by Greg Bear
The shock is amazing. I’m tossed maybe five meters up and flip over and land on my back, hard enough to knock me silly. I try to breathe. Everything hurts. Broken ribs? If my skintight tears, I’m cold meat, but that may not matter, because the stars have fled—there’s only a low gray ceiling, seemingly solid, impenetrable. But white specks fall through the ceiling.
I’m just a big ball of pain but then, old memories, I reacquire an agonized pair of childlike eyes and say, It’s Christmas, look! Snow. Snow is falling all around. Flakes and chunks, some like grapple, some big as my fist. Falling all over, bouncing off me, off the hardpan. I don’t bother to get up. Maybe I can’t and I don’t want to know that.
Pretty soon I’m buried in it.
Damn, we were almost in the tent.
Then come the rocks.
NOT YET A HERO, HUH?
I wake up and see Tak leaning over me, looking into my face. Fingers do the ICU, UCME?
Yes. Yes.
It’s heavy outside.
The air is like nothing I’ve ever felt on Mars, warm and dense. My angel has been sounding a continuous wheep-wheep of alarm. I get up on one elbow. There’s a blanket of ice and snow all around, punctuated by black rocks big as my fist, big as my head—new rocks, flung from hundreds of klicks away. Some are still smoking.
Impact heat.
Scattered between the snow and ice and the rocks are pools of fizzing liquid water, bubbling like hot springs. Terrific. We’ve made it to Yellowstone.
We’re on Planet Perrier.
I try to say that over comm. I want to show Tak I’m still clever, still able to make jokes, but I’ve bitten my tongue and my mouth is full of blood and it splatters on my faceplate when I try to talk.
Tak shakes his head. Holds up two fingers. I get up to help him find the others. DJ is buried in a drift. We shove aside rocks and ice. He’s limp when we pull him out, but recovers enough to join our search. Kazak we find next. He’s alert and looks as if he might have just had a refreshing nap. Leaps up out of the rubble, brushing snow and dust from his plate and shoulders.
Michelin is also still alive, but his helm took a rock or something and the plate is cracked, not yet through the seal. Still pressurized. All our skintights are okay, miracle of miracles. No rips.
We immediately try to relocate the other tents. Maybe the one has finished inflating. If it hasn’t, or if both got swallowed by another crack or pierced by rocks, we’re down to nothing, don’t know how we lasted this long, must have been mere minutes yadayada all the shit that fills one’s head as the body does, like a robot, like a trained dog, what it’s supposed to do to keep your pretty soul wrapped in flesh.
We find the tent. It inflated, but then—ruptured, big holes where rocks went through. But the canisters still have air and we take turns charging our skintights. Just a few minutes’ worth.
Where’s Vee-Def? Neemie?
We find the second tent box. Shadows close in around my eyes like groping fingers. My lungs are awful balloons filled with fire.
Tak inflates the tent. The noise all around has returned. It’s unrelenting. Mars is cosmically bitching: whistling, hissing, sighing—then, letting out with a shrill, high scream as something much too grand shoots overhead. More big stuff coming down? No way to know. The gray canopy of clouds still looks solid. The local pools still bubble and spit mud, local air still feels thick, but everything is cooling rapidly, and now the water is turning into steaming, crusty, carbonated ice—sinking into the dust or soaking into hardpan.
Fog suddenly condenses all around. It’s like a big Walt Disney brush painting us over. We can’t see much of anything. Wiping my faceplate, fingers streak away dust and water. The water vanishes from my fingertips and leaves just the dust. Never even had time to become mud.
I pick my way around and kick at the last of the snow, vanishing before it can liquefy. This stuff is not water! Like dry ice or something else. Weird.
Something in me remembers where Michelin was, and I turn just enough to walk back and find him. He’s trying to get up. Tak bumps into me. We both check Michelin over. His eyes are wide, concerned. He swipes at the fog.
Tak holds up five fingers.
My cheeks hurt I’m grimacing so hard.
Kazak joins us. The fog begins to clear, swirling up and away in ghostly eddies. The sky shows patches of grainy black. Funny I haven’t noticed the sound for a while, but it’s down to a constant brumble-grumble with odd pops that make my ears hurt.
