Last Life (Lifers Book 1)

by Thomas,Michael G.

  Fifty years ago their gear was the best equipment available, and solely for military use. Twenty years ago it was old, but at least it functioned. Now it was outdated. Rumored to be available on the black market to any prospector or wildcat driller who arrived on the planet looking to make himself rich. The Martians developed new and better gear every year.

  Noah waited, monitoring the ridge a kilometer away. His hands fidgeted, but he forced himself to stay still. They'd fight if they had to, but if there were a chance of allowing the enemy to move past, he'd take it. They were too few, and the Martians too many. Too well equipped, with better weapons, faster, and more mobile armored vehicles. He switched the display to the tactical map of the local area, and for the hundredth time, regarded the target, the massive refinery.

  All this started over goddamned deuterium!

  He sighed. Deuterium was a word they’d come to despise. They said the so-called wonder material would improve all their lives. It had for a few decades, but then everything changed. As the techs went where the money beckoned, Earth became a forgotten land, a land of hard times, and even harder people. They hated their governments and their failing industries.

  There was one thing they hated more. Every nation on Earth looked at the sky and swore eternal vengeance on the Martians who’d plundered their wealth. The planet colonized by Earth had turned on its founders and robbed them, made the mother planet an inferior backwater. They wanted it back. Mars was theirs. They colonized it, put up massive sums to pay for the early missions, and what had they got in return? Poverty, squalor, failing infrastructure, backward technology, and living standards hitting the floor.

  Lieutenant Noah Cage’s thoughts returned Earthside, to the final briefing many months before. It had all seemed so achievable then, when Major Hartmann, leading a combined arms detachment, had spelt it all out to the platoon leaders. Hartmann was glib and persuasive. He was the son of the famed General Marius Hartmann, veteran of the First and Second Martian Wars. He’d survived two defeats, yet brought many of his soldiers home. He’d vowed to go back, to lead Mars Recon II to victory, and his son was no less assured.

  “You men are the best of the best. There’s not one trooper in the entire Solar System can stand against you. You Lifers will be at the front of the action, and this time, we’re going all the way.” He’d paused, to allow a smattering of applause to die down. He cut an elegant figure, tall, slim, and a uniform tailored to perfection. A thin face, with a long nose dominated his features.

  He couldn’t help that. A pity he wasn’t a Lifer. The first New Life would have been a chance for the techs to give him a proboscis a little less prominent.

  “Each of you officers will lead a platoon of our Special Forces operators. You’ll notice there are no rookies amongst the assault platoons.” They glanced around and nodded to themselves. Every man present, save for Hartmann displayed the characteristics of a Lifer. Arms and legs bulging with cybernetic muscle, hands showing NuSkin, the part-organic material that covered sophisticated replacement limbs.

  “The first wave, that’s you, will be all Lifers. Your pain and experience will count for more than tech and toys. We’re going to roll all over the bastards. Those rebels are history.” Some of the men cheered.

  “Your task is to hit those mutineers where it counts, in the wallet. Knock out the source of their wealth and strength, the deuterium processing plant. When it’s all over we’ll rebuild, and believe me, men, the rewards will be big. We intend to maintain a strong garrison on Mars, and each of you gets the first chance of the plum jobs.” He’d looked up, and the nose was like an old-fashioned blackboard pointer, “I can tell you now, the pay will be,” he paused again for effect, “Astronomical.”

  Cage and his unit endured a grueling, five-month journey to the planet, using the oldest of Interplanetary Cycler ships, known as the Red Star. There were eight of these massive floating stations, all of them built during a period of two decades. Each Cycler moved on a continuous orbit that intersected the two planets over a period of between two and twelve years, before continuing onward in its indefinite cycle around the two planets. Though initially expensive, the Cycler ships provided a never-ending transport loop. Transport that was the lifeline of industry and commerce, for the technicians who decided to make a new life, and on occasion, the military who brought strength and their guns to defend it.

