Mars Prime

by William C. Dietz

  "Yes, and I also told you to keep a lid on it when I'm thinking."

  "Sorry, boss."

  "All right," Sharma said wearily. "Put out the word. Let's get it over with."

  Long was ten feet away, and therefore invisible, but he nodded his helmet anyway. The little black box, and the gear that went with it, had been cooked up by one of the electronics techs. It boasted a single oversized button and Long pressed it.

  The resulting tone was heard on every frequency of every radio in a twenty-five square mile area. A long, a short, and a long. The signal for the MLA, or Martian Liberation Army, to rise up and overthrow the slave masters.

  The army had two battalions. Those who were inside the dome, and those, like Sharma himself, who were outside. Both had preassigned tasks and went about them with almost religious zeal.

  The desert rats had positioned themselves during the height of the storm and were almost entirely covered with sand. They rose up like spirits from the grave, reddish-orange soil streaming downwind, to march on the dome.

  They were armed with a strange array of both stolen and homemade weapons. There were gas-jacketed slug throwers pilfered from security, crossbows that could penetrate E-suits with ease, and a lethal collection of handcrafted battle axes, swords, and spears.

  Scheeler found the juxtaposition of modern space suits and ancient weaponry fascinating but had little time to think about it. An agent had managed to warn her, but the warning had come only an hour before, and that left little time to prepare.

  She panned the security cam across the area opposite the main lock, saw more space-suited figures emerge from the haze, and knew the moment of truth was at hand.

  How many were there anyway? And of those, how many were outside and how many were inside? Around her right now? Waiting to drive a knife between her shoulder blades? There was no way to know.

  Her operatives had arrested as many of Sharma's people as they could lay their hands on, but had been handicapped by the fact that not even the cult leader himself knew who all of his followers were and the limited amount of time they had to work with.

  The result would be a battle in which there would be no front lines, no safe havens, and no way to be sure of your friends.

  It was, she realized, the outcome of unrealistic promises, the kind of people the promises had been made to, and the way that they'd been led. Or not led, depending on your point of view.

  Scheeler turned away from the screen. She had selected twenty security officers, plus twelve hand-picked volunteers, to defend the main lock. They looked fidgety, uneasy, and just plain scared. She didn't blame them.

  The rest of her people were elsewhere, charged with protecting secondary locks and key installations from internal attack. Scheeler knew they didn't have a snowball's chance in hell, but knew they didn't have a choice either, and forced a smile.

  "Well, here they come. Time to earn those big salaries. Remember . . . don't fire unless fired on, but if you are, kill every asshole in sight. We don't have the time or the personnel to be selective. Got it?"

  Heads nodded, hands touched weapons, and feet shuffled.

  "Got it, chief."

  "Don't worry about us."

  "We can handle it."

  Scheeler nodded. "Good. Now one more thing. Be damned careful who you shoot. If I get nailed by one of you bozos, you better make damned sure that I'm dead, cause you'll be real sorry if I survive!"

  There was nervous laughter followed by silence as they sealed their suits and entered the lock. All were armed with gas-jacketed slug throwers, had red asterisks spray painted on the front and back surfaces of their E-suits, and had switched to frequency seventeen.

  The lock cycled through, Scheeler checked the external security cams to make sure that no one was waiting outside, and opened the hatch.

  A maelstrom of wind-blown sand entered the lock, tugged at their suits, and formed a miniature cyclone. It was a scary sensation.

  Scheeler had been around long enough to weather a sand storm or two, but her newbies hadn't, and that placed them at something of a disadvantage. Most of the desert rats were veterans with only a scattering of Outward Bounders to slow them down.

  Still another card in what the security chief saw as an increasingly loaded deck.

  Heads down, the security officers trudged into the storm, knowing there would be no retreat. Scheeler had been explicit about that.

  The only line of retreat was through the lock, but since that would threaten the dome, Scheeler had ordered it locked. The battle would be all or nothing. Win or lose. Live or die.

