"I can't," Callahan said. "Sorry. It might be a mortal sin if I do it."
Jacobs nodded. He understood. "So what are you gonna do? If you're gonna surrender to them, you'd better head off soon or you won't have enough air to make it to the torture center."
"Yeah," he said. "Like I said. Time to shit or get off the pot."
"So?"
"I'm too much of a survivor to give up so easily," he finally said. "I'll take my chances with the Martians. Maybe later, if things get too bad, I might be able to take the easy way. Hell, I can always chew a hole in my wrist, can't I?"
"I suppose," Jacobs said.
They sat for another minute or two, not talking. Finally Callahan stood up. "Well, I'm gonna get going now. Are you sure you won't join me?"
"I'm sure," Jacobs said. "I hate pain. It's the easy way for me."
They shook hands and then parted. Callahan climbed out of the ditch to the east, standing up and putting his hands high in the air. Jacobs climbed out to the west. He walked two hundred meters back to where the APCs were loading and found an M-24. He put it against his head and pulled the trigger, ending his life in an instant. Nobody around him paid him any attention. He wasn't the first or the last to choose that road.
Callahan was joined by about two dozen others as he walked forward. Most, he knew, would be lieutenants and above, with maybe a few sergeants thrown in. Automatically they formed up into a military line stretching across thirty meters of ground. Before they even made it fifty meters into the open ground a squad of Martian troops appeared, their weapons pointed menacingly at the group. They made motions that everyone should stop.
Callahan stood there, keeping his hands high. His heart was pounding hard in his chest. His fear level was even greater than when he'd been rushing across that ground earlier while under fire. At least then he had only been in danger of dying. Now he was possibly opening himself up to a horrifyingly slow death at the hands of men who hated everything Earthling. As a soldier approached close to him he took a moment to wonder if he'd made the wrong choice after all.
The soldier, he saw with astonishment, was a woman. He had heard reports that the Martians were employing females out on the battlefield but had assumed them to be mere propaganda. Apparently not. She ran a scanner over him, looking carefully at the display. When she found he was not carrying any weapons she reached slowly forward and put her gloved hand on his communications panel. She fiddled with it for a moment and then he heard a female voice in his ear — a voice with a thick, heavy, Martian accent.
"How much air you got?" she asked him.
"About fifty minutes," he told her.
"You'll make it," she replied. "Walk forward from here until you get to the point between pillbox 72 and 71. Keep your hands up until you're told to put them down. There will be other troops there to process you. Don't deviate from your course in any way or someone will be forced to shoot you. Do you understand?"
"I understand," he said. He started walking.
When he reached the point between the pillboxes he found several platoons of MPG soldiers there. He was scanned again for weapons and then another soldier stepped forward and utilized a chip scanner on him.
"Lieutenant Eric Callahan?" the voice asked in his ear.
"It's Captain Callahan now," he said bitterly.
"Okay," the voice said. "I'll make a note of that. We've got you on record as a POW now. We'll ship a notification off to WestHem by tomorrow morning."
"Sure you will," Callahan said.
The soldier seemed unperturbed by his comment. "Walk to that agricultural truck over there," he said. "Someone will help you inside of it."
Five minutes later he was sitting in the back of the truck, crowded in with almost thirty other marines. Over the next ten minutes another thirty were loaded up with them. The back of the truck was closed up and they started to move, bumping and bouncing over the uneven terrain. Soon they pulled into an airlock and the doors shut behind them.
"Everybody bear down," a voice said over the communications link. "It's time to get heavier."
Callahan felt weight come slamming back into him, making him feel like he had been shot into the air at high speed, making him gag. If he'd had anything besides food gel in his stomach it undoubtedly would have come up. Gradually, the sensation passed. Another set of doors opened up and the truck moved forward into a large hanger that was empty of aircraft. More Martian troops with guns were standing around, this time without biosuits on. Most wore T-shirts that identified them as military police.
The truck door opened and two of the MPs stood there. One spoke into a radio microphone.
"Everyone hop out of there," his voice said in their ears. "Line up over on the white line you see and get those biosuits and all clothing off. No talking to each other, please. You'll have time for that later."
It took Callahan a minute to get used to walking in normal gravity again. He almost fell twice before he made it to the white line. Slowly, methodically, he stripped off his biosuit, almost gagging again when he smelled the sour sweat odor of himself and his companions. Soon he stood naked with the others, looking around nervously to see if any women were present. In his culture the two sexes were prudishly squeamish about being nude in front of each other if not in an intimate relationship. There were no women that he could see, however.
A man with sergeant's markings on his MPG T-shirt walked up and down the line, looking each of them over. "Is anyone injured in any way?" he asked.
A few raised their hands and they were directed to another corner of the building, where medics were standing by to examine them.
"All right," the sergeant said. "Walk behind me in single file. If you follow instructions there will be no problems."
They were led into another room, down a hallway, and then through a large entranceway that opened up on an open grassy field where, it appeared, that calisthenics were normally performed. Tents had been set up here all across the middle of the field and other marines, all of them wearing bright green shorts and T-shirts, were milling about at picnic tables and near the tents. Many seemed to be eating. An industrial barbeque set was in operation near the edge of this area and the smell of cooking beef was strong in the air, making Callahan's mouth start to instantly water. Armed MPG troops, all of them wearing red shorts, T-shirts, and body armor, patrolled just outside of a white line that had been drawn on the ground all around the tent area.
"Showers are this way," the sergeant told them. "And they are mandatory. There are twelve hoses available. Please line up in twelve lines for utilization of them. Everyone down with it?"
Callahan was down with it. He made his way to the nearest line, which had six people in front of him. There was a curtain just beyond the line with a length of black hose leading to a holder above it.
He waited in silence as the men in front of him went one by one into the shower, each spending about five minutes in there. He didn't talk. Neither did anyone else. They had been told not to by the greenies with the guns and no one cared to find out what the penalty was for not obeying. When it was Callahan's turn to shower he walked forward and entered the curtained area. The hose was clipped to the top of the curtain and had a valve on it. A stack of clean washcloths and a bottle of liquid soap hung just below. A sign stated: WASH THOROUGHLY, INCLUDING YOUR HAIR. USE THE WASHCLOTHES. TAKE THEM WITH YOU WHEN YOU LEAVE AND DROP THEM INTO THE HAMPER. THANK YOU FOR YOUR COOPERATION.
"This is fuckin' weird," Callahan mumbled to himself. He reached up and turned on the valve, expecting a spray of frigid water to pour down on him. Instead, he found that the water was heated — somewhere around thirty-five degrees he figured. He washed thoroughly, including his hair, enjoying every second of it. When he left, dripping and naked, he dropped his washcloth into a hamper that stood just outside.