by Graham Brown
They were pushed through the hall to an exit ramp. They trudged down it and out of the ship, thankful for a little more space and the feeling of the cold night air.
From there they were marched along a causeway of red gravel and dust toward a warehouse a hundred yards away. High fences on either side of the causeway kept them in the narrow channel.
James glanced behind them. The transport was a huge cigar shaped vessel. He guessed it was close to a thousand feet long, and two hundred feet from its domed top to the square bottom now resting on the surface of Mars. Its blackened hull crackled and groaned as it gave off the heat.
James couldn’t see a name or designation but he recognized the type. His father had commissioned their design. Called them the Empress Class. He’d said they would be the key to bringing the abundance of Mars to the starving Earth. He wondered what his father would think seeing endless lines of prisoners streaming from its various holds.
“How many?” Bethel asked, trying to stay close to James.
“I don’t know,” James said, assuming he meant the prisoners. “Thousands I’d guess.”
In the distance, lit up by a group of floodlights he saw another hulking transport lying silent in the dark. He wondered how many men and women had been brought here against their will.
A shove in the back got him moving again, and soon he and Bethel were herded into a huge warehouse where the captives were being separated into a dozen different lines. Men with cattle prods stood everywhere, their weapons snapping with electricity. On raised catwalks above the crowd dozens of others stood with rifles and shotguns.
The mercenaries were ready for resistance, but none came. Despite the overwhelming advantage in numbers, the captives were confused, exhausted and weak. It made them fearful. More than anything they just wanted to avoid any trouble.
At least most of them.
In one section a scuffle broke out. Screams echoed as the cattle prods were put to use. Several prisoners were quickly taken down and order restored as the offenders were dragged off.
Bethel stood on his toes trying to see over the crowd and assess what had happened. James knew better. A series of gunshots proved him right.
“My God,” Bethel said. “This is madness.”
“Don’t do anything stupid,” James whispered to him. “Keep your eyes down and do as they say.”
Bethel went silent. A few minutes later they were at the front of the line. Two hulking men grabbed James and yanked him forward. They slammed him down into a metal seat and held him there. A sad eyed woman with grey hair sat across from him. From her uniform, James could tell she was a nurse.
“Hold his arm,” she said in a monotone voice.
One of the thugs grabbed James’s right arm and pinned it onto an armrest, twisting it so it rested palm up. The woman jabbed him with a needle, drew some blood and placed it in a scanner. Five seconds later a screen lit up with a green light.
“No pathogens detected,” the scanner announced. “Blood type O negative.”
“Congratulations,” the nurse said, falsely. “You’re healthy enough to work.”
She jabbed him with another needle, one that reminded James of the inoculations he’d received periodically in the military.
As James stared at the red liquid being forced into his veins, the nurse went back to her computer.
“Name?” she asked.
James was silent for a moment.
“Your name?”
This was something he hadn’t considered. He sure as hell wasn’t giving them his real name. “Ares,” he said finally, speaking in a soft voice and lying as convincingly as he could.
She tapped away on the keys and then spoke again. “Last name?”
This time he was ready. He shook his head. “Don’t got one,” he muttered, trying to speak as if he’d never been educated.
“No last name,” she said, tapping the screen a few more times. It wasn’t uncommon.
“Any technical skills?” she asked.
James hesitated. “No,” he said finally and then added, “I did some welding once.”
“No tech skills,” she said to the computer. “Qualification: laborer.”
With that done, she turned and grabbed something else from the worktable. It looked like a cross between a pistol and a medical probe. She brought it towards him.
“What’s that?”
She placed it on his forearm and James pulled his arm away.
“Hold still,” the guard grunted.
“Please,” the nurse said. “It’s just identification.”
Despite his warning to Bethel, James couldn’t help but struggle. It didn’t last long. One guard slapped his head sideways while the other slammed his arm back onto the armrest, looped a strap over it and yanked it tight.
The nurse placed the weapon against his skin and held it there. With a tap of the trigger the weapon fired, shoving a tiny identification tag under the skin. It hurt like hell.
The nurse pulled the weapon back. James saw a tiny line of blood on the underside of his forearm. Beneath the skin he saw a thin, rectangular strip about an inch long. Before he could consider anything more, the strap was released and he was lifted up and shoved forward.
A moment later he was back out in the night air with hundreds of the others. There a line of huge trucks waited. The men, women and children from the transport were being herded towards them. In the darkness it was hard to tell anyone apart.
“Bethel!” he shouted.
“Keep moving!” a vicious looking man with bad teeth growled.
James continued forward but dragged his feet. “Bethel!”
Plenty of others were looking around too, searching for lost family members and friends. The mercenaries seemed content to allow it, as long it didn’t get out of hand. Maybe they knew preventing it would cause a riot.
Finally, James spotted someone who looked familiar. He pushed through the crowd to find Bethel helping a child to search for his mother and father.