  The nominally neutral Interplanetary Transportation Consortium ran the system, as well as the Cyclers between Mars and the new colonies throughout the much of the Solar System. The Consortium monopoly allowed the transportation of any personnel or supplies, and detachment into local orbit over any of the colonized planets or moons. Competition was non-existent, and the price steep. Both sides used the network, for there were no other economical choices. The Consortium was jealous in protecting its property and its business and had the weapons and tools to match.

  Two of the Cycler ships provided express speed five-month outbound trips to Mars, while two more did the same back to Earth. The downside of a quick trip in one direction was that it took up to two years to complete the remainder of the ship’s orbit. That's where the slower intermediary Cyclers came in. These four ships filled in the gaps, but at a price of vastly longer trip times in both directions. It was an elegant and efficient way of moving goods from planet to planet, with transit times cut to around five months in each direction, albeit via a complex and often arbitrary schedule.

  The ship still bore signs of battle. Over the last few years, troops from both sides had tried to take over the vessel, and repairs were still not complete. They'd lost half their stores while docking the two shuttles with the Cycler as it passed by Earth. The launches had been trouble from the start, and faulty thrusters almost caused them to miss the rendezvous, and the mission.

  “Lt.” He turned, to see Rob, Sergeant Romero had moved next to him, and their helmets touched so he could communicate without sending out electronic emissions. “Did we go through five months of boredom for this?” He spoke in a murmur, beneath sound detection level.

  He’s nervous. Waiting is always the worst time, and he’s trying to calm his nerves. I have to get support, or we’re screwed. His pretty wife, Rose is Earthside, waiting and wondering. I can’t let her down.

  “Boredom maybe, but there’s no other way to get here, Sergeant. And to get back.”

  “You think we’ll make it back?” He didn’t answer, and Rob went on, his voice angry, “All those training drills, lectures on tactics and strategy telling us how to fight in the alien environment of the planet. Telling us vets how to smash the opposition and restore the planet to its rightful ownership. For what, for this?”

  He kept his tone patient. His friend had a right to be upset. “It’s what we do, Rob. We’re soldiers, Lifers. They give us the crap jobs no one else can take on.”

  “You reckon we’re gonna win this one?” He spread out his hands to encompass their position, cut off in the boonies, without support, and with inferior equipment. They were too few, and the enemy too many, “They never did tell us who the rightful owners of the planet are. Is it Earth, or PanAm, or some shady corporation that lurks in the shadows? Who are we fighting for, our planet, our country, or big business? Which one?”

  “We’re in the service of PanAm, the federation of nation states that make up the North and South American continent. They say we’re fighting for Earth as well, for all humanity.”

  “You believe that?”

  “We’re soldiers, Rob. We carry out orders. That’s what I believe. I ain't got time for anything else.”

  They all knew it was bullshit. They also knew they’d been sold a bill of goods. From the moment they landed, the enemy outgunned and outfought them. The Lifers had gone ahead of the Marine battalions and lost over a hundred soldiers, many destroyed beyond repair. In spite of everything, they’d fought all the way from the commercial Boreum III Spaceport, broken out into the frozen Northern Plain region, home of the plum p
rize, the Chasma Boreale Refinery. To find the enemy hordes ready and waiting for them as they moved out from the spaceport.

  They'd pulled back and waited for reinforcements to arrive, but the troops never came. After weeks of waiting, fighting off constant attacks, they’d taken too many casualties and were running low on ammo. Even worse, the Martians had destroyed many transports, and calls for replacements met a deafening silence.

  The rookie units were long gone, and Major Joshua Hartmann made the decision for four of the remaining Lifer units to push on and hit the Chasma Boreale Refinery. The Martians were looking the other way, hunting down any troops still fighting near the spaceport. The mission was a gamble, but if they made it, they might be able to put an end to this war at a stroke. The refinery was a bargaining chip, and once they had it, they had no intention of letting it go. They disengaged from the fighting and advanced on the target. Leaving their dead where they fell.

