Martian Vengeance

 

Copyright

Martian Vengeance

Copyright © 2022 Rollie Lawson

All rights reserved.

ISBN: 978-1-4583-6254-4

 

Chapter 1 - Corporate Decisions

Personal Residence, InfoGroup CEO

Aspen, West America, WestHem

Thursday, June 11, 2150

William Featherstone looked at his guests calmly. It was unusual to have a business meeting in his primary residence, but not unheard of. He had ordered the house designed with such possibilities in mind. The house was only five thousand square meters, but he wasn’t married and had no children. Built in a mountain lodge style, with features such as a private library with a dome-shaped roof and oculus, an estate-wide server system, a twenty-meter swimming pool with an underwater music system, a two-hundred-fifty square meter gym, and a hundred square meter dining room. For business purposes he had a personal office and several conference rooms. The complex was staffed with over a hundred servants and professionals, including some exquisitely beautiful women who provided a very personal and professional service.

His vacation homes in Maui, Whistler, and Miami were only half the size of his primary residence. One had to make concessions, after all.

As the Chairman of the Board and Chief Executive Officer of InfoGroup, the largest Internet provider in WestHem, the Democratic Alliance of the Western Hemisphere, Featherstone was the wealthiest individual in WestHem, and the most powerful. WestHem had been formed almost a century and a half ago to counter the Asiatic Alliance when it attacked both the United States and Russia. World War III had led to the creation of both WestHem and EastHem, the Democratic Republic of the Eastern Hemisphere, formed from the advanced economies and defense capabilities of the United Kingdom, France, and Germany. The Asiatics had been defeated after a catastrophic war in which approximately ten percent of the planet’s population had died. Since then, the two alliances had settled into an uneasy cold war occasionally heating up through proxy nations.

Featherstone’s guests were the elite of WestHem, the most powerful corporate titans of the Western Hemisphere. Rexford Washington was the President and CEO of AgriCorp, the monopoly that provided food to half the planet. Carlton Bonaventure ran Jovian Gases, the larger of the two corporations that mined hydrogen from Jupiter and sent tankers to Earth. The military suppliers were represented by Holland Conover, CEO of Alexander Industries, and James Wellington, CEO of Ares Incorporated. Alexander made most of WestHem’s military armaments, and Ares was the largest shipbuilder for the Alliance. WestHem finance was represented by John Johnson, Chairman of the Board of Wells Fargo Santander, the largest bank in WestHem. The final guest was Sherrilyn Smith, the President of the Denver Exchange, the premier stock exchange of WestHem. While she didn’t run a company, per se, she acted as a referee between the massive egos of the group.

The personal worth of the members of the group was roughly $250 billion dollars each, and that was in the new dollars created after World War Three, which were worth ten dollars of pre-War dollars. There were two notable exceptions. Smith was only worth $75 billion but was considered by all a fair arbiter. Featherstone was currently worth $500 billion, which irked him to no end. Prior to the Martian Revolution he had been the Solar System’s first trillionaire, but his personal net worth was half what it had been.

“So, gentlemen, what are we to do about the latest military fiasco?” Featherstone asked.

Nobody wanted to speak first. For one thing, nobody wanted to admit they didn’t have a clue about what to do. The last Martian invasion had been a disaster of Biblical proportions.

In 2146, the Martian colony had revolted from WestHem rule. For over a century Mars had been considered the red-haired stepchild of the Western Hemisphere, or worse. Generally treated as little more than slaves, the final straw for the Martians was when WestHem and EastHem had gone to war over hydrogen mining around Jupiter in 2131. While the final battles had been fought in Jupiter orbit, EastHem had attacked WestHem’s Martian colony. Nobody had bothered to ask the Martians what they thought about being targeted by EastHem lasers. Fifteen years later Mars revolted.

WestHem was stunned by the actions of the Martian vermin, the name given them by their owners. A surprise attack by the Martian Planetary Guard, the local militia created to augment the WestHem Marines, captured the WestHem Marine garrison and the Navy ships based at Triad Naval Base orbiting Mars. The WestHem Navy and Marines were immediately ordered to Mars in an operation called Martian Hammer. Martian Hammer turned out to be a failure. The Martians managed to field a handful of captured WestHem Navy stealth ships, destroying a significant portion of the invasion fleet. Once the Marines landed, they discovered that the Martian Planetary Guard were not the half-baked soldier wannabes they expected. While hard pressed, the MPG destroyed the invasion and sent them packing.

Unwilling to accept the defeat of Martian Hammer, a second invasion was ordered. In 2150, Operation Martian Justice was launched, a massively reinforced version of Martian Hammer. Unfortunately for the WestHem Navy and Marines, the Martian Navy and the Martian Planetary Guard had not rested on their laurels during the interwar period. The Martian Navy savaged the WestHem Navy, killing more Marines during the convoy phase than had died in the entire first invasion. The MPG then killed or captured almost as many Marines as the Navy killed.

Now it was time to decide what needed to be done next. The idea of letting the Martian revolutionaries maintain control of Mars was something that couldn’t be conceived of. WestHem corporations owned 99% of the assets on Mars, and effectively owned that percentage of the population. When the Martians revolted, those corporations suffered an unimaginable loss of both their revenues and their assets. The current situation could not be allowed to stand.

“Your thoughts, gentlemen?” asked Featherstone.

Washington responded, “What is there to think about? We need to take Mars back. It’s as simple as that.”

Featherstone nodded and looked around the room before sipping his thirty-year-old Macallan. Most of the others in the room agreed with the head of AgriCorp. The only dissenter was Carlton Bonaventure. “What makes anybody here think a third invasion will be any more successful than the last two?”

“Just because you’ve only lost three tankers of hydrogen a month doesn’t mean Jovian Gases didn’t suffer losses, Bonaventure,” replied Smith, the head of the Denver Exchange.

“Three tankers were only what the civilian economy used. We lost more from what the Navy used. However, that is beside the point. The question still stands. The Greenies have trashed the Navy and the Marines twice. What makes anybody think they won’t do it again?” He turned to Featherstone. “Between Martian Hammer and Martian Justice, we have lost almost a million Marines and sailors and half the fleet!”

“We have lost what we tell people we have lost, and that is one Panama, one Seattle, and one freighter,” the head of InfoGroup replied.

“And you wouldn’t even admit to that except for the fact that half the planet saw the explosions from Earth,” commented Conover.

Featherstone didn’t rise to the bait. “It was the one smart thing Turner did as Senior Adviser to the Fleet.” Shelley Turner had been a senior executive vice-president at InfoGroup and had been assigned to Martian Justice as the senior civilian commander. Upon her return to Earth, she had been stripped of her titles and assets and fired. She was currently a prostitute in a Mexico City ghetto. “People will believe what we tell them to believe.”

“Right. That’s why the Denver Exchange crashed following Martian Justice,” laughed the banker, Johnson.

“John, please,” said Smith.

Johnson snorted and shrugged.

It was Wellington of Ares Incorporated who spoke next. “Regardless of whether we go back or not, we need to rebuild the fleet. We are going to need a massive reconstruction package pushed through Congress. We lost eight Californias, over twenty Panamas, nine Seattles, a dozen freighters and tankers, and three stealth ships. We would be hard pressed to defend ourselves if EastHem gets frisky.”

“How convenient for you,” said AgriCorp’s Washington.

“Bite me. The big winner is going to be Ceres Metals. They are going to have to hire every space miner they can get their hands on.”

“Let’s not get pissy here. We need to decide whether we go back or cut our losses. Remember, we go back, we can get Congress to indemnify us for our lost assets and we can stick it to EastHem at the same time,” said Featherstone. He looked around the room. “We should go back.”

Around the room the men nodded in agreement with returning to Mars. Now they just had to find somebody who could come up with a way to do it.

***

New Pentagon, Military Headquarters

Denver, WestHem

Monday, June 15, 2150

The new Chairman of the WestHem Executive Council, William Jacobs, looked at the military and naval officers facing him. The former senior officers had been cashiered after Martian Justice had returned to Earth orbit. Admiral Westover, the commanding officer of the invasion, had been convicted of treason and sent to the Butte Military Detention Center and was awaiting his public execution; InfoGroup promised a prime time special showing all the gory details. General Wainwright Turner, the Marine Chief of Staff, had taken early retirement, as had his Adjutant, General Wesley Morgan. Turner’s second cousin, the Director of Plans and Training was also gone, as was the Navy’s Chief of Staff and the Chief of Naval Operations.

“Gentlemen, the citizens of WestHem are not pleased with the outcome of Martian Justice. They have been flooding Congress with their comments and complaints. We will be going back to Mars, and you people are the ones who will be doing it. I expect a plan on my desk and a timetable for victory in one month’s time. Is that clearly understood? July 15 is the magic date. On July 16, if I don’t have a plan, you are all out of jobs.”

There was a murmur of assent, and the meeting was over. Jacobs stood and left the conference room. He was joined by his Military Adviser, Admiral Irwin Jacobs, his second cousin. The admiral had been the second in command of the fiasco that Martian Justice became, but his political connections and his family’s wealth had protected him. He was due to retire in a matter of days. “Who is going to run this thing?” asked the Chairman.

“I’ve heard the Navy has pushed a Fleet Admiral named Joe Bunson and the Marines are pushing a General, Franklin Westford. Both are supposed to be top men,” replied the admiral.

