Battle Pod ds-3

by Vaughn Heppner

  “That’s the Highborn,” Omi muttered.

  “I can’t imagine having them in charge,” Zapata said. “My point is that I sympathize with you. I can visualize them training humans as humans might train animals. And I can see them inserting soldiers into a missile and shooting you at a spaceship as if you were worth no more than a bullet.”

  “Word gets around,” Marten said dryly.

  Commander Zapata stared at Marten. His single good eye was brown, with flecks of gold in the iris. There was something very determined about Zapata. “When Secretary-General Chavez sends a priority message to ready an orbital and tells us to honor your request that no one enter your shuttle, yes, word gets around. Many of the people here worked with the Highborn for several weeks. None can imagine trying to tackle the super-soldiers. Now two men are here who survived the insane—what did you call the missile?”

  “The Storm Assault,” Marten said.

  “Yes. Your story is incredible. That you also slew Highborn is amazing. That’s why everyone is staring.”

  Marten wanted to halt and motion the hanger personnel near. He wanted to tell them that fighting for freedom was the greatest privilege and duty that any person could have.

  Marten stopped walking. Commander Zapata stopped and so did Omi, who looked about warily.

  Marten thrust out his hand. Zapata didn’t seem to comprehend. Then he gave Marten a quizzical glance. Slowly, the Commander held out his hand.

  Marten grabbed it and shook heartily. He clapped Zapata on the shoulder. “I respect what you’re doing. You’re fighting for freedom. You’re standing up. It’s a pleasure to have reached the Mars System and see that there are others doing exactly what Omi and I did. I wish you Godspeed.”

  Zapata grinned crookedly, the only way he could, it seemed. “We could use a soldier like you, Mr. Kluge. We’ve lived under the heel of Social Unity all our lives. Political Harmony Corps has hunted us for years and killed many of our best people. Now we’re trying to understand how to fight in the open. We failed twelve years ago. We want to win this time. That’s why we endured the sneers from the Highborn and swallowed our pride.”

  Marten’s grin slipped. He knew he had to tell this man the obvious. “Social Unity is going to attack Mars soon.”

  “Believe me, we know. That’s why we need all the help we can get. We’re trying to fix everything we can and make it too hot for them when they make their attempt. But time is running out on the Planetary Union before it really had a chance to find its feet.”

  Marten looked around, and he realized that most of these people were going to die soon. Maybe they knew it. The convoy fleet must be bringing supplies for the SU Battlefleet waiting out there. The Mars Rebels should have been firing at the individual SU warships, not waiting for a slugfest against the united fleet.

  “Social Unity is insane to fight you now,” Marten said. “They need their fleet to battle against the Highborn.”

  “It’s our sole hope,” Zapata admitted. “It’s the Secretary-General’s reason for waiting.”

  “Why does he want to see me?”

  Zapata became somber. “Perhaps to ask you the same thing I did. Perhaps there is another purpose. Well—here we are.”

  They stood before the orbital fighter, the squat craft that towered over them. A ladder led up to the cockpit where the pilot adjusted his helmet. He looked painfully young.

  “It’s a double-seater,” Zapata said. “Fortunately for you, it’s built to hold Highborn. It will still be awkward for the two of you in the back seat, but you’ll manage.”

  “Is he a rated pilot?” Marten asked. “He looks so young.”

  “Ortiz is our best.”

  Marten didn’t think that was too reassuring. “Can I ask you a question?”

  “Of course.”

  “On Deimos, everyone was so painfully thin. Here, everyone is lean but looks normal. Is there a reason for that?”

  Zapata laughed. “I’m sorry. I’m not laughing at you. The laser and launch orbitals are considered hardship duty for anyone from Mars.”

  “Why?”

  “You’ve never been to Mars before?” asked Zapata.

  Marten shook his head.