  Now Cage’s platoon was the target. Their life support systems were almost running on empty. The mission had already lasted three weeks longer than scheduled. With no transports or access to charging equipment, they’d be out of power in days. Yet within spitting distance of the richest source of deuterium in the Solar System, the air they breathed was increasingly foul. It was time to end this, and go home. Or die. Right now, Cage didn't care if that was sitting in a comfortable seat or inside a body bag, as long as the air was clean and the temperature warm.

  “Heads up, sensors show we have incoming. It looks like one of their drones may have found us.”

  “Copy that.”

  He risked a quick peek over the lip and watched an armed RedCorp drone approach their position. If they got within range, the onboard guns would open fire, and more of his soldiers would die. It would also call in the armored carriers, and they’d be swamped. The drone kept on moving, its bug-eye like camera scanning the canyon for signs of the Earth soldiers. Rob was still with him, waiting for orders.

  “Sergeant, what do we have left to take out that thing?”

  A snort of derision came back. “You’re kidding me, right? Most of our missiles are gone, and if we bring it down, all it’ll do is tell the bastards exactly where we are."

  "So the best we can hope for is a lucky shot to bring it down, and then we'll have the RedCorp military down here."

  "Yeah, they'll send in an entire company of troopers. Like I said, we’re screwed. Lt, do something for me…”

  “What is it?”

  “If I don’t get back home, I want you to contact Rose.”

  “Back in Westbank? Why would I contact your wife?”

  “Thing is, I don’t want her left hanging, wondering what happened to me. Go see her, tell her how it happened, so she gets closure.”

  If this goes the way I think it’ll go, we’re all finished. Our bones will stay on this planet forever, but I can’t tell him that, the word would spread like wildfire. If a man is to fight at his peak, he needs to hold on to some hope. No matter how slender, he has to believe there’ll be a future, except for me. I don’t have a future, but I’ve known that since the last time they fixed me. When they reminded me what would happen next time. Last life.

  “You’ll make it, Rob. You’ll see her yourself before too long.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  Romero had worked it out for himself. He knew the New Life program had its limitations. They could replace limbs, some vital organs, give dead troopers new life, but they couldn’t work miracles. If the oncoming juggernaut hit them hard, there’d be nothing but frozen blood and tissue splattered over the Martian dust.

  “I want you to promise, Lt. Do it for me, Noah. She’ll appreciate it.”

  He sighed. Romero sensed an imminent death. He was probably right.

  Where are the other units? What happened to them?

  “You have my promise. Now tell them to concentrate their fire on the drones, they have to go. We have a comms window about to open. When it does, I’ll go out there, get the systems online and break radio silence. They’ll send us air support and reinforcements when they know how close we are. They have to.”

  “Copy that. And thanks.”

  “No sweat.”

  The small unit scattered amidst broken rock ice that littered the road. There was ample cover to hide behind, with some of the rocks nearly two meters in height. Noah moved behind one of these and looked back at the ridge. It was at maximum visual range, but still an easy enough shot for even an average soldier.

  "Ready your weapons. We have to take out the drones. Without their eyes, they're vulnerable. Keep it tight, and hang in there. I’m calling in support to finish this, so we won’t be on our own.”

  "Sir!" they mumbled in a dispirited chorus.

  One by one they deployed their weapons. Noah and other Lifer vets were on their second, third, or fourth new life and carrying heavy equipment, courtesy of their cybernetic upgraded bodies. They carried deadly 20mm gyrostabilized XM330 Chainguns instead of rifles. These heavy weapons were normally transported on light armored vehicles. For the Lifer vets, they were as easy to tote as a rifle. On their backs, they had an external, backpack-mounted microturbine. Lifer vets added an additional lightweight, shoulder-mounted XM44 multiple rocket launcher system. A lot of firepower for a small unit, but against the advanced Martian ground forces, they needed every weapon they could get.

  "Watch the ridge, and be ready. If one soldier sticks his neck out, cut it off."

  A dozen guns pointed at the ridge, each soldier watching and waiting for their chance. Noah tapped the gyrostabilized arm on his back, and it swung around to position his 20mm automatic chaingun at his flank. A targeting crosshair popped up in his display, while his right arm positioned the weapon. Another voice broke into the comms circuit.

