Marten turned to face the man. The security honchos had needlers aimed at him. He couldn’t see the man’s eyes, just his mouth. It was a firm line. It was a gut feeling, but Marten decided this was a test. He cleared his throat. Omi looked over.
“Ready?” Marten asked Omi.
Omi nodded coolly, as he used to as a gunman in the Sydney gangs.
After that, Marten said nothing else. He waited. He didn’t try to stare the security men down, but he did attempt to appear bored.
“…I have my orders,” the security chief said.
Marten faked a yawn.
Around him, the security people tightened the grips on their needlers.
“We can shoot you down,” the security chief said.
“Either show me you can do it or shut up about it,” Marten said. “But if you shoot, shoot to kill. Because I’ll kill you if you try and fail.”
A different security man pressed a needler against Marten’s side. Marten chopped hard, striking the man’s wrist. The man’s needler clattered onto the elevator floor.
The other grew tense.
“Wait!” the security chief said. “Don’t fire.” He faced Marten. “We know you’re tough. Our brief said ex-shock trooper. But this is the Secretary-General of Mars you’re going to meet.”
“I didn’t ask to see him,” Marten said. “He asked to see me. You see what I mean?”
The security chief swallowed uncomfortably. “We can—”
Marten held up his hand, and it made one security man hurriedly step back. That told Marten all he needed to know. “We’re here to help Mars, not assassinate its leader. If you insist we disarm, however, then call the Secretary-General and explain to him that we’re heading back up to the launch station.”
“What?”
“You heard me. Now make your choice.”
Omi gave Marten a cool glance.
Marten recognized the look. Omi thought he was overdoing the tough-guy act. Marten said nothing. He waited, letting their reputation do the work. It would tell him what the Martians really thought about them.
The security chief turned away and whispered into a wrist-link. After a time, he whispered more. Finally, he turned back to Marten. “You can keep your sidearms. But any wrong moves—”
“Yeah,” Marten said, interrupting. Then he folded his arms. He was beginning to suspect that killing Highborn had given him a serious aura with these Martians. How could that help them here? That was the question.
***
Marten met Secretary-General Chavez in a work lounge of the proton beam station.
The spacious room held ten tables with chairs, with square dispensaries along a wall. Posters with various slogans hung on the walls.
The State gave you this job. Now give the State your best
. Or:
Protect our joint investment and wear your safety equipment at all times
.
Secretary-General Chavez spoke to the seated people. By their green coveralls and the yellow hardhats on the tables, Marten assumed they were proton-beam technicians.
Chavez was painfully thin with a long head. His youthfully colored hair and goatee didn’t match the look of his aged face. He gestured as he spoke and had delicate fingers, with a slender silver ring on his middle finger.
A few of the seated technicians glanced back as the security team and Marten lined up against the wall. Then the thin technicians gave their attention back to the speaker.
Despite his gaunt appearance, Secretary-General Chavez had a deep voice and spoke well. He urged the technicians to accept calculated risks bringing the proton beam back online. It would be better that it fired at half-power in three weeks than at full power after the SU Battlefleet swept into near orbit. Chavez added a few Rebel slogans and told those seated that victory hinged upon their efforts.
The technicians rose as one and clapped heartily. Then they approached the Secretary-General, shook his hand and asked questions. Soon an even thinner man declared the meeting was over. Reluctantly, the technicians filed out of the lounge.
When the last green-suited technician left, Chavez’s shoulders slumped as he shuffled to the nearest table and collapsed onto a chair. In a tired way, he withdrew a small package from his coat and shook out a red stimstick. He inhaled it into life.
The security chief glanced once at Marten before he hurried to the Secretary-General. There the man stood deferentially, waiting. At last, Chavez looked up and mumbled a question. The security chief pointed at Marten.
Chavez immediately straightened, took the stimstick from his lips and glared at it. He dropped the glowing stick onto the floor and crushed it with the toe of his shoe. He lurched upright, smiled and strode toward Marten.
“The two shock troopers,” Secretary-General Chavez said.
Marten saw Chavez glance at their guns. A crease in the Secretary-General’s forehead almost immediately smoothed away. Chavez held out his hand. Gently, Marten shook the thin-boned hand and so did Omi.
“Welcome, welcome,” Chavez said. “Would you like refreshments?”
“A glass of water would be good,” Marten said.
“A sandwich,” Omi said.
The security personnel lined the walls, while the skinny man who had declared the former meeting ended went to the dispensaries. He pushed a button here and another there. Slots opened and he brought Marten a cup of water and Omi a pale green sandwich.
Chavez sat across the table from Marten and Omi as if he was in his office. He grinned as Marten sipped water.
The Secretary-General had tired features and lines on his forehead, and his dark eyes were too shiny. The hint of sweet stimstick in the air told the story. He surely relied too many hours of the day on the mild stimulants. In Marten’s estimation, the man had likely been doing that for quite a while.
Chavez spoke platitudes as Marten nodded from time to time. As the Secretary-General made sweeping gestures, he spoke about Martian courage and determination. The gestures continued and his wedding ring flashed as it caught the lights at times. He spoke about the perfidy of Social Unity and he spoke about how the Martians had struggled for years for this glorious day of self-government. Mars was for the Martians!
“What about yourselves?” Chavez asked, as he rested his hands on the table. “Please, tell me how you acquired a Highborn shuttle.”
Marten spoke tersely about the Storm Assault Missile, the experimental beamship and Training Master Lycon’s pickup.
“Incredible,” Chavez declared. “And now you own a shuttle and plan to do what with it?”
“Fulfill my parents’ dream of freedom,” Marten said, “and reach the Jupiter Confederation.”
“Parents?”
Marten spoke briefly about the Unionist attempt on the Sun-Works Factory many years ago.
Chavez glanced with surprise at the sticklike man standing behind him, a personal aide, no doubt. Then the Secretary-General concentrated on Marten again. There was new vigor in Chavez’s voice.
“You’re a Unionist then?”
“My parents were,” Marten said.
Chavez gave a delighted chuckle. “That’s wonderful, just wonderful. You must surely be sympathetic to our cause.”
“I applaud anyone’s desire for freedom.”
“An excellent attitude, Mr. Kluge.” Chavez frowned and he studied the table. Then he looked up with a diffident smile. “I realize you must have seen horrendous combat. The storm assault onto that beamship, it’s an amazing tale. You are obviously elite soldiers.”
Marten remained silent, as he realized here was the Secretary-General’s reason for wanting to talk to him face-to-face.
Chavez glanced back at the sticklike man. That man set a computer scroll before Chavez. The Secretary-General scanned it.
“Yes,” Chavez said, looking up, “you spoke earlier about buying fuel and warfare pods. We… sold you a pod already with five anti-missile missiles. For it, you ferried some of our sick from Deimos to the launch station. It was a good bargain for you, I believe.”
“I have no complaints,” Marten said.
“Let us save time, Mr. Kluge. Do you mind if I speak bluntly?”
“Be my guest.”
“Thank you.” Chavez cleared his throat. “I would like to hire you. I would like to hire your expertise.”
“I’m listening.”
“For it, Mars will supply you with several more warfare pods and a shuttle full of fuel. Does that sound agreeable?”
“First, I’d have to know what you want us to do.”
“Only what you’ve been trained at, Mr. Kluge. I want you to develop a storm assault group of our own. I’m not talking about blasting you at the enemy in a missile. What Mars needs is space-capable marines.”
“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.”