Then it gets real quiet. That’s not much better, in my opinion. We all stand hands on shoulders, supporting each other, supporting Michelin, who’s regaining his balance, some of his strength, touching his faceplate, no doubt wondering how he made it through.
Vee-Def and Neemie come stumbling out of the last unwinding mist. They spot us. Shamble our way. Tak holds up seven fingers. Praise Jesus. We gather around the one intact tent, brush ourselves off as best we can, and crawl one by one through the tent’s tight canal. No immediate appointments. No place else to go. We are tired, lost, beat-up little puppies. Too many for the tent, regulation, but nobody cares. We’ve got air, water.
The ground is still vibrating as I manage to find some sleep. Then, maybe five minutes later, Michelin wakes us by flashing a beam around, and says, sitting up straight, hair on end, full of revelation, “That ice—some of it was dry ice, methane, ammonia—really old shit!”
“So?” Kazak asks, ticked off.
“The Antags dropped a fucking comet!” Michelin concludes, and stares around at us, one by one, jaw agape, impressed by his own intelligence.
We stare back. Fuck yeah. No disagreement.
“Heavy hand, man,” Vee-Def says, shaking his head in admiration. “Taking charge.”
NOT DEAD YET
Caught in a weird, ethereal glow as we wake, we untangle, sit up, and one by one, peer through the clear tent panels. Tak’s face when he looks shines like hot bronze.
The sunrise is amazing. I’ve never seen such colors on Mars, like a Pacific island postcard, great streaky plumes of dust catching first light of morning, all red and orange and gold. Our resources are not encouraging. Plus, we’re hungry. We don’t complain, but now we think on it.
We suit up and emerge. The world outside doesn’t seem to have changed substantially, after all the hurly-burly. The brown blur is back, just about where it was. The sky is a little lighter—more dust kicked up—but the snow is gone and the puddles have all fizzed away. It’s once again a dry, desolate hardpan.
Dust settles quickly on Mars, once the wind stops.
We stand out in the cold like anyone would, wrapped in crossed arms, whapping our shoulders, waiting for salvation or at least something different. Skyrines do not stay impressed for long. About the only thing that would impress me now is a portal opening directly ahead and taking me straight to a Jack’s Popper Palace. Beer. Burgers and fries. I’m hungry enough that that would impress the hell out of me.
Kazak hears something. “Sounds like a mosquito.”
“Skell coming,” Vee-Def says. He has the best ears of our small bunch. Tak has the best eyes of anyone in the company; new eyes, brilliant blue. Even so, I spot the Skell-Jeep first, a little bug whining over the horizon. It flies a big chartreuse flag, the color most obvious out here—green and yellow severely lacking on Mars.
The Skell veers to avoid fresh pits and then it’s upon us. Glory yet again—we have our division deputy commander! Lieutenant Colonel Hal Roost, Gamecock to his troops, is driving the Skell while a United Korean sojang, a major general, two small stars attached combat-style to a blaze strap on his chest, rides shotgun. The general cradles a Facilitator—a wide-mouthed rocket launcher. The general also has two Tchikoi flechette pistols strapped to his belt, wrapped in transparent Baggies with finger holes, dusty-desert fashion.
This pair is grim, abrupt, no congratulations, no small talk. Gamecock signals radio silence is still on. Our bad. We are, however, under the circums
tances allowed to communicate by scree or laser, angels targeting each other, or by shouting in our helms, and that gives us a chance to clearly hear Gamecock announce that our forces are in temporary disarray.
“We took major sparkly on delivery. The drop was severely fidged. Some orbital jock must have spooked at the first G2O.” Ground-to-orbit. That could explain our high stick release.
“Well, they’re all dead now,” Gamecock says. “Good to see you made it.” Gamecock gestures over his shoulder. “We need to reevaluate our leisure activity. See that blur? That——is a game changer. Probably some sort of Antag factory. We don’t know whether it came down with the dirty ice or was lying there waiting for supplies.”
“Master Sergeant Venn saw it before the strike,” Tak says.
Gamecock nods, good info. “Whatever, now it’s got everything it needs to crank out adverse goodies.”