  “I’d call for an evac, if I was you, Lt. You called for support three days ago. We’re still waiting. Where are they?”

  Corporal Ned Tyson, a Lifer vet was a good soldier. Like the rest of them, he’d had enough. He was on his third new life, and experienced enough in battle to know the end wasn’t too far away. Before any of them could say more, two PDX AFVs skidded to a halt atop the ridge. Dark shapes emerged from hull doors and leapt off the ledge. With a nominal gravity of thirty-eight percent of Earth normal, the Martian soldiers dropped down gracefully and began to advance. When they got nearer, they’d have visual.

  “Knock out that drone, and hit them hard! Kill the bastards!”

  “Copy that."

  The drone disintegrated, hit by a micro-rocket they’d launched. Then Cage’s men opened fire. With little atmosphere to transmit the sound, the first indicator was when the ground shuddered, sending flashes of light up to the ridge. Rifle and chaingun fire sliced into the first wave of Martian soldiers, cutting down the leaders and sending the rest scattering behind the icy rocks.

  They had no choice now the enemy knew where they were. A volley of counter fire blasted at their position, each shot smashing holes in the rock. Noah fired another burst and looked at the sky. The last dust storm blotted out radio contact, and now his sensors showed the window was almost there again. He’d have to act fast if he was to get through to Command. Time was a luxury denied them by the overwhelming horde of attackers.

  Two Martian soldiers tried to scramble back up the ridge to punish the Earthmen with heavy fire. A short burst from another chaingun cut one man in half and punched a hole in the second. The wounded man screamed in silence as he froze to death, his final breath turning to ice inside his helmet. His fellow Martians rushed into the firing line, and the ridge erupted in energy flares as the enemy hit back with their railguns. More enemy units arrived and spread out along the crest, and the devastating fire increased. It was like a bombardment from hell.

  "Hey, Lieutenant, maybe they’ll find some of those railguns for us next time.”

  “In your dreams. I’m heading out to transmit. It’s time.”

  A chuckle. “You take care when you transmit.
They’ll zero in on the signal inside of a few seconds. You’ll be a sitting duck."

  Noah looked at his friend and grinned. “I’ll be just fine. You hang in there, and make sure they don’t get too close.”

  "Lt, aren’t you on your…”

  He didn’t finish. He didn’t need to. The New Life techs were never far behind, and the cry of ‘man down’ brought in the medical team to recover the body. They’d get to work even before their specially equipped craft returned to the base medical facility. Arms, legs, they could replace them with enhanced limbs. Certain organs, like livers, kidneys, and parts of the digestive system could be replaced after sustaining serious damage. The fourth reincarnation was the last. They’d never succeeded a fifth time.

  Each soldier in the under-strength platoon of twenty-two led by Lieutenant Noah Cage had been through new life at least once. Sergeant Rob Romero had paid a heavy price for his reckless bravery and was already on his third new life. Noah Cage had died in battle on four occasions and now living his fifth life, known morbidly as a last life. The Human body could take so much, and no more. Vital organs like the heart inexplicably imploded. If he took a serious hit in the coming battle, it was all over. Checkmate. It didn’t mean the other Lifers were invulnerable. In the event of catastrophic brain damage, new life became impossible for any man.

  Cage didn’t let it worry him. When he signed up for Mars Recon and New Life, the last thing on his mind was death. He wanted to live as much as the next man. Three months of bitter fighting made him a changed man. He’d lost the will to live. For most of the men, new life was a passport to limited immortality. Not for him. His best hope was a quick and painless end. Unless a miracle occurred and he survived, his bones would lie forgotten in the Martian dust, a sacrifice to those politicians who’d thrown mere Human flesh into the endless battles to defeat Martian corporate greed and technical superiority.

  Romero watched him. Waiting for him to say it wasn’t true. To say he’d miscounted he wasn’t on last life. He hadn’t miscounted.