Outcast Marines Boxed Set

by James David Victor

  “Hsss!” The woman jumped in her seat, the insect helmet looking at him for a moment, before she revved the engines a little louder and they moved a little faster.

  “Fela?” Solomon prompted. “I know this might be awkward for you, but this is something that we need to know…”

  “I know,” Fela sighed. “Just so long as your lot keep your end of the deal.”

  “What deal?” Solomon said stupidly.

  Fela stamped her foot on the brakes and the caravan lurched to a halt.

  “Hey!” There were thumps and sounds of people falling over each other from Solomon’s earbud communicator.

  “Do you mean to tell me that you don’t know?” Fela was looking up at him again, and then didn’t give him any time to answer. “Why am I surprised. Always the Confederacy. Keep everyone in their little boxes… Only tell them what they need to know to keep doing their jobs…” she grumbled.

  Sounds about right, Solomon thought, if the Ganymede Training Facility was anything to go by.

  “A hundred thousand Confederate credits, in a Confederate off-world account. Luna, maybe. And…” Fela started the engine again. “I want you to promise me that you’ll put an end to all this Chosen ‘First of Mars’ nonsense.”

  “You don’t agree with them?” Solomon said. “I thought they were, like, the mainstream religion here on Mars.”

  “They’re not a religion!” Fela said hotly, throwing the caravan into a fast swerve over a dune. “They’re a bunch of fanatics under that Father Ultor character. Thugs is what they are. Mars don’t need anyone to tell us we’re special, and that we can have everything we want… That Father Ultor is a liar and a cheat, and he’s stirring up trouble for all of us…”

  “Well, he’s sitting in a Confederate max security cell right about now, him and your imprimatur…” Solomon said, hoping to find some way to appease the woman. Maybe she would give him the name of the contact they were supposed to meet.

  “And that’s where you lot messed up. The people here will fight for Father Ultor—the fanatics will, in any case—but they will die for Imprimatur Valance. That’s your real problem. You give her back, and then maybe she can bang some sense into everyone’s heads….” Fela considered for a moment. “You can keep Father Ultor, though. Throw him out an airlock at the first opportunity.”

  “Something that I have considered before,” Solomon murmured, remembering the awkward and bombastic priest during the terrible negotiations on Titan. He had been spoiling for a fight with the Confederacy even then.

  “Ha. Good. At least we can agree on that, then…” Fela stated. “Marshal. That’s the name of your contact. He runs an electronics store in Manhattan Square. He’ll be able to take you to the Chosen’s hideout.”

  7

  I Hate to Burst your Bubble…

  Tharsis Tholus rose ahead of them as Fela’s caravan made its slow way up the ramp to the opening in the cliff walls, where low hangar bays stretched across the gap.

  “It’s busy…” Solomon said over his communicator, his eyes watching the ships and the hover-craft that were busy surrounding the entrance to Armstrong Habitat. A steady line of other caravans were arriving and leaving, and there appeared to be a whole lot more of the Outriders standing at the hangar bay doors, inspecting and checking papers. Solomon could see red flags hanging from every available banner pole and aerial, many of which had the hammer over the planet sigil of the Chosen of Mars.

  “They’re preparing for war,” Fela answered him grimly. “You have to get below, here…” The older woman shifted in her seat and kicked at the back panel she had been leaning against, for it to open to reveal a tiny, one-person airlock. “Get in!”

  “What if they ask to see your cargo?” Solomon asked worriedly. “We already have our story straight…”

  “Let me deal with that, soldier…” Fela growled, nodding at the airlock hatch once more. “Now get in, before they spot you!”

  “Fela… I need to know…” Solomon growled. Was the old woman going to sell him and his team out? How much would she be rewarded for capturing Confederate Marines—even the Outcasts?

  “Solider-boy. You have to trust me, or else this isn’t going to work.” Fela’s insect helmet looked at him steadily.

  “Trust you?” Solomon couldn’t even remember the time that he last trusted someone. Trust wasn’t a resource that he was particularly rich in.