William Jacobs wasn’t quite sure how to take that. The family consensus was that cousin Irwin had barely enough brainpower to lace his own shoes, and that only his family connections had gotten him promotions past the second grade. William had a considerable degree of difficulty accepting that Irwin knew the difference between a good officer and a bad one.

It didn’t really matter. In a month, the Marines and the Navy would come calling with their plans and cousin Irwin would be retired to the family’s Aspen estate. Much more important was what William Featherstone had told him Friday night. The Marines and the Navy were going back to Mars a third time, and this time they needed to win at whatever cost. Otherwise, William Jacobs would face the same outcome as his predecessor.

Chapter 2 - Dispositions

EastHem Military Intelligence Office

New Rome, EastHem

Monday, June 15, 2150

Brigadier Archibald Bullstrode, Assistant Commander of EastHem Military Intelligence, walked into Conference Room B followed by his aide and moved towards his seat at the head of the table. He was interrupted as the rest of the room scrambled to their feet and somebody ordered, “TENN-HUTT!”

“As you were. Let’s be seated,” Bullstrode said. There was a brief shuffle as the assembled officers sat down. Bullstrode looked around the table. “This is more than our regular weekly briefing. I have a meeting in Paris tomorrow morning with the Executive Council and they are going to want to know the status of forces in the Solar System. That means I need to know the latest.”

There was a low murmur of assent around the table. Colonel Juan DeMarche, Chief of Naval Intelligence, spoke up, asking, “Should I run the briefing as usual, sir?” Normally he ran the meetings, since Bullstrode was frequently involved with other meetings and briefings with Army intelligence or Council meetings.

Bullstrode nodded. “Very good, Colonel. I’ll just ask questions as needed.”

“Yes, sir, of course.” DeMarche turned to the others. “Okay, normal rotations. Our dispositions first.”

Colonel Robert Graves, liaison to the Chief of Naval Operations, spoke up. “Not much has changed since the end of Martian Justice.” He grabbed the remote control and threw a slide up on the large monitor at the end of the table. “Currently we have about ten percent of our strength in Jupiter orbit, protecting Callisto and keeping an eye on WestHem activity around Ganymede. Another twenty percent is in Lunar orbit. Twenty percent is in space dock in Earth orbit being refitted; during the runup to Martian Justice we needed to keep a more than usual number of ships prepared to act if the Martian operation proved to be a smokescreen for a possible attack elsewhere. Finally, the balance of the fleet is in Earth orbit.” He flipped through several slides showing specifics of each portion.

DeMarche looked down the table. “Thank you. Captain?”

Captain Maria Heidegger, the expert in WestHem Naval Intelligence, nodded and said, “WestHem lost a huge chunk of their Navy and their Marines. They are going to be years rebuilding. How big a breakdown is necessary?” She asked that of Brigadier Bullstrode as much as she was asking Colonel DeMarche.

Bullstrode answered the question. “I am going to need as much as you can give me. Just how bad did they get slammed, and what are they doing about it now? That’s just going to be the start!”

“Fair enough, sir. I can give you some information on both questions.” It was Heidegger’s turn to throw a slide up on the monitor. “Basic answer to the first question is that the Martians handed WestHem their asses. Like in Martian Hammer, the Greenies sortied their Owls and intercepted the convoy halfway to Mars, only this time they had more ships and were trained and ready for it. In Martian Hammer they only were able to launch four Owls, half-trained and half-manned. This time they launched six ships that were fully manned and very well trained. The training paid off.”

A different slide went up on the screen. “In Martian Hammer, the four Greenie Owls destroyed or damaged seven Panamas and a Seattle, killing over one-hundred thousand Marines and Naval personnel at the cost of one Owl. This time around, six Owls took on a vastly larger fleet and trashed it even worse. They destroyed half a dozen Californias, fourteen Panamas, and half a dozen Seattles and freighters. That was the first convoy. WestHem then launched a second convoy and a single Owl took out two more Californias, a Seattle, and five supply ships. In other actions they captured a tanker convoy from Jupiter after killing two Seattles and two Owls or Cheneys, not sure of the details there, another Owl in Martian orbit, and three ships by limpet mine after the first convoy left Earth orbit. They only lost a single Owl but killed forty-four ships and four-hundred thousand Marines and sailors. That was before they even got to Mars!”

“Oh, shit!” Bullstrode muttered. He looked at Heidegger and said, “I knew it was bad, but it sounds so much worse when somebody says it officially. How accurate are these numbers?”

“Very, Brigadier. They come straight from the New Pentagon in Denver. We’ve been pushing our agents to develop as much intel as possible. Mind you, that was only the naval losses. Once they got down to the surface, the Greenies handed them their asses all over again,” she told him.

“How bad?”

This time a Marine Colonel answered. “Jacob Winters, Army Intelligence, sir. In the first invasion, the Martians, the MPG, the Martian Planetary Guard, killed or captured roughly a hundred thousand Marines or Navy people on the surface. This time, they killed about one-hundred-and-seventy-five thousand Marines on the ground and captured another twenty-five thousand prisoners. It was nothing but sheer slaughter.”

Bullstrode nodded and asked, “Why is that, Colonel? What were Martian losses? What made it so lopsided that the Marines backed away and went home with their tails between their legs?”

“It’s the same reason the Marines lost on Callisto, sir. There is simply no room for error in space. Here on Earth, you make a mistake, you can back off and hide, lick your wounds, and regroup. On Mars there is nowhere to back away to. You can’t take off your helmet and go find a local stream and refill your canteen. No air, no water, no supplies. You get hit, there’s almost a hundred percent mortality rate. A medic might be able to slap some coagulant on the wound and hope the suit seal works but that’s about it. You need to get the guy back to a pressurized environment to crack the suit and work on him. We all learned that the defensive advantage in combat is something like three-to-one. In Martian Hammer the Greenies lost less than four thousand. We don’t know the butcher’s bill for Martian Justice yet, but it might well be less than ten thousand. It’s a twenty-to-one ratio. WestHem doesn’t have enough Marines altogether to handle that kind of loss.”

“Huh. So, their disposition now?”

Heidegger answered, “What was left of Martian Justice returned to Earth orbit. Even though WestHem began a massive construction and restructuring program following Martian Hammer, their total force is no more than half what it was before the Martian revolt. They are saying they are going back, again, but if they took every ship and Marine in the system back to Mars, all they would be doing is giving the Martians more targets to kill.”

“Jesus!” exclaimed DeMarche. “How the hell are they doing it? They killed over forty ships and lost only a single Owl!”

Heidegger motioned towards another officer at the table. “Might as well switch from WestHem to Mars. I don’t think you’ve met Colonel Wilhelm Hesse. Wilhelm runs our Martian intelligence division. He might have some answers.”

Bullstrode looked at Hesse and smiled. “Colonel? You’re on!”

Hesse nodded and threw a slide onto the monitor. “It took us a while to figure out, but we think we understand what happened. When the Martians captured Triad Naval Base, they grabbed ten Owls from the WestHem Navy. They were barely able to partially man four Owls and that’s what they used to attack the convoy in Martian Hammer. They lost one of those four, leaving them with a total of nine. Since then, they have fully manned the ships, and they have played musical chairs with their officers and petty officers, moving them around to give some experience to every ship they own. It worked, too, even to the extent that they moved some of their officers and crews to their eight captured Seattles. They have been using them for base defense.”

“Still, nine Owls and eight Seattles shouldn’t have been able to attack a convoy the size of Martian Justice,” said Bullstrode.

“They weren’t just Owls, Brigadier. This is what took us some time to figure out. We analyzed their operational patterns. We’ve been able to sneak a Henry in occasionally to see what they are up to. They always keep one or two in Mars orbit backing up the Seattles. There’s always been one or two in space dock being resupplied and refitted. There’s always one or two simply missing, and we suspect they are in Earth orbit or in transit, spying on WestHem and us. The remainder are doing fleet maneuvers. They attack as a fleet, not as singletons. Anyway, what we caught was that some of their Owls would enter space dock and not just get resupplied. Normally, a ship comes back from a deployment, they put into dock, and everybody gets some leave. They go home, get drunk, get stoned, get laid, have some fun. Then, after a few weeks, they go back to the ship and get ready for the next patrol.”

Bullstrode nodded in understanding and Hesse continued. “We don’t have any assets in their Navy or Marines, but we do have assets in the civilian staff at Triad. It took us a bit of doing, but one of our analysts figured out that one of their ships was going into space dock and staying there for six months and then being replaced with another ship.”

Another officer down the table groaned and said, “They were rebuilding them.”

“Exactly. We don’t have any details, but our best guess is they gutted those Owls and rebuilt them. That explained something we saw during the attack on the Martian Justice convoy. Six Owls attacked the convoy. An Owl carries twelve torpedoes, max. That makes for seventy-two torpedoes launched at the convoy. So how come WestHem detected eighty-four separate torpedoes either destroyed or hitting a target?”

There were several groans around the room. DeMarche asked, “Aside from increasing the number of torpedoes they carry, what else did they do?”

Hesse said, “No idea, but I would bet my next paycheck that they got into the WestHem Navy’s files. They must have found the Navy’s wish list, all the upgrades and options that the Navy was dreaming about but couldn’t afford to buy. The Martians decided they couldn’t afford not to buy the upgrades, not unreasonable considering they were fighting for their lives. If we consider the possible range of upgrades, compared to the equivalent range of upgrades in our navy’s wish list, the Martian Owls are probably at least fifty percent more capable than a standard Owl. In space combat, that is the equivalent of an alligator going up against a baby duck. The Martians probably went home wishing they had more nuclear torpedoes. We think this is why they built their new Phobos Shipyard. Triad has plenty of capacity, so why build a new shipyard? We think it’s to hide what they were doing from all the eyes around Triad.”