And to think we were moving toward it. Like jacklighted deer, I guess.
We look at the Korean general, wondering if he’ll contribute anything. His face, behind a dirty faceplate, is haggard. His skintight is exceptionally dirty. He’s been out in the open for some time.
“Pardon,” Gamecock says. “This is General Woo Jin Kwak. He dropped with an eastern platoon the week before we arrived. Lost most of his men. The survivors are south of here. Good news, they’ve found an old Chinese fountain and may have the codes to activate. So that’s where we’re going to regroup. Then, we’re going to attempt to establish two-way with whatever sats are still working and conduct some recon. Learn what’s going on. What’s expected of us. For now, that Chinese fountain is our destination. And it is over there.” He points south. “We’ll know nothing more about the Antags until we have orders and command tells us go see,” he says. “And to do that, we need to stay alive and accumulate resources.”
“Leave now,” Kwak says, and swings up his arm. Command structure among the signatories in our fight is not supertight, despite the fact we’re supposed to be buddies and cooperate fully. Korean general and all, we don’t move unless Lieutenant Colonel Roost tells us to.
“Climb up, travelers,” Gamecock says.
The Skell-Jeep is big enough to carry us all, if three hang from the waist bars. Tak and Vee-Def and I hang. Gamecock drives us south. Judging by the bent frame and a skewed wheel that thumps us about, the Skell has taken a couple of tumbles and a roll or two since it popped out of its capsule. It’s a real beach buggy ride.
Pretty soon, recent craters become more obvious. The comet chunks split before striking atmosphere. A lot of loose ice skipped around way up there, creating a total impact zone of maybe ten or twenty thousand square klicks. Just guessing. Pinpoint aim considering where comets usually dwell.
I’m asking myself—we’re all amateur astronomers up here—how the Antags can maneuver fucking comets without our knowing, since trans-Martian space is scanned from Earth and the Moon every few hours. Maybe the Antags covered it in soot before moving it downsun. No matter. That level of theory is way above my pay grade, but I stuff it aside in a mental cubby to ponder later, perhaps before returning to timeout.
I like having things to ponder as the Cosmoline sinks in, the bigger and weirder the better. One of my favorite ponders is the Galouye question—is all this, the entire perceived universe, a gigantic computer simulation? There’s a philosopher named Thaddeus Cronkle way down in London who claims he has proven that it is, and that we can run what some boffin or other called a Taylor algorithm to figure out which operating system is running the show. We’re all Neos. Cool shit, that, real calming. Better than contemplating heaven, because all Skyrines go to heaven, not an exclusive club, and if it lets us in, I doubt it’s much like what we’ve been told. Paradise, like Mars, is never what it’s spozed to be.
The Skell takes us through even rougher scenery. There was fighting south of us before we dropped. Remnants of bivouacs lie all around, scattered as if by massive S2G—sky-to-ground—laser or bolts or torpedoes. We watch in respectful silence. There are bodies. Lots of bodies, and they may have taken orders from the Korean general.
He doesn’t look left or right.
A BIVOUAC ON Earth means a temporary encampment where troops have not had time to pitch tents or set up any structure. On Mars, of course, there is rarely any sort of bivouac without tents or other cover. We steal words from the past and abuse them.
Gamecock does not enlighten as to our tactical. He’s as lackwit as the rest of us. And the general still doesn’t do anything but sit there, his gloved hands grabbing the seat bars so tight they look like they might split. He’s seen rough shit. The way he’s not looking at the pits and debris, maybe he saw it here.
Tak, hanging on beside me, studies the field of recent battle with screw-lipped concentration, like he’s constipated. Neemie is motion sick but holding it in. Only Vee-Def keeps a steely squint toward some far destination, wherever it may be. Heroic. Stoic. So unlike him.
The overloaded Skell climbs a slope and tops a barchan—a big sinuousity of blown sand about fifteen meters high—and rolls for a time along the crest, then turns with a sickening, tire-scurry lurch and descends, sideways, sliding, threatening to roll—but Gamecock corrects just before we hit the hardpan.
