Old Corps tune. We like ’em tasty.
We’re wedged into stalls. Two techs reach into a carousel and distribute helms. The techs help Kumar and Borden put on theirs; the grunts and I do our own, with critical squints and finger tests for seal flex. We work fast. The quicker we’re down on the Red the better. We close our faceplates to test suck. Borden and Kumar get help doing that. Finally, all our elbows and ankles cinch tight. Diagnostic lights flick on beside each grunt. Next step, I’m thinking, a puff pack, another round of enthusiasm, then getting cannolied—stuffed into a delivery tube—and the big drop. Burning puff all the way down.
But that’s not the way it’s going to be. Not this time. Not for Commander Borden, Kumar, or me—not for any of our grunts.
Borden grimaces as suit techs pluck us from our nooks, rotate us like bags of sawdust, and push us past a short lineup of impatient pilots and chiefs to an accordion tunnel and another ship. But what kind of ship? A passing, spinning glimpse through a narrow port shows us a command orbiter snugly secured to the accommodating flank of a big lander, side by side with an impressive transport sled strapped to another lander. Such lovely accommodations. Orbiters usually fly high, under threat of Antag G2O—Ground-to-Orbit bolts or other weapons. Even command orbiters are generally about half this size and never fall below fifty thousand klicks. By itself, our next ride confirms there have been big changes on Mars: total G2O fire suppression, apparent theater domination—
Or one of those big old reboots. Both sides on pause—Antag and Earth. Maybe we won the last round after all.
The weapons techs are busy finishing inventory. They look up from their slates, expressions neutral, but I sense their scorn. I’m obviously Skyrine—semi-shaggy fuzzcut, wide shoulders, a Virginia Beach tan around my arms, mostly faded—but I’m not dropping in puff, I’m descending to the Red in luxury. I feel like a fucking POG: Person Other than Grunt. Nothing lower in Skyrine hierarchy than a POG.
The burly drop chief meets us at the end of the accordion. Blaze reads CWO 5 Agnes Chomsky. “Twenty-three for command descent,” her voice booms in the confined space. On seeing me, her expression sours. I’ve passed her way five times before. “Limo to the Red, ladies?” Chomsky grates, waving a big hand as we pull ourselves to the lock beyond. Her smirk is a masterpiece of contempt. I glide past. “What, no tip?” she sneers.
“No tip, Chief,” Borden says, coming next.
“None deserved, ma’am,” Drop Chief agrees with no sign she feels the bruise. Her voice rises to crescendo. “Move it out, VIPs! Ten minutes to clear lock.” Even the grunts wince. They’re strapping on blazes, printed and handed out by the chief as she confirms inventory. I do not get one. Tourist. Fucking POG.
Kumar hands himself along a guide wire to the far side of the lock. Borden and I follow, then the first six of our squad—if they are a squad and not just random reinforcements. I note the Winter Soldier is named Ishida—Sergeant Chihiro Ishida. She’s tight with Captain Jacobi and four others, including two sisters—Tech Sergeant Jun Yoshinaga and Sergeant Kiyuko Ishikawa—and two males, Gunnery Sergeant Ryoka Tanaka and Master Sergeant Kenji Mori. To me, they look integrated and aware, like they share unseen scars.
Jacobi seems to be in command of a highly trained squad with four snowballs, one truffle, and seven caramels—Asians who speak American with no accent. Our Japanese sisters go through hell in two countries to get where they are in the ISD Skyrines. Two decades ago, Japan fought China for three months in and around the Senkaku Islands. Thousands died. The old Bushido tradition was revived in Japan with a stacked deck of consequences. For these sisters, combat training of any sort, but especially in the USA—I’ve heard from the likes of Tak—makes returning to a normal life in a more and more conservative Japan unlikely. So they phase American, more American than me, probably.
And they fight like furies.
We pass through the lock in two packs. The passenger compartment of the command orbiter, a cramped cylinder, is grand by Mars standards but still no one’s idea of a limo: a crowded, cold jumble of crew spaces broken up by surveillance gear, sats stacked like tennis balls in a tournament launcher, emergency pods jutting halfway into the main hull—but compared to a space frame, this is luxury.
“Do they serve tea?” Jacobi asks.
“No, ma’am,” calls a hoarse voice forward. From between two pod shrouds, a lieutenant in pilot blue pointedly salutes as Borden grapples past. He watches with no visible joy as she inadvertently knees herself into a half spin followed by three painful collisions. Me, however, he tracks with a critical eye. He’s a small, wiry guy with a trim shock of black hair, olive-colored eyes, and a softly drawn, mouse-brown mustache. His blaze says he’s Pilot: Transfer: 109—Jonathan F. Kennedy. JFK. PT-109. Cute.
“Coming with?” I ask him.
He shakes his head, unwinds, and emerges. “Just next door,” he says, and swoops a forefinger full circle. “I’m solo on the sled. They’ll release me at ninety klicks, I’ll spread chaff, see if there’s G2O, then drop first. If I make it, you’re next.”
“Brave fellow,” I say.
“Any clues?” he asks.
“I wish.”
“Pure fucking snake,” he says. By which he means BOA—Brief On Arrival. At least that’s familiar. Kumar floats a few meters ahead, knees drawn up and ankles crossed in a kind of lotus. Drop Chief Chomsky emerges last from the lock and pulls herself forward. Her voice is almost gentle now; she’s filling couches and assigning escape pods. I’ve never heard of anyone using a pod. Taking a big Antag bolt is decisive.
I have more time to check out Jacobi’s Skyrines. Goddamn, they sure do look like Special Forces. They all move with a freakish physical poise that reveals absolute conviction the rest of the world is their own pre-shucked, swig-’em-down raw oyster. We have seven sisters and eleven brothers—four corporals, three more sergeants, three engineering chiefs, four majors, two captains, two lieutenants. As a full commander, Borden seems to rank. All the Skyrines appear totally down with the program, however unfamiliar and risky. Can’t let Navy see them sweat.
The orbiter pilot, also in light blue, emerges from the cockpit after Chomsky has finished. He’s a junior lieutenant in his mid-twenties, olive complexion, balding, bigger than the norm. He grabs a brace and stays to one side as Borden salutes in passing, then he lifts a lumpy, soft-sides bag containing the real pilot: a preprogrammed Combined Software Navigator: Astral—CSNA. These units are replaced by fresh tech every few weeks, hence the bag. No peeking.
“Welcome aboard, frequent fliers,” he says. “I’m Lieutenant JG Clover. Our trip tonight nets you three hundred million bonus miles, good for a free trip to the beaches of Pearl-Hickam, with no return.” The joke doesn’t raise a grin. “Wunnerful audience. Please be seated. Separation from cluster in five. We’ll be on the Red inside twenty. Drop Chief, cross-check and link skintights. We’re on ILS for the remainder of our trip.” ILS = Internal Life Support. Borden has been assigned the couch next to mine. Jacobi straps in opposite and introduces herself to Borden, then to me—meaning she doesn’t remember. No matter. Officers rarely pay attention to noncomms. She’s out of Skybase Canaveral and tells Borden this is her fourth drop.