  “Our planet only has eleven percent of Earth’s mass,” Zapata said. “That makes everyone on Mars much lighter than they would be on Earth. People born on Mars live on a world with weak gravity. You have big muscles because Earth’s gravity demands it of your body so you can function. A Martian doesn’t develop those heavy muscles because he never needed them. Correspondingly, Martians don’t need as much food. You’d starve to death on a Martian’s diet. It also means we have less trouble feeding our millions.”

  “So why is working here a hardship?” Marten asked.

  “Haven’t you noticed? Our orbital launch station has Earth normal gravity.”

  Marten frowned.

  “We fly the orbitals and thus need to be stronger to use them to full capacity. Everyone here takes growth hormones, and has finished an accelerated weightlifting regimen. Compared to regular Martians, we’re abnormally muscled supermen, if you will. That has always been one of Social Unity’s advantages. It rotated peacekeepers on a constant basis so the Earthmen here were wickedly powerful compared to us.”

  Marten understood. Eleven percent mass… it left the Martians at a constant disadvantage. Well, maybe it was an advantage because the population could live on less food. Yet even a starvation-dieted population desired freedom. So it proved they were still human.

  Marten shook Commander Zapata’s hand again, careful not to squeeze too hard. Then he and Omi began to climb the ladder to their place in the cockpit.

  * * *

  It was an exciting ride down as young Ortiz plunged the orbital Mars-ward like a rock. The atmosphere was visible at the edge of Mars, as a whitish rim. Then they entered the atmosphere. The orbital soon began to shake and faint screeching sounded from outside.

  Aboard the Mayflower, Marten had been studying the Red Planet. Because of the weak gravity, Mars had negligible air pressure, roughly one-half of one percent of the Earth’s surface pressure. A jet pilot would have to travel forty kilometers up into Earth’s stratosphere to reach the same air pressure as found on Mars’ surface. That meant it never rained on Mars’ surface. It could only rain in the deepest canyons where the air pressure grew heavy enough. It also meant parachutes were next to useless for braking aircraft or capsule-launched drop-troops.

  “There!” Ortiz shouted over his shoulder and breaking Marten’s reverie. “That’s where we’re headed.”

  The pilot pointed at a rough circular shape, a deeper red color than the planet around it. White ice-clouds like guardians were on its western curve. Just slightly off center in the middle was another ring, even deeper red, its huge cone crater.

  Olympus Mons was the Solar System’s largest shield volcano and largest mountain. The base of the volcano was 600 kilometers, making it about the distance from the San Francisco Crater on Earth to the Los Angeles slag fields. The Martian volcano was 2.5 times taller than Mount Everest. The volcano’s cone was 25 kilometers higher than the plain surrounding it and was large enough to contain Manhattan Island.

  One of the reasons why Olympus Mons was the tallest volcano was that Mars had no continental drift. That allowed the volcano to continue growing. On Earth, a volcano eventually moved off its underground source of magma and thus stopped growing.

  “Does Mars have much of an air defense?” Marten shouted.

  The pilot turned around to stare at Marten. “Good enough,” the pilot said. As he faced forward again, the pilot curved the orbital sharply left and then nosed them straight down. Burners roared into life and pressed Marten back against Omi.

  “This baby can kill anything the Earthers have!” the pilot shouted. He soon eased the craft to a gentler descent. When he switched off the burners, the shaking all but vanished.

  So the air defense was weak, Marten told himself. Why had
the Highborn given the Planetary Union the launch and laser stations and no capable air defense? And why not give the Martians viable military spaceships? Maybe the Highborn hadn’t foreseen Social Unity gathering the bulk of its space fleet here. The Planetary Union had enough to fight off a small force of ships—maybe. No more than that.

  It was unlike the Highborn to miscalculate such an obvious military deficiency.

  “You’re lucky,” the pilot shouted.

  “Why’s that?”

  “No dust storms this time of year. They’re a bitch. Then again, it would make it harder for Social Unity to think about space drops. The storms cover entire swaths of the planet then.”

