“You brought this on yourselves,” Archard said. He felt no regret. Not after the Zabinskis, and the attack on the colony.
Increasing the EDM drive, he accelerated toward the caldera opening far above.
The RAM acted up as soon as Archard cleared the volcano. All systems still read green but the thrusters sputtered every now and then. The power level showed the RAM at fifteen percent. Low, but not low enough to cause the sputtering. He would recharge in New Meridian and hopefully be good to go for the next phase.
He tried to get through to the colony but—big surprise—no one answered.
Weary to his marrow, he limped along, so to speak. Whenever the RAM sputtered, he tensed, dreading the worst, but the battle suit kept going.
Archard doubted his attack on Albor Tholus would end the conflict. The events of the past couple of days were more likely the beginning of a broader clash that would turn Mars into a battlefield.
If the Martians were anything like humans, they would want to retaliate. Not just at New Meridian but at Wellsville and Bradbury. It was imperative he get word to the other colonies.
He was a quarter of a kilometer out when his earphones crackled.
“...tain…hear…me?”
“Private Everett, is that you?” Archard quickly responded. “I read you, but you’re breaking up.”
“Sir…” Everett said, and added more that came through in snatches.
“You’re breaking up,” Archard repeated. “Say again?”
Abruptly, electronic manna from heaven, their connection cleared.
“Sir, we’ve completed our sweep. We checked all the buildings and didn’t find anyone else.”
“Not a single soul?”
“No, sir. We found a lot of bodies and arms and legs. But the thing is, some are missing.”
“How’s that again?” Archard thought the Kentuckian was referring to their heads.
“Some of the houses have holes in the floors so we know the Martians were there. But there weren’t any bodies. No blood, nothing. Dr. Dkany thinks they were taken captive.”
Archard swore. “How many?
“No way to be sure. I’d guess up to thirty personnel.”
There was nothing Archard could do. Given the vastness of the Martian underground, he’d need a small army to ferret the captives out. For now, he must concentrate on the few he could save. “Are the spare power cells charged?’
“Yes, sir. Everything is as you wanted. Extra food. Extra water. Extra ammo. The tank will be crammed.”
“Can’t be helped,” Archard said. “Put some soup on. I want to head out as soon as possible.”
“You must be hungry enough to eat a Martian,” Everett quipped.
“Put out food for all of us,” Archard said. “A last meal to tide us over.”
“Got you,” Everett said, and clicked off.
Since reception had been so clear, Archard tried to raise the other colonies. He should have known better.
At night, the dome’s golden sheen was more of a dull bronze. Everything seemed peaceful until Archard was close enough to see through the tint. The Broadcast Center roof was a shambles. The Administrative Center had a large hole in the rear wall. Other buildings had also sustained damage. Torsos and legs sprinkled the streets.
Archard was glad to finally land. He clunked through the main airlock to find Katla and Private Pasco waiting. “You should have stayed at headquarters.”
“Dr. Dkany wanted to come,” Pasco said, “and Everett said she shouldn’t do it alone so I came with her.”
“Such a gallant gentleman you are,” Katla said.
Archard had to grin when the young Spaniard blushed. “What’s the latest?”
“We haven’t seen any sign of the Martians since you lured them away,” Katla said.
“They’ll be back,” Archard declared with absolute conviction.
“Let’s hope we’re long gone by then, sir,” Private Pasco said.
“I hear that,” Archard said.
46
Only when he had climbed out of the RAM did Archard appreciate how close he had come. The armor was dented and scratched all over. Some of the dents went in over a centimeter. Where the blue creature had gripped the suit’s forearms were deep grooves.
Repair and recharging would take the better part of an hour.
Archard was annoyed by the delay but it couldn’t be helped. The RAM must be in top shape. Their lives depended on it.
They ate quickly. The others were curious about the volcano so he gave them an abbreviated version.
“We’ve sure been lucky,” Pasco said at the end.
“How do you figure?” Everett said.
“That blue thing the captain fought,” Pasco said. “What if an army of them had attacked New Meridian instead of the smaller ones?”
“They still might,” Everett said.
Archard saw to rearming the RAM personally. Perched on a ladder, he was sliding a magazine into an aperture in the housing when a hand touched his foot.
“I’m happy you made it back safe,” Katla said.
“Makes two of us.”
“We’re taking a terrible gamble.”
“Less than if we stay.”
“Do you really believe we’ll make it?”
Archard stopped working. “It’s twelve hundred kilometers to Wellsville. The tank’s range with a full charge is eight hundred. Loaded down as we’re going to be, I’d reduce that to seven. Which leaves us five hundred kilometers short.”
“All we have to do is recharge,” Katla pointed out. “That’s what the solar collectors are for.”
“Recharging can take a full day. Longer, if the sky isn’t clear. A delay we can’t afford if the Martians come after us.”
“Ah,” Katla said.
Archard patted the RAM. “At low power, I can push the tank all day and all night without depleting the suit’s reserves.”
“Or the tank’s.”
