“No, sir,” I say. I don’t remember the colonel, but I remember the wicked, navy-issue Iglas the Russians waved in that long, antique saloon. The colonel could still be carrying an Igla and a grudge. Borden is sticking to my side like a shadow. And I notice Jacobi is alert, too.
“Good fight,” Litvinov says. “We were green, brash. We learn well—and months later, join and share hero action on the Red. Now you remember?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Venn,” Litvinov says, getting closer, “we have fought against and alongside. You swear to me, we speak truth, nothing else?”
“I’ll do my best,” I say.
His brows compress. “Swear to me on famous Marine’s grave,” he insists. “Tell me only truth, not Earth bullshit.”
“On General Puller’s blood-soaked grave, I swear to tell only truth,” I say.
“Chesty Puller! Namesake, real bastard in Nicaragua, true imperialist American villain. Is good. Damned good.” Litvinov shakes my hand. He means it. I mean it. Funny how you can feel such things.
Then he gestures for Kumar, Borden, Jacobi, and Rodniansky to join us. We touch our helms, excluding the others. “Two relocation camps have been attacked and evacuated,” Litvinov says. “Many settlers die. Witnesses, survivors, say it is not Antagonista—it is humans in small teams, well supplied. Fast ships, small ships, arrive, depart, carrying these teams. I know they are not Russian. That leaves same forces that worked to destroy mine in old moon—multinational, American-commanded Skyrines, like you. Kumarji, you are servant of Skyfolk—but top commander in Division Four?”
“To our purpose, yes,” Kumar says.
“Is destruction of moons and camps ordered by Gurus?”
“We think so,” Kumar says.
“So, safe to say, other divisions on Earth do not approve of your actions?”
“That is safe to say,” Kumar confirms.
“Chërt voz’mi! Deeper and deeper pile,” the colonel says. “Our commanders long suspect Gurus not on up-and-up. Last orders from Rossiya Sky Defense instruct to cross desert and escort new arrivals to resettlement, to what Skyrines call Fiddler’s Green—and protect Master Sergeant Michael Venn at all cost. Sound like Russians belong Division Four?”
Everyone looks at me, but Kumar answers. “I believe both the Russians and the Japanese have signed on to Division Four and its goals.”
Litvinov shakes his head. “But not Americans?”
“Not entirely,” Kumar says.
“Not yet,” Borden adds.
“Then future is unpredictable. If most Sky Defense signatories want us dead, what if someone here, among your squad, this squad, agrees?” the colonel asks. “What if your troops turn weapons, finish what others could not?”
Kumar faces Litvinov’s sad, serious gaze. “These men and women were handpicked, and all are determined to do the right thing.” Echoes of civilian corporate bullshit. Kumar isn’t used to hanging out with warriors, much less reassuring them. The morale here is nonexistent. He needs to up his game.
Litvinov looks out from under those tight, shadowy brows, straightens, and scoffs. “Fuck right thing,” he says. “We do this to piss off goddamn Skyfolk! They treat Rossiya different from UK and USA? Hold back secrets, let us die wholesale—poor rewards, not same prize as America! Again, Slavs are disrespected. Pfahh!” He grinds his thumb against his forearm, then lifts his chin and shivers off that long, bad history.
This done, the colonel says, “We stay until ships launch—then roll to Fiddler’s Green. Name of afterworld where dancing and singing never stop, favorite of American warriors—true?”
Borden darts her eyes between Litvinov and the other Russians. We’re on margin here, but Litvinov seems to be well in control. Everything depends on him, then—and not on Kumar’s social skills.
The Skyrines line up to climb into the assigned vehicles. Ishida and Jennings scope me again, but Jacobi refuses to look at me. The Russians’ mood is infectious, and Skyrines despise poorly defined relationships as much as they hate unclear missions and muddled orders. Litvinov—a Russian!—picked me out of the crowd. What am I—hero, MacGuffin, prisoner, or worse, a renegade? Somebody who fucked up so badly they locked him away at Madigan, just to measure how screwy a Skyrine can get?
Makes my cockles warm to think of how much they could end up hating me if things turn bad.
FIREWORKS
The Russians finish laying charges in the damaged and stripped vehicles. The muffled crumps unite into one impressive, upward-flaring blast. Fragments fly off mostly to the south, but a few flaming scraps loft over us. Oops. One piece of fender tinks from the side of the orbiter but causes no damage—though much concern to Kennedy, who prances and rants. But quickly he decides it’s not major. He hastily preps to depart. He wants off this rock bad.
The busted and damaged TE-86, Skells, and Tonkas smolder and join the wreckage of the Chryse hero action. The one still useful and four new vehicles form an outward-facing cordon around the landers as the pilots perform their preflight check, all this under a sky graying rapidly to night.
Kennedy informs Borden that the depot has enough hydrogen and oxygen to get the ships to orbit on burn alone, without dipping into spent matter reserves. That improves their chances of getting home in a timely fashion. As well, the depot resupplies our vehicles—and by extension our skintights—with fuel and water and oxygen. A couple of hours more for each of us. No gas stations between here and Fiddler’s Green. Last gasps and sips for six hundred klicks.
Twilight is short on the Red, mere minutes in a low-dust sky. It’s remarkably clear and cold. Walking around in skintights is a mostly quiet affair. Loud sounds come through, but blunt and dreamlike; other sounds simply don’t cross the distance. Brief digital snaps of radio comm are restricted to necessities. Not much in the way of chatter. I stick with Borden and a couple of Russian corporals not the least interested in striking up a conversation, possibly because they don’t trust angels to adequately translate their anger and resentment. Dead friends. I get that.
Borden’s head is on a swivel as she checks out everyone and everything. I have to say she’s adapted quickly to walking on the Red, an economy of motion that speaks to training back on Earth, possibly in harness at drop school—or maybe she’s just a natural.
I still don’t know what to think of Kumar. Skyrines have never been happy with civilian authority. But alien authority? Are the Wait Staff civilians, prophets, or demigods? Going along with Borden and Kumar has gotten me out of Madigan and transvac and down on the Red in relative comfort. And a chance to meet up with Joe and Teal. I don’t deserve to feel resentment against anyone here, except Kumar, and other than being scoped as a POG—but I do have doubts. Deep, severe doubts. My thoughts are an unruly churn of speculation lit up by sharp flashes of dread.
So far, at least, no more Captain Coyle. But there is just a hint of other, inside, that I can’t give shape—can’t make out or force to come forward. Brain is still not my friend.
Finally Litvinov breaks from yet another huddle with two of his captains and tells Borden, Kumar, Jacobi, Jennings, and Ishida—and me—that we’ll ride one of the new Tonkas, now rolling forward. “Keep group tight-knit, no?”
A gruff, hatchet-faced Russian chief named Kalenov finishes passing out vehicle assignments. The rest of our U.S. and Japanese Skyrines will ride in the second Tonka with three more Russians and the driver/shotgun. Litvinov’s being extra prudent. None of our Skyrines will ride in the Chesty or the Trundle, denying us immediate access to decisive weapons. For the time being, we’re passengers.