The Chronicle:
Wunji Lau'sRising Into Shadow
Part 1: Mars, Bringer of War
August 8, 2210 (Earth Standard)
For centuries, the planet had held a place dear in the hearts of humankind. Before any one of that most singular of species had dared set foot off Terra, they had already given form and persona to the red speck that glared at them from above.
Anger, an emotion, born of life.
War, an action, born of sentience.
Ares, a god, born of humanity.
Mars, a world, encompassing all of them, a home, a temple, a battleground.
Generations of societies had yet to make the appellation obsolete; in their own inimitable way had the people of Earth gone forth to fulfill their own prophecy and give meaning to what once had meaning only to itself.
The "new Mars," as the Martian colonists liked to call their world, was a much different place than it had been at the dawn of humanity's expansion off-planet. While not yet the lush paradise dreamed of by countless escapists of those times, the colonists' two-century-long effort had resulted in a world with a thicker atmosphere and a warmer climate, not yet fit for human life, but a grand step nonetheless. There was water to be found, frozen though it was, and a few modified plants had actually seen fit to thrive in the dusty soil. There were cities, huge agglomerations of domes and capsules that housed enough humans to start a war, and perhaps enough to even finish one.
Of late, one would also notice that there was a rather large terrain feature around the equator, visible from space and almost as impressive as some of Mars' more natural formations. It was a canyon, a colossal rift that stretched around the entire planet, marking the world's equator clearly and quite indelibly. The Martians called it the 'Vator Crater, and it was less than two months old. The disaster that had created the Brobdignagian scrap pit was still foremost in the minds of most of the solar system; that, and the fate of a handful of fugitives who had wandered throughout the inner solar system before fleeing outward, leaving death and destruction in their wake.
Directly or indirectly, all the solar nations, Mercury, Venus, CEGA, the two Martian governments, and the Jovian Confederation, had been impacted by the events of the past six months. In February, a prominent scientist had defected from Venus and fled that world with the help of four Jovian "operatives." Pursued by the militaries of both Venus and Earth, the small band sought shelter and aid on their journey away from the sun. Wherever they went, catastrophe followed. On Earth's Moon, their presence resulted in the razing of an entire city by Earth's overprotective regime. On Mars, they were firsthand witnesses to the destruction of the Martian Federation's Orbital Elevator, one of the greatest architectural achievements of humanity, now nothing more than a debris-lined furrow and a nickname.
The refugees' ship was now somewhere out-system of Mars, heading for safety in the arms of the mighty Jovian Confederation. For a time, the nations of humanity were silent again, drawing back to lick wounds, nurse grudges, and gather forces. How fitting, though, that the planet named for hate, fear, terror, and death would be the place where the silence would be strained and the cycle of destruction continued.* * * In whorls of dust and mighty winds, Mars vented its fury. The planet's unpredictable weather pattern had not vanished with the thickening of the atmosphere; if anything, it was worse. Martian meteorologists had long since given up the task of forecasting, and were now content to adopt a reactive stance to their world's tantrums, accepting the frequent satellite obscurements and traffic reroutings as necessities of compromise. That the fall of the Orbital Elevator had only exacerbated the dust storm problem meant little to Martian society; for most, it was just a really bad year. For those who wished to go unseen by orbital eyes, though, the storms were a treasure that only fools would leave unspent.
As expected, the area around the 'Vator Crater was the hardest hit by the new crop of tempests. The settlements that were close enough to be affected by the weather but not so close as to have been destroyed outright by the Elevator were caught in a logistical puzzle whose terms were dictated by the impenetrable storms that even now, six weeks after the drop, still came every few days, halting repairs and maintenance work. Ground vehicles and protected humans could venture out into that soup, and perhaps even do useful work therein, but few were willing to deal with the nightmare of maintaining sandblasted vehicles and worksuits.
Maintenance work, however, was the last thing on the minds of the figures that slowly made their way through the blinding maelstrom. Cloaked in heat-dissipating shrouds, cradling massive instruments of war and festooned with satchels, saddlebags and other equipment containers, they resembled a band of desert nomads from a bygone age at first glance. Only a closer inspection would inform an observer that these advancing shapes were over three meters tall. An even closer look would reveal inhuman physiques, electronic compound eyes, and metalshod feet. Touching, one would feel an unforgiving metal and plastic skin over the steady hum of a battery-powered musculature. All assuming, of course, that the human being who resided within the armored suit would permit such a trespass; if he did not, the automatic rifle held in the machine's oversized mitt would end all discussion on the matter immediately. Exo-suits were not made for bickering, but for closing arguments.
Technical offshoots of civilian construction exoskeletons, exo-suits amplified their wearers' strength and mobility by an order of magnitude, as well as providing limited flight capabilities. The pilot occupied much of the available space in the 'suit's torso and head, arms and legs reaching only to the 'suit's elbows and knees, respectively. Most control was achieved by sensor-studded gloves and body fittings, translated into gross actions on the exo-suit's part by a compact computer stored in the "small" of the 'suit's back.
There were fifteen exo-suits in all, fifteen human men and women, all trudging resolutely in wordless silence through the darkness. Fifteen soldiers, ready to die for a cause a hundred million kilometers distant.
Cresting a low ridge, the group's leader halted and raised one armored fist. With three fingers extended, the hand made a sharp left-right motion. The signal was quickly repeated, passed down the line until every pilot saw the silent message. With practiced efficiency, the band split into five groups of three exo-suits each, and fanned out to either direction. The leader, with two companions, waited until the others were out of sight, then began advancing once more. After a few minutes, a dark shadow resolved out of the near-blackness. Where human eyes would see nothing but a shadowy blur, the exo-suits' sensors picked out the curve of a huge city-dome. Where the dome met the ground, there was a large door, locked down for the storm. A loose sign, presumably bearing the settlement's name, flapped wildly in the wind.
Stopping once more, the leader motioned to both companions, who signaled readiness in return. For a nearly a minute, the three war machines waited, hunkered down in the sand. Then, abruptly, all three exo-suits stood up in unison. While the leader looked on, one companion raised a disc-shaped electronic device, which began rotating steadily. The remaining exo-suit faced the door, braced itself, and aimed a missile launcher.* * * Quil Anders looked quizzically at his display, scanning the rapidly scrolling data. The information was supposed to pertain to reception and broadcast status from the settlement's dishes, telling Anders who was receiving what, and how well. What Anders was reading told him that nobody was receiving anything, as of five seconds ago. He grimaced. Sporadic blackouts hadn't been uncommon of late. Myers Dome was less than a hundred kilometers from the 'Vator Crater and forty days hadn't been enough to get everything back to spec. Every time the structure settled a little, somebody's antenna would go out of alignment, and cabling faults were still being found all over the place.
