Chapter 29: Aftermath

APC 46-254A-061
Jutfield Gap Approaches, Eden, Mars
Sunday, April 5, 2150

“We’ve got another one here,” said MedTech Hollis Wakefield. Ever since the Marines had marched back onto the landers and left the surface, MPG soldiers and medics had been combing through the wreckage left behind. Mostly they were searching for bodies, to check their identities by running identity scanners to read their embedded identity chips. The information would be compiled and sent back to WestHem as per the Geneva Conventions. Occasionally, though, they found somebody still alive. It had been two weeks, but it was possible.

First Lieutenant Harlan Jones, Second Platoon, Bravo Company, First Battalion, Forty-Second Armored Cavalry Regiment, was still strapped into his seat in the driver’s compartment of his APC. He was still attached to the APC’s oxygen tanks, and he still had some water left in his suit’s recycling system. He had been fitfully conscious for the last two weeks, able to drink water, but his strength was almost gone. He hadn’t eaten since the artillery shell had blown the APC on its side, trapping him, and killing the squad.

Harlan was only vaguely aware that people were in the APC with him. He was much more aware of the general feeling of agony that suffused his body. Even thinking about movement hurt. Then somebody was moving him and fumbling with the straps on his chest. There was another blast of pain and he passed out again.

Private Wendy Cumshot asked, “How is it some of these guys are still alive?”

“Rule of Threes, Private. An average person can live three minutes without air, three days without water, and three weeks without food. This guy’s got oxygen and water, but no food. He doesn’t have much longer. Call for a Hummingbird. We need to get this guy back to Eden. Priority run.”

“Roger that.”

Eden District MPG Headquarters
Eden Military District, Eden, Mars
Tuesday, April 7, 2150

Majors Fritz Forthrust and Wendell Pearson were waiting in the outer office of the District Commander, General Worthall, since they had taken the tram from the military airfield. They had been wondering what was going on, since every military and civilian Hummingbird pilot was flying nonstop since the war ended. In addition to shuttling teams around the invasion zone, the railroads would take months of work to rebuild, and they were now doing transport duty that would have been done by the trains.

In addition, they normally reported to Colonel Amberjack, the commander of all the air squadrons in Eden, Mosquitoes and Hummingbirds. Why were they meeting with General Worthall? “Just what did we do to deserve this”, asked Forthrust. “Worthall catch you banging his wife?”

Pearson laughed, “Please! This is Mars. Nobody cares! Probably about you bombing the Earthlings without orders.”

“So? You did, too. Besides, they’d have canned us then, not two weeks later.”

The two men shrugged at each other and talked about the leaves each had planned, which basically consisted of telling their children they were on their own for a week and taking their wives someplace and screwing them ragged. Excessive amounts of alcohol and marijuana would also be involved, along with liter-size bottles of industrial lubricant.

The aide at the desk in the office looked at his screen and said, “General Worthall will see you now.”

The two men stood and went into General Worthall’s office, where they found Colonel Amberjack already waiting for them. Neither man saluted, though, since that just wasn’t the way things were done on Mars. “Have a seat, gentlemen,” said the general.

“Yes, sir,” they both said. The lack of military folderol did not mean a lack of military courtesy. The two men sat down in chairs in front of Worthall’s desk.

“Colonel Amberjack has been talking to me about you two. You both did good work with the Attack Hummingbirds. Nobody was sure that they would work, and you proved them wrong. Very wrong. So, we have new jobs for the pair of you.”

“Sir?” they both asked. Amberjack tried to keep from laughing.

“Major Pearson, you are promoted to Lieutenant Colonel in command of Hummingbird Attack Wing One. You’re in charge of the two squadrons. They both took losses, so you need to rebuild your command. Major Forthrust, you are promoted to Lieutenant Colonel, also. You’re losing your squadron, though. Figure it out with Pearson, but in two weeks I want you and your bombardier to take your plane to New Pittsburgh, to the works at Ares NP. They are in the process of designing the next generation bomber, a real bomber and not a converted transport, and I want a combat pilot and a combat bombardier overseeing it.”

“Yes, sir, thank you,” said Lieutenant Colonel Pearson.

“You’ve earned it. You’ve both earned it,” said Colonel Amberjack.

“Yes, sir, thank you,” said Lieutenant Colonel Forthrust. “Uh, I’ll need my crew chief, too.”

“Fine. Sort it out with the Wing Commander.” Worthall pointed at Pearson. “Now, get out of here and go find some new t-shirts. Fritz, if you are planning on taking any time off with your family, do it now. Until we get the trains running again, it won’t be easy to see your family.”