Bullstrode looked at DeMarche with a sick feeling. If the Martians could do that to WestHem, they could certainly do it to EastHem. “What about their other ships, the Panamas and Californias?”

Colonel Hesse shrugged. “What Panamas? They had five loaded with military equipment and they sent all that gear down to the surface. As for the five ships, they sent two to Phobos along with a pair of Californias as the basis for their new shipyard and sent one Panama and a California to Saturn to form the basis of their new Rhea gas mine. The other two are being converted to hydrogen tankers and will also be sent to Saturn.”

“All five?” asked DeMarche.

“If nothing else, this is an excellent indication they are orienting their navy to a defensive role only. You only need troop carriers when you plan to move troops around. Same with their Californias. They are being minimally manned, except for the fighters and attack craft. Their Seattles are also being rebuilt, but they use them defensively.”

“Thank you.” Now he just needed to convince the Executive Council that the miniscule Martian Navy was now the most powerful Navy in the Solar System.

***

EastHem Military Intelligence Office

New Rome, EastHem

Tuesday, June 16, 2150

“Thank you for coming with me, Colonel Smith. I apologize for the sudden trip, but I need to learn more about your operation before the meeting. I don’t want to say something stupid when somebody on the Executive Council asks me a question I can’t answer. They are meeting in Paris,” said Archibald Bullstrode.

“Not a problem,” replied Colonel Laurel Smith, chief of human intelligence for EastHem. It meant she was missing her husband’s birthday but at her level you didn’t complain. You took the trip.

Bullstrode nodded and turned to his aide. “Let’s go, Henri. If it takes too long, arrange to get Colonel Smith back home. You and I can stay as needed.”

“Yes, sir.”

Bullstrode stood and moved towards the door. His aide grabbed his briefcase and held the door for him. Colonel Smith grabbed her own briefcase and followed. She stopped in her office and grabbed a go-bag with the necessities for a night away, and then joined the others on the roof, where an autoflyer awaited.

Bullstrode’s aide loaded their luggage in the autoflyer as Bullstrode ushered Smith inside, and then climbed in closing the autoflyer’s door behind him. The autoflyer lifted off for Paris.

“So, Colonel, we have half an hour until we get to Paris. How much of the information we learned yesterday came from your agents?”

“Some, sir, but not all. It’s difficult working on Mars, but we’ve been able to pass along some information that confirms what we’ve learned elsewhere.” When Bullstrode gave her a questioning look, she added, “For instance, when the recon Henrys reported that some of the Martian Owls seemed to be spending a lot of time in space dock, my agents were able to confirm the details. Same with the operational tempo and scheduling.”

“Have you been able to penetrate the military or navy yet?”

“No, and that seems extremely unlikely. The Martians have created an entire category of jobs that only Martian-born citizens can work in. Even if you were a baby when your parents brought you to Mars and you can’t remember anything else, you can’t be in the MPG or the Navy or the police force or even in a defense contractor. Still, that leaves quite a few places where they can learn things. We have quite a few people working for the civilian shipbuilding and repair companies on Triad and at the landing facilities on Mars.”

“And dock workers talk,” replied the brigadier.

She nodded. “Dock workers talk. The same goes with waiters and waitresses at bars near spaceports and docks and MPG detachments. It’s not as timely or as accurate as having operatives in the Navy’s or Guard’s headquarters, but it’s something.”

“How hard is it to get people to Mars?”

She smiled and shrugged. “Not hard at all. The trick is keeping them there. We are sending a thousand of our malcontents and dissidents to Mars as voluntary emigrants a month. It’s not hard to slip one or two agents in a month. After that it’s a crap shoot. Roughly one in three get found out within the first few days. The ones who slip in have a different problem. Recruiting local agents is almost impossible, so I ordered them to stop trying. Instead, they were to simply integrate themselves into the society and report back anything they found interesting. You know, gossip around the dockyard or something overheard in a tavern.”

“What makes it so difficult to recruit agents?” asked Bullstrode.

“I don’t know how much you know about recruiting agents, but it all goes back to the acronym MICE. Money, Ideology, Compromise, and Ego. We can’t use money since the Martian economy is closed to anything except barter. Ideology isn’t much more helpful, since after a century of WestHem abuse they have zero interest in wanting anything to do with anybody from Earth. Compromise involves finding something a potential recruit doesn’t want known, usually a crime involving sex or money. Since we can’t access their monetary system, that doesn’t work, and after a century in the ghettoes, nobody cares about any sort of sex crime. Ego is the trickiest of the techniques because it involves finding out if the recruit is dissatisfied because of his boss or somebody else, and then using it against him. So far, that just hasn’t become an issue. Martian culture is very open about working out problems with others,” she explained.

“What happens to the ones they catch?”

That earned the brigadier another smile and shrug. “If they haven’t made it through the immigration process, they get dumped back onto the freighter that brought them to Mars. If they get caught afterwards, the Martians contact the embassy and sell them back.”

“They sell them back?”

“One spy is worth a ton of lobsters or crabs. Occasionally we have one of their agents that we caught, and we trade them. They have sent some people to EastHem and Earth to facilitate food shipments. Occasionally one of them goes missing, a random crime of some sort. Sooner or later, we find them and trade them back. It’s easier than giving them free lobsters. From what we’ve learned, Martian Intelligence has a lobster bake when they catch a spy.”

Bullstrode rolled his eyes. “Good lord!”

Chapter 3 - Railroads

Martian Capital Building

New Pittsburgh, Mars

Wednesday, June 17, 2150

“General Jackson, Admiral Belting, and Colonel Slackass it is good to see you again. I assume you have seen the latest pronouncements from WestHem.” Governor Tesla asked. “It’s been roughly three months since Martian Justice. What have you learned since then?”

The meeting was in a secure room in the Capital. It consisted of the Planetary Security Group, composed of the Governor and Lieutenant-Governor, the Commander of the Martian Planetary Guard, the Director of Planetary Intelligence, the Planetary Security Adviser, and the heads of the lower and upper chambers of the Martian Legislature. Technically Admiral Matthew Belting, as head of the Martian Navy, reported to General Kevin Jackson, commander of the MPG; realistically he operated as a coequal. Colonel Marcus Slackass was the DPI.

The three men looked at each other briefly and nodded to each other. “You first, Matt,” said Jackson.

Belting nodded and looked at the Governor. “The Navy is in relatively good shape. As you know, we lost one of our Owls in the main convoy attack during Martian Justice. That brings our count of stealth ships down to eight. All eight have been able to dock and refit since the war. We currently have Bastard in Earth orbit monitoring WestHem and EastHem shipping and communications. Middle Finger is in space dock preparing to transit to Earth to replace Bastard. The other six are in Mars orbit doing squadron maneuvers and working up against our Seattles. All eight have been upgraded to Improved status and have received the Mod Two torpedo packages. The packages have received improved stealth treatments, both to their exteriors and their interiors. A standard WestHem Owl carries twelve torpedoes. An Improved-Owl Mod Two carries twenty-nine.”

Around the table several low whistles sounded. Governor Tesla smiled and said, “Very impressive. And the Seattles?”

“We went through the WestHem wish lists and created an Improved package for them as well. Because of their size and their grav plates, we can’t hide them all that well, but they have received what stealth improvements we could apply. More importantly, the anti-torpedo lasers have all been doubled, and their fire control has been massively increased. They are a defensive asset; we’ll keep them in orbit and use them with our space fighters and attack craft. Two have been sent to Rhea to be part of the defense there. The other six are doing workups with the I-Owls here in Mars orbit.”

The Lieutenant-Governor, the former mayor of Procter, Hardass Wallenby, asked, “Are the Earthlings aware of what we’ve done with their Owls and Seattles?”

“That’s more a question for Colonel Slackass,” replied Belting. “Colonel?”

Slackass made a waffling motion with his right hand. “Yes and no. We had two small convoy actions where the basic I-Owls simply destroyed the WestHem defenders, and as far as we can tell, they haven’t a clue as to what happened to them. With the main Martian Justice convoy, they know something happened, but not what. For instance, they know the count of torpedoes was greater than what six Owls could launch, but they have several different theories. Maybe the count was wrong or maybe we had more than six Owls in the attack. Also, they believe they destroyed more than just Vibrator. The original torpedo packages weren’t completely stealthed, and they hit several of those. Because of the need to continue their transit, they couldn’t investigate and look for debris.”

“Huh.”

“What about EastHem? Do they know what we are up to?” asked Tesla.

Slackass made another waffling motion. “Maybe. For one thing, they have assets in Denver, more than we have by far. By now they must certainly have learned what WestHem thinks. I am also sure they have assets here that we haven’t caught. They send some every month in their immigrant shipments. Some we catch and send back, a few we’ve caught and turned, and others are doing what they do. We have a natural protection in that we don’t let any Earth-born residents join the MPG or the Navy or any of the defense contractors. Still, they probably know something, but not in the details.” Then he added, “We are working up a program with the Navy to tap EastHem’s mail like we did with WestHem’s. We might find out more from that.” Admiral Belting nodded.

“Thank you. General, your turn. What’s with the MPG?”