That was not to say, of course, that malfunctions weren't common under normal circumstances. Myers Dome's superstructure was over a century old, built in 2102 during the Martian Free Republic's filling-out period. Then, Mars was only seventeen standard years independent from Earth, and the Republic was, in turn, only eight years independent from the Martian Federation. Both Martian nations knew that the Republic existed only because Martians as a whole were tired of fighting and squabbling. All the Republicans really wanted was to be out from under the Federation's totalitarian umbrella; unwilling to expend the time and energy to quash a mass dissent, the Federation outlined a modest portion of the surface (much of which was unused at the time) and permitted the establishment of a second Martian government. Of course, no one expected peaceful relations to last, and all manner of social, economic, and military bickering had decorated the ensuing hundred and sixteen years.
The Republic had spent much of its early time and money building new cities centered around mining and factory facilities in an attempt to attract refugees fleeing Earth's rapidly deteriorating ecosphere and political situation. Myers Dome was meant to be one such business center; erected on the southwest edge of Syrtis Major near the Federation-Republic border, the town started out as a mining and farming community with aspirations toward manufacturing, refining, and international trading.
While the hoped-for monies for big business never materialized, Myers Dome did eventually become home to a consulate from Venus, the only foreign diplomatic office in the Republic not located near a spaceport. The incongruity of a major foreign ambassadorial facility in an outpost town of four thousand miners and farmers was not lost on the Republic; the Venusians' offhand assertion that Myers Dome's border location offered excellent trade and international relations opportunities with the Federation was almost absurdly prevaricated. Smiles and handshakes abounded, however, when the Venusians equally offhandedly mentioned Venus-funded city-wide renovation and civil defense provisions.
As things turned out, the construction of the consulate had little effect on Myers Dome. The promised renovations consisted of beautification of the Dome's interior; the Venusians hated working in unkempt conditions. There was civil defense aplenty, to be sure, in the form of Venusian Home Defense Force guards posted at every entrance and window of the consulate building. Every so often, a Federation delegation would be hosted, or a trade conference with one of the large Martian consortiums would be held, but otherwise, Myers Dome continued to live as if the Venusians weren't there (which, considering the scant amount of fraternization between diplomatic consul workers and Myersites, wasn't far from the truth). The farming and mining proceeded year after year, and the dome itself, untouched by the Venusians, became a little more patchwork and shifty with each passing season. While the Venusians never seemed to have any problems, the rest of Myers Dome's population was forced to deal with all manner of infrastructure difficulties stemming from the centenarian water, electricity, and atmosphere plants. Static and occasional "blinks" in the settlement's communications were to be expected.
The current situation, however, was rather more serious. If none of the settlement's receivers were getting anything, it either meant that the entire satellite network was down, or every dish and antenna in town had fallen off its mount at the same time. Neither possibility seemed likely, which led Anders to a decidedly unpleasant third option: someone was deliberately interfering with Myers Dome's communications.
"Oh, shit," Anders said to the empty room. He spun in his chair, reaching for the commset on the back wall. He had barely touched it when a muffled thud made the floor rumble beneath his feet.
What the hell, he thought. Another quake? The shock hadn't felt like one of the many groundshakers the town had experienced over the past few weeks; it had been too abrupt, too localized. Almost as if...
Anders pushed his chair away, propelling himself toward the door. He sailed nearly two meters in Mars' gentle gravity before stopping himself near the door panel. Triggering it, he stepped out of the third-floor control room into the short corridor leading to the rest of the Municipal Operation Building. He started to run, feeling more thuds reverberating through the floor. Nearing the end of the corridor, where there was a window, he heard new sounds that made his guts curdle.
There were two distinct alarms. Anders had heard them before only in orientation sessions; he had never expected to hear both at once. The first, a sharp, repeated klaxon, signaled the presence of a fugitive or otherwise unauthorized person in the town. The other, a desperate, ululating howl, told all who cared to listen that a major dome breach had occurred.
The sight that greeted Anders through the window was chaos given form. The city was on fire. The break in the dome was visible across the rooftops, a massive rent in the armored surface through which Myers Dome's precious atmosphere was pouring out at a prodigious rate. Flecks of green foam could be seen at the edges of the hole, where outclassed auto-repair systems tried futilely to mend the injury. The cause of the breach was readily apparent; from several points in the dome, rockets arced over buildings and streets to strike important landmarks; at a glance, Anders made out the burning shapes of the powerplant, the main vehicle garage, and the primary comm station. Crowds of people ran amok in the streets, some running out of buildings for a better look, others running inside for shelter.
Anders' gaze swept downward as he continued past the window into the elevator landing. He saw several black-and-red exo-suits bearing the insignia of the Venus Bank tromping out of the imposing facade of the nearby Venusian consulate, laser rifles at the ready. Trust the Venusians to have a defense ready, he thought. I suppose I should be thankful that it's at least not impossible to get their attention. He finished his thought as he reached the elevator. He pushed the button, once, twice, before remembering proper procedure for emergency evacuation. He turned around to face the elevator landing's broad window. A three-story drop was easily survivable on Mars; Anders knew he was fit enough to deal with the landing. He was given pause, however, by the renewed sight of the dome breach; terraformed as it was, Mars' open atmosphere was hardly hospitable. Anders' light business attire would be of little help once the dome's atmosphere was drained. Must get to an emergency locker. There was no one else about; either they were already down the stairs, or they were doing the sensible thing and cowering in their offices.
A glimpse out of the corner of his eye stopped him. The Venusians hadn't made it far. Anders watched the two exo-suits that were still standing rise from cover to fire their lasers, only to be torn apart by automatic cannon fire from further down the street. Looking in that direction, Anders gaped incredulously. Charging at full tilt toward the Venusian consulate were three military exo-suits. Even under their thermal shrouds and camouflage, Anders recognized the design. He'd seen them on the recruiting posters for the Free Republic Rangers scattered around every city in the hemisphere, his own included. Sand Stalkers! Those are Republican 'suits!
Anders' identification notwithstanding, the three exo-suits continued their rampage, advancing relentlessly past, through, and over the town's citizenry. Anders could see other Sand Stalkers now, converging from all directions, leaving broken bodies and burning buildings behind them. He stood rooted to the spot, unable to understand or believe the horror that was taking place around him. He watched two of his own nation's exo-suits kneel down and launch rockets at the massive Venusian building. He continued to watch even as he realized that the building he was standing in contained communications equipment very much similar to the setup in the now-destroyed primary comm station. He moved not a muscle, despite seeing one of the Sand Stalkers run by his building and toss something through the door, not even pausing on its path toward the Venusian consulate. Even as flames shot out of the ground-level windows and the floor melted away beneath his feet, Quil Anders could think of only one thing, one mitigating circumstance for his nation's unexpectedly rough treatment of its people.
