Authors: Chris J. Randolph
Marcus cocked an eyebrow. "Play the message from Ares," he said.
The screen went black and then showed Administrator Saladin, the greying but still potent head of Ares Colony seated at his desk.
The Great Seal of Mars
was behind him, the Roman god of war posed triumphantly atop a caricature of Olympus Mons, motioning across the barren Martian plain.
The administrator straightened his shirt and received a cue from someone off screen, then began. "This is a priority transmission to the heads of the Shackleton Expedition. As you're aware, Earth has been silent for the past seventy-four days, and we've been monitoring the situation with cautious optimism. Today, we received and decoded a transmission that, if true, surpasses even our greatest fears.
"While we're still working to confirm its veracity, I've decided to send you an unaltered copy. We would appreciate any thoughts you and your specialists might have, and we patiently await your response. Be blessed." With that, the transmission ended.
"That was cryptic," Faulkland said.
"And ominous," Marcus added. "Mason, go ahead and load up the other file."
Mason tapped at the keyboard a couple times and the other transmission began. This time, the screen showed a video feed of the Earth from orbit in crystal clear and excruciating detail. The northern edge of the Amazon was visible, as was the horribly defaced northern coast of South America. The former territories of Venezuela, Guyana and Suriname were blackened husks, as if some force had simply burnt them away.
Even more striking were the two blue circular structures that had taken root in the rainforest, each measuring nearly twenty kilometers across. Tendrils spread out from them, reaching into the embattled jungles which were being overtaken by some kind of orange and purple growth. It looked like mold on a week-old dirty dish.
Legacy was noticeably silent in Marcus' head.
A voice accompanied the video feed, and Marcus found it annoyingly familiar. "...from here, you can just barely see what remains of Trinidad. I went there for vacation last year, and lemme tell you, it was a heck of a time. Great food. Good music. I suppose I can go ahead and add that to the list of places I'll never see again.
"And now for a station break. For those of you just joining us, this is Nils Jansen for Radio Free Copernicus, your eye in the sky in these troubling times. The footage is, as always, streaming live from our position three-hundred and twenty kilometers high above the Earth.
"But how did this happen? Well, it's a funny story. Actually, it's not really funny, but humor me... It all started about seventy-four days ago..."
Soon, all of the crew were on the bridge, and they watched the forty-five minute transmission from beginning to end in stunned silence. When it was over, they watched it again. As the second play-through finished, Faulkland asked the question on everyone's mind: "Is it the Nefrem?"
Marcus didn't know and Legacy was confused. The enemy shouldn't have had any reason to come to the Garden. The whole system was supposed to appear dead and uninteresting to them; she was sure of it. The invaders' craft and tactics were unfamiliar, too.
Then again, a lot things could change in sixty-five million years.
"I don't know," he finally said. "Maybe. If it is, Legacy's not strong enough to engage them. Not yet. We need more time."
"What about the men on Copernicus?" Sarah Park asked. "They don't have much time left, sir."
Jansen had been clear about that fact. Their rations were running low, and he didn't know how much longer they could hold out. "We have to hope someone on Midway heard them. I'm sorry, but there's nothing else we can do."
Park didn't seem satisfied with that answer.
Marcus put his hand on Mason Shen's shoulder and said, "I want you to send a priority classified message to Administrator Saladin."
"What should it say, sir?"
"Transmission source confirmed and considered reliable enough. Shackleton Expedition now en route to Mars aboard new vessel. ETA three weeks. Tell them we aim to retake the Earth, and to prepare for war."
An old cargo plane brought them in under the cover of night. The world was just as black above as below in the absence of electrical light, and Jack had never before seen a darkness so deep or thick. So all consuming and complete.
He slipped in and out of consciousness, each time troubled by the same dream. In it, he was adrift on a shiftless sea of black ink attached to an impossibly large tattoo needle which etched portraits of the dead on the world's aging, wrinkled skin.
Jack despised when his dreams waxed poetic. Why couldn't he have nice dreams about sunny beaches in Cancun?
