The Skyrines open belt pouches and strap on their combat blazes. I have no blaze but everybody seems to know me, like they’ve been shown pictures.
They gather around Borden. “Time to share, ma’am,” says First Lieutenant Vera Jennings. Jennings sat to the rear of the orbiter, showing a strong instinct for self-preservation, however misapplied. I remember her naked—stocky, heavy shoulders, fuzzcut pate streaked black and brown. Sharp gray eyes behind her plate. She tries to be heard through her helm—she assumes we’re in blackout mode. “Where’s our camp? When do we get logistics?”
But Borden’s comm pings and our helms link to hers. The Skyrines give each other skeptical looks. No blackout, no cordon, no sentinels—nothing?
Borden announces, “I’ve got daylight, just a little. This is a temporary resource depot, set up here to take care of us and our landers. Nobody stays long.”
“Sappers?” Jennings asks.
“Probably,” Sergeant Ishida says.
“Too exposed,” says Tech Sergeant Jun Yoshinaga. She’s small, so small her skintight has cinched up around her knees, but from what I saw during transfer—smooth, flat abs; round, tight lumps of shoulder; huge forearms but long fingers like twisted rope—I wouldn’t willingly match up against her.
“I don’t know,” Borden says. She looks around as if expecting company. The horizon is mostly empty, but I can’t see beyond the clutter of charred vehicles. “We’re scheduled to rendezvous with friendlies. They’ll transport us to a relocation camp, where we’ll pick up additional personnel.”
“Who’s been relocated?” Jennings asks.
“Settlers,” Borden says. “They’re being protected by our forces.”
We all note that she doesn’t say Joint Sky Defense—JSD.
“You mean Muskies? Why?” Captain Jacobi asks.
“Muskies, as you call them, are the reason we’re here,” Kumar says.
“This is Mr. Aram Kumar,” Borden says. “He’s part of Division Four, our civilian command. I’d listen to him.”
That’s keeping it simple. The rest of the grunts turn.
“Who gives a fuck about Muskies?” Jennings asks.
“They may be the most important people you’ll ever meet,” Kumar says.
Jacobi puts on a wry expression and looks my way.
“We have three missions,” Kumar says. “We are to investigate the remains of the mining operation called the Drifter and assess its condition. We will then proceed to the relocation camp and evaluate those individuals who have been exposed to the interiors of the old mines. And if there is time, we will organize a travel team to visit where mining continues on a second remnant of old moon. Division Four believes our work there is critical.”
“Sir—Kumarji—what about security?” asks Sergeant Chihiro Ishida—the Winter Soldier.
Kumar actually smiles at her, perhaps at the honorific. “For now, according to our best information, the last of the Antagonists on Mars have retreated to the northern polar regions. As for their orbital assets, they have either scuttled or withdrawn them to Mars L-5, shielded by one or more trojans.”
No cracks about being shielded by Trojans. He means asteroids. Mars L-5 is the trailing Mars Lagrange point. The trojans—small t—are asteroids stuck at either the leading or trailing Lagrange points in the Martian solar orbit. I thought we had scrubbed them years ago—Operation Rubber or something like that. I guess not.
Borden extends her arm northwest. Four Skell-Jeeps, three Tonkas, and a Russian-style Trundle, a TE-86, have skirted the charred wreckage and are cautiously rolling in. “Those are for us, I think,” she says.
“They don’t look good,” Ishida says.
We magnify and inspect. Ishida has at least one very sharp eye—all of the Skells, the Trundle, and two of the Tonkas have suffered damage. One Tonka is rolling on four out of six wheels, and the Trundle still smokes where something took out a corner of the cabin.
“They’re painting us,” Jacobi says. Our helms confirm—we’re lit up. No alarms, however—friendlies, right?
“Hey, they’ve charged bolts and slung the ballista!” Ishikawa calls out.
The Skyrines reach for their spent matter packs.
“Don’t charge, damn it!” Borden barks. “Keep your weapons slung!”
Slowly, all comply—against instinct and training. I look at Kumar to see if he’s reacting. He is—just barely. His hands curl into fists.
“Fuck this,” Jennings mutters.
Two of the Skells and the fenders of the four-wheeling Tonka are smeared with freeze-dried blood.
“Casualties,” Ishida says.
Our group tightens.
“No Ants, right?” Ishikawa asks.
“Nobody make a move,” Borden orders. “Let me do the talking, but stay on my band.”
The roughed-up vehicles pause at fifty meters, then, after thorough inspection, wheel forward at the same measured pace. They still light us up. The vehicles are naked of insignia, not unusual on the Red, but I see the Skells are driven by Russians—helm colors and skintights obvious—and I see Russian colors moving as well through the narrow windscreens of the badly damaged Trundle and the Tonkas. My faceplate manages to capture and magnify a couple of their blue and gold blazes. Special Ops—Spetsnaz, I’m guessing Russian Airborne. We trained with 45th Nevsky back at Hawthorne—not always on good terms—and fought together during my third drop. I might know these guys. I itch to communicate and ease things back, but this is on Borden’s plate.
Dead silence on the comm. Nobody looks happy—nobody looks like they know what to expect.
“Cold and calm,” Borden says. “Do not stare, do not charge weapons or make a move to target.”
“No, ma’am,” Jacobi says.
“Don’t even twitch!” Borden’s eyes are like a hawk’s intent on a distant mouse. Our unhappy grunts keep their hands low and weapons slung or holstered.
Finally, wide comm pings and Russian fills our helms. A smooth, deep male voice identifies himself as Polkovnik (Colonel) Litvinov and asks who is in charge. Borden raises her hand. Follows a direct burst of data from the Trundle’s laser to Borden’s helm.
Borden visibly relaxes. “These are our escorts. They didn’t get notice we were arriving until last sol. They’ve been traveling since. They were hit four hours ago, probably by Antags—about fifty klicks from here. Four dead.”
That gives everyone pause.
“How can they not know it was Antags?” Jennings asks nervously. “Who else would it be?”
Jacobi nudges the back of Jennings’s calf with her toe. Jennings shuts up.
The vehicles stop again. Polkovnik Litvinov steps down from the lock of the damaged Trundle and pulls a soft brown cap with a green and gold eagle cockade from under his right shoulder strap, then perches it atop his helm.
Borden crosses to meet him. She opens the conversation with name and rank, says she’s glad they’re here, commiserates with their losses. None of us have twitched but the rest of the Russians keep to their vehicles, ready to return fire if we offer any trouble—ready as well to depart in quick order.
“You are first in three months,” Litvinov says as he studies the way we’re grouped. Jacobi has spaced her Skyrines into five fire teams, weapons visible but not at ready. The rest of us hang apart, very still.
Litvinov’s sharp eyes miss nothing. “We too are glad to meet. It is confused on Earth, last few months. I learn to pick and choose which instructions to obey. Not good for peace of mind.”