“The Guard is in good shape. For instance, though our casualties were higher in Martian Justice than in Martian Hammer, we didn’t have any instances of troops or units retreating, which we did have in the first war. Morale is very high. The same goes with the air units. They had new and improved Mosquitoes and a new Hummingbird bomber, and we had total air superiority from the start. WestHem had a few new tricks, but we were able to work around them.” He looked around the table. “What’s with MarsTrans? How long before the railroads are back to work?”

Tesla and a few of the others grimaced and looked like they were eating a spoonful of waste effluent. “It’s not great, General. WestHem really did a number on the railroads. I’ll have the head of MarsTrans contact you, but the main equatorial line was cut in innumerable places. The New Pittsburgh - Eden line was virtually destroyed. Current plans are to reroute traffic from New Pittsburgh through Dow to Eden when those lines are rebuilt. In the long run, they plan to build additional lines between the cities and not rely on the main equatorial line for everything. That will take years.”

“Understood, Governor. Have Bill Hightower call me. If we can help, I want to know.” Hightower was the manager of MarsTrans, the intercity Martian railroad system.

***

Chasm 268

New Pittsburgh - Eden Rail Line

Friday, June 19, 2150

Walker Stevens walked down the ramp from the Hummingbird followed by Marty Mickelson, along with their pilot. Stevens was a reporter for MarsGroup news and Mickelson was his cameraman and editor. Everybody on Mars knew that Walker Stevens had been a dissident in EastHem sentenced to involuntary emigration to Mars and had started out cleaning ghetto apartments before getting a job with MarsGroup. He had climbed the ranks at MarsGroup doing some excellent reporting during Operation Martian Justice and was now considered a rising star at the Martian Internet company.

Less than a handful of Martians, all in Martian Planetary Intelligence, knew that Stevens was a WestHem intelligence operative who had been sent to Mars via EastHem, and that for three years he had been reporting back to Denver what he had learned on Mars. At the end of the war, the MPI had picked him up and turned him. Walker much preferred the idea of staying on Mars as a reporter and occasional double agent versus spending the rest of his life in Dow prison.

“Déjà vu all over again,” commented Marty. The two men had done a major reporting piece during the war about what had happened at Chasm 268. During the first days of the war, WestHem AA-71a had been launched against the Martian rail system to interdict ground transportation and isolate the Martian cities. Although it turned out to be almost a suicide mission, the attacks worked, and the railroads were cut across Mars.

The worst attack occurred on the New Pittsburgh - Eden line, where the WestHem attack planes arrived at the instant a passenger train was crossing a bridged chasm. The train was destroyed, killing everybody aboard, and the bridge collapsed; eight-hundred-forty-six passengers and MarsTrans people had died, the greatest civilian death toll since the Jupiter War in 2131.

“What goes around, comes around,” replied Stevens. “On the other hand, when we were here then, it was a story about loss. Now it’s a story about rebuilding.”

“And that’s the slant you are going for?”

“Maybe. I don’t like going into a story with the ending already written. I’ll need to talk to some people first. We’re probably going to be here a few days.”

Marty nodded. Working for Walker Stevens was an interesting job. They worked out of the New Pittsburgh office of MarsGroup but traveled and reported from all over Mars; both men had well-used go-bags.

They looked around and sorted themselves out. On their first visit, back in March, they had landed on the south rim of the chasm, the Eden side, and had only been there long enough to do a few interviews and shoot some vids. A few hours later they flew back to New Pittsburgh. At the time the site was very bare bones, with an MPG platoon brought in for security and to retrieve bodies, and a MarsTrans element to determine what would be needed to repair the railroad. Now the site had taken on a permanent look, with biodomes on the north rim, heavy equipment brought in, and a landing pad built. They planned to be onsite for several days and broadcast from Chasm 268.

The two men stood at the edge of the landing pad in their biosuits and looked around. “Not seeing any taxis coming around looking for us,” said Walker.

“What’s a taxi?” asked Marty, who was born on Mars and had only experienced the public transport system of Martian cities.

“Sort of a private transit car you can hire on Earth. Never mind. I think we need to hoof it from here, Marty.”

“Probably so.” Nobody seemed to be around with any sort of transport. “It can’t be more than half a kilometer.” Marty grabbed his bag and picked up the camera bag.

Walker picked up his own bag and the rest of their gear. “Hey, there’s goes our pilot. She must know where to go.” The two men headed towards a group of Martian biodomes between the landing zone and the rim of the chasm, following their pilot.

Biodomes were temporary structures that could be quickly set up in the thin Martian atmosphere. A grader flattened the soil and a gigantic roll of four-layer plastic was unrolled on the site; two layers would become the floor and the other two would become the dome. Finally, a tank of liquid polyfoam was connected to a valve built into the plastic, and pumped between the layers of the plastic, inflating a dome fifty meters across and fifteen meters high. It wasn’t a permanent structure; the severe ultraviolet of the Martian surface would break down the plastic of the dome after four or five years, but a dome could be erected by an engineering team in less than a day, including cutting in personnel and equipment airlocks.

Walker and Marty cycled through the airlock and found themselves in a locker room. “Hi, guys. Come on in,” said the pilot. She was short, busty, and quite pretty. She was also naked. Like most Martian locker rooms, the one off the airlock was unisex. She was carrying a towel and headed towards the shower. “We weren’t really introduced before. Marcy Statin. There’re some empty lockers in the next row where you can stash the biosuits. Then you can clean up and change.”

“Thank you.” Walker and Marty went down the row of lockers and over to the next row where they found a pair of empty lockers. They quickly stripped down and rooted through their bags for clean clothing. They found Marcy rinsing off in the shower.

“I’ll stick around after I get dressed and show you around.”

“Thank you. We need to check in with the site administrator,” said Walker.

Marcy nodded and began drying her hair. “That’s Joe Bongman. He’s two domes over. I’ll take you over.”

“Is that where we can find a place to stay and work out of?” asked Marty.

Marcy laughed and reached over, groping him briefly. “You can always stay with me. I have a room here for when I stay over.” Then she winked at Walker. “You, too. It’s a big room.”

Walker laughed. “I’ll let you know after meeting the boss.”

Marcy nodded and headed to her locker. When Walker and Marty were clean and dressed, they found her lounging by the door into the dome. She pushed the door open and led them into the interior. “Welcome to Fort Laura.”

“This is Fort Laura?” said Walker.

“Technically it’s MarsTrans Reconstruction Facility Forty-Two-Bravo. Or you can just call it Fort Laura, which everybody does anyway. The MPG was pretty pissed about what happened here and having to clean up the mess. They stationed some troops here to prevent it happening again. They named their little enclave Fort Laura and it stuck.”

“Huh.”

“Come with me.” Marcy led them through another two biodomes to an office dome. She led them to an office with an open door and knocked on the frame. “Walker Stevens, Joe Bongman, our lord and master. Joe, Walker is from MarsGroup and is here to do an expose on your many sins and crimes. See you fellows later. My bunk is in 7-C.” She smiled at them and left.

Walker and Marty turned back to the man sitting behind a desk. “Marcy is nothing if not direct. Welcome to Fort Laura. It’s not the official name, but so what? I’m Joe Bongman, the administrator here. Please, have a seat.”

“Thank you. I’m Walker Stevens from MarsGroup and this is my cameraman, Marty Mickelson.”

“Well, as I said earlier, welcome. I heard from the home office you’d be coming out here. Technically I’m the site manager for MarsTrans but since all the civilians here either work for MarsTrans or for a contractor MarsTrans hired, that makes me the boss. The MPG has their own command structure, of course, but we get along well.”

“This seems like a pretty big setup for a temporary construction site,” commented Walker.

The manager nodded. “How much do you know about railroad construction, Walker?”

Walker smiled. “Not much.”

“Well, in a typical railroad you start building at one end and work towards the other end. If you have time constraints, you start at both ends and work towards the middle. We’ve been building railroads, first on Earth and now here, for well over six hundred years.”

Marty gave a confused look and said, “Six hundred years? They didn’t have trains until the 1800s.”

Bongman smiled. “They used horses and wooden rails. Locomotives and iron rails came later. Now we use maglev.”

“Oh.”

Joe smiled and nodded. “Anyway, railroads are heavy industry and even today require a lot of manpower. Back on Earth, a few klicks behind the end of the railroad you would have rolling trains filled with bars, gambling halls, and working girls. It was a pretty rough existence, and they called these trains ‘Hell on Wheels’. On Mars it’s a little different. We still have a lot of men working outside in biosuits but you can’t live like that forever. We still have those service trains, places the men can go to get out of their suits, have a meal, have a drink, get a decent night’s sleep.”

“I follow you,” said Walker.

“And that is why this place is so big. The New Pittsburgh - Eden line is one of the most important on Mars. MarsTrans is under a lot of pressure to get this railroad rebuilt. If we do it the traditional method, we start at each end and work to the middle. It takes us six months to a year to get here, to the chasm. Then we have to build a bridge, another six months to a year. We don’t have the time. We need to get this railroad fixed!”

Walker nodded. “Fair enough. I travel a lot for my stories, both of us,” he said, nodding towards Marty. “It’s a lot easier with MarsTrans than trying to find a ride in a Hummingbird and suiting up in a biosuit.”

“Far and away, the cheapest way to move goods on Mars is by railroad, so, we need to rebuild this line. The big difference is that we now have the ability to bring equipment to the downed bridge without having to wait until we got there by rebuilding the tracks. We loaded a bunch of equipment and material into a couple of C-12 orbital landers and brought it in. People we can bring in by Hummingbird. We get any kind of lucky, by the time the repair crews get here, they’ll have a new bridge. We can probably cut the time in half,” finished Joe.