  Marten nodded. He remembered reading about that. The sands of Mars contained ferric oxide, something akin to rust. It was the reason for the planet’s red color. Those sands were also finer than any found on Earth’s beaches. At certain times of the Martian year—which was 687 Earth-days long—global dust storms were generated. Greater than 100-kilometers an hour, the storms whipped the fine sands to more than 50 kilometers into the atmosphere and often shrouded the entire planet. For about a month, a yellowish haze covered Mars. Only many months later did the last of the dust drift back onto the planet’s surface. The storms sandblasted the surface and anything found on the surface. The storms, however, occurred when the planet was at its closest to the Sun. The Red Planet was now at its farthest distance from Sol and it would be for many, many more months.

  That seemed like another miscalculation on the part of the Highborn.

  While he admired the Rebels’ fight for freedom, Marten was beginning to become anxious about being caught in the Mars System once hostilities started. What was the Martian plan? Maybe they would arm everyone and make it impossible for Social Unity to control them.

  He knew that most Martians lived in great underground cities as the people did on Earth. He’d read that the planetary crust under Olympus Mons was much thicker than the crust anywhere on Earth. City-planning technicians had discovered that although Mars was only a little more than half the size of Earth, its crust in most places had the same depth. Apparently, vast farming domes covered portions of Mars. They acted like hothouses on Earth. What did most Martian’s eat? Marten suspected it was algae just like on Earth.

  No Highborn ate algae-bread or algae anything. Lot 6 Colonel Sigmir had spit out algae-bread the one time he’d tried it in Marten’s presence. Marten remembered Sigmir saying it was cattle-food, meant for weaklings and inferior premen.

  Marten stared out of the cockpit. Olympus Mons had grown until it dominated the scene. Whitish clouds circled the lower slopes.

  Why did the planet’s secretary-general wish to speak with him? Did the man want to hire the shuttle? The more Marten thought about it, the more he realized these Unionists had to be desperate. The idea of being stranded on Mars was unappealing. Trapped on a world of anorexic people who ate starvation diets—

  Marten shuddered at the idea of becoming as rail thin as the Martians on Deimos. Omi and he had to escape Mars and get past the Battlefleet before Social Unity re-conquered this place.

  -9-

  It reassured Marten when tough security honchos escorted them from the sealed hanger in the crater to a large elevator. The security people were lean like the soldiers on the launch station. They wore segmented battle-vests and helmets with black visors, although it left their mouths visible. Each held a needler, which so far seemed like the preferred weapon among Martians.

  Did slug-throwers kick too hard for Martian wrists? That wasn’t reassuring. How had the Mars Rebels fought off Social Unity a little more than a decade ago? The allied military of the Jupiter Confederation had helped then, but it had to be more than that. Despite being rail-thin, the Martians had always given PHC a harder time than anyone else had, except maybe for the Unionists on the Sun-Works Factory. Martians were known as clever people. Maybe that was the answer.

  What clever trick would they perform to defeat the SU Battlefleet?

  The elevator door closed and the packed car dropped with gut-wrenching speed. It made Omi lurch, and two of the security people nearest him grinned at each other.

  “You’ll have to hand over your sidearms before you speak with the Secretary-General,” a man beside Marten said.

  Marten turned to face the man. The security honchos had needlers aimed at him. He couldn’t see the man’s eyes, just his mouth. It was a firm line. It was a gut feeling, but Marten decided this was a test. He cleared his throat. Omi looked over.

  “Ready?” Marten asked Omi.

  Omi nodded coolly, as he used to as a gunman in the Sydney gangs.

  After that, Marten said nothing else. He waited. He didn’t try to stare the security men down, but he did attempt to appear bored.

  “…I have my orders,” the security chief said.

  Marten faked a yawn.

  Around him, the security people tightened the grips on their needlers.

  “We can shoot you down,” the security chief said.

  “Either show me you can do it or shut up about it,” Marten said. “But if you shoot, shoot to kill. Because I’ll kill you if you try and fail.”