What did the Venusians do this time?* * * The four hovertanks swept across the Martian landscape at flank speed, looking like nothing so much as a flock of fat, black raptors. Skimming at just under two meters, the platoon was throwing up quite a dust plume. The visual effect was unavoidable; stealthy though they might be, the vehicles' best defense against detection was to stay as low to the ground as possible.
The tanks were of the new Hellwind variety, faster and lighter than the older hovertanks used by the Free Republic. Bigger engines and improved aerodynamics made these vehicles more akin to helicopters and other vertical-take-off-and-landing craft than hovercraft. Skirtless and winged, the Hellwinds were quite capable of full flight when situations so warranted, their only concession to conventional armored vehicle architecture being the squat railgun turret atop each vehicle. Additional ordnance could be stored in a small internal bay based on the squadron's mission requirements. The overall package sacrificed durability for mobility, speed, and firepower. They were a far cry from the Republic's older designs, but also much better suited to their task.
For decades, the Republic had deemed it sufficient to simply imitate their neighbors in the Martian Federation, deciding that, in general, keeping on the same footing was the best way to avoid a real conflict. The opening political climate around the solar system over the past twenty years gradually changed that opinion, however. The Federation's dictatorial government found much in common with the newly-formed Central Earth Government and Administration, leaving the smaller Republic decidedly in the cold, technology-wise. The Free Republic responded by pursuing trade relations with the Jovians, a profitable interaction for both nations.
Four examples of the technological exchange were clamped tightly to each hovertank, clinging belly-up to the hull bottoms using handholds and magnetic locks. The Sand Stalkers were riding as passengers, imposing on the hovertanks to allow them to skim above the ground many times faster than their feet or jetpacks could carry them. With their complex humanoid shape, they did nothing to help the hovertanks' stealth profile, but that was a problem solved by simply staying very low to the ground to avoid exposing the vehicles' undersides to radar; in all other respects, the relationship between hovertank platoon and infantry squad was wholly beneficial. The concept behind the exo-suits was actually quite old, and had been, like so much else, "borrowed" from the Martian Federation. These 'suits, though, were new designs, conceived and birthed in the Republic alone, using dearly-bought Jovian technology to boost speed and efficiency over the Federation's exos. The hovertanks were even newer, though of the same breed; not copies, but weapons specifically tailored toward the Republic's interests.
In the forward-left position of the lead hovertank, Marshal Lucio Ramirez stewed quietly in his 'suit. He cared less about the specific interests of the Republic and more about keeping the number of regretful letters he had to send to families to a minimum. For the new tanks, then, he was thankful. The old way had involved lightly-armored wheeled trucks that provided little protection or support; cheap on equipment, expensive in lives. For the tank crews' part, the old way was a doctrine of bulky, slow tanks with excellent armor, devastating weaponry, and little to no combined-arms potential. The Free Republic Rangers were meant to be a versatile, adaptable military force, though; suggestions and complaints were heard, understood, and eventually processed through the Republic's cumbersome bureaucracy to produce the current crop of military restructurings.
One result was the Hellwinds, attached by platoon to corresponding platoons of sixteen exo-suited infantry, providing scouting and support for the one and greatly increased speed and safety for the other. The assignments were popular, but scarce; Hellwinds were expensive and slow to produce, and the Republic's citizenry would stand only so far for increased taxes. Ramirez' exo-suit unit had been hooked up with Marshal Marle Hasselbach's Dust Devils on account of its distinction and effective leadership. Both units had been happy when introduced to one other a month ago; it was only now that they remembered the sort of jobs units like theirs were expected to do.
Ramirez scanned his helmet display once more, being sure not to miss any details. His group was on free-roaming border patrol, and Marshal Hasselbach had taken the opportunity to do a little joyriding off the beaten path. Ramirez had to admit that the ride had been fun, and it had given the rookies in his squad a taste of what sort of behavior to expect from overexcited hovertank jockeys, but he couldn't help being a little irritated. Especially so, since their off-course wanderings had made them the closest unit available to deal with the situation outlined in green letters on his head-up display.
The satellite transmission from HQ was curt and to the point:Myers Dome: City 3.02N 295.82
LOS, ECM?, Dust Obsc. Time: ?
Investigate
Report b1640There was no mention of support, nor any added intelligence. The number of unknowns was bothersome. The Loss of Signal might be caused by a fallen antenna mast, or it might mean that someone was using electronic jamming in the vicinity. The dust storm might last for minutes, hours, or months. Any other unit might well have been told to advance cautiously to the area's perimeter and wait for help or a good satellite view, but, by the same token, another unit wouldn't have gotten there terribly fast in any case. Ramirez sighed and tongued the comm control in his helmet.
"Sometimes I think they put a little too much faith in your toys, Hasselbach."
Hasselbach's amused voice came back over the line.
"As long as it's not in you, Ramirez, I think we'll be able to handle their confidence. If you like, you dustsloggers can sit right here and have yourselves a picnic while me and my toys go play antenna repair personnel."
Ramirez thought he could hear muted snickering in the background. Hasselbach and her crew weren't known for their dour demeanor. Under most circumstances, Ramirez was willing to tolerate the ribbing he and his received from the tankers, occasionally even permitting his troops to stand and deliver in kind, but this was not such a time. He'd spent five long Martian years as an urban SWAT officer before he joined the Rangers, and during that time, he'd learned that the quietest buildings were always the most unpleasantly surprising.
"Yeah, well if it is just antenna trouble, then I'm buying drinks tonight," he said.
He could tell that Hasselbach got the hint. Paranoid or not, they were entering an unknown situation with the expectations of Ranger Command riding their backs. A modicum of seriousness was warranted, especially considering that they were approaching their objective at several hundred kilometers per hour.
"Gotcha. All right, girls, pipe down back there. What's the drop op, leg-boy?"
The background noise stopped immediately. Ramirez smiled wryly; Hasselbach had left her comm open just so that he would hear her using her "big sister" voice, and he appreciated the gesture for what it was. Joint commanders they might be, but both needed to be able to rely on the other's ability to control his or her subordinates.
Ramirez considered the question at hand. Unless the hovertanks themselves were attacked, Ramirez and his exo-troops had discretion as to where and when they would dismount.
"I think a little caution is warranted. Pair off, two drops each in squads of four. We'll come in from the north, and the second element will take south. Stay in contact, and advance under close support order. If nothing untoward happens, we rendezvous at the dome in, say, twenty minutes. If you'll forgive my paranoia, Hasselbach, that's the op."
