and cleared his visor.
His face was covered in streaks of soot and smoke, but he answered the Marine with a grin of his own.
"Didn't matter where it was. Wouldn't take off with us in it."
He looked up at a blinking light in the sky on the edge of the atmosphere and raised his pistol to send a blast toward it.
"We've tried to recall it," said Davis. "But where we gonna go?
Weber, Bellhop, Renard and Tay moved up to the edge of the crater.
"How many?" Weber asked.
Three more forms moved out of the shadows and scrambled to join the men on the ridge.
"Just six," an
swered Davis. "We were scheduled to go landside Sir."
"Terra firma," the man next to him muttered.
"Your orders have changed," said Desmond. "Ain't nobody coming for you so you're in the shit with us now."
"We've done our tour," Jones argued.
"Then you can wait here. Licks have been trailing us all the way so it's just a matter of time before they show up. Or you can reup with us. You read?"
"Crystal sir."
"Have you set camp? Established a perimeter?"
"We were just under the Global," said Davis.
"God damn it man, I thought you had been in the shit. Weber, drill a hole."
Desmond waved him down into the crater.
"Sir," Weber slid down the sand like he was surfing and moved to the shadows under the Global.
It would be a good place to build a camp for the night, the firm metal of the ship fused to the sand making a solid wall they could set their backs against without fear of the enemy digging through and breaching their fortifications.
"Bellhop. Tay. Establish a line," Desmond continued.
Bellhop and Tay hopped away from the Global to set up sentry duty. They scanned the empty horizon and watched.
The veterans turned around and slid down the slope to join Weber and help him dig a hole under the Global. Renard joined in next to Brooks and Jones.
Desmond bounced down the slope and stood over the foxhole as they finished up.
The light was fading fast and he spoke over the radio.
"Everybody in the hole."
"What about sentries?" Weber glanced at Bellhop and Tay as the men dropped down into the foxhole one by one.
"Everyone. We're too close to separate now."
Desmond moved everyone into the hole and took one last look around before stepping over the side. He landed and sat down in one motion.
Weber keyed the forcefield and sent a shimmering glow across the top of their hiding place.
Within seconds sand and dust drifted across the top obscuring it in the deepening shadows of the night.
13
"We're going to be the first human colony on Mars," Columbus joked.
"I'm not polyamorous," Anne snapped.
"What's that?"
"I can't love more than one man."
"Who said anything about love, Sister wife?"
"There aren't any other sisters here, so it's brother husband."
"Stow it," said Dawson as he scanned the edge of the horizon and compared it to the tablet in his hand.
"Our colony would last until we turned Donner party and ate Columbus."
"Why do you think I'd be the first to get eaten?"
"Your legs," said Dawson. "Lot of meat on those."
"I'm gamey. Besides, what would you cook me with?"
"I've got a signal," the Captain pointed toward the horizon. "One hundred klicks."
"That's two days," Anne breathed. "We don't have enough air to make it."
Dawson checked the read out on his suit.
She was right. They had a twenty-four-hour supply built in. Maybe they could stretch it to twenty-eight by reducing oxygen flow.
That would make the CO2 build up in their suits and impact their ability to move effectively.
He was going to have to do some calculations to determine how much to restrict the flow, but that's something they could accomplish on the move.
The longer they sat at the landing site, the harder it would get further on.
"We can make it in one," he said. "We're going to have to hustle, keep moving forward, but we can make it."
"You don't sound so sure Captain," Columbus said.
"We're out of options, so our choice is to stay here and die or get moving and die. If we move, we have a chance. If we don't, we don't."
"Aye aye," Anne shifted off the rock and began moving in the direction the Captain pointed.
Dawson and Columbus fell in step behind her.
"Three sailors alone in hostile territory headed for a dead ship," Columbus muttered.
"It could be worse," Anne called back.
"How?" Columbus muttered but she didn't answer.
She didn't have to.
14
Davis settled in the sand and leaned his back against the wall. The men around him released their helmets and set them in their laps so he did the same. He stared at Weber across from him.
"I know you."
Weber dug a couple of ration packs out of his leg pocket and leaned forward to pass one to Davis and Renard before he tore into one himself.
"We serve together?"
"I don't think so. I can't place you."
"How long have you been in?"
"I came in after the Citadel."
The men grunted and shook their heads in memory of the battle for Citadel, one of the first Martian conflicts.
The bloody brutal fight had set the tone for the war and left hundreds of thousands of Marines littering the landscape.
"What did you do?"
"Murder one."
"Grand Theft Auto," Jones confessed.
"Hey Renard, what the Hell did you do to end up here?" Bellhop called across the hole.
The baby-faced boy shrugged.
"Street kid."
"They're picking kids up off the street to fight?" Weber sighed.
"Just the slow ones."
"Not too many slower than you," Bellhop smiled.
"What about you?" Davis asked Weber.
His eyes glazed over as he dipped into a memory.
A young girl walked past a group of four street thugs sitting on a car, Weber one of them. His young face belied a world-weary attitude.
"Want to have some fun?"
The largest of the group shoved him off the car.
They fell in behind the girl and moved up on her like wolves surrounding prey. The big one grabbed her by the arm and jerked her in the alley. She began to scream but his meaty paw covered her mouth and choked it off.
"You first," he glared at Weber.
The other boys held her thrashing limbs down, her smooth soft skin scraped against the rough concrete and grit leaving red scratches and trails of blood.
Tears glistened in the streetlight as they ripped off her clothes.
She whimpered.
Weber unbuttoned his pants and climbed on top of her. Her muffled scream echoed in his ear as he pushed inside her.
She glared at him, studying him as he thrust and grunted.
The boys around him grunted and cheered encouragement.
Weber finished and collapsed on top of her.
The large thug grabbed him by the pants and jerked him off the girl.
"My turn," he grunted and put his knees between hers.
They were flooded in a spot light as a loud voice echoed through the alleyway.
"Freeze!"
Policemen in riot gear moved in on them, swinging clubs and deploying tasers.
Weber fell to the asphalt, his head bouncing off the black tarmac and the last thing he saw before darkness claimed him was the staring eyes of the girl.
He woke in the cargo hold of a ship, the ice-cold metal almost frozen to his skin.
He sat up among twenty-five other convicts crammed knee to knee on a row of benches in the narrow bay.
They were all cuffed to a pipe, their hands locked to one side of them as an armed Guard moved down the strip.
Weber tried to move his feet, but they were bound to the floor too. The men around him prayed, while others cried and begged and still more sat in silence.
A red light strobed above the guard and he picked up a radio microphone.
"You are being dropped into an artificial atmosphere. Do not shoot the power field or you will die. Weapons will be dropped after you. Choose one and move to the building at the top of the hill. Your objective is to take that building."
His face was hidden by a black reflective visor that cast a distorted mirror image of the convicts back at them.
They looked almost more like animals than men.
Loose clothing flapped on thin limbs, gaunt cheeks and dry mouths.
Weber felt like he'd been sleeping for a week and he had a headache.
Did they gas him?
"Pray to your maker," the Guard slipped the microphone back into a holder and grabbed a loop in the ceiling.
