“You don’t have an enemy with habitats orbiting Mars,” Marten said.
“No, no, I’m thinking—”
“Nor do you have the capacity to storm aboard SU warships,” Marten said. “So what is it that you’re really asking, sir?”
Secretary-General Chavez stared at Marten before he turned away. He bit his lip, and finally he reached into his coat and pulled out the crumpled pack of stimsticks. “Do you mind?”
Marten shrugged.
Chavez pulled out a stimstick and began smoking. “It’s a foul habit,” he muttered.
“You’re the most important man on Mars,” Marten said. “That’s a crushing burden. A few tokes certainly seems like a small price to pay in order to maintain a semblance of normalcy.”
Chavez took a deep drag before turning away and blowing red smoke into the air. He coughed afterward, and he turned a red-rimmed eye at Marten.
“Are you familiar with the Valles Marineris?” Chavez asked.
Marten shook his head.
Chavez typed along the bottom of the computer scroll. Then he turned it toward Marten. The words had vanished and a map of a portion of Mars appeared. It showed an incredible chasm like a scar across the planet.
“It’s 5000 kilometers long,” Chavez was saying. He tapped his finger on a large red dot to the chasm’s northern left. “That’s Olympus Mons, where we’re at now.”
“Got it,” Marten said.
“This—” Chavez ran his finger along the chasm “—is Valles Marineris. Social Unity still owns it. In some places, it is 80 kilometers wide. Its cliffs are 8 kilometers high.”
“I hope you’re not expecting me to lead an army into there, conquering it for you.”
Secretary-General Chavez shook his head. “Nothing so grandiose. For the moment, Social Unity has halted its air strikes out of the chasm. Because of that, we can use the Harrington Launch Sites situated here to ferry equipment into space. We’ve moved tons of supplies to the sites and are about to begin accelerated liftoffs. We must get those supplies to the moons and to the laser platforms. My fear is that Social Unity will recognize the importance of the Harrington fields and begin immediate air strikes against them as they did before the ceasefire.”
“What does that have to do with me?” Marten asked.
“We have a few orbital fighters, but not enough to fight past their aircraft and bomb those airfields out of existence. The angle is wrong for our laser platforms to reach the bottom of the canyon. Yes, we could move the platforms. But that would move them out of their optimum location against the Battlefleet, which we expect at any time.”
“You want to use Special Forces to destroy aircraft?” Marten asked.
“Yes,” Chavez said.
Marten leaned over the computer scroll, studying the 5000-kilometer chasm with its 8-kilometer walls. “It looks like it would take suicide teams.”
“Not for elite soldiers,” Chavez said. “We have skimmers. One hundred good soldiers knowing what they’re doing could do fierce havoc against the airfields. You’ve been trained for exactly that kind of mission.”
“Once you attack those fields, Social Unity would likely begin air strikes again.”
“Not necessarily,” Chavez said. He gave Marten a tight smile. It had a hint of cunning, perhaps of desperation. “If we beamed it with lasers, yes, you’re right. But we can say that partisans beyond our control are making the attacks.”
“Meaning that if we’re caught,” Marten said, “you would make no attempt to regain our freedom.”
Chavez’s eyes slid away so he gazed elsewhere. “That doesn’t necessarily hold true.”
“Right,” Marten said.
Secretary-General Chavez took another drag on the stimstick. “The critical thing is that none of you get captured.”
“I don’t see why you need me,” Marten said. “I don’t know Mars like—”
“Mr. Kluge, please. Don’t insult my intelligence. You’re Highborn trained, which means to a higher pitch than anything Social Unity or the Planetary Union could achieve. This is precisely the type of attack in which you excel. We have an elite troop, but we desperately need even a few perfectly trained soldiers to show us what we’re doing wrong and what we need to do right. You have arrived here as a gift for Mars, Mr. Kluge. After the battle, we will gratefully supply you with the needed fuel and pods. Then you can be off to the Jupiter System or perhaps, if you wish, you can remain here as an officer in our military.”
Marten sat back as he tapped his fingers on the table. He glanced at Omi, who betrayed nothing. “Let us talk it over.”
“By all means,” Chavez said. “But—”
“No,” Marten said. “Don’t add any threats. We’ve had a bellyful of them from the Highborn. Just tell us what you’ll give us, not what you’ll do to screw us if we refuse.”
Chavez blew smoke through his nose as he stood up. “Yes. I understand. Think it over and give me your decision…” he checked his chronometer. “In ten minutes.”
“Sure,” Marten said. “Ten minutes it is.”
-10-
Commodore Blackstone waited with Three-star Commissar Kursk in the cramped hanger terminal of the Vladimir Lenin.
The Commodore had shaved and he wore a pressed uniform. The lost quality to his eyes had dwindled since he’d joined the hum-a-longs. The pain still lingered in his heart regarding his ex-wife. And if he thought about it too long, the bad-thoughts came. The desire to return to Earth, hunt down her lovers and splatter their flesh and blood with aimed fire from a heavy-duty gyroc. That was better than moping, however. It was better because he transferred his hatred against her lovers and toward the damned Mars Rebels. It would be a joy to obliterate their space stations and capture the moon bases.
Commodore Blackstone rubbed his jaw, and he glanced sidelong at Commissar Kursk. She had taken to eating with him in his wardroom. She said it was because it was wrong for him to brood alone with his thoughts. She had always brought food with her, a tray for her and a tray for him. A terrible thought now surged through Blackstone, and he wondered how he could have missed it.
Had she put mood-altering drugs into his food? He’d never felt hatred toward the Martians before. And he’d never considered blowing away his ex-wife’s lovers so their brains rained globules of gray matter against the side of her house. He grinned at the image. He grinned thinking how his ex-wife would scream and scream. She might even melt in remorse and crawl to him on her hands and knees. Maybe right there out in the open, with blood dripping down the side of the house, he would take her and—
“You put something in my food,” Blackstone said.
Three-star Commissar Kursk was taller by a few inches than he was. She wore her cap’s brim low over her eyes. Her uniform was tight against her hips and her hands were firmly clasped behind her back. The way she stood at attention, if she’d had any kind of breasts at all, they would have jutted against her uniform. Instead, her badge shined in the harsh glare of the terminal’s lighting.
“This is hardly the place to discuss it,” she whispered.
Three red-suited PHC enforcers waited behind her. Five of the Commodore’s deck police waited along another wall. They all anticipated the first meeting with the cyborgs from Neptune. The cyborg command pod had docked with the Vladimir Lenin. Beyond the terminal door were clangs and the hissing of returning atmospheric pressure.
“That is against all regulations,” Blackstone hissed at her.
She gave him a stern glance. “Don’t be sentimental. Look at you now. You have rage in your veins, as a military man should. You wish to kill. That is good.”
“You’re drugging me,” he whispered.