"Forgiven, my dear passenger. Anyway, it'll be fun."
To be precise, Ramirez' command authority extended only to his own infantry troops; any vehicular movements were strictly the purview of Hasselbach. That protocol worked easily only in the heat of battle, however, where there was no time for polite give-and-take. Under more leisurely circumstances, where there was time to plan and think, a large amount of the decision-making process was transferred to whomever would be most active during the operation. In this case, Ramirez' troops would be doing most of the work; the hovertanks would likely be little more than glorified taxis. Thus, Hasselbach had no objections to Ramirez' dictating of her platoon's split. The idea was that if one group ran into something that two hovertanks and eight exo-suits couldn't handle, then the other group would have the option of either coming to the others' aid in a flanking maneuver (if the presence of two more hovertanks would make a difference) or calling for help and cutting overall losses (if two more hovertanks were, for some reason, not enough).
Hasselbach went to intervehicular comm, her conference with Ramirez done for the time being. Moments later, Ramirez watched Devils Three and Four peel off to the left, carrying the corresponding exo-suit squads with them. He keyed his comm, opening a channel to the departing 'suits.
"You guys behave, now, okay? At the dome in twenty minutes. Gamma One gets to be in charge, insertion is at your discretion."
Squad Three's leader, Deputy Sheriff Michael Loury, responded with, "Roger that, Marshal. Twenty minutes. Good luck."
In seconds, the two Hellwinds were receding clouds of dust. Ramirez checked his display. They were twenty kilometers from the settlement, with no further word from anyone. He sighed again, wishing momentarily to be back in a job where asking for backup wouldn't be perceived as a joke. Oh well, he thought, enough cloudgathering. Time to check the gang.
"Okay, how's everyone?"
A chorus of affirmative replies came back from Morgan, Valentine, and Erichs, his three squadmates on the tank, followed by a quick "Tip-top, sir" from Beta Squad on Devil Two. Ramirez nodded slightly. He'd commanded this platoon for three Martian years, and knew every member like family. To be sure, some relationships went back farther than others, but even for his newest transfers, he was aware of every foible, any outstanding skill or weakness. There was nobody in his force who couldn't be an accurate judge of their own abilities, and Ramirez had come to rely on that confidence in his command. He shut off his comm and relaxed in his armor. There were only six minutes to go before they reached their destination; there was no reason to distract his people with chatter this close to an objective. He closed his eyes.
The hovertank's entry into the dust storm was barely perceivable as a light abrasive hissing noise against the vehicle's outer surface. They'd all been in tempests before; in a well-sealed 'suit, they were an inconvenience, nothing more. Ramirez didn't stir until he was shaken out of his reverie by Hasselbach's sudden angry outburst, accompanied by a light double beep in his ear.
"What the hell?"
Ramirez snapped his eyes open and scanned his display. Two flashing red lights in the lower right corner of his helmet told him everything; both the satellite link to base and local radio communications were being jammed. Ramirez had expected as much; he mentally erased the question mark next to the "Electronic Countermeasures" entry on the briefing. He knew he didn't have the worst of it; Hasselbach and her crew, with their complex radar and sensor suite, were likely faced with at least seven blank screens. There might be an army of tanks waiting for them, and they'd never know until they ran into it. Ramirez turned his comm on; the intra-vehicle lines would still work, and as long as Devil Two stayed close, they might be able to tightbeam to them, too.
"All right, people, I think that pretty much clinches it. Somebody wants to play hidey-hidey. Beta squad, if you hear this, you're independent. Be careful. Otherwise, keep to the plan."
Under most circumstances, Ramirez would have been extremely uncomfortable dividing his force into such small portions. In this case, however, he realized that whatever enemy awaited them would likely be as blind as they were; both the jamming and the storm were powerful and indiscriminate. Ramirez was betting that his opponents were not expecting outside interference; if the Dust Devils had been where their flight plan said they would be, Myers Dome would still be over twenty minutes away, an eternity on the modern battlefield. In that case, he wanted to be able to hit with surprise from as many directions as possible, and also maintain the best chance of actually finding and engaging the enemy in the ECM dead-zone. If he was wrong, and the hostile force was prepared, then he wouldn't want his troops to be all bunched up into a nice, easy target. If it turned out that his people had been sent in here to die, then he was going to make his killers work for it, by God. Hasselbach apparently had the same thought, as her voice came over the comm once more.
"Get snug, kids. Dropping to the deck." That meant that the hovertank would now be following the terrain as closely as possible in an effort to avoid detection and make enemy targeting difficult. It also meant that they were likely to lose contact with Devil Two as each hovertank moved erratically to stay with the ground.
"Where is it coming from? Can you HARM it?" asked Ramirez. The primary disadvantage of broad-based jamming of the sort being used against them was that, despite the uselessness of radar and communications systems, it became ridiculously easy for specially-designed Homing Anti-Radiation Missiles to trace the jamming emissions back to their source, hunting down and destroying the transmitter. Hasselbach's weapons officer, Eric Clark, responded.
"Working on it...got it. Oh, man. It's centered on the dome."
Hasselbach cut back in.
"Not a chance I'm going to fire on it without visual confirmation, Ramirez." A HARM fired blindly in these conditions would destroy the jamming source without fail; if that source was hiding in a city full of civilians, then more precise methods would be required.
"No problem here. I guess we all get a break from the mindless chatter."
"Hey, my chatter is never mindless!"
"Case in point. Okay, the likelihood of hostiles is high, people, so stay alert. Nobody's going to be able to see their own toes in this soup, so stay close after drop. If we get separated, advance to the dome and get to an entrance. Don't tangle with anything you can't handle; you'll be able to hide better than you can fight. Try not to get killed."
"I think I'll do better than try, Ramirez," rejoined Morgan, in Alpha Two.
"You know what I mean, Morgan."
"Yeah, but who could resist?"
"I'm not hearing anything from Three or Four, Jack."
Morgan's voice dropped theatrically.
"I think, boss, that they're having a little, you know, heart to heart?"
Ramirez wasn't surprised. Relationships between soldiers serving together were common, even encouraged, in the Free Republic Rangers; it was one of the "freedoms" lacked by the rigid military of the Martian Federation that prompted the creation of the Free Republic in the first place. Ramirez was personally against such a level of permissiveness, preferring to adhere to the ideal of the warrior ascetic, but he knew his was an old-fashioned belief that was in the extreme minority in his home nation. He therefore tolerated the amorous goings-on that occasionally invaded the sanctity of his platoon in the interests of preserving his loyalty to the many other freedoms granted him by his country. There could be no argument, though, that the immediate moment was an absolutely inappropriate time for private chitchat. Ramirez was about to cut in on Valentine and Erichs, to keep them focused, when Hasselbach broke into the troopers' chatter on the public channel.