  As soon as the last person was outside, Scheeler turned to watch the hatch close. She couldn't hear the interlocking doubledoors slam shut, but could imagine the sound, like the lid of a coffin closing over the dead.

  Then it was time to turn her attention outward, toward dimly seen figures that lurched through the silicon mist, intent on killing all that she stood for.

  Scheeler rewrapped her fingers around the slug thrower's fore grip, took a quick sip of water from the helmet tube, and triggered her radio.

  "All right, mark your location in relation to the person on the left and right, and go to the prone position."

  Scheeler stayed upright long enough to make sure that the closest members of her team followed orders then dropped to her elbows. A scattering of sand-drifted rock provided some cover. There were liberated slug throwers out there, she knew that, and some wicked-looking edged weapons as well.

  The plan was to stop the rebel advance through the use of disciplined firepower, turn them around, and let Mars do the rest. In a few days, weeks at most, they'd come begging for supplies.

  The intervening time could be used to secure the dome, weed out the Sharma sympathizers, and plan for the future. That was the strategy anyhow, although it seemed a little optimistic right at the moment.

  Sharma's forces were closer now, much closer, and Scheeler selected the one that was directly in front of her.

  Seen through the haze the rebel looked like little more than an apparition, but would turn solid enough in the next minute or two, and was almost certain to die. Scheeler hoped it was Sharma.

  Sharma heard Long's most recent report with a rising sense of concern. Roughly thirty of the dome's two hundred or so security officers had exited the main lock and taken up positions in front of him. So much for the element of surprise and the possibility of an unopposed entry. It seemed Scheeler had managed to plant one or more of her agents inside his organization.

  Well, his force still outnumbered them two to one and were better motivated. He'd seen to that by promising every one of them five berries the moment that Mars Prime was under his control. A promise that Sharma was determined to keep, in spite of the fact that it would wipe out his supply of the alien drug and force him to use other more conventional substitutes. Unless his pet technoids managed to replicate the substance, of course, in which case things would be even better.

  An avalanche of sand slithered away from the underside of the cult leader's boots, caused him to fall, and saved his life.

  Sharma couldn't hear the slugs as they passed through the space that he had so recently occupied, but the gabble of voices left little doubt as to what was going on, so he rolled to his feet.

  "Rise up, you followers of Membu! Attack the slave masters! Pull them down from their thrones!"

  Fountains of blood-red sand spouted around the rebel leader as he ran. A quick glance to the right and left assured him that others ran, too. A primitive war cry formed itself somewhere deep in his throat and rose to fill his helmet. It was echoed up and down the line as dimly seen figures ran, jerked under the impact of steel-jacketed slugs, and exploded out through the holes in their suits.

  It was a horrible, ugly way to die, and the worst kind of combat, since there were no wounded. Each hole, any hole larger than a pinprick, meant instant death.

  But Sharma had fortified himself against fear, depression, and horror by
consuming two of the alien berries. The war cry rose, demanded expression, and filled the airwaves.

  Scheeler could see them clearly now, running towards her, the death's heads, Martian landscapes, grim reapers, astrological symbols, commercial logos, and abstract paintings ceding each one an individual identity that they otherwise wouldn't have.

  The fighting had started thirty seconds before, off to the right somewhere, and would be over thirty seconds from now. There was a lot of unnecessary chatter on frequency seventeen but no time to do anything about it.

  "There's one off to the left! Nail the bastard."

  "That's a roger ... got him."

  "Hey, Frank! Watch yourself, buddy ... oh god . . . they nailed Frank."

  "Eat lead asshole ..."

  Scheeler forced herself to concentrate. She had dropped two of them so far and opened a gap directly in front of her position, which forced her to seek targets on the diagonal.

  She saw a big one, a man probably, lumbering forward. He had the likeness of a vampire bat emblazoned across his chest and a huge battle axe held high over his head.