  “Just as I trust you not to get me killed, I hope that you will do the same courtesy. Now get!” she demanded, and it seemed that Solomon had no choice, as Fela was already wheeling their caravan into the line.

  Dammit! Solomon crawled into the cupboard-like space as the water surveyor banged the hatch behind him, and he heard the pressure seals cycle, then a green light came on and there was a cranking sound. In a moment, he was blinded by the glare of the caravan’s internal lights, and Kol was pulling him from the booth to spill out into the cramped hold, next to crates and boxes and bits of equipment.

  “How ya doing, boss?” Kol clapped him on the shoulder, grinning. In front of him, Jezzy and Karamov were seated on large crates, holding their pistols and looking as worried as he felt. Only the youngest of their party, Kol, appeared to be relishing the adventure.

  “We’re sitting ducks,” Jezzy proclaimed after Solomon had removed his helmet and explained what was happening. Even through the thick metal hide, they could hear the whine and burn of the machines around them as the caravans shunted forward and dropships swam over the habitat like a horde of very busy and very angry hornets.

  “And this Marshal… Did Fela explain her connection to him? How she knew him? How come he knows all the Chosen’s secrets?” Jezzy was demanding, to which Solomon could only shrug.

  “I don’t like it any more than the rest of you…” he said, just as there was a knock on the outside metal of the caravan, and they fell silent.

  Solomon crept to the hidden airlock cupboard he had just cycled through, to hear murmuring from above as the Outrider guards questioned, and he was sure that he recognized the crackly voice of Fela answering.

  More bangs on the hull of the caravan, moving around them in a circle. Solomon’s eyes tracked the sounds as he took out his pistol, and very, very slowly released the safety.

  What’s Marine Corps protocol for getting captured? he asked himself. Name and rank, wasn’t it? That was what his command lessons had taught him. That they all had the right to a fair and free trial under a martial court, and they couldn’t be mistreated…

  But then again, we did just kidnap and incarcerate the leader of the Chosen of Mars as well as the spokesperson of the entire planet… Solomon considered as the banging approached the main airlock door and stopped. I wonder how forgiving they will be when they realize who we are.

  Everyone held their breath. They waited for the airlock to hiss open, for people with rifles to step in, for there to be a shout of alarm, or a warning klaxon—

  Thump-thump! But then someone shouted and thumped on the hull a couple of times, and they were moving again—but to where?

  “Everyone, just be cool…” Solomon whispered as the sounds outside grew more muted. Had they entered Armstrong? With just silent nods and gestures, Solomon arrayed his team around the airlock door, crouching behind the packing crates and in the corners of the rooms with their pistols leveled at the entrance, and waited.

  Kla-Thunk! With a hiss of steam, the door opened, and they were looking through the small airlock booth at the now un-helmeted face of an older woman with long hair that had once been black but was now giving over to silver and gray.

  “Huh. Should have known you wouldn’t trust me,” she said dismissively when she saw the guns, shrugging as she turned from the open door.

  “Looks like we’re here,” Solomon said, and led the way as he gingerly exited the caravan. They had arrived in a city about to go to war.

  “Straight up that ramp,” Fela directed them to the largest concrete avenue that led upward
s from the underground hangar bay that their caravan and numerous others were parked in. The air was filled with the smell of machine oil and lubricants, mixing a little sickly with the scent of roasting meat and fresh coffee as the other caravan workers settled down in their machines for the night.

  “Where’s this place we have to get to? Manhattan Square?” Solomon was asking, clipping his helmet to his belt. Armstrong was entirely pressurized, he was glad to see, and it was warmed by the geothermal vents in the old volcano far below them.

  “Just keep on going. The ramp leads up to Sena Avenue, and you’re going straight down that until you see a statue, and you turn right. Manhattan is the next square along,” Fela grumbled, already turning back to the caravan and starting to unload bits of equipment from its hull. “Just remember what you promised!” she muttered to Solomon. “Put an end to this mess. Stop it from happening.”

  “We will,” Solomon said, although he knew that he couldn’t promise such a thing. He was about to turn when, no… He forced himself to turn back and speak to the old woman.