"Devil Two is four hundred meters off at seventy-six, independent. I can't keep any contact."
Ramirez nodded slightly, regaining a serious demeanor. Hasselbach was losing the ability to keep track of the other hovertank in the group, allowing it to wander nearly half a kilometer away. Devil Two was likely having the same problem finding Hasselbach's tank. If not for the direct line-of-sight communication between the two, contact would surely have been lost long ago in the sand and jamming; as it was, getting any kind of signal through to either vehicle was starting to prove impossible. It was pointless, then, for Ramirez and his squad to continue weighing Hasselbach down when she would be much better off being able to maneuver freely.
"That's fine, Hasselbach. I think we'll be getting off here, anyway. Devil Two and company can link up when we're dismounted. Circle over and play chaperone, assuming no interference."
"Roger. This'll be a stop'n drop, heelsores, just to be nice. Ready line!"
In the absence of any perceivable danger, Hasselbach had opted for a dismount maneuver that was easier for the infantry, but more vulnerable for the hovertanks. The execution involved a quick braking that would bring the hovertank almost to a complete halt at cruising height, allowing the exo-suits to simply drop off onto the nearby ground. This part of the operation was the most vexing for the tank crews, being forced to give up the security of speed for the sake of their passengers. Other, more dangerous dismounts were available for use, and Hasselbach had no qualms about booting her hangers-on off her tank at two hundred kilometers per hour, if the situation warranted it; Ramirez and his troops had discovered that, along with Hasselbach's intense competitive streak, during the last bout of training wargames.
Alpha squad began its readiness report.
"Alpha Four, ready!"
"Alpha Two, ready!"
"Alpha Three, ready!"
"Alpha Leader, ready. On your mark, Devil Leader."
Hasselbach began a quick count.
"Three. Two. One. Mark."
With a scream of vectored thrust, the Hellwind braked hard while simultaneously gaining two meters of altitude. With a flick of his feet, Ramirez disengaged the locks holding his exo-suit's legs and body to the hovertank's underside. The force of the hovertank's deceleration pulled the 'suit down and forward, leaving it hanging by its arms about a meter above the ground. In front of him and to his side, he could see his squadmates executing the same sequence of motions. His 'suit passed the vertical, and Ramirez disengaged his 'suit's hands and lit his jetpack for a momentary burn, just enough to cancel the rest of his momentum. To his practiced physique, it was akin to tumbling down a hill. The intravehicle link disengaged and retracted. Ramirez heard a shortened sendoff.
"See you kids la-"
Hasselbach's voice vanished into static.* * * Ramirez landed with a thud on the coarse Martian soil. Immediately, he dropped into a defensive crouch and drew from his 'suit's back a stubby, bulky weapon with six barrels arranged in a circular pattern. The nine-millimeter gatling rifle was standard issue for Sand Stalkers, simple, versatile, and much more reliable and easy to maintain than the otherwise superior laser and particle beam weapons that were available. For opponents that could withstand fifteen rounds per second of armor-piercing ammunition, a small rocket grenade launcher was attached to the rifle's underside; loaded with anti-tank munitions, it gave the exo-suit enough firepower to take on an enemy many times its size. The whole affair weighed over thirty kilograms, but Ramirez, in his 'suit, could hold and fire it one-handed. Ramirez spared a glance to ensure that the rifle and his other weapons were all in order, then assessed the placement of his squad.
The deployment had been almost perfect. Four meters in front of Ramirez, Valentine was rising from where a concealed depression had apparently tripped him. Morgan was to his right, and Erichs was forward and right. The dust was thick, making visibility less than twenty meters, although there were occasional eddies that cleared things up a bit.
Ramirez motioned to his squad to take up their patrol order. Silently, they complied. Their 'suit radios weren't going to have much luck cutting through the jamming, even up close. Ramirez felt better using hand signals anyway; the 'suits lacked laser or other forms of direct-line communications, which meant that any signal they sent would be broadcast far and wide.
Weapons at the ready, Alpha Squad set off toward Myers Dome, Morgan in the lead. Over the hiss of moving dust, Ramirez thought he could hear the receding sound of turbines. Beta Squad should be nearby, heading in the same direction, Ramirez thought. We should meet up before long. Checking his map, he noted that they were less than two kilometers from the settlement. Shouldn't take more than twenty minutes.
It was easy to lose track of time in the storm. Ramirez kept one eye on Morgan and one eye scanning his surroundings. Behind him and to either side were Valentine and Erichs, who were likewise eschewing time awareness for alertness. The going was not easy; Mar's soil was unpredictable, at some times hard and crusty, on other occasions soft and deep enough to mire a foot, or rarely, a leg. Myers Dome was, like many Martian cities, built inside the perimeter of an old impact crater in order to take advantage of the ancient fused ground as a foundation. As a result, there was less of a quicksand tendency to the soil here than in other areas of the planet.
Ramirez pulled his exo-suit's left foot out of a particularly possessive soil hollow. Looking up, he noticed that Morgan had come to a halt and raised his weapon. Knowing that Valentine and Erichs might not have a clear view of Morgan, Ramirez made a quick chopping motion in the air, bringing both troopers to combat stances. Ramirez squatted his 'suit and pointed his gun past Morgan, into the swirling dust. What's he seeing?
They stayed frozen for several seconds before Morgan raised his hand and made a signal. Friendlies. Other squad. Ramirez rose and walked toward Morgan, repeating the signal for Valentine and Erichs. Getting closer, he saw the shape of another Sand Stalker emerging out of the maelstrom.
There was a single moment that Ramirez would later remember, where Morgan was stepping forward and raising his hand in greeting, in the process of lowering his weapon. Ramirez was behind him, to his right, squinting at the oncoming Sand Stalker, studying it uneasily. The Sand Stalker was only a few meters from Morgan's 'suit, seemingly also making a greeting.
Morgan's 'suit opened its hand and waved.
Ramirez realized that none of his platoon's 'suits were fitted with thermal cloaks at the same time he glanced at his mysteriously dark thermal imager display.
The unidentified exo-suit continued to raise its arm.
Ramirez opened his mouth, uselessly.
The dust cleared then, at the end, as the Sand Stalker's arm extended toward Morgan's 'suit, a suddenly-revealed rifle grasped in its hand.
The tableau was frozen for the barest instant, in which all four troopers had time to think, to reflect, and to regret, but not to act. A bright muzzle flash ended the silence. The rifle's burst gutted Morgan's 'suit, holing it through. The hostile exo-suit swept its gun toward Ramirez, prompting the three remaining Republic troopers to dive in various directions.