  A different security man pressed a needler against Marten’s side. Marten chopped hard, striking the man’s wrist. The man’s needler clattered onto the elevator floor.

  The other grew tense.

  “Wait!” the security chief said. “Don’t fire.” He faced Marten. “We know you’re tough. Our brief said ex-shock trooper. But this is the Secretary-General of Mars you’re going to meet.”

  “I didn’t ask to see him,” Marten said. “He asked to see me. You see what I mean?”

  The security chief swallowed uncomfortably. “We can—”

  Marten held up his hand, and it made one security man hurriedly step back. That told Marten all he needed to know. “We’re here to help Mars, not assassinate its leader. If you insist we disarm, however, then call the Secretary-General and explain to him that we’re heading back up to the launch station.”

  “What?”

  “You heard me. Now make your choice.”

  Omi gave Marten a cool glance.

  Marten recognized the look. Omi thought he was overdoing the tough-guy act. Marten said nothing. He waited, letting their reputation do the work. It would tell him what the Martians really thought about them.

  The security chief turned away and whispered into a wrist-link. After a time, he whispered more. Finally, he turned back to Marten. “You can keep your sidearms. But any wrong moves—”

  “Yeah,” Marten said, interrupting. Then he folded his arms. He was beginning to suspect that killing Highborn had given him a serious aura with these Martians. How could that help them here? That was the question.

  * * *

  Marten met Secretary-General Chavez in a work lounge of the proton beam station.

  The spacious room held ten tables with chairs, with square dispensaries along a wall. Posters with various slogans hung on the walls. The State gave you this job. Now give the State your best. Or: Protect our joint investment and wear your safety equipment at all times.

  Secretary-General Chavez spoke to the seated people. By their green coveralls and the yellow hardhats on the tables, Marten assumed they were proton-beam technicians.

  Chavez was painfully thin with a long head. His youthfully colored hair and goatee didn’t match the look of his aged face. He gestured as he spoke and had delicate fingers, with a slender silver ring on his middle finger.

  A few of the seated technicians glanced back as the security team and Marten lined up against the wall. Then the thin technicians gave their attention back to the speaker.

  Despite his gaunt appearance, Secretary-General Chavez had a deep voice and spoke well. He urged the technicians to accept calculated risks bringing the proton beam back online. It would be better that it fired at half-power in three weeks than at full power after the SU Battlefleet swept into near orbit. Chavez added a few R
ebel slogans and told those seated that victory hinged upon their efforts.

  The technicians rose as one and clapped heartily. Then they approached the Secretary-General, shook his hand and asked questions. Soon an even thinner man declared the meeting was over. Reluctantly, the technicians filed out of the lounge.

  When the last green-suited technician left, Chavez’s shoulders slumped as he shuffled to the nearest table and collapsed onto a chair. In a tired way, he withdrew a small package from his coat and shook out a red stimstick. He inhaled it into life.

  The security chief glanced once at Marten before he hurried to the Secretary-General. There the man stood deferentially, waiting. At last, Chavez looked up and mumbled a question. The security chief pointed at Marten.

  Chavez immediately straightened, took the stimstick from his lips and glared at it. He dropped the glowing stick onto the floor and crushed it with the toe of his shoe. He lurched upright, smiled and strode toward Marten.

  “The two shock troopers,” Secretary-General Chavez said.

  Marten saw Chavez glance at their guns. A crease in the Secretary-General’s forehead almost immediately smoothed away. Chavez held out his hand. Gently, Marten shook the thin-boned hand and so did Omi.

  “Welcome, welcome,” Chavez said. “Would you like refreshments?”

  “A glass of water would be good,” Marten said.

  “A sandwich,” Omi said.

  The security personnel lined the walls, while the skinny man who had declared the former meeting ended went to the dispensaries. He pushed a button here and another there. Slots opened and he brought Marten a cup of water and Omi a pale green sandwich.

  Chavez sat across the table from Marten and Omi as if he was in his office. He grinned as Marten sipped water.