“I’ll sort that out with Wendell.”

“Okay. Nice meeting you fellows. Now, get out of here so I can go back to work,” said Worthall.

“Yes, sir.” The two former Majors stood up and left the office, smiling as they did. Then it was back to the tramway. Forthrust texted his wife that they were taking a week’s vacation without the kids, or much in the way of luggage. Details would be forthcoming. He just needed to do some horse-trading with Pearson.

Convalescent Unit
Eden Military Detention Facility
Thursday, April 9, 2150

“Lieutenant Jones, how are you doing?”

“Harlan Jones, First Lieutenant, Second Platoon, Bravo Company, First Battalion, Forty-Second Armored Cavalry Regiment. Identification Number 26789552387.”

“Yes, I know.”

“Harlan Jones, First Lieutenant, Second Platoon, Bravo Company, First Battalion, Forty-Second Armored Cavalry Regiment. Identification Number 26789552387.”

“Lieutenant, cool it. I knew that before I ever came in here. We read your identity chip before we ever pulled you out of your APC. I am not here to torture you into revealing the WestHem launch codes or your mother’s chicken noodle soup recipe. We don’t care about the one, and we can just ask your mother about the second. Now, can we simply talk?”

“Harlan Jones, First Lieutenant, Second Platoon, Bravo Company, First Battalion, Forty-Second Armored Cavalry Regiment. Identification Number 26789552387.”

“Fine. Third Platoon, Charlie Company, Second Battalion, Three-Fourteenth Armored Cavalry Regiment, WestHem Marines. Identification Number 21365519985. I haven’t used it in four years. My name is Eric Callahan. I used to be a first lieutenant, too. Then I became a captain when we got beat the shit up. Sound familiar?”

Harlan stared. “Who are you?”

“We just went over that. Short answer, I used to be you. I was a platoon leader and then a company commander during Martian Hammer, and then was abandoned by WestHem when we lost. Like I said, sound familiar? Today’s date is April Ninth. The landers left a week ago. Any of you guys still here are staying. You won’t be getting an invite to the battalion reunion. You have been written off. Your mother has already been informed you died in action. Now, can we talk? How are you feeling, Harlan?”

“I’m dead?”

Callahan smiled and shrugged. “On Earth, anyway. On Mars, you are fine and dandy. As soon as you feel up to it, we’ll let you rejoin your fellow Marines. We have them stashed in a few warehouses we cleaned up and turned into a barracks. It’s where we’re keeping everybody until we can figure out what to do with everybody.”

“What to do with us?” Harlan asked.

“Don’t sweat it, Harlan. This is Mars, not WestHem. We don’t kill our prisoners. You heard about that, right? You got the order to not take prisoners, right?” Harlan had the good grace to look embarrassed at that. “So, you did get the order. We don’t do that.”

“You said we don’t do that. You’re a Martian now?”

Callahan smiled. “Technically no, but the distinction is small. I am a Martian resident, just like you are. We get all the rights and privileges and responsibilities of Martian citizens, but we can’t serve in the military or the police or other security jobs. That takes being born on Mars. Your children will be citizens, not residents. Like mine are.”

“You have kids? Here? How...”

“Harlan, you do know how babies come around, right? A mommy and a daddy kiss and nine months later a baby is delivered by a stork.”

Harlan was strong enough to extend a middle finger. “No, I mean, you got married here?”

“That’s not really required, either, but it is considered the proper thing to do. Yes, I met a very nice woman in Procter, and we have a son, and a second on the way. We own a baby clothing store, and I would really prefer being with her than with a bunch of ugly ass Marines needing counseling. She gets unbelievably horny in her second trimester!”

“Huh!” The Marine shook his head. “Is that what you are doing? Counseling Marines?”

“The Martian Planetary Guard captured twenty-five thousand Marines left behind on Mars after the cease fire and retreat. Some of them have had a few issues,” Eric admitted.

“Yeah.” Harlan suddenly felt tired.

Callahan noticed the change in the lieutenant’s expression. “I’ll be talking to you, Harlan. There’s a bunch of us, former Marines who got stuck here, too. It’s a good life. Better than what we would have had back on Earth. Start giving some thought to your future. It can be a good future, Harlan.” He stood up and left.

Harlan Jones considered what he had just heard. Wouldn’t Reggie be amused. Too bad he’d never hear from his brother again.

Martian Planetary Guard Headquarters
New Pittsburgh, Mars
Friday, April 10, 2150

“So, now what happens to me?” asked John Hargrove, AKA Walker Stevens. “Dow?”