Military computer systems weren't dumb; they were programmed to recognize and react to dangerous situations with or without human approval. The sound of nearby gunfire prompted Ramirez' 'suit computer to activate the exo-suit's tracking system and mark both Morgan and the mystery 'suit as potential targets, limning them in light green on Ramirez' display. Ramirez, however, didn't have time for accuracy. As a trail of gunfire followed his 'suit's flying form, he flexed his right forefinger, causing a similar action further down his 'suit's arm. A swath of bright tracers spat from his rifle, spraying the area around the enemy exo-suit.
Something volatile on the unidentified hostile was hit, starting to burn as Ramirez' 'suit landed on its side in the red dust. Ramirez rolled his 'suit to its feet to see the enemy explode in a burst of flame, showering the area with assorted bits of debris. Sounds of gunfire were still audible from the direction Ramirez thought Valentine and Erichs had gone off in. He rose to a crouch, then, by pure instinct, jumped backwards. A cannon round thumped into the dirt in front of him.
Out of the storm came charging two more of the shrouded Sand Stalkers, both carrying forty-millimeter anti-armor guns. His computer drew up targeting information for the newly visible opponents. Again dispensing with the electronic aid, Ramirez opened fire to distract his assailants and dove once again for safety.
I hope Marle doesn't have to deal with this sort of thing.
Forgotten, Morgan's 'suit crumpled bonelessly to the ground, and immediately started to be covered by blowing dust.* * * Devil Leader was less than two hundred meters away from Ramirez' squad when the firing started. The hovertank's audio sensors could hear the guns, but couldn't provide targeting information. Hasselbach recognized the sound of light weapons fire, however, which posed little to no danger to her vehicle. She was tempted to turn her sensors to active mode for a moment, possibly punching through the jamming noise and permitting accurate weapons fire, but also lighting her tank up like a beacon to any local targeting systems. Her finger was on the switch when a loud metallic thump reverberated through the crew compartment.
"Shit! Floor us, Maddy!" Madeline Fourier, the hovertank's pilot, complied, executing a gut-wrenching dive that stripped the vehicle of nineteen of its twenty meters of altitude in a matter of moments.
"On the deck, boss." Devil Leader's crew let out a collective sigh. That they still had the ability to do so meant that the anti-tank round had likely hit a wing surface or some other lightly-armored and nonvital area, going right through without detonating. A glance at her damage control screen, which had activated automatically, told Hasselbach as much; a bright red dot marred the right rear quarter of the otherwise green schematic. Hasselbach though of the amount of repair time required to patch the Hellwind's radar-absorbent skin and grimaced.
Fourier had slowed the hovertank to bring it around. The sounds of gunfire were much closer now, dozens of meters distant at most. Hasselbach's concern was quite immediate; flying sentry duty in such weather was hardly dangerous, unless an enemy was close enough to fire blindly at the sound of her tank's engines. The shot had been a lucky one, but Hasselbach was used to people having far more luck than she gave them credit for.
"Clark, squash that bug!"
The gunner, sitting behind and above Hasselbach in the hovertank's turret, responded after a moment.
"No joy. I can't make anything out without going active."
The Hellwind was hugging the ground again, safe from anti-aircraft fire. Now that the fighting had started (whoever it is, Hasselbach thought), there was no need for them to keep a bird's eye position. Hasselbach inspected her external camera views one by one, looking for any sign of the source of the assault. Her eyes settled on a small lump on the ground a few meters away, but were pulled away by a sudden beeping on another console.
"Whoa, wait a sec," she muttered. "The ECM source is moving. Clark, you copy?"
"Yeah, I got it. It's still in the dome, but if it leaves, I've got a Bloodhound all ready to-"
Fourier completed her turn and began to accelerate once more. Without warning, the lump on the ground sprang up and forward, suddenly showing up on Hasselbach's thermal imager as a series of patches, caused by the windblown flapping of the thermal shroud which had previously concealed its nature. The hovertank's crew had no time to articulate anything before the exo-suit had latched onto the top of the vehicle, sinking a vibroknife into the armor like a mountain climber's piton and hanging from it by one hand. From the driver's seat, Fourier observed the trooper on her screen, knowing that she was separated from the unwanted rider by less than a meter. Unlike her commander and gunner, however, she was unconcerned by the intrusion, even as she watched the exo-suit pull a limpet mine from its hip satchel.
"Oh, for God's sake," she said in exasperation, pushing both of her joysticks to their extremes. "Hang on," she added as an afterthought. The hovertank slewed around one hundred and eighty degrees using vectored thrust from its turbines, then accelerated to full throttle. All three crewmembers were hurled forward, then back, in their seats, held in place by belts and elastic webbing. Lacking such support, and possessing roughly four tons more weight for momentum to have an effect on, the exo-suit was thrown toward the rear of the hovertank. The vibroknife, never meant to withstand such force perpendicular to the blade, snapped off at the hilt, sending the exo-suit sprawling, the mine still clutched in its hand.
Clark recovered quickly, activating the hovertank's turret and bringing it around. The targeting display in his helmet eyepiece was already active, the tank's computer calculating ballistic information for the perfect shot.
"Co-ax! On the way!" Alerting his crewmates to the imminent noise, Clark opened up with the six-barreled vulcan gun that was mounted next to the turret's big railgun on the same axis. The exo-suit's upper body disintegrated under the rain of shells as the hovertank vibrated with the high-pitched buzz of the motorized gun. The tank continued to accelerate, leaving the trooper's remains in a cloud of dust. When Clark had shut down the gun and brought the turret to rest, Hasselbach spoke into her helmet microphone.
"Well, that was sloppy. Let's not do that again. Altitude eight meters. Keep our speed up. Nice move, by the way, Maddy. I can't feel my chest. Be thankful, Clark, that you don't have breasts."
"Believe me, boss, I've got anatomy problems, too."
All three crewmembers chuckled wearily.
"Well, you're both welcome," Fourier said. "I hate people climbing on my tank."
"That's my tank, Maddy."
"Yeah, whatever."
Hasselbach was about to deliver a light barb when Clark came on the intercom, an uneasy note in his voice.
"Hey, boss. That was, um, a Sand Stalker."
Hasselbach sighed. Her report would most certainly not have anything pleasant to say about the quality of information and intelligence provided by base.
"Sure, why not? Makes our day complete. I wouldn't worry too much. It wasn't one of ours, I don't think. Shoot first and ask later isn't SOP for us. Okay, Clark. Watch that ECM source, but hold fire. Maddy, get us out of here. We'll be more useful outside calling base and getting something heavy out here."
"Right with you, boss. Coming around."* * * Ramirez shuffled forward in a combat crouch, gun at the ready.