A shotgun blast rang out above them. “Come on people. Get on the trucks,” a voice shouted. “We need to get your sorry asses into the shelters before sunrise or you’ll all burn to death.”
The captives began climbing onto the trucks with renewed haste.
The child spotted his mother who was screaming hysterically, and the two were quickly reunited.
“Get in the truck,” the closest thug ordered.
James helped the child and his mother into the truck. The father arrived moments later, thanking them. Bethel climbed up and James followed, taking a seat near the back edge of the covered flatbed.
With snaps from the cattle prods, a few stragglers were forced on board and then a group of the mercenaries climbed in, standing at the back keeping watch.
A moment later the truck lurched forward. It bounced along, traveling quickly over the unpaved road. Red dust flew out behind it, obscuring the lights of the landing zone as the truck rumbled on toward the dark horizon.
Back inside the warehouse, things were winding down. With the last of the new arrivals processed and shipped out, the mercenaries were mounting up on their own vehicles and heading back to Olympia, leaving the medical teams to tidy up and put away their equipment.
Hannah remained behind, helping with the work and studying the despondent faces of her staff. They were miserable, resigned to their fate, but hating every minute of it. Some of them openly resented her and her new ‘friendship’ with Cassini.
Still she went from station to station trying to reassure them. But little was said. After a month of martial law, everyone had learned to speak in code or simply keep their mouths shut.
“You did your job,” she told them. “That’s the best we can do for now.”
Most nodded glumly or simply continued with their work. She arrived at a station to find one of the nurses struggling with the latch on a heavy case. She noticed that the woman’s hands were shaking.
Gently, Hannah reached over and helped her. “Ar
e you okay?”
“They’re going to die out there,” the nurse said, brushing strands of grey hair away from her face.
“We gave them the best chance we could,” Hannah said, without much conviction. “The inoculations and the hemoglobin booster will help them deal with the thin air.”
“They don’t even care,” the nurse replied.
“They’re mercenaries,” Hannah said. “They do what they’re paid to do.”
“No,” the nurse said. “The laborers. They just go where they’re told to. Like cattle. We even tag them like livestock.”
We all do what we’re told now, Hannah thought, though she didn’t say it. “I heard you arguing with at least one of them,” Hannah noted. “Near the end.”
The nurse nodded, putting the tagging gun away in its case. “He said his name was Ares.”
Hannah stooped and straightened up. “Ares?” she repeated. It was an odd name to hear. These people were the dregs of society. They had simple names. Ares was the name of a god.
“Yeah,” the nurse replied. “The computer assigned him the designation, 4917 Gamma. Doesn’t exactly have the same ring to it. But then the poor guy didn’t have a last name to begin with.”
On her handheld computer, Hannah typed in the designation 4917 Gamma. The basic information of the individual came up. No infectious diseases, no distinguishing marks. No obvious defects.
She tapped the screen and a photo came up. It was blurry, taken while the man was struggling by the look of it. Like all the new arrivals this one was filthy, his hair a rat’s nest, his face bearded.
Still, he looked strangely familiar.
She zoomed in on the photo. For a second she felt dizzy and confused. The man looked familiar… Almost like…
She looked away, trying to clear her mind, but then she thought about the name he’d given and her heart began to pound with a surge of adrenaline.
“I am Ares,” she whispered to herself. “God of War. I bring pain, destruction and death. And yet they still worship me…”
The words rolled off her tongue as if she were speaking a poem in a trance of some kind.
“Doctor Ankaris?” the nurse said. “Are you okay?”
“Um…yes,” Hannah stumbled. “It’s just the name. It’s a little ironic.”
“How so?”
“Ares is a name from Greek Mythology. He’s the counterpart of the Roman god, Mars,” she said. “The god of war.”
CHAPTER 20
An hour on the gigantic flatbed had brought the new arrivals out into the wasteland, well over the horizon from the landing site and the lights of Olympia. About the only thing of consequence they passed was a staging depot with several warehouse-like buildings around it.
It disappeared behind them as well, but eventually something new appeared up ahead. A looming structure of impressive size, lit up by floodlights and surrounded by tiny figures that streamed over it here and there, like ants building a nest.
The trucks pulled to a halt a half-mile from the looming monstrosity and the laborers were rousted out and assembled near a warren of holes in the ground.
A new squad of mercenaries arranged the captives into four groups like platoons in boot camp. They were made to stand facing the structure.
As they stood at attention, a hulking man with a shaved head and a tattooed face, climbed onto a platform in front of them.
“So you think you’re in hell!” the muscle bound giant bellowed. “And maybe you are. But considering where most of you come from this might be an improvement.”
The man laughed at his own joke, jumped down from the platform and began walking through the ranks like a general inspecting his soldiers.
“You’re slaves now,” he continued, his deep voice carrying across the crowd. “And I am your master. The first thing you need to know are the rules.”
He raised the extra-large cattle prod above his head and sent a violent surge of energy from its tip. It snapped like lightning.
