I’m guessing the chain of command up here is missing quite a few links. I do not like this one bit, and neither does Borden.
“Sorry to hear that,” Borden says. “Our primary instructions are clear.”
The colonel points toward the sled lander. “Is that for us?”
“We’ve been told to make a delivery, yes, sir,” Borden says. “In exchange for transport and assistance.”
If they want what we have, and don’t want to give what we need, things will happen soon and they’ll happen fast. The colonel, however, walks a few deliberate paces away from the Tonka and toward Borden, putting himself in any feasible line of fire. “Yours is unauthorized operation, no?”
Borden keeps quiet.
“Division Four?”
“Yes, sir,” she says.
“Important division—newly disruptive. Puzzling.” He walks by the commander and into the shadow of our orbiter, studying our Skyrines. Ishida’s mechanical arm is steady. Her real arm has a light quiver.
“Yes, sir,” Borden says.
The colonel’s a bold one. Passing me, he leans in with a wolfish grin. “Are you called Vinnie?”
“Yes, sir,” I say. “Master Sergeant Michael Venn.”
“We are Russian Airborne, Aerospace Forces, Detached—45th Nevsky. Do you recognize us?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good to be memorable. We are told to expect you—in particularly, you, Master Sergeant.” Litvinov slings his rifle and cuts bolt charge. The Russian soldiers stand down. “We are to protect and deliver you to specified location. Mutual colleague pays respect. Says hello.”
I ask, “Who, sir?”
The colonel reaches into his belt pouch and withdraws a worn photo. He holds it in front of my plate. It’s Joe, wearing gray long johns but apparently none the worse for wear. He seems to be standing inside a cluttered, crowded domicile, and looks apprehensive but not under duress. Joe just doesn’t like having his picture taken, underwear or no. He’s beside someone so tall her head almost doesn’t fit in the photo. Someone I’ve been thinking about ever since I departed Mars. Tealullah Mackenzie Green.
Teal.
Borden and Kumar step in to peer at the colonel’s picture. Kumar nods to Borden.
“You recognize?” the colonel asks me.
“My friends,” I say.
He pockets the photo and examines my face behind the plate. His eyes are determined, sad. “They are twelve hours away, if we encounter no other setbacks. Which one is Skyfolk agent, Guru man name of Aram Kumar?”
Kumar says that’s him. The colonel compares Kumar’s face with another photo extracted from the same pouch. “Our orders were to come to site of previous hero action, where depot has been dropped months past, with fountains to collect fuel. Here, the orders say, we will take passengers, reinforcements, and supplies. Yet why drop depot so far out there, I ask? And I am told, to allow passengers to conduct recon of former site of moon fragment. Is this correct?”
Borden nods. She’s hearing what she wants to hear.
“Then comes complete blackout, no more orders, no other explanation, and so we travel on faith, and already we have paid dearly. We get our supplies?”
“Absolutely,” Borden says.
Ten more Russians climb down from their worn and damaged vehicles. Most are sergeants or lieutenants. One is a captain, another is a major. Several are female—I think. The Russian skintights are not flattering and carry heavier armor than ours—useless in my estimation, but maybe reassuring to them.
Lieutenant Kennedy has exited the sled lander and joined Borden and Kumar. Borden tells him to unload the sled, and Kennedy hustles back with a few experimental leaps—which the Russians scrutinize like weary dogs tracking a squirrel—to let down the high, broad white cylinder. The sled angles away from the lander until its support rails crunch on the hard ground. Then it pops its round cap and begins to roll out vehicles. When the vehicles are out, a pallet of supplies in four plastic containers—about a metric ton’s worth—is winched down from the lander’s cargo deck.
Kennedy then returns with his little slate. Litvinov studies the slate briefly and signs off. Formalities observed. Apparently even under the current circumstances, and even on Mars, we’re still bound by paperwork.
Jacobi’s Skyrines have stood in place, observant but hardly calm or patient. Jacobi, Jennings, and Ishida now huddle to speak helm to helm. Borden notices but lets it go. I’m a couple of meters away from this triad of discontent, but I can just make out what they’re saying.
“I don’t see it,” Ishida says.
“What’s our real goddamned mission?” Jennings asks. “Looks to me like the only way they could get these dudes to come out here was by promising resupply. I’ll bet the settlements are down to pucker.”
“And what’s that crap about no Antags within three thousand klicks?” Ishida says. “If not Antags, what hit the Russians? We’re in eclipse and carrying an Ugly tight with Blue—that’s fucking off the drum.” By Blue, Ishida means Navy—Commander Borden. I’m the Ugly—Ugly fucking POG, a stick-beat off the drum and maybe even a Jonah.
Jacobi catches me looking their way and ends the confab. They split with dark glances. Nobody wants to talk to me. Cheery times.
More Russians depart the vehicles. There are twenty-five altogether, more than doubling our force. We’re going to need the new transports.
Within a few minutes, four Russian efreitors, or lance corporals, led by a slender female starshina, or sergeant major, have sliced away the plexanyl packaging and taken charge of a new Trundle, two Tonkas, and a Chesty replete with righteous hurt. The supply pallet is hoisted by crane onto the back of the Trundle.
Litvinov steps back and pings his troops. “Welcome to our American comrades!” Half of them salute without enthusiasm. The others just stare or glower.
A pair of tech sergeants with black, bug-green, and gold blazes—spent matter specialists—prepare to set charges to destroy the damaged Russian vehicles. Once the charges have been placed and primed, Litvinov assigns the four efreitors to drive or push them half a klick away—what he seems to think might be a safe distance.
Litvinov’s second-in-command, Major Karl Rodniansky, a squat, bluff-shouldered rectangle with white-blond hair low on his brow, arranges with Kennedy and Clover for transfer of depot fuel to the lifters. “Use it up!” Rodniansky tells Kennedy. “Cruel bastards out here. They do not deserve.”
I’m not sure if he means Antags.
Both landers will lift off once we’re clear. The sled will be left behind. Thousands of such sleds litter Mars—along with as many artifacts not our own.
The colonel, satisfied that orders and obligations are being fulfilled, returns to Borden and Kumar. “We are told Antags stay up near northern frost,” the colonel says. “Maybe that is true. Our attackers use human tactics, not like Antagonista. And why do they not take out depot?” The colonel points to the poorly camouflaged tanks and fountains. “Antagonista would not need this to get home. But others…”
“Sappers,” Jacobi confirms with a sour face. She doesn’t seem to catch Litvinov’s total message. Maybe she doesn’t want to.
“Why not both?” Ishida asks. “We’re special. Everybody’s out to get us.”
Nothing better.
Litvinov turns and moves his head close to mine. “Master Sergeant Michael Venn. We have history, you and me,” he says. “In Nevada, at Hawthorne dive bar. Like Old West rowdies. You throw me in filthy alley. Remember?”