"Come out, come out, pigshitmunching slimewad. I've got a present for you, you little ratpiss bastard."
He was only half aware of his mutterings. It was a bad habit he'd picked up after joining the exo-suit corps from the police, where his newfound sense of isolation in a four-ton armored suit naturally encouraged subconscious noisemaking. His troops always got a kick out of listening to his combat recorder after particularly tense exercises; many of his more colorful opuses became jargon du jour afterward. Morgan, especially, had passed many a bored shift ribbing Ramirez about his verbosity under stress.
One of the enemy 'suits lay before him, dispatched with a short burst to the head. The other one had vanished into the storm. Ramirez edged closer to the wrecked 'suit and nudged it with his left hand.
"Got you good, didn't I, dirtbag?"
Upon closer inspection, it became evident that the 'suit was most definitely not Republic standard issue. While Republican exo-suit troops were allowed a certain amount of leeway when selecting weapons and other equipment, the loose-fitting thermal shroud and other stealth-enhancing additions on this 'suit were almost certainly of offplanet manufacture, and would be restricted to all but the most specialized of soldiers. Any possibility that the unknown troopers might not be intentionally aggressive had already been erased, in Ramirez' mind, by Morgan's murder. Ramirez had no time to further consider the mystery of stolen or misplaced Republican exo-suits, though; only when his platoon was accounted for and safe at home would he allow that concern to take the fore.
He turned away from the headless exo-suit and continued to creep forward. There was no sign of Valentine or Erichs; they'd presumably gone to ground, too. Ramirez hoped that they were unharmed and likewise wending their way toward the dome. Standard procedure for operating under such obscured conditions was to advance cautiously to a predetermined rendezvous point. Ramirez had taken care to specify his requirements. Everything else was up his people and their ability to fight. Ahead of Ramirez, the dust cleared momentarily. The dark shape of a Sand Stalker was revealed, a thermal shroud covering its crouched form.
Both pilots saw each other simultaneously, across the suddenly unblocked intervening ten meters. Ramirez acted without thinking, whipping his gun up and pulling the trigger as the enemy 'suit dodged sideways. A desultory clanking noise came from the rifle, and nothing more. Ramirez froze in shock and continued to try to fire his jammed weapon. The enemy landed and rolled, losing its grip on its heavy rifle in the process.
"Crapcrapcrap," he shouted, running full tilt toward his opponent. He didn't dare use his grenade launcher; the first round in the chamber was an antipersonnel grenade which, at this range, would likely kill both of them. There wasn't time to play with the ejection lever. The other suit was on its feet and rummaging urgently in its satchel. Ramirez felt his stomach grow cold.
"Oh my God, grenade, no, you crazy bastard, you stupid ass!" Ramirez punctuated the last word by igniting his jump jets, hurling him forward at the other Sand Stalker, which was indeed pulling something large and bulbous forth from the satchel with its right hand.
As his feet left the ground, Ramirez threw his rifle aside and reached behind himself with both hands. Just before he impacted his target, he drew two fifty-centimeter-long vibroblades from their sheaths, sweeping them up in two smooth arcs.
"Come'n get some," he roared, slamming into the enemy 'suit with bone-crunching force. Both exo-suits went flying to the ground, Ramirez' 'suit pinning the other beneath it. Out of the corner of his eye, Ramirez saw the grenade roll away, unused. He had aimed his cuts for the open shoulder joints where the Sand Stalker's arms met its body, intending to deprive his opponent of arm power by severing the hydraulic lines located there. The strike had worked, to an extent. The impact had damaged the power generator in the right knife, locking it irretrievably in the enemy suit's left shoulder. The other blade continued to vibrate smoothly in phase, allowing it to slip easily through and out of the 'suit's other shoulder, disabling it. Catching his breath, Ramirez levered himself up.
"Give it up, you loser. Don't make me fillet your sorry excuse for innards, dickhead."
Recovering quickly from the impact, he enemy 'suit twisted madly, lighting its own jump jets, and succeeded in knocking Ramirez off balance into the dirt. The rocket boost propelled the damaged 'suit several meters along the ground, bringing it within arm's reach of Ramirez' abandoned weapon. Ramirez sprang his 'suit to its feet in a practiced half-jump. The other 'suit scrabbled for the rifle and its attached grenade launcher with its half-functional left arm.
"Dammit, what is your problem?" Ramirez muttered, throwing himself once more at his foe. He got there just as the enemy 'suit got a grip on the rifle. Ramirez batted the weapon aside and stepped inside the reach of the other 'suit, his left arm slashing diagonally upward and outward. His opponent continued to fumble with the gun, as if realizing that death was unavoidable and best not experienced alone. Ramirez grabbed hold of his opponent's right arm and pulled, striking hard with the vibroknife. The humming blade sliced neatly through the 'suit's helmet. There was a slight puff of outgassing atmosphere through the resulting rent, followed by a trickle of red. Ramirez kept his momentum up, pulling on the enemy's arm and twisting around behind the convulsing exo-suit. The grenade launcher went off. Even though his suit had no neck to permit the action, Ramirez instinctively tried to duck his head.
The shot detonated several meters from the two exo-suits, spraying the area with fiery shrapnel. Sheltered behind the dead Sand Stalker, Ramirez was mostly safe. An automatic damage control screen appeared on the right side of his helmet display, showing stripped armor on his suit's right arm and a damaged right ankle unit, but the crew compartment showed up a comforting green.
The sound of the blast faded into the distance, and Ramirez took a moment to catch his breath. He hadn't realized he'd been holding it. Stepping back, he let what was left of the unidentified exo-suit and its pilot fall forward. He turned away; he didn't feel any need to see what the grenade had done. It had been over two years since he'd killed someone; she'd been a Federation border raider who had, with her companions, ambushed his platoon. Before that, he'd seen plenty of combat in the police. He had never managed, though, to learn how to keep up a combat high. Many younger soldiers could maintain an adrenaline rush for hours or days; Ramirez never seemed to be able to stay excited about anything for more than a few minutes at a time, spectacular though those minutes might be. In a leader, being clear-headed was a valuable trait, one not overlooked by his superiors. In a fighting soldier, though, where reflexes counted as much as logic, losing one's aggression in mid-battle could be fatal.
Ramirez knew himself well enough to prod his body as well as his mind back into high gear, making a conscious effort to ignore the sudden tiredness and depression he felt. The causes of Ramirez' "condition" were well-documented, and treatments existed, but were inaccessible to one of such low economic or political clout. Ramirez didn't want anyone tinkering with his glands, anyway; his grandparents had raised him on cautionary stories about the Fall of Earth, instilling him with a healthy respect for the sanctity of the human genome.