“To disobey is death,” he growled. “To strike a guard is death. To kill a guard… is death to you, your family and all your friends. If there is any hint of a conspiracy or a coordinated act of disobedience, we will line you up and kill every third one of you at random.”
The fear that swept over the slaves could be felt like a cold wind. Some of them glanced around. The slave-master let the fear linger and soak deep.
“I get the feeling he’s done this before,” James whispered.
Bethel said nothing. He was shaking in the cold.
“But if you work hard,” the slave-master added, “and if you last a year, just one, solitary year, you’ll have earned your freedom and become citizens in the realm that you’re helping to build.”
The slave-master walked past James and Bethel.
James resisted the urge to turn, but studied the man from the corner of his eye.
Bethel whispered. “What’s with all the tattoos?”
“Mercenary kill records,” James said. “Must have run out of room on his body so he marked up his face.”
A baton hit James in the back of the knees, dropping him.
The slave-master stood over him. “I hope you dig as well as you talk.”
James stared up at the man. “Doubtful,” he began to say.
Before James had even finished the word, the slave-master jabbed him with the cattle prod.
James’s whole body convulsed and shook. The pain was excruciating. When the ten seconds of agony were up, the slave-master released the trigger and pulled the weapon back.
James was panting, grunting in pain. He could hardly move.
The slave-master leaned down toward him. “You want some more?”
Unable to speak, James shook his head.
“Too bad,” the slave-master said. “You’ve earned it.”
He jabbed the cattle prod into James once again, and this time James howled in agony as the electric shock coursed through him.
When it was over, James was left on the dusty red ground in a heap of pain. He watched the slave-master’s boots as the man turned his back and walked off.
Bethel looked down at him, about to reach over and help. James shook his head.
“The rest of you, understand this!” the slave-master shouted. “Work hard, you live. Slack off, argue or fight... and you’ll die at my hand.”
CHAPTER 21
Hannah sat in her office staring at a print out of the man who’d offered the name Ares to her nurse. As a precaution she’d printed a hundred other files, but this was the only one she cared about.
She stared at the photo long and hard, but she wasn’t sure.
Could it really be James?
The face looked similar, but thin and drawn, and yet not as thin as most of the new arrivals. The man in the photo was filthy; he had bruises and gashes here and there. Scars that she didn’t recognize, but it had been over a year since she’d seen James Collins. He’d been deployed in combat most of that time. Scars had a way of attaching to a man that lived in a perpetual state of war.
She’d almost convinced herself that she was wrong, that she was grasping at straws, when the memory came round once again. In it, she and James were lying naked on a couch with just a sheet wrapped around them.
“I think I love you,” she’d said for the first time.
His reaction was unexpected. He set his jaw and looked away.
“What’s wrong?”
“I don’t want you to love me,” he said. “I’m not worth your love.”
“I’ll be the one to decide that,” she said smartly.
He looked at her coldly. A look that gave her a chill. “Then make the right choice. Don’t tarnish yourself.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” she asked pulling back and wrapping the sheet around her.
“I’m not like you,” he said. “You heal people while I destroy them. You argue for democracy. I serve my father and his thirst for control.”
She’
d stared at him sadly, unable to explain that she’d been assigned by President Collins to connect with him, to observe him and see if he was trustworthy. She’d chosen to use lust as her way in and James, always eager to push his father’s buttons, had been more than willing to fall into bed with the outspoken critic of the Collins regime.
Only it turned out that James was loyal to a fault. To the point that it was killing him inside. And among the three of them, the only ones spinning deception were her and the president.
But by then she’d fallen in love with him, at least that was the truth. And yet it was the only thing he didn’t want from her.
“You don’t get to tell me what I care about,” she’d snapped. “I believe in your goodness.”
“Really?” he said. “For every person you’ve saved, I’ve killed a dozen, maybe a hundred. For every surgery you’ve performed, I’ve destroyed a home or a village.”
“For good reason,” she said. “That’s what happens in war.”
They’d stared at each other for a long moment.
“I am Ares,” he said finally. “The god of war. I bring pain, destruction and death… and yet they still worship me. I won’t have you loving me. It would only make me despise you.”
She’d said nothing more. As he showered, she’d left his apartment with her heart breaking. She’d never seen him again.
She looked at the picture once more, trying to see into the eyes of the man.
The door opened behind her. Hannah did not react. Methodically, without any haste, she slid the photo back into the stack. Only then did she turn.
It was Davis.
“I have the supplies you requisitioned,” he said, sounding very official. “Do you need anything else?”
She understood. They all suspected the offices were bugged. He placed a box of medical supplies down on her desk and handed her an electronic clipboard to sign. A handwritten note was attached to it.
The others report little success in recruiting. The people are afraid. They want to know who’s going to lead them and how they’re supposed to fight against the mercenaries and their guns.
Hannah understood. She couldn’t blame them. They needed a leader, a warrior to believe in.
