Semper Mars (31 page)

Barnes nodded. “I think we can fix you up on all counts. I’ve already notified Dr. Rybinov.” He hesitated, his nose wrinkling. “I hope you’ll pardon me saying so, sir, but, God, you stink!”

“I think my nose stopped working about three weeks ago, Greg. All I really want right now is a shower, a drink, and a real bed… and not necessarily in that order.”

“Begging the major’s pardon, sir,” Corporal Slidell said