  Scheeler led him a hair, squeezed the trigger, and sent a three-round burst right through the man's chest. A series of horrible contortions took place inside the suit and blood gushed out through the bat's open mouth.

  Then something, a primordial sense, caused her to roll over. The E-suited figure towered above her. He, or more probably she, had one boot planted on either side of the security chief's body.

  Her chest plate bore the likeness of a snake's head. It had ruby-red eyes, green scales, and huge fangs.

  The homemade mace consisted of a metal pipe with crisscrossed metal rods welded to one end. The rods had been sharpened and were already descending by the time that Scheeler recognized what they were.

  She tried to bring the gun around, but there was hardly any time, and she knew it was hopeless. The mace hit the top of Scheeler's helmet and darkness exploded all around her.

  Kim checked the machine pistol's magazine, found that it was full up, and shoved it into the receiver. There had been a time when she hadn't known one end of a gun from the other, but that was before she'd met Rex Corvan.

  He had brought love into her life, but violence too, and it never seemed to end. She looked around. The atmosphere was one of controlled chaos. Very few of the administrative types had gone over to Sharma. That, plus the critical nature of the functions housed there, made the admin section a natural HQ.

  Colonel Jopp was everywhere, identifying critical facilities, supervising the construction of barricades, analyzing intelligence, and issuing orders.

  Kim noticed that the officer's movements were quick and jerky, her eyes filled with fire, and could it be true? The woman was actually smiling!

  It made sense of course. This was the sort of situation for which Jopp had been trained: an emergency in which there were decisions to be made, orders to be given, and battles to be won.

  Kim moved to one side as a flat-bed utility bot rolled by. It was loaded with office furniture from which most of the barricades had been made.

  She felt suddenly lonely and wished that Rex were by her side. Anger bubbled up to displace her other emotions. How typical of her husband! To be off chasing a story when she needed him. The miserable bastard.

  Well, there was no helping it. Rex was on Deimos and she was here. At least he'd be safe. That was different. Under normal circumstances he'd be out getting the story, a process that almost always involved some kind of danger and made her crazy.

  A hand touched her arm and she looked around. Jopp met her eyes. The look was as level as the sound of her voice.

  ''I have a job for you.''

  Kim noticed that it was a statement not a question.

  "Yeah? What's that?"

  “Some of our communications are out. The rebels are jamming the rest. Wire up. See if what's-his-name, Martin, can find a way through. We need to know which sections have fallen and which continue to hold out.”

  It was something to do, and more than that something she was qualified to do, so Kim nodded and headed for the com center.

  The room seemed cozy and safe after the craziness outside. She slid the jack into her head and felt darkness rise to wrap her in its warm embrace. Computer-generated voices whispered their willingness to do her bidding and three-dimensional graphic displays spun in front of her mind's eye.

  Kim sent a thought towards Martin and received a tidal wave of music in return. She smiled. The A.I. had been idle of late and was working on his symphony.

  She would normally listen for a while, allowing herself to be carried away on the magical wings of his music, but this was different.

  Kim formed a thought and shoved it spear-like through the wall of music. It ended abruptly. Martin was annoyed.

  "What do you want?"

  "Sorry to interrupt," Kim said contritely. "But I need some help."

  "What kind of help?"

  Kim explained, and as she did so, Martin sent tendrils of himself out through the dome's main communications trunks. Some were open, but others were dark, and therefore unpassable.

  "We've got problems, all right," the computer entity confirmed. "But Peko-Evans designed a lot of redundancy into this dome. Let's see what I can do."

  The computer sent parts of himself outward. He followed the main communications trunks when he could, but if those were blocked he slipped into backups, tie-lines, and at one point managed to squeeze himself through a low-capacity PA cable. Things were bad, and steadily deteriorating.

  Although it took Martin ten minutes to go out, it took him twenty minutes to get back, and he almost didn't make it.