  “Ma’am? Fela. One thing.” He stepped up to her to speak in a low voice. “What about you? When the Marines come…” Solomon remembered the image of the super-large pyramid dreadnaughts. They could firestorm this habitat from high orbit. They could land their entire battle group around Tharsis, and there wouldn’t be anything that Mars could do about it…

  “That’s what you’re here for, right?” Fela looked at him in annoyance. “What do you want me to do? Hightail it out of Armstrong and live out there on the Red for the rest of my life? How long do you think one old woman will survive, even with my caravan?” Fela shook her head, her anger dissipating into seriousness. “Just get it done. Stop the war. Put an end to this fool madness that’s taken over everyone…”

  “Right.” Solomon felt oddly touched by the woman’s plight. Even though she hadn’t been particularly nice to him (at all) or to any of them, she was still one older woman putting her life on the line, under a sky that could rupture with flame and fire at any moment. And all because she wanted to see her community free of fanatics.

  And for a hundred thousand Confederate credits, Solomon reminded himself. Fela might be a closet altruist, but that doesn’t mean she’s stupid.

  “Thank you,” he said, and led the members of his Gold Squad up the ramp.

  Armstrong was bright, and Solomon wondered how until he realized that most of the triangular panels of the outer geodesic dome far above them were actually made out of a thin, photo-sensitive membrane that allowed natural light in, like a greenhouse.

  It was also as hot as a greenhouse, he thought as he pulled at the heavy poncho he was wearing and was even about to take it off when Kol stopped him by putting his hand on his commander’s arm.

  “Huh?”

  “Look, Commander…” Kol nodded at the other Martian civilians that hurried and bustled around them, and Solomon saw what he was getting at.

  The main avenue in the heart of this part of the habitat—Sena Avenue, as the water surveyor had called it—was wide enough for two double-lanes of hover and electric shuttle traffic to move at a snail’s pace up and down the center, with the avenues lined with boutique shops and what looked to be Mediterranean cafes and bistros. Solomon even saw ceramic pots of bay trees, thyme, and lavender sitting outside the establishments, as the Martian civilians hustled up and down the street.

  Not everyone wore their Martian robes, Solomon saw. In fact, only a little over half of the people that he saw actually wore them, but that wasn’t why Kol was insistent that they keep theirs on. It was the fact that the ochre, orange, and reddish robes of varying cuts and styles were so demonstrably worn, and that many citizens had even added the emblem of the hammer over the planet sigil on their backs or their breast.

  Still more insignia of the Chosen were daubed in red paint here and there on available blank walls. And everywhere—from the tiny sugar pots of the cafés to hanging from the back antennas of the electric shuttles—there could be seen more generic red flags of Mars.

  This was a city in the grip of a war fever, and it looked to Solomon as though the red robes and blatant ‘Martianism’ was the order of the day, if they didn’t want to stand out. As Solomon surreptitiously watched the hurrying people around him, he saw that most Martians wore cheap encounter suits or overalls, indicating their status as some kind of industrial worker or miner, and that these people were also the most likely to be wearing the Chosen insignia.

  And everyone is understandably stressed… He saw another bickering argument break out between the owner of a café and one of her waiters. But Mars society had also been growing and developing for the last sixty years or so, and so he could also see the makings of a rudimentary middle class, and even a few ‘elite’ Martians stepping out of stretch shuttles or talking noisily on the data-screens, all the while wearing crisp business suits.

  But Mars was overwhelmingly an industrial planet, and one that was obstinate, Solomon came to the conclusion. And from the look of all of the flags, Solomon thought, they might also be becoming more than a little paranoid, too…

  “BWAAARRR!” The sudden sound of a klaxon made them all jump, but the rest of the crowd didn’t seem to pay it any mind. Solomon identified the source of the noise as a speaker mounted high on a wall overlooking one part of Sena Avenue.