“Exactly. I’ll push you halfway there, and the tank can make the rest of the trip under its own power. With me keeping guard.”
“Our protector,” Katla said. “What happens once we get there? What will Governor Blanchard do? Order the planet abandoned?”
“Hardly. Earth’s governments have too much invested. Their only recourse is to send up more troops.”
“All-out war?” Katla shuddered.
Archard climbed down and took her in his arms. “I won’t let anything happen to you.”
“It’s not that. It’s the killing. I thought we had outgrown barbarism.”
“What’s barbaric about defending ourselves?” Archard countered. “We didn’t start this.”
“An honest-to-God war of the worlds,” Katla said sadly.
Archard tried to lighten her mood with, “They don’t call it the Red Planet for nothing.”
Katla groaned.
Two hours later, they were underway.
Snug in the RAM, Archard waited for the tank to drive through the main airlock. He gazed at New Meridian for what might be the last time. An eerie stillness prevailed. He felt a profound sense of guilt at abandoning the colony he was supposed to protect. Were he the last man standing, he’d be tempted to stay and defend it with his dying breath. But he wasn’t. Six other lives were at stake, to say nothing of the hundreds of colonists at Wellsville and Bradbury.
Archard had to stoop to enter the airlock, the RAM was so big. “All set, sir,” his helmet crackled as he emerged.
Private Everett had turned off the tank and put it in neutral.
“Here we go.” Archard placed the RAM’s armored hands flat against the rear of the tank, and pushed. It was ridiculously easy. No strain whatsoever. “I leave the steering to you. Try not to hit anything.”
“I won’t, sir. But I can’t promise Pasco won’t when it’s his turn to drive.”
“Hey,” Pasco said.
Tires crunching, the tank crawled forward across the vast Martian terrain.<
br />
Archard had little doubt they would reach Wellsville. Word would be relayed to Earth, and reinforcements would be sent. He imagined an entire battalion, with half-a dozen RAM’s. Then it would be Earth’s turn to unleash devastating payback.
Look out, Martians. Here we come.
FINI
Read on for a free sample of Red Carbon
1
At 4:38 a.m. Rothschild Standard Time, Sandeep "Dip" Benegal opened up the v-mail he had received in the night and watched for four minutes as his brother-in-law filled him in on his sister's condition. When the video cut him off in mid-sentence, Dip figured it was just another hiccough in the notoriously crappy signal.
Although no one would realize it for another couple of hours, this was the first sign any of the employees in Mining Colony Miranda had that something had gone terribly wrong on Earth.
2
In her previous life, Annabeth Crick had been a fast food worker. She regularly put up with customers that thought she was lower than dog shit, dealt with managers who thought their different colored shirts made them superior despite the fact that she had a college education while they hadn't even finished high school, and would often come home at the end of the night with a thin coating of grease on her arms that she could scrape off with her nails. Even considering her profession now, she still considered it the worst job she'd ever had. But there were occasionally little annoyances in this job that made her long for a life of frying burgers. Such as right now, for example, when she had just finished putting her entire bulky environment suit on, including the helmet, before she looked over at the floor near her client's bed and realized she had forgotten to put on her underwear.
She unlatched the seals on her helmet and then undid her gloves. Despite the fact that there was nothing sexy about her suit or the hurried way she removed it, her client, Mikhail Svensson, grinned at her from his prone place on the bed as though she were repeating the striptease she had performed for him hours earlier.
"Decided to stay for a little overtime?" he asked. He gestured at the time clock on his wall. As much as she wanted to smack that look right off his face, she found herself grateful for the comment anyway, since her frilly panties weren't the only thing she had almost left without. Her tiny plastic time card was still in the clock. If she'd walked out without it and this ass had done something to it, then she wouldn't just lose her pay for last night but for all of last week as well. Time cards were like magic talismans in Miranda- they kept starvation and eviction away in the same way environment suits staved off the deadly elements.
Annabeth grabbed the timecard, put it in the carrying pocket on the left side of her suit, then continued pulling the suit off. It would have been much easier if she just put the underwear in the pocket as well, but nothing in the pockets received the same protection from the elements that it would inside the suit itself. She'd made the mistake of stuffing a bra that she had forgotten in a similar manner into the pocket once. The tiny bits of moisture on it had resulted in the bra freezing into a hard clump after she'd gone outside. Thawing it out and smoothing it back into a recognizable shape had taken longer than she was willing to deal with now.
Even as she continued to strip off the suit, Svensson seemed to lose interest in her. He extricated his pasty naked body from the sheets, stretched, then stood up and walked to his personal kitchen unit with an extra bounce in his step that could have either been from the post-coital bliss or from forgetting to walk more carefully in the lower gravity. Either way, certain parts of him jiggled in ways that Annabeth wasn't in the mood to watch.