“Very good. So, what do you plan to do with this little city when that happens?” Mars was dotted with biodomes that had been allowed to deteriorate and collapse from ultraviolet degradation.

The MarsTrans administrator scratched his head at that. “Not really sure. I know that Mars Metals has some survey teams out inspecting for any ores in the neighborhood. If they find anything, maybe they build something permanent. Or not. You’ll need to check with them.”

Walker glanced at Marty. They had never considered that there might be something nearby of value. He turned back to Joe. “Well, we’ll have to look into that. Right now, I just want to wander around a little and see what there is to see. Do you have a map or something I can use?”

Joe called up a map on his screen and hit an icon; a color-coded map popped out of a printer. “It’s not much more than a bunch of connected biodomes.” He pointed to various spots on the maps. “These here are unpressurized garages and warehouses for materials. These over here are pressurized. They have bunkrooms, a dining facility, even a restaurant and a club. The MPG has a couple of biodomes of their own over here. They are no-go.” Then he grinned and tapped one of the bunkhouse domes. “Marcy is here, 7-C.”

Both Walker and Marty laughed at that. “That will be for later,” said Walker. “Right now, I simply want to walk around and talk to people. Later, I want to do a real interview with you. Maybe you can explain some of this to the viewers. MarsGroup wants me to do an hour-long special on rebuilding this line.”

“I’ll free myself up later today.” He gave the two men directions to a bunkhouse office where they could get a room.

Walker and Marty stood up and left the office. They went over to the bunkhouses and secured a bedroom with two beds. They geared up, with Marty rigging his camera and Walker wearing a tiny microphone. Then it was off to look around.

Walker and Marty wandered through several linked biodomes. The dome they found the Administrator in was full of offices; two more were dormitories. A fourth dome had a dining facility as well as a restaurant and bar. According to the map, three of the domes were unpressurized storage and garage facilities for equipment and material. To the side were a pair of biodomes connected to each other and with a long pressurized walkway connecting to the administration dome; red flags indicated they belonged to the MPG and were off limits.

Walker’s computer beeped and he looked at it. “Bongman is ready for his formal interview.”

“Let’s go,” said Marty.

Walker and Marty spent the afternoon interviewing Bongman and the commander of the MPG detachment. That was it for their first day at Fort Laura. Then they went to the ‘recreation’ dome, where the dining facility, restaurant, and bar were located. It was time for dinner, a few drinks, and a bonghit or two.

Marty ended up in a poker game and Walker decided to try his luck differently. He found room 7-C and punched the doorbell. Marcy opened the door wearing a black lace shorty robe. She smiled and said, “I was wondering if you would drop by.” She opened the door and allowed a smiling Walker inside.

The next morning, Walker found Marty snoring in their work room. “Rise and shine, camera boy.”

“How was your evening with Marcy?” asked Marty.

“Exhausting. She has a taste for depravity rivaled only by Tasty’s.” Tasty Brown was Walker Steven’s companion, though their relationship was open.

“Good for you. Now, let me go back to sleep.”

Walker pushed the cameraman’s shoulder. “Shag ass, Marty. You need a shower, and some Revive. How much did you lose last night?” Revive was a popular hangover remedy.

“I only lost credits. What did you lose? Your innocence?”

“I lost that back on Earth. Come on, get up. Shower time! We need to get some breakfast and then get back to work. Come on, move it!”

Walker was figuring a full day at Chasm 268, interviewing anybody who looked at all interesting, and returning to New Pittsburgh the next day. They started with the proprietors of the restaurant and bar in the rec dome, a pair of rump rangers who had been assistant restaurant managers back in Libby and wanted to run their own business. Afterwards, they suited up again and went outside, to do interviews and shoot vids of the reconstruction. They also shot vids of the wreckage of the destroyed train being raised out of the chasm. The previous recovery efforts had been centered on recovery of bodies.

That evening Walker did the most interesting interview of his career. Marty said, “Were you aware there are a lot of WestHem Marines here? MarsTrans hired a bunch of them.”

“Marines? Here?” Walker’s thoughts were all over the place hearing that. His public persona was that of an EastHem emigrant, a former dissident who made good on Mars. Then there was his hidden history as a WestHem intelligence agent born John Taylor Hargrove. Finally, he had his current job as a Martian reporter and Martian Planetary Intelligence double agent.

“It seems that MarsTrans has lots of jobs that require workers who are familiar with and comfortable working outside in biosuits. They also need people who can drive trucks and heavy equipment. On Earth, lots more people know how to drive than here on Mars,” said Marty.

“That’s true enough, especially in WestHem,” agreed Walker. “And you think this would be good?”

“You don’t?”

Walker simply shrugged and followed his cameraman to the Fort Laura Club, that being the name given to the bar in the rec dome. Marty had a large table set up in the center of the club, and already had some cameras and microphones set up. Four men were already seated with beers in front of them, and an empty seat was waiting for Walker. Marty ordered up another round of beers and then moved around adjusting the cameras and mikes.

“Walker, this is Jack Armstrong, Bob Williams, Hank Smith, and Tim Allsword,” said Marty. He laid nameplates down in front of them, printed in small black print on a green background. The nameplates would disappear when the vid was made. “They are all WestHem Marines that were captured during Martian Hammer or Martian Justice.”

“Thank you for talking to me. I hope you don’t mind my saying this is a bit surreal to me. I’m ex-EastHem. Is that going to be an issue?”

Armstrong took a deep drink from his beer. “No more surreal than this entire thing. I’m a fucking WestHem POW who had been disavowed by WestHem. Now I’m being interviewed by somebody from a nation I have been trained to hate and kill, only he’s been disavowed by his nation. This whole thing is supremely fucked up!”

Walker blinked at that and nodded. “Yeah, I guess I can’t argue with that. You other guys feel the same way?”

Williams, Smith, and Allsword all shrugged or shook their heads. “He’s right. This is all fucked up,” said Allsword.

Smith said, “I gave twenty years to the Marines. I was at Eden in the first wave of Martian Hammer, marched forward until we got pulled back, was in the first wave when we landed the second time, and made it all the way to the final line before getting hit and captured. Now, after all that, WestHem has told my wife and son that I am a failure and a coward. My wife remarried. My son changed his name. That was after he was tracked down by InfoGroup and ambushed for an interview about his traitorous father!”

“Same here,” said Williams. “I was a tank driver in Martian Justice. I made it all the way to the second antitank ditch before we got the shit blown out of us. I’ve been in combat all over South America and I’ve never seen anything like the Jutfield Gap! Now I’m a coward and a failure. My parents had to move to get away from the neighbors. ICS interviewed them. They interviewed a lot of the families. ‘What made your son surrender? Where did you fail in raising him to be a loyal citizen? Does cowardice run in your family?’ Give me a fucking break!’

Marty said, “Okay, let’s do this for the vid. I’m going to start the recording. When I say Action, Walker, you introduce these guys and start talking, Everybody, forget I’m here. I’m moving to another table and watching it all here.” He held up his computer. “I’ll edit it later. Anybody need another beer?” Walker had his first, the others ordered a second. As soon as they were served, Marty said, “Action!”

The interview was everything MarsGroup could have asked for. And more.

Chapter 4 - Reading the Mail

Senior Conference Room B

Triad Naval Base, Mars Orbit

Monday, June 22, 2150

Willis Hacker looked around the conference table at the four other people he had been ordered to meet. Hacker was a senior systems engineer with MicroZon-AmaSoft-Mars, the Martian division of WestHem’s MicroZon-AmaSoft. When Mars revolted four years ago, he had been a just another junior Greenie coder considered too stupid to be able to work on the company’s programming and was relegated to doing minor upgrades on the WestHem Navy’s computer systems. After the Revolution, it turned out that all those silly and simple Greenie coders knew far more about the software they were working with than their managers back on Earth.

Hacker was also a Lieutenant in the Martian Planetary Guard, Reserve. He had served in the MPG during Martian Hammer, in the front lines at New Pittsburgh. After the war, Sergeant Hacker was promoted to Lieutenant Hacker and reassigned back to his regular job as a systems engineer with MicroZon-AmaSoft-Mars.

Also in the room was Admiral Matthew Belting, the Fleet Admiral of the Martian Navy. If it was a Martian spaceship, he was the person ultimately responsible, and if WestHem or EastHem decided to visit Mars, he was the person responsible for stopping them. He had been one of the exceedingly rare Martians who had been an officer in the WestHem Navy prior to the Revolution and had commanded an Owl during the Jupiter War. After her Captain was killed in action, Belting had taken command and killed six EastHem ships before being pounded into scrap; he ended up taking the blame for the loss of the Owl.

The third person in the room was Captain Brett Ingram, Commodore, Stealth, He commanded all the stealth ships in the Martian Navy, eight Improved-Owls Mod Two, the most powerful ships in the Navy and arguably the deadliest ships in the Solar System. He had commanded Ballbuster, a standard Owl, during Martian Hammer with a crew that was half-manned and half-trained, and killed two WestHem Panama-class transports and a Seattle-class anti-stealth ship. Promoted to command of the stealth squadron after the war, he had led the conversions to the Improved-Owl class, ships that had decimated the convoys WestHem sent to Mars during Martian Justice.

The fourth person was a woman, Commander Whitey Sucksall, Captain of the MSS Assfucker, an Improved-Owl Mod Two. She had extensive combat duty during the convoy battles as well as Earth-orbit reconnaissance missions.