  Kim dashed out into the hall, found Jopp, and invited her in. It felt weird to wire up with the air force officer on the line.

  "Martin? You there?"

  "I'm here," the A.I. reported grimly, "but just barely."

  "Spare me the drama," Jopp said coldly. "What's going on?"

  "Nothing good," Martin replied levelly. "The rebels decimated the forces you sent to meet them and gained access to the dome when sympathizers opened the main lock.

  "Security forces, reinforced by loyal colonists, rallied at a number of key spots. Hydroponics, the maintenance shop, and the science section. All were defeated and the rebels are headed this way."

  "Damn."

  "Yeah," Martin agreed. "That about sums it up."

  "All right," Jopp said wearily. "Thanks for what you did. Find a place to hide. You thought the executive council was hard to get along with? Well, wait until Sharma has been running the place for a while. You haven't seen anything yet."

  Kim felt a popping sensation as Jopp pulled the plug. Her spirits plummeted. Much as the editor disliked Jopp, she had relied on the military officer to produce some sort of a last-minute miracle, and it wasn't going to happen. The realization came as a tremendous shock, and made her miss Rex even more.

  Slowly, reluctantly, Kim pulled the jack from the side of her head, and made her way out into the hall. The gun hung heavy and useless by her side. They were dismantling the main barricade by the time she got there. Rather than lose more lives and antagonize the victors, Peko-Evans, Fornos, and Jopp had decided to surrender.

  The weapons were collected and placed in a single pile. And then, based on orders shouted from the other side of the ever-dwindling barricade, the defenders put their backs to the walls and placed their hands on top of their heads.

  And so it was that the duly authorized government of Mars Prime fell and a little-known technician named Barbu Sharma took over. He sent Dubie Long and some other followers in first, just to make sure that it was safe, before entering himself. And when he did it was slowly, deliberately, nodding to the prisoners that lined both sides of the corridor as if they were an admiring crowd, lifting a hand to acknowledge their imaginary cheers.

  Finally, when he had reached the end of the corridor and was face-to-face with Peko-Evans, he spoke.

&nb
sp; "So, what's for dinner?"

  Chapter Nineteen

  Corvan looked around. The shaft was shiny with some sort of lubricant. It wouldn't, couldn't, shouldn't be here. He asked himself the same question over and over again. What the hell was going on?

  "Are you okay?" Redfern sounded worried.

  "Yeah, so far so . . ."

  Corvan was still talking when something whirred and pushed at his chest. He ducked and a hatch closed over his head. He looked up. Light gleamed off bare metal. Claustrophobia pushed in around him. He fought it back.

  ". . . good."

  "Corvan! Can you read me?"

  "Loud and clear."

  "What's going on?"

  "I'm doing my nails."

  "Cut the crap."

  "I'm in a lock of some sort, or the barrel of a huge gun, or who the hell knows?"

  Corvan felt something move beneath his feet.

  "Uh oh."

  " 'Uh oh' what?"

  "Uh oh, the bottom's about to drop out from under me."

  "Brace yourself, flex your knees ..."

  Redfern was still giving advice as Corvan fell. He didn't have far to go. Two, maybe three feet at the most. Low gravity reduced the impact to nearly nothing. The shaft ended just below his waist. He dropped to his knees, felt his E-suit scrape against metal, and ducked. His helmet hit the rim and came free. He looked around.

  "Corvan?"

  "Yeah?"

  "You okay?"

  "Yeah. This is weird."

  "What's weird about it?"

  "Come see for yourself."

  "That's a roger. Here I come."

  Corvan got to his feet. He was in a small womb-shaped room. Lights spiraled around the ceiling, strands of what looked like dried-out vegetable matter hung there and there, and his suit was signaling a breathable atmosphere. Inside Deimos.

  One possible explanation came to mind, but it was so weird, so strange that it couldn't possibly be true. Could it?