“That all depends on you,” replied ‘Ass’ Blaster, the Deputy Director of Planetary Intelligence. “Why don’t we talk about that?”

Blaster was convinced that Hargrove, or Stevens as he called himself on Mars, was the oddest duck he had ever met. Spies were supposed to be secretive and sneaky, and this guy was the most honest and open person he had met since he had been tapped to be part of MPG Intelligence. Once they picked him up at the office in the MarsGroup Tower, he had been nothing but cooperative. Maybe it was because he wanted a better sentence when he was sent to Dow Prison Complex. Maybe he wanted something other than life imprisonment at hard labor. Prisoners at Dow lived in solitary confinement and were given a sledgehammer and told to make little rocks out of big ones. What they produced was sent to MarsTrans once a year to be ground up into track ballast.

Still, he had been more than cooperative. He had told them everything he had done since he arrived on Mars, how he had downloaded the communications package from the WestHem Internet, how he had met DePierre, the WestHem spy who was caught three years before, and how he had sent reports back to WestHem Intelligence. He had given all his passwords and had even submitted voluntarily to an interrogation under Ivornista, the dangerous anesthetic that also acted as a truth serum. He had even told them about the operations he had run back on Earth against EastHem.

Interestingly, MPG Intel had been reading WestHem’s military emails for three years. They knew what Walker had been telling them since very early on, and they knew what WestHem Intel had been telling him. One of the biggest things they had learned was that Walker Stevens had never once reported any militarily sensitive information to WestHem. Everything that he had ever told them they could have learned from watching MarsGroup.

Walker raised an eyebrow. “Let’s talk.”

Blaster said, “You have been the most cooperative spy I have ever met. Why is that? I’ve read the reports, but I want you to explain it to me.”

Walker thought for a second before replying. “Consider my options. I am never going back to Earth. WestHem won’t trade for me. They have nobody to trade! They kill everybody. During Martian Hammer they killed every Martian in the Marines, the Navy, and on Earth. Did they take prisoners during Martian Justice? I hadn’t heard before you grabbed me, but I doubt it.” Blaster didn’t reply and Walker continued. “It’s not like I can escape. I’m not going to be able to break out of here with my handy-dandy pocket tool kit and hide in the woods outside of the city before hiking to the nearest WestHem outpost. So, what are my choices? Maybe I don’t get life in Dow? What’s the downside to cooperating?”

“Why didn’t you try recruiting any agents?”

“Here? On Mars?” Walker laughed and shook his head. “How do I do that? I can’t buy agents since I can’t pay in credits. I could pay in dollars or pounds, but Mars doesn’t accept them. It’s like that all across the MICE line. Ideology, compromise, ego - not much applies. After a few weeks here I realized how it wouldn’t work. When DePierre approached me, I told him it was a lost cause, but he knew better. What happened to him, anyway?”

“Let’s continue with you.”

Walker shrugged. “I sent an email to WestHem Intel and explained the issues. They decided I should keep reporting what they called the zeitgeist, the overall feel for what was going on here on Mars. I never really understood that. I was telling them everything they were seeing on MarsGroup. What did they need me for? I could have transcribed the MarsGroup reporting and gotten the same thing. Maybe they just needed to hear it from me.” Then he asked the perennial question. “How’d you figure me out?” Blaster didn’t answer. “Now what?” Walker asked.

Blaster scratched his cheek for a moment. “Now we own you. How would you like to stay out of Dow?”

“I would like that very much. Is that an option?”

“Perhaps. We used your system to send your bosses a message that you had come down with a case of Martian hemorrhagic fever, and the nurses took away your computer.”

“Martian hemorrhagic fever? Never heard of it!”

“Neither have we. We simply invented it. If you go along with us, your first report will be about the strange new disease, Martian hemorrhagic fever, and how Martian scientists figured out a cure.”

“Huh. And?”

“And you keep reporting your regular stories. Just like you’ve been doing for three years, only this time we are watching ahead of time. There’s just one thing. Every once in a while, we might ask you to put something into a story, maybe a little extra.”

“And I still work for MarsGroup?”

“We told MarsGroup you were working with us because of your knowledge of EastHem.”

“Huh. And?”

“And nothing. You keep reporting, but we look at your stories ahead of time. We put a tap on your computer. And you walk out of here with the sincere thanks of Mars. We tell nobody and you go on with your life. You go home and explain where you have been to Tasty.”

“What have you told her? She’s not involved in this!” Walker was surprised by his anger, but he cared more about her opinion of him than he had thought.