Admiral Belting started the meeting. “Welcome back to Triad Naval Base, Lieutenant.”

“Thank you. I assume we are doing another Operation Nutsack and I’m the asshole selected.”

Whitey laughed. “Operation Nutsack? That’s what you named the first mission? That’s fucking good!”

Brett snorted out a laugh. “Sugi picked out the name. He figured if it went wrong, everybody’s nuts would be in a sack.”

“Ballbuster is still in orbit. I am going to have to get a debrief on that one from him,” she replied.

“Just how bad is Nutsack Two going to be, Brett? Am I going to be hanging my ass out ten klicks from the ship in orbit again? Not a fun time!” said Hacker.

Whitey raised an eyebrow at that, though Ingram and Belting laughed. “That is our last choice, just as it was before. No, that really isn’t in the works,” said Ingram.

Belting said, “Willis, your team did an amazing job during that mission. You not only provided us a back door into the WestHem satellite system, that back door enabled us to get into the WestHem ground-based security systems and their communications systems. It’s how we damaged them so badly during Martian Justice.” He turned to Commander Sucksall. “It’s how we got the shit needed to send you and Blackie after those tankers.”

Ingram said, “Now it’s time for the encore. We want to do to EastHem what we did to WestHem. While we do not foresee military action against them at this time, we need to be prepared. We’ve had a team of systems engineers working up how WestHem and EastHem have been probing each other for generations. As far as we can tell, WestHem has no idea we are looking over their shoulders. In addition, we have identified several potential access points where we can insert a virus which will give us access to EastHem, just like you did with WestHem.”

“And if I did it once before, I can do it again?” Hacker asked wryly.

“Bingo!”

Ingram finished, saying, “Ballbuster will be docking sometime this evening. Sugi will be reporting in and will be assigned to a working group for Nutsack Two. At that time both you and Sugi can fill Whitey in on the project and what was involved. We’ll also give you access to the programming our engineers have developed. You can pick your team at your discretion. Assfucker is scheduled to launch for Earth orbit by the end of July. That’s our window for this. Otherwise, we have to wait another five months.”

Hacker looked over at Whitey. She gave him a confident nod. He turned back and said, “We’ll make it happen.”

***

Financial Regulation Office

New Pittsburgh, Mars

Tuesday, June 23, 2150

“Paul, you want to come in here for a moment?”

Paul Winston looked at his computer for a moment, identifying the voice as that of his supervisor, Darryl Roanbacker. Roanbacker managed a department that looked for financial irregularities in the Martian banking system.

Winston was a former EastHem banker whose wife Mary, a nurse, had complained once too often about the inequities in the EastHem health system. That had earned the Winston family a one-way trip to Mars as ‘voluntary colonists’, a euphemism for how EastHem got rid of troublemakers. EastHem had asked Mars about the possibility of immigration and the Martian government had thought about it, deciding that polite relations with their trading partner was a good idea. Though the Martian banking system was vastly different than Earthling banking systems, Paul proved that once a banker, always a banker. It took him some time getting used to the new system, but he quickly discovered an irregularity that showed that WestHem had thoroughly infiltrated the Martian banking system and ultimately discovered a WestHem spy. That had earned him a promotion.

Paul left his desk and went down the corridor to Roanbacker’s office. He knocked on the door and went in. “You wanted me, Darryl?” Then he stopped in surprise. There was a third person in the room. “Secretary Newfelt!”

Romy Newfelt, Secretary of Finance, the chief financial regulator for Mars, laughed. “I suppose that’s better than being called Madame Secretary. That would be the norm back in EastHem, right?”

Paul made a wry smile. “That and a lot of bowing and genuflecting. Otherwise, it’s a ghetto in Africa.”

“Well, here we simply banish you to Libby or Procter.”

Paul smiled. “Yes, Madame Secretary.” He knelt and bowed as the others laughed.

“Get up before I hurt myself laughing,” said Darryl. When Paul climbed to his feet, Darryl pointed him to a chair. “We want to talk to you about a new job.”

“Oh?”

Darryl nodded and Romy said, “You have done very well in your job investigating financial irregularities. You and Darryl have built a nice little department for that sort of thing. It’s time to move on.”

“Move on?” asked Paul.

“How familiar are you with WestHem’s financial system?” asked Darryl. “Not just what you’ve done here. What did you learn about the WestHem banking system when you were in EastHem?”

“Huh. In some ways it was similar to EastHem’s system, only with WestHem names. What is the new job?” Paul asked.

Romy answered, “Martian Intelligence has developed various information sources in the WestHem banking system. You are not authorized to know what those…sources…are, nor are you allowed to investigate the source of the information you will receive. Don’t be insulted by that. Darryl doesn’t have that clearance, either. Anyway, you have a unique insight into Earthling banking systems and the Department of Finance wants to tap that. Assuming you are interested, you will be promoted to the same level as Darryl and be placed in charge of this new department. We want you to analyze what WestHem is doing with their banking system, taxes, fiscal policy, and whatever else you can figure out.”

“Mars wants an EastHem banker to figure out WestHem banking.” Paul said. “I am not sure I would have predicted that when I entered the London School of Economics.”

“Why do you think we are grabbing you?” retorted Romy. “You were smart enough to get into the London School of Economics, that makes you smart enough to work for us.”

Paul nodded. “Okay, maybe so. And the MPI has a tap into WestHem finance? Maybe the Denver Exchange? Maybe something else, and you can’t tell me? Fascinating!” he said with a grin.

“You’re in?” asked Darryl.

“I’m in. Uh, do I get a raise?”

Darryl looked over at Romy. “Supply and demand in action.”

Romy laughed and mentioned a number that made Paul smile. He continued discussing the new department with Romy and Darryl. Fascinating!

***

Westinghouse Towers

New Pittsburgh, Mars

Tuesday, June 23, 2150

“Mary, you home?” Paul Winston had just let himself into their two-bedroom apartment. He didn’t hear a response, but he saw his sons in the living room. “Where’s your mom?”

The two boys were playing a vidgame of some sort that involved multiple dune buggies racing around on the Martian surface. PJ, Paul Junior, was twelve; Randall, or Randy as he went by, was ten. Randy simply shrugged and made a noncommittal sound. PJ said, “She went out a little while ago. Something about divorcing you, abandoning us, and running off to Procter.”

“You know the phrase ‘heir and a spare’? As long as he’s still around, you’re expendable,” said their father.

Randy giggled at that. PJ simply nodded his head towards the master bedroom. “She’s in the bedroom.”

“Smartass!” Paul dropped his computer bag and dropped it on the couch before heading into the bedroom.

Mary Winston was coming out of the bathroom. “Hey, babe! Welcome home!” She went to him and gave him a quick kiss. “Don’t get comfortable. I got a call from Jerry. The first three-bedroom is available and we’re at the top of the list. He gave me the passcode so I could show you.” She walked out of the bedroom before her husband could tell her about his promotion. Smiling, he followed her. “You two behave or we’re sending you back to Earth,” she told their sons.

A pair of grunts was their only response. Mary left the apartment followed by her husband.

Everybody on Mars lived in government-owned apartments. Unlike Earth, it was simply impossible to have single family dwellings on Mars. Everybody lived and worked in high density cities, partially domed, and with tall apartment and office towers alternating with massive industrial structures. Over a year ago, Jerry Springall, the building superintendent, had informed the residents that the top floors of their apartment building, all luxury penthouse suites, were being remodeled into three-bedroom apartments, though it would take months before they were remodeled. Paul Winston had just received a promotion and a raise, and they put their names on the list.

Mary let them into the apartment, and asked, “What do you think?”

“I think I need to look around.”

Mary began a marketing spiel to match any professional’s. The main room was a combined living and dining room, and considerably larger than the one they had now. The kitchen was somewhat larger than their current kitchen, perhaps twenty percent larger, but now included a dining area. The secondary bedrooms were almost identical in size to the secondary bedroom in their current apartment, though now there were two, not one, and the hall bath was the same as what they currently had. The biggest difference was that the master bedroom and master bath were much larger. Their current bedroom was large enough for a queen-size bed, but the new bedroom would easily hold an oversized king-size bed. The same held true in the master bath. Where before they had a normal size tub/shower unit, the new bath had both a large shower and a large garden tub. Paul commented that it was a party room, and Mary blushed and giggled.

“The penthouses had windows?” asked Paul. One wall of the living room was a window, and they were looking out at the Martian surface.

Mary shook her head. “I don’t think any building on Mars has windows. The penthouses all had floor-to-ceiling vidscreens. The default programming is an exterior scene, but you can change it to anything.” She found the control in a cabinet and held it up. Turning back to the screen she touched the control and a new scene, a green meadow with a blue sky and fluffy white clouds. “Earth. It has games...” Another touch and a vidgame control screen came up. Another touch brought up a vid of some sort. “…and movies. Even porn!” A teaser vid of a subscription site came up, with a beautiful woman undressing.

Mary asked excitedly, “Well? What do you think? With your raise and just a little overtime on my part, we should be able to afford it.”

“Very nice,” Paul said. “Get undressed.”

“A full wall of porn turn you on?”

“I just got another promotion and raise. When I found you in the bedroom, I was getting ready to tell you and then use you for my pleasure. Now we can have that extra baby you’ve been talking about. So, get undressed!”

“All alone in a bare apartment? How kinky!”

“Think of this as practice for after we get our fertility blocks removed.”

