Commander Zapata escorted them down narrow steel corridors and to a hanger with a dozen orbital fighters on the main deck. The orbitals were atmospheric attack-craft from a Doom Star, the one that had been here six months ago. The black-painted orbitals had stubby wings and armored plating with harsh red numbers on the sides. They were squat, ugly and deadly when flown by Highborn, who could take higher G-forces than regular humans could.
“Why’s everyone staring at us?” Omi asked out of the side of his mouth.
The hanger wasn’t as cluttered as the one on Deimos. It still had arc-welders flashing, personnel pushing trolleys, and personnel creating bangs, clacks and other metallic noises. There were also deck sergeants shouting instructions. The Planetary Union uniform everyone wore was gunmetal gray with a single red star and two crescent moons. Most of the personnel had longer hair than Marten was used to, making them look like civilians in military garb. Like Zapata, each was lean without being as anorexic as those on Deimos.
As Omi and Marten marched to the farthest orbital, people stopped what they were doing, straightened and turned toward them. Some pointed. Most grew quiet. The stillness was like a wave in a pond, and soon the booms, bangs and the shouts all stopped.
Commander Zapata gave them a hideous grin. “You’re already famous. That’s why they’re staring.”
“Famous for what?” Marten asked.
“You killed Highborn, didn’t you?”
Marten nodded sourly, wondering if it had been a mistake bragging about that. In time, the Highborn would hear about him. That kind of information always leaked out to the wrong ears. The Highborn wouldn’t like the idea of premen running around bragging about fragging Highborn officers. If nothing else, the Highborn would put a bounty on his head.
“We’ve seen the Highborn,” Zapata was saying. “We’ve seen what they can do.”
“They helped you against Social Unity,” Marten said.
Commander Zapata snorted. “Didn’t you hear me? We’ve seen Highborn. I’ve spoken to several. I’ve never met people that were more arrogant in my life. They’re not really people. I would call them scary giants on the edge of going berserk. I always got the feeling the Highborn wanted to rip my head off. It’s like they were juiced.”
“Juiced?” Marten asked.
“It’s a Martian term. The deep planetary crews drink too much vodka and get in fights. They’re juiced.”
“You sound as if you don’t approve of your allies,” Marten said.
Lean Zapata with the eye-patch glanced sharply at Marten. “We’re not allies. The Highborn used us. We know that. Even while helping us they treated us with contempt. The funny thing is I don’t think they understood how we felt about it. They simply know they’re a superior form of humanity and expected us to recognize our inferiority.”
“That’s the Highborn,” Omi muttered.
“I can’t imagine having them in charge,” Zapata said. “My point is that I sympathize with you. I can visualize them training humans as humans might train animals. And I can see them inserting soldiers into a missile and shooting you at a spaceship as if you were worth no more than a bullet.”
“Word gets around,” Marten said dryly.
Commander Zapata stared at Marten. His single good eye was brown, with flecks of gold in the iris. There was something very determined about Zapata. “When Secretary-General Chavez sends a priority message to ready an orbital and tells us to honor your request that no one enter your shuttle, yes, word gets around. Many of the people here worked with the Highborn for several weeks. None can imagine trying to tackle the super-soldiers. Now two men are here who survived the insane—what did you call the missile?”
“The Storm Assault,” Marten said.
“Yes. Your story is incredible. That you also slew Highborn is amazing. That’s why everyone is staring.”
Marten wanted to halt and motion the hanger personnel near. He wanted to tell them that fighting for freedom was the greatest privilege and duty that any person could have.
Marten stopped walking. Commander Zapata stopped and so did Omi, who looked about warily.
Marten thrust out his hand. Zapata didn’t seem to comprehend. Then he gave Marten a quizzical glance. Slowly, the Commander held out his hand.
Marten grabbed it and shook heartily. He clapped Zapata on the shoulder. “I respect what you’re doing. You’re fighting for freedom. You’re standing up. It’s a pleasure to have reached the Mars System and see that there are others doing exactly what Omi and I did. I wish you Godspeed.”
Zapata grinned crookedly, the only way he could, it seemed. “We could use a soldier like you, Mr. Kluge. We’ve lived under the heel of Social Unity all our lives. Political Harmony Corps has hunted us for years and killed many of our best people. Now we’re trying to understand how to fight in the open. We failed twelve years ago. We want to win this time. That’s why we endured the sneers from the Highborn and swallowed our pride.”
Marten’s grin slipped. He knew he had to tell this man the obvious. “Social Unity is going to attack Mars soon.”
“Believe me, we know. That’s why we need all the help we can get. We’re trying to fix everything we can and make it too hot for them when they make their attempt. But time is running out on the Planetary Union before it really had a chance to find its feet.”
Marten looked around, and he realized that most of these people were going to die soon. Maybe they knew it. The convoy fleet must be bringing supplies for the SU Battlefleet waiting out there. The Mars Rebels should have been firing at the individual SU warships, not waiting for a slugfest against the united fleet.
“Social Unity is insane to fight you now,” Marten said. “They need their fleet to battle against the Highborn.”
“It’s our sole hope,” Zapata admitted. “It’s the Secretary-General’s reason for waiting.”
“Why does he want to see me?”
Zapata became somber. “Perhaps to ask you the same thing I did. Perhaps there is another purpose. Well—here we are.”
They stood before the orbital fighter, the squat craft that towered over them. A ladder led up to the cockpit where the pilot adjusted his helmet. He looked painfully young.
“It’s a double-seater,” Zapata said. “Fortunately for you, it’s built to hold Highborn. It will still be awkward for the two of you in the back seat, but you’ll manage.”
“Is he a rated pilot?” Marten asked. “He looks so young.”
“Ortiz is our best.”
Marten didn’t think that was too reassuring. “Can I ask you a question?”
“Of course.”
“On Deimos, everyone was so painfully thin. Here, everyone is lean but looks normal. Is there a reason for that?”
Zapata laughed. “I’m sorry. I’m not laughing at you. The laser and launch orbitals are considered hardship duty for anyone from Mars.”
“Why?”
“You’ve never been to Mars before?” asked Zapata.
Marten shook his head.
“Our planet only has eleven percent of Earth’s mass,” Zapata said. “That makes everyone on Mars much lighter than they would be on Earth. People born on Mars live on a world with weak gravity. You have big muscles because Earth’s gravity demands it of your body so you can function. A Martian doesn’t develop those heavy muscles because he never needed them. Correspondingly, Martians don’t need as much food. You’d starve to death on a Martian’s diet. It also means we have less trouble feeding our millions.”
“So why is working here a hardship?” Marten asked.
“Haven’t you noticed? Our orbital launch station has Earth normal gravity.”
Marten frowned.
“We fly the orbitals and thus need to be stronger to use them to full capacity. Everyone here takes growth hormones, and has finished an accelerated weightlifting regimen. Compared to regular Martians, we’re abnormally muscled supermen, if you will. That has always been one of Social Unity’s advantages. It rotated peacekeepers on a constant basis so the Earthmen here were wickedly powerful compared to us.”