Without warning, just beyond the dust-deviled edge of sand, the lieutenant colonel takes us straight over rutted, ancient mud, nearly knocking me loose, and with another lurch, down into a deep furrow. He brakes the Skell to a trembling halt within five paces of a rough lean-to. The lean-to is made of capsule and tube parts and covers a big tent, a command tent.
Beyond the lean-to, the furrow splits, carving a Y in the flatness. Gamecock jumps from the Skell. We’re quickly the center of attention as heavy rank emerges from the lean-to. This Y-shaped depression is our recon point. It is full of Asian and Russian brass—two Chinese generals and three Russian colonels. Boy are they happy to see us! Now there are sergeants and a corporal to boss around, along with Gamecock.
Kwak dismounts slowly, passes his weapons to a Russian colonel, and turns toward us. Face pale, resigned, he gathers strength to summon us into the command tent. Where is this honcho’s staff? Each one of these officers should have security and staff and a whole lean-to or command tent apiece. Clearly, they have fallen on hard times.
I glance at Gamecock and then at Tak, whose constipation has relaxed into focused wonder, and share a silent fear that here, buckaroos, there are far too many cowboys and not nearly enough Indians.
Tak touches helms with me. “Why so many generals?” he asks.
“Somebody fucked up major ops,” I guess.
THE STRAIGHT SKINNY—OR NOT
The lean-to is jury-rigged and works more as concealment than protection or support. The command tent beneath resembles an old hot air balloon, sagging and rippling under the curved and cracked aluminum and plastic. A one-person airlock replaces the birth canal entrance, but operates much the same way: you enter, wrap yourself in membrane, air is squeezed back into the tent, then you unzip an inner panel, unwind, and step inside. We make sure DJ and Vee-Def brush down thoroughly, not to disgrace us.
Tak and I silently assess the situation once we’re in. This is not a place of safety or refuge. They’ve probably been using the tent mostly as a place to talk. First, the pressure is no better than it would be most of the way up Everest. Even so, the thin air smells of death—foul-sweet, clogging. None of the officers looks fit. Most have sustained crush or strike injuries. Wounds tend to get nasty in low pressure. Flesh needs oxygen at decent pressure to purify and heal, otherwise anaerobes move in. I long to seal up my skintight and leave. We all do.
Gamecock introduces us around the ragged circle. Despite wanting to gag, I’m in awe. Here we are, grunts from a fragmented squad, sharing the air—however foul—with commanding officers from three partner regions and five nations. These guys hang out with world leaders. Certainly a group worth rescuing, and that may improve our chances…
Major General Kwak
proves adept at English and is in slightly better health than the others. He tells us, in a tight, pain-racked voice, that they have a little water, another day’s worth of air, and—at the northern branch of the furrow—something that would be invaluable if it weren’t broken: a Chinese fountain, covered with sand and dust, not by design, but by the local weather. It’s at least two years old, from a previous drop.
“Can you fix?” he asks with a hopeful rise of one brow.
Gamecock and DJ confer in whispers. I can’t hear what they’re saying. I know that DJ had tech training on fountains but was never certified.
As a Russian named Efremov pushes out a sag in the tent, Kwak slowly steps over to a fold-out table supporting a small projector. “You must be asking, why are so many generals? Because commanders must study ground before committing troops to battle.” He gives a wry shake of his head. “We arrived with many space frames, an orbital command station, many satellites. Seventy-five transport sleds, hundreds of vehicles. And now they are destroyed or scattered. We made emergency drop, and are now here.”
These impressive combined ops did not include us. They must have arrived separately from our squadron, weeks before.
“We have not been able to establish comm with our other forces. We do not know where they may be, or how many survive. We were unfortunate…” Major General Kwak pauses, chest heaving as he works to suppress Cheynes-Stokes. With so many in the tent, long speeches are clearly not in order, but that’s never stopped generals.
Kwak continues. “Our ships encountered Antagonist defenses in orbit with at least forty of their… snake-trains, upon their own insertion and entry.” He looks less sure of his words and refers to a Russian colonel, who translates for us, “Snake-trains… The general refers to Antagonist resupply caravans. Carrying weapons, troops, great amounts of volatiles.”