After God only knew how long, the plane made a steep descent then rumbled along a rough patch of road. When it came to a halt, the rear cargo ramp lowered and revealed the dim lights of civilization's last gasp.
The makeshift runway was lined with hooded lamp posts which lit the ground but were invisible from above, as well as the same oil drums, stacks of crates and wooden pallets found at every small airfield. There were soldiers spread everywhere dressed in unmatched uniforms, and carrying a motley assortment of small arms.
Mashriq soldiers in red berets jogged over to the plane and ushered its passengers down the ramp. Each spoke in a different language. "Welcome to
Al Saif.
This the base of the sword. Exit the vehicle and bring all of your belongings with you. You will not have another chance to retrieve them. New recruits report to the registrar at the far end of the airstrip. Welcome to Al Saif. This is the base of the sword..."
Jack, his corpsmen, and the cargo plane's other fifty bruised and dirty passengers hurried down the ramp and went where the soldiers directed. There they found the registrar seated at a shabby desk, and he was just another soldier but armed with a clipboard instead of a rifle. The recruits lined up single-file, were asked a few questions, then signed their names and were hustled along to the next stop.
Jack formed a theory that the enlistment, which involved constantly moving from one station to another, was intended to disorient them. Combine that with their lack of sleep and empty stomachs, and the recruits were left in an exceptionally pliable state.
After an hour of being spun in circles, they found themselves on wooden benches inside of a long building made of corrugated metal. Harsh light came from lamps overhead, and the walls were decorated with posters in primary colors, depicting soldiers charging victoriously on cowering foes.
"This is the last damn place I ever expected to end up," Jack said to Nikitin.
"Come on, Jackie-boy. Replace the soldiers in those pictures with medics and firefighters, and this ain't so different from your first night in the Corps, is it?"
He thought back to the training camp in San Diego. He was a lot younger then, fresh faced and full of optimism, but the scene was just about the same. The ERC's hall was bigger, its decorations more grandiose, but it was basically the same.
"Just you watch," Nikitin said. "In about five minutes, some puffed up little Major will waltz up to that podium and start barking about the proud tradition of the organization. Then he'll get all pissed off and make an example of someone. I hope it's me. I never get to be the example."
"Nik," Jack said tiredly, "you're a constant example to us all."
In response, Nikitin let out one of his belly laughs and jabbed at his shoulder.
Nikitin's prediction came true two minutes early. A man in camo pants, combat boots and a brown tank-top marched up the center aisle. He had curly dark hair and several days worth of growth on his face. His dog-tags swung out from his chest with each step, and he examined the recruits with bright wolfen eyes.
He walked to the front of the room, turned on his heel and just stood there for a long moment. It wasn't clear whether he was gathering his breath, his thoughts, or just taking a moment to let everything sink in.
"Welcome to Al Saif," he said finally. "I'm Colonel Galili, and I'm in charge of new recruits here. First, I would like to thank each of you for coming. As you know, this is a desperate war we wage. A war that will determine the fate of our race. We will either regain our world, or we will perish and fade into the sands of history. This depends entirely on you, and I'm glad to see so many of you pledging yourselves to the cause."
Nikitin elbowed Jack in the ribs. "That's a little different," he whispered.
The colonel continued. "The invaders have struck a terrible blow to our world. Our cities are burnt. Our civilization is destroyed. What was is no more. Yet for all their strength, the enemy has made a grave oversight... They allowed us to survive. They destroyed our cities, and yet our spirit rages on."
He motioned to someone in the first row. "You there. Tell me why you're here tonight."
"To kill the bastards. I'm ready to die for the cause."
"I see," the colonel said. "Who else feels this way?"
Hands floated up around the room and voices murmured in agreement.
He shook his head. "Noble... but we cannot allow ourselves to think like this. It is the mindset of a victim. The victim is content to spit in his enemy's face before he dies. We must not be victims. Instead, we will become weapons. I ask you, is a weapon prepared to die? No. A weapon is a machine. It is cold, calculating, and efficient. A weapon survives so that it may kill again tomorrow. That is its purpose.