“Ooh! Practice!” she said. Mary pulled her t-shirt over her head, leaving her in a well-packed sports bra and her shorts. Paul smiled and pulled off his own t-shirt. They continued undressing and Mary laughed as her husband turned her around and bent her over the kitchen counter. “That raise must have you feeling so masterful!”

Paul responded by spanking her on the butt before inserting himself. They coupled quickly but happily, enjoying themselves as they spent. Afterwards, Mary pushed away from the counter and turned around. She wrapped her arms around Paul’s neck and kissed him thoroughly. “You know, that’s not the position with the highest probability of achieving conception,” she said.

“Oh?”

“Too bad that fertility block is still on. We’ll just have to wait another month before I am at my most fertile,” she laughed. “You’ll need to save up until then.”

That earned her another quick smack, and a second round, wrestling on the living room carpet. Afterwards, giggling like they were still dating, they cleaned up and headed back down to their apartment. Their sons were still on the couch playing vidgames. Mary promised to finalize the details on the new apartment in the morning. Later that evening, they practiced fertilization techniques a few more times.

Chapter 5 - Proof of Concept

New Pentagon, Military Headquarters

Denver, WestHem

Tuesday, June 23, 2150

Major General Willister Finch looked across his desk at a young major named John Amos. Finch was the new director of WestHem Military Intelligence, appointed to the position after Martian Justice proved a disaster. The previous heads of WestHem G2 had all been replaced after it was discovered that one of the previous Intelligence commanders, Colonel Oliver Whitestone, had defected to Mars after Martian Justice collapsed.

General Finch had risen through the ranks of Military Intelligence in the EastHem Intelligence Department, focused on figuring out what EastHem was up to. His final assignment prior to his current promotion was trying to figure out what EastHem was doing regarding the Martian revolutionaries. After studying the subject for four years, the best he could come up with was that politics did indeed make strange bedfellows. Despite all the rumors and speculations that EastHem had to be assisting the Greenies, since how else could vermin beat the mighty Marines, all Finch had been able to determine was that the only assistance EastHem was providing the Greenies was three tankers of hydrogen a month. Otherwise, it was simply a matter of ‘the enemy of my enemy is my friend.’

Finch looked across his desk at the young major. John Amos had done well in all his assignments so far, proving a genius at compromising potential EastHem assets. He was also a raving psychopath, as far as Finch could determine. He had gotten his informants and agents but left a trail of broken and compromised family members behind. More than a few had committed suicide after being used to break another member of their family.

“You have a plan to infiltrate Mars, Major? We’ve been sending agents there ever since EastHem started sending prisoners to Mars. We still have agents there, though they haven’t been able to do much in the way of collecting assets,” said Finch.

“Yes, sir. It came to me when I was reviewing the latest downloads from MarsGroup.” Finch nodded understanding. MarsGroup broadcasts were banned from WestHem broadcast but were avidly studied by Earthling analysts for information about Mars.

“And?”

“Allow me, sir.” Amos pulled out a thumb drive and passed it to the general. “I copied this from MarsGroup the other night,”

Finch shrugged and loaded the drive. It was an interview of some Marines captured during Martian Hammer and Martian Justice. “And?”

“We’ve been trying to create assets by the standard techniques - MICE - Money, Ideology, Compromise, and Ego. Unfortunately, we have no leverage on any Martians. Our money systems don’t mesh, our ideologies are klicks apart, we haven’t been able to compromise anybody, and ego hasn’t come into play.”

“That’s my understanding, Major,” agreed Finch.

“That’s because we have been focusing on the wrong Martians.” Amos pointed at the four captured Marines. “We need to focus on these guys. The captured Marines. They’re our real assets.”

“I’m not following you. We cut our ties with these guys. That came down from the Executive Council. It made for a better story if the POWs were all tortured and killed by the communist Greenie terrorists.”

“Yes, sir. There’s over a hundred thousand Marines up there. The Greenies aren’t letting them work anywhere useful, like in the Martian Navy or their Planetary Guard. Still, a hundred thousand trained Marines could cause an awful lot of mischief up there, especially if we time it for when we go back,” said Amos.

“A fifth column?”

“Leave it up to me, sir.”

“I’ll want to see a proof of concept before I greenlight this.”

***

“Captain, I want you to find out everything possible about these four men. They are all ex-Marines, captured on Mars. I want their complete history in one hour,” said Major Amos.

“Yes, sir.” Captain Wallace Highsmith took the list of names from his boss.

“Dismissed.”

***

“I have the information you requested, sir,” said Highsmith.

“And?”

Highsmith threw a photo onto the wall monitor opposite Major Amos. “Private John M. Armstrong, 445^th Armored Infantry, wounded in action and captured after the retreat from Martian Justice. Born January 17, 2130, St. Louis, Middle America. Enlisted 2148, good scores on all training tests. Survived by parents Jacob and Martha.”

A second picture went up on the screen. “Sergeant Henry E. Smith, 226^th Armored Regiment, abandoned in place when his unit ran out of fuel on the retreat in Martian Hammer. Born March 21, 2120, Los Angeles, West America. Enlisted 2138, reenlisted 2144. Mother died, father still alive and remarried, ex-wife remarried, one son who changed his name, one half-sister from stepmother.”

Highsmith flipped to a third picture. “Corporal Robert J. Williams, 124^th Armored Infantry, wounded in action after getting his tank to the second antitank ditch in Martian Justice. Abandoned when his crewmates retreated. Born December 24, 2126, Boise, West America. Enlisted 2145. Survived by parents and maternal grandparents.”

The final picture came up. “Lieutenant Timothy Allsword, 455^th Armored Infantry, trapped in his tank when it was disabled in Martian Justice. Born June 30, 2126, Chicago, Middle America. Enrolled West Point 2145. No family.”

“Very good. Have them all picked up,” said Major Amos.

“All of them? What about Lieutenant Allsword? He has no family,” replied Captain Highsmith.

Amos waved it off. “Find somebody. Grab some of the usual suspects. They are all going to die anyway.”

“Yes, sir.”

***

MarsGroup Building

New Pittsburgh, Mars

Friday, June 26, 2150

“Walker, get a load of this!” yelled Marty Mickelson. His putative boss, Walker Stevens, was heading out.

Walker looked over at his cameraman. “What? It’s Friday and I am taking Tasty out for dinner, drinks, and fornication.”

“You have to see this!”

Walker came over and looked at Marty’s screen. It was a feed from InfoGroup, but was also being broadcast on NewsSys, the Internet company that was the result of the forced merger of ICS and WIV.

BREAKING NEWS!

GREENIE SPY RING CAPTURED!

Walker scanned the story quickly and then hit the icon for the vids. “What the fuck?” he said.

“Those four guys you interviewed last week? Their relatives were all picked up yesterday. Half died resisting arrest. The rest are in jail awaiting trial for espionage and treason.”

“Fuck me! Has the Capitol said anything about this? This is bullshit!”

Marty shook his head. “Just the usual ‘We don’t comment on intelligence matters.’”

“There is no way this is a coincidence.”

“No. No way. You need to talk to somebody in the Capitol Building.”

Walker’s computer beeped and he glanced at it. “He turned it towards Marty. “I think they want to talk to both of us.” A second beep on Marty’s computer showed a duplicate request from Martian Planetary Intelligence.

“Shit!” muttered the cameraman.

***

Martian Planetary Guard Headquarters

New Pittsburgh, Mars

Friday, June 26, 2150

Walker and Marty took a tram from the MarsGroup Building to MPG Headquarters, Martian Planetary Intelligence operated out of MPG HQ, though it was considering moving to a nearby office tower. A woman in the red shorts and white t-shirt uniform of the Martian Planetary Guard was waiting for them in the lobby. “Mister Stevens, Mister Mickelson, thank you for coming. Please follow me.”

“Where are we going?” asked Marty.

The woman didn’t answer but simply repeated, “Please follow me.”

“Come on, Marty. I don’t think they’re planning anything sinister,” commented Walker.

Marty shrugged and the two men followed the woman into an elevator. They both noticed that the controls didn’t have any markings on it, so they didn’t know what floor they were being taken to. “Fucking spooks,” muttered Marty.

Walker simply smiled and shrugged. If Marty only knew what he knew.

Whatever Marty was expecting, a civilized question and answer period wasn’t part of it. They were escorted to an office and introduced to Joe Ducksass, the Assistant Director for Counterintelligence. “I would like to ask you a few questions about your recent interview with four ex-Marines at Fort Laura last week. Have you seen the latest from InfoGroup and NewsSys?”

Walker answered, “Just the one report. We were looking at it when you commed us. How can we help?” Walker knew Joe from his double agent life. Dollars to doughnuts, an expression which no longer made sense on Mars, he would be asked to stay after the joint meeting to talk to Joe and maybe a few others.

Ducksass asked, “I think we can safely say that WestHem arresting the family members of your four Marines was not a coincidence. Which one of you found them?”

“That would be me,”, said Marty, “but it was just pure happenstance I selected those four. They were all MarsTrans employees at Fort Laura. They were just construction and transport guys. They were sitting in the bar, and I was playing poker and they were drinking. After a bit, I cashed out and started talking to them. I asked if they would talk to Walker and agreed to buy them some beers.”

Walker snorted out a laugh. “Yeah, I will verify that. Check my bank balance. They put away a lot of beer that night. What’s this about, anyway? Were they running a spy ring? Here? Or on Earth?”

“Let’s get back to the four Marines. Did they say anything to you other than what you talked about on camera?”