Shaking his head once more to clear it, Ramirez crouched down and crept toward his rifle, noting in the process a distinct limp in his 'suit's right leg. He kept scanning the area around him nervously, unwilling to trust his instincts at the moment, based on past experience. He reached the weapon, picked it up, then tossed it aside resignedly. The grenade had not been kind to his gun, either.
"Crazy fanatical nutcase moron. What the hell were you doing here, anyway?"
Ramirez was now certain that these were not Martian Federation soldiers, sent on a particularly vicious raid. Federation propaganda notwithstanding, he was well aware that the Federation Army tended to have a morale level inversely proportional to its level of discipline, which was to say not much morale at all. While he did not doubt that there were Federation troops willing to commit suicide for their country, his opinion of these particular soldiers' desert-combat skills led him in another direction.
STRIKE. As if they haven't done enough.
Six weeks ago, the Orbital Elevator, pride of both Martian nations, had been destroyed by an act of sabotage orchestrated by a well-equipped and highly-trained group of terrorists. Blame for the atrocity had been laid on STRIKE, an Earth-associated organization whose goals were as unfathomable as the derivation of their rather melodramatic acronym. While STRIKE was occasionally recognized in other parts of the solar system for its reputed acts of altruism toward shipwrecked crews and other victims of the dangers of space, the Martians had never had any love for the group, regarding their chaotic behavior as either a sign of decadence or unbalanced tyranny, depending on which Martians one listened to. The sentiments had soured further over the past few weeks, and STRIKE's refusal to confirm or deny the solar system's accusation was proof enough for most Martians. Even Ramirez, who was not normally prone to such leaps of faith, allowed himself to be swayed by the tide of popular opinion.
He had just resolved anew to move faster and keep his mind focused until his next bout of adrenaline, when he was rocked backwards by a massive shock wave that, for a moment, overpowered the constant wind. Instinctively, Ramirez raised his 'suit's arms to shield himself until the dust storm gradually reasserted its authority. Recovering, Ramirez peered through the swirling dust, trying to establish the source of the explosion. He knew, from the feel of it, that the blast had either been very close or very big.
Suddenly, Ramirez' sensor and communications displays reactivated, the tiny red warning lights going out all at once. He stared for a moment in realization, then opened a channel. The rest of his platoon reacted similarly. In moments, Ramirez' comm display filled up with off-channel chatter between his people and the tanks as they reestablished contact and took stock of their situation. Ramirez ignored them for the moment, concentrating on one contact in particular.
"Devil Leader, do you copy? Marle, you still up?"
The silence continued for several seconds before a response burst through his helmet.
"Got you just fine, Lucio. Damn, it's good to hear you."
"What the hell happened? You didn't fire on the dome-"
"Negative. We had problems of our own. Hold on." Hasselbach switched to another channel, then returned after a few seconds. "Devil Four caught the ECM units making a run for it. They're toast. I don't know what that blast was, but it came from the dome. I'm outside the zone. Support should be on its way."
Exploding fuel tanks? Ramirez thought. What just went off? What were they trying to steal, anyway? Hasselbach interrupted his train of thought.
"Who the hell are these guys? They're using Sand Stalkers!"
"I'd noticed," Ramirez replied wearily. "I'm almost to the north gate. I'll see what's up. We'll set up position there until we get some support. Stay out of this storm and circle. See if you can catch any stragglers leaving the area; I guess they're trying to bug out. Be careful. There could be fifty more of these tinheads in here, and we'd never know it."
Ramirez' last sentence hung in the air for a moment, as both soldiers suddenly had the same thought. Same suits, same equipment. They could be using our comm channels.
"You really know how to make me depressed, bootstrap. Initiating comm silence. Devil Leader out."
Ramirez switched to public comm. He cringed, imagining a horde of shrouded exo-suits homing in on his signal.
"Seal it, people. This is Alpha Leader. Okay, anyone who's still up, stay quiet. Stick to the plan, be aware that the hostiles are using Republican exo-suits and equipment. Help is coming. Alpha One out." He hoped that someone was still left alive to hear him.* * * He reached the dome unimpeded. Before him loomed a huge shadow, still and silent. Ramirez squinted for a while, then dropped to the ground in awe and anguish. Through the swirling dust and dim light, he saw with his own eyes what his image enhancement display was slowly drawing for him in cold green lines. There was no north gate. There was no dome. Lucio stood at the edge of a huge sunken pit full of twisted, burnt wreckage, a pit that had once held a city. Belatedly, he understood that the mysterious enemy had not wanted to steal anything at all.
Charges. They set them and left. My God. Four thousand people. Even at three hundred kilometers per hour, we were still too damn slow.
The carnage was unbelievable. Much of the power of the explosives had been directed inward, collapsing the entire dome in upon itself. For such devastating results, each charge would have had to be precisely placed and timed, a chilling exercise in premeditation. The STRIKE troopers had probably entered the dome, destroyed key facilities, and then locked the populace up inside while the charges were being set. Then, they'd walked away, no doubt expecting to elude pursuit in the desert.
Slowly, Ramirez rose and limped his exo-suit toward the remains of Myers Dome. He needed to get under cover, in a place where he could rally his people and help them live. All they needed was a few more minutes. Help would arrive. Not in time, never in time, but perhaps soon enough to save a few lives yet. Very likely, though, it would at least arrive in time to make sure not one of the terrorists left Mars alive.
The wind roared outside. Sheltered in the lee of the gate's ruins, Ramirez sat in his 'suit and shook in anger and frustration. In the distance, there might have been a hint of gunfire. Somewhere else, perhaps there was the sound of a grenade bursting.
"Oh, hell with it," Ramirez said. Drawing his vibroknife, he vanished back into the storm.
To be continued in Part 2: Venus, Bringer of Peace.
[Wunji Lau]P L E A S E C O M M E N T ! !
Just go HERE! To view what others had to say, click HERE.
Please E-Mail me with any suggestions, comments, and complaints!
Jovian Chronicles is a Trademark of Dream Pod 9, Inc. Jovian Chronicles material Copyright by Dream Pod 9, Inc. All Rights Reserved. Used without permission. Any use of Dream Pod 9's copyrighted material or trademarks in this site should not be viewed as a challenge to those copyrights or trademarks.
NOTE: This document and all documents on this site linked to it are owned by Lloyd Doug "Jesster" Jessee (jesster@iquest.net), except where copyright and authorship are otherwise indicated. Permission is granted to use and make electronic copies of said material. Authorization must be granted by the author before said material may be published in any form.
View points and opinions are those of the author and their's alone.
This Website hosted by GEOCITIES! Get your Free Webpage Here!