"I know you are filled with anger and hatred, and you are willing to sacrifice your lives, but this must not be so. For the sake of our people, our mission must be greater than this. We must preserve ourselves... survive beyond the struggle, and not only destroy the enemy, but dominate them. We must drive them from our world and show them the price of their arrogance.
"Now, it is true that we face an enemy of staggering power. The force which these invaders have brought against us is without precedent, yet they are not omnipotent. They can be defeated and killed. Can anyone tell me what strengths we possess?"
Galili's question met silence and he smiled. "How about this? We have knowledge. This is our home, and we know her terrain, her weather, the hidden secrets of the land itself. That is a strength. Our enemy is large and rooted in place, while we are fluid and agile. When they believe they've found us in numbers, we will disperse and regroup. That is a strength. Our enemy is loud and obtuse, but we are quiet, subtle and cunning. That too is a strength."
The room was full of nodding heads.
"So you see, we have many strengths which the enemy cannot steal from us. Strengths which they cannot neutralize. We must exploit each one to its fullest, and use them to destroy the enemy wherever he stands. Our victory then is not only attainable... it is inevitable.
"Harbor no doubts about this fact... we will be victorious. In our hearts and in our minds, we must look always toward victory, and we must seize every opportunity to strive closer to it.
Heads nodded.
"Are there any questions?"
A man somewhere in the middle of the room raised his hand, and Colonel Galili motioned to him. "When do we get to kill some damn spacemen?" he asked.
"Soon enough. You will train here for the next month, then receive your assignments. Everyone with previous military experience will be fast tracked."
The question and answer session went on for another twenty minutes, covering topics from weapons and organization to what was known about the invaders... which didn't amount to much. When the activity began to quiet down, Jack had his own hand in the air.
Colonel Galili pointed to him. "Will we engage civilian targets?" Jack asked.
The colonel had to stop and think; it wasn't a question he had a prepared answer for. "I'm not sure there even are civilians among them, to be truthful. We have only seen their termination squads thus far. I see that you're with emergency response. Would it bother you if we did?"
When Jack spoke, it was like the words came from someone else's mouth. "No, sir."
"Good. We cannot afford to show the enemy more compassion than he has shown us." There were still hands in the air, but the colonel waved them off. "That's enough for one night. The sergeant outside will show you all to a warm meal and a bunk, and we'll pick up in the morning. That is all."
The exhausted recruits stood up and slowly shuffled out the door, with Jack and his team trailing at the back of the crowd. The air outside was cool and crisp, and there was a gentle wind blowing. He was glad to be outdoors again.
A Carbon Corporation sergeant stood off to the side waving the recruits on toward the mess hall, every centimeter of him an example of Carbon's commitment to technological warfare. He wore a suit of their standard charcoal-black armor, made from an impact-resistant polymer that was the source of Carbon's vast wealth, as well as a bulky helmet covered in optics and air filters. Slung over his shoulder was a Blade Firearms XM-5 assault rifle decked out with all the options. Even banged up and covered in a layer of dust, his equipment was the envy of armies the world over.
As Jack approached, the sergeant unexpectedly stepped up and stopped him with a quick shove to the chest. His other hand reached back to his rifle, ready to bring the weapon forward. "Where do you think you're going, Corpsman?" he asked. The helmet modulated his voice and made it sound inhuman and mechanical. "I'm detaining you under suspicion of sedition."
Jack was too tired for this shit. He shook his head and readied a string of expletives, but before he could unload them, he noticed something strange: the tag beside the Carbon Corporation logo said Hernandez.
"What the... Charlie?"
The sergeant popped his helmet's latch and levered the face-mask up, revealing Charlie Hernandez's mischievous smirk inside. "Bro, you shoulda seen the look on your face."
"You son of a bitch," Jack said, and before he knew it, his arms were wrapped tight around his little brother. He couldn't remember ever hugging Charlie... not by choice, at least. He took that as a sign of just how much the world had changed.