What she did watch as she struggled out of the suit and pulled off her jumpsuit underneath, however, was his breakfast. His kitchen was barely worth the name, containing only a small stove, a mini-fridge, and a counter that had a few cupboards under it. However, this small nook in his apartment was still more than most people in Miranda had. Unlike Annabeth, who would have to make her way to the central mess hall soon, this guy actually got to make food for himself. He pulled out a small pitcher that appeared to contain some kind of juice and poured himself a glass – a real glass, not one of the air-tight sippy cup things everyone else got – then took out a pan, put it on the burner, and removed from the fridge…
"Is that an egg?" Annabeth asked. Despite her attempt to sound disinterested, her voice came out almost reverent.
Svensson grinned at her as he held it over the pan. "I have a second one, if you want it. You'll, uh, have to pay for it though."
Annabeth wanted to scoff at the idea, but suddenly she felt her stomach rumbling as she imagined that rich protein taste on her tongue. There were no chickens here, no livestock of any kind. This egg had been shipped here special. Math wasn't her strong suit, but she could come up with a very rough estimate of how much it was worth. The fuel, the planning, the engineering that it would have taken just to get that egg here in one piece, it had to cost thousands of United States dollars. In Rothschild company scrip, it would be worth more than she would earn during her entire five year stay in Miranda. She didn't want to think about all the depraved things this jackass would expect her to do in payment.
Still though, she hesitated to say no. It was an egg. An honest to God egg. Just one bite would be all she needed to clear her mind of that God-awful protein slop they served in the mess hall. Not even Leah Hartnup had access to something like this.
"I'll…" She forced the word to come out of her mouth. She was surprised at just how much effort it took. "…pass."
Svensson shrugged. Annabeth could tell from his shit-eating smirk that he knew just how close she had come to saying yes. She was sure she would pay for it later. At some point in the future she would have to service this ass again, and didn’t like the thought that next time he might have something that could break her will.
The phone charging on Svensson's wall rang as Annabeth shimmied out of her jumpsuit. This thankfully occupied him as she bent over, naked from the waist down and pulled on her underwear. She didn't want him ogling her when he wasn't paying. He picked the phone up and asked what the hell the person on the other end wanted at this hour. Annabeth tried not to listen in on his conversation, since she didn't really care about or want to get involved in any of the petty drama among the management types.
"Well, so the fuck what?" he asked the phone. "Coms go down all the time. Why would I want to interrupt my breakfast for that?"
Someone mumbled something Annabeth couldn't hear, but whatever he said it must have struck a nerve. He looked over at Annabeth, then turned away from her. When next he spoke, it was in a voice slightly above a whisper.
"Look, I'm not alone… Yeah, that's right… So just give me a few minutes and I'll be right over."
Annabeth had gotten the legs of her environment suit back on by the time he hung up. "Okay sweetheart, time for you to get the hell out of here," he said. "Chop chop. I've got to get back to the business of keeping all your sorry asses alive." He actually snapped his fingers at her and pointed at the outer door. Annabeth resisted the urge to say something rude and obnoxious. Instead, she moved faster to get her environment suit back on. He dressed in his own jumpsuit, one that was decidedly newer and sleeker than her own, then stood tapping his foot impatiently at the inner door while she took a moment to inspect her suit for tears. He wouldn't need an environment suit to leave his apartment- the inner door led right into the administration wing- but if he had, Annabeth was sure it would be one of the slender, top of the line suits designed only a few years ago specifically to protect against all manner of hazards in any given emergency situation. Annabeth didn't have that luxury. When she had first arrived here three years ago, she'd been assigned an old and bulky repurposed Russian suit that had likely been made before she was even born. If something ripped at an inopportune moment, the tear wouldn't fill with emergency foam to keep the suit from depressurizing. Instead, she would have to run for the nearest shelter and hope someone would let her in before she asphyxiated
or her blood started to boil.
When she was satisfied that she wouldn't die (at least not immediately) when she walked out the door, she finally went to the outer exit, pressed the button next to it, and walked into the airlock beyond. She looked back through the viewport in the door to see Svensson going through the inner door. That was odd. She'd never known one of the management types to leave her alone when she could still get back into the apartment. They had this paranoid idea that the "physical employees" of Miranda such as herself were just waiting for the perfect opportunity to rob them blind. In fact, given how much she disliked this dick, she had half a mind to do exactly that. Jeanette Weasel (she insisted that was her real name, although Annabeth doubted it) ran a healthy black market and Annabeth was sure she would pay some serious scrip for what Svensson had lying around his apartment.
But Annabeth really didn't want to lower herself to that level. She might rent her body out every night, but she had her standards. And she was too unnerved by Svensson's actions. She couldn't help but think something had to be wrong for him to leave that quickly. And something wrong in a place like Miranda meant there was something wrong for everybody.
She tried to push it from her mind. This was not her business. Her business was concluded until she got the next call from somebody with a little extra scrip to spend. Now it was time to simply go home and get some real sleep.
She pressed the button to depressurize the airlock and then, after putting her visor down against the sun rising on the horizon, stepped out onto the cold and desolate red desert that made up the entirety of the planet Mars.
Red Carbon is available from Amazon here
Battlefield Mars Page 12