  “ATTENTION, BROTHERS AND SISTERS OF MARS! MARTIAL CURFEW BEGINS IN ONE HOUR. REPEAT: ONE HOUR UNTIL MILITARY CURFEW… ALL CITIZENS MUST BE IN THEIR HOMES AT OH-EIGHT-HUNDRED HOURS… ALL CITIZENS MUST CARRY THEIR IDENTIFICATION PAPERS ON THEM AT ALL TIMES! LONG LIVE THE RED!”

  “What time is it now?” Solomon breathed to Kol beside him, who looked around until he saw a clock over one of the buildings. The entirety of Armstrong Habitat appeared to be built on one level, with the rising lines of other red-rock buildings further ahead of them. Solomon could make out the startlingly white building of the imprimatur’s palace between the edges of buildings, as well as tall metal towers, clustered with antennas and dishes.

  “Seven.” Kol nodded.

  Then they had an hour to find this Marshal and get under cover, Solomon thought. Unless they wanted to have fun explaining to the Martian guards just what their forged identity papers meant…

  “Come on…” Solomon started to jog down the avenue with the others behind him, which blended right in with the high level of anxiety amongst the other Martian civilians.

  “Hghr!” They had reached the end of Sena Avenue to find a small courtyard with a statue as the central piece of a white-fountain. Absurdly, it was a statue of an over-large Mars rover—one of the earliest ones sent up there in the twenty-first century, Solomon saw, and from its tracked feet flowed clear water.

  But that wasn’t what had drawn Solomon’s attention. It was a group of the Martian Outriders, still wearing their insect helmets and their heavy robes even though the interior of Armstrong was breathable and warm, and they were surrounding somebody.

  Thwack. Solomon flinched when he heard the dull thwack of a fist against flesh. He hunched his shoulders and kept walking, before a whimper of a voice called out, “Help!”

  Solomon slowed his footsteps.

  “Chief, what are you doing?” It was Kol, looking alarmed at their leader’s indecision. Karamov and Wen had also slowed to a halt, looking at Solomon with shadowed, uptight eyes.

  “It wasn’t me! I’m innocent, I swear!” came a cry from behind the huddle of guards, followed by another resounding slap. The Outrider guards moved, broke ranks as they pushed the crowds out of the way, and there, Solomon could clearly see who they had been tormenting. It was a boy, no older than fifteen or sixteen perhaps, dressed in the shabby red and ochre industrial work clothes of any other Martian youth, but with a red mark on one side of his face, and blood pooling from a cut to his lip.

  “This boy was found stealing food rations from the stalls!” one of the insect-headed Martian Outriders called out to the crowd. “What a lac
k of moral fiber that shows!”

  “I don’t like this…” Solomon muttered, feeling his chest tighten. He had always had a short fuse, and it was always triggered by authority figures acting like bullies. He didn’t know why he was like that. Maybe it was the hazy memories that he didn’t really recall of a father back home somewhere in the American Midwestern Confederacy. Or maybe Solomon just had a hard time dealing with authority…

  “Sir… Don’t…” Kol warned.

  “We’re at war, son!” the Outrider guard turned and screamed at the youth, who just stood there with lower lip quivering and the watchful nervousness on his face of one of the young when faced with a force that was older and much more powerful than they were.

  “You think you got more of a right to that ration pack than the stall holders? You think you’re special, do you, son?” the Outrider was roaring, taking a step toward the boy.

  Solomon found his hands balling into fists at his side.

  “This would never happen if the imprimatur was still here…” the specialist commander overheard one of the watching, aghast Martian citizens mutter to their neighbor.

  “It’s these Chosen of Mars—they’ve taken over!” their neighbor agreed.

  “Stealing food is a crime, lad…” The Outrider loomed in front of the boy now, and the three other guards were standing in a rough semi-circle around the confrontation, holding their rifles across their chests.

  “In any other time, we’d fine you, clip you around the ear, and send you home to your parents… But now that we’re at war…” the Outrider’s voice dropped. “Stealing rations is about as close to treason as you can get, lad…”

  “Hey, boss!” It was Kol, tugging on Solomon’s upper arm now. “What are you doing?”

  The commander looked down, seeing red for a moment before he realized that he had taken a step toward the scene, and his hand had slipped under his poncho to the pistol at his hip.