“Not really?” said Marty.

“We’ll be needing all the footage, not just what you broadcast,” said Ducksass. “I’ll be happy to get a Planetary Judge to issue a warrant.”

Walker and Marty looked at each other and sighed. The Martian Constitution enshrined the freedom of the press, but it was a squishy freedom. A Planetary Warrant would trump that freedom; that was simply commons sense. “Yeah. Give us a few minutes and we’ll link in,” said Walker.

“I just grabbed these guys from a bunch of people at the bar,” said Marty. “There is no way I knew they were spies!”

Ducksass laughed at that. “Don’t sweat it, Marty. These guys are not spies. They aren’t WestHem spies and they aren’t Martian spies. Their relatives are not working for MPI. This is total bullshit. We’re not sure why, and we would appreciate you not pushing this in any future broadcasts.”

Walker and Marty looked at each other. “That’s not really going to work, Mister Ducksass. If we get asked, we won’t hide what happened. What do you think happened?” asked Walker.

“No idea. Now, could you give us all the vids you took that day? Believe me, we aren’t any happier about this than you are.”

Walker looked at Marty and shrugged. “Marty, you want to take care of that? I want to talk to Mister Ducksass for a bit. I’ll see you tomorrow morning.”

Marty gave Walker a curious look. “We can talk more tomorrow.” He pulled up all their vid footage and sent it to the address Ducksass provided. Walker followed Ducksass out the door.

Once they were in the hallway, Walker asked, “Joe, what the fuck is going on? Those guys really were just random MarsTrans assholes. We didn’t know MarsTrans was even hiring ex-Marines.”

“Not here. Let’s take this up the line.” He led the way to an elevator and went up a few levels. When they got out, Ducksass led the way down a corridor to another office. He knocked and entered.

Walker saw who was in the office. It was Astor ‘Ass’ Blaster, Deputy Director of Martian Planetary Intelligence and Joe Ducksass’ boss. Like Ducksass, Blaster was one of the exceedingly few people who knew Walker Stevens’ history. “Thank you for coming in, Walker.”

Walker smiled and responded, “I wasn’t aware I had a choice.”

“Don’t be that way. You have as much of a problem with this as we do. Please, have a seat.”

Walker sighed and sat down. “What the fuck is going on, guys? I don’t know how much you know about this, but Marty just grabbed those four guys in a bar. Now they’re treasonous Martian agents running a Martian spy ring in WestHem? Did Marty and I just hit the jackpot or something?”

Ducksass snorted derisively. It was Blaster who answered, “No, you were right the first time. These guys are just four random assholes. We aren’t running spy rings on Earth, at least nothing like this. As far as we can tell, the people who were grabbed were the relatives of the four guys you interviewed. Even that isn’t accurate. One of them, Allsword, was an orphan without any relatives. He doesn’t know who the people were who are supposedly his WestHem parents.”

Walker cocked his head to the side and asked, “You’ve talked to them?”

“I had some people at Fort Laura pick them up and bring them here. They aren’t under arrest, but they are very shook up. It’s one thing to be abandoned here, but to have your family arrested and killed or jailed, that’s a whole new level of fucked up!” said Blaster.

Ducksass added, “According to the latest, Lieutenant Allsword’s ‘father’ shot his ‘mother’ and then killed himself when the police knocked on their door; he has no idea who these people were. Private Armstrong’s parents were arrested in the brothel they supposedly ran. We checked on that. The St. Louis Police Department’s vice unit had no knowledge of the prostitution operation. Corporal Williams’ family was arrested. His father was charged with espionage and treason, his mother and her parents were charged with operating a dust cartel.” ‘Dust’ was a highly addictive waste product with hallucinogenic effects that also induced psychosis. “Again, the Boise police have no knowledge of any dust operation involving the Williams family. Finally, we have Sergeant Smith’s family. His father and son died during a gun battle with the agents sent to arrest them. His stepmother and half-sister were thrown in jail, where they were raped and killed by patriotic WestHem prisoners. Charges were dismissed against the patriots. His ex-wife committed suicide when her involvement in the spy ring was discovered.”

“Jesus!” whispered Walker.

“Walker, we know you didn’t get any heads-up on these guys. We are reading your mail. You know that. Still, it is possible that somebody approached you. WestHem is still sending agents through EastHem’s immigration system. We catch them, but not as fast as we’d like,” said Blaster.

Walker grimaced. “I would tell you if they had. I might not be Martian, but I have no interest in going to Dow, and I have a very nice life here with Tasty.” The Dow Prison Complex was the Martian prison facility and was notoriously unpleasant. Being sent to Dow for espionage was a life sentence in solitary confinement with no release or parole. “You obviously have more sources on Earth than just the Internet services. What is going on? Are they simply punishing the Marine prisoners for being prisoners? The MPG captured a hundred thousand or more Marines and Navy people. Do they plan to do this with all of them? Why? To punish them? Frighten the next batch of Marines they send here? It’s been four years since you caught the first batch.”

“Or something more sinister? We just don’t know,” said Blaster.

Walker continued, “It’s not like they don’t know who you guys captured. You sent their names and identifications back to Earth. Some of these guys have been here since the Revolution! Why in the world did they decide to start punishing them by proxy now?”

“That is just one of the questions we have,” said Blaster.

Ducksass said, “We’d like to make a suggestion. We know you’re a journalist now. This only started because you interviewed a few ex-Marines. Don’t interview any more. If your bosses ask you to, tell them you’re worried more families will die or be jailed. I’m not kidding when I say that the four guys you talked to are seriously freaked out. It’s one thing to join up and play bet-your-life when it’s your life, but they didn’t know they were betting their family’s lives, too.”

“Yeah. Anything else you can tell me?”

“Sorry,” said Blaster.

Walker nodded and stood up. He didn’t know if that was true or not, but he wasn’t expecting much more. Nobody told you everything in the spy business. “Let me know if you need anything else on this. Something is going on.”

Ducksass nodded. “Yeah.”

***

New Pentagon, Military Headquarters

Denver, WestHem

Friday, June 26, 2150

Both WestHem and EastHem had a massive overpopulation problem, severe enough that a rigid one child per female policy had been in place for over a century. On its own, that would mean a collapse in population in only a few generations, but that didn’t apply on Earth. Roughly fifty percent of the population of both superpowers were uneducated and unemployed and lived in ghettos, supported by free basic foodstuffs and cheap intoxicants. They were barely controlled, and it was impossible to keep them from breeding above the legal limits.

The next largest group was the middle class, roughly forty-nine percent of the population. These people were employed and had a generally good life, but they lived in constant fear of losing their jobs and being doomed to life in a ghetto. They were the ones who only had one child per couple. This was the group Earth’s military and naval forces were recruited from.

The final group was the wealthy and powerful elite, less than one percent of the population. The corporate and political privileged and the senior military could have as many children as they wanted. The rules did not apply to them.

The net effect of the population policy was that the unemployed were outbreeding the employed by a wide margin. Combined with the effects of increasing monopolization of the economy by the giant mega-corporations and their policy of cutting jobs and increasing profits, the middle class was slowly shrinking to nothing.

WestHem had a population of approximately five-and-a-half billion, with a power base centered on the English-speaking areas of North America. With a few exceptions such as Rio de Janeiro and Buenos Aires, most of Central and South America were backwards ghettos. EastHem had an official population of four-and-a-half billion, but that was just a rough guess. Centered on Western Europe, almost all the continent of Africa was a basket case, and nobody knew what the population really was. Elsewhere, roughly another billion people lived in the ruins of what had once been Asia, destroyed during World War III and never rebuilt properly; an area that had once held roughly four billion people had become a gutted wasteland with a quarter of the pre-WW3 population. For over a hundred years, the two superpowers had waged proxy wars throughout the area. At best guess, Earth’s population was in the eleven to twelve billion range and growing.

The idea behind Major Amos’ fifth column project was to blackmail the ex-Marines and ex-Navy abandoned on Mars by threatening their family remaining on Earth. That wasn’t an easy thing to do. First, they had no easy way to find and contact the captured personnel; they had no direct access to Martian databases. Secondly, quite a few of the abandoned marines and sailors had no family to blackmail them with.

Major Amos looked at Captain Highsmith and said, “MarsGroup has reported the arrest and deaths of the members of the Greenie spy ring. It’s time for Stage Two. Do we have a candidate for an active demonstration?”

“We’ve been working on that. There are two parts to that. First, we need to identify an appropriate candidate on Mars, ex-Marine or ex-Navy, where we know he works at a job which can provide a flashy body count. That’s not easy. We don’t have any direct link to people we have disavowed on Mars. The best we can do is find somebody who has come to public attention somehow and focus on him. The second part is here on Earth. Once we have identified a target on Mars, we need to identify a pressure point, a person or persons they care about back here. Then we have to let the guy on Mars know what will happen back here on Earth.”

“I never said it would be easy, Wallace.”

Highsmith nodded and said, “I understand that. What I am saying is that until we can develop some sort of database on the ex-Marines and ex-Navy currently on Mars, we are very limited in terms of possible pressure points.” He put some pictures on the monitor. “Lydia Devischenko, sister of Private Ronald Devischenko, twenty-four, 235^th Recon Regiment, captured during Martian Hammer. She is a fraternal twin; the parents paid the fine rather than have an abortion. She is single and has a four-year-old son. They live with her parents.”

That was a preview of Martian Vengeance. To read the rest purchase the book.

Add «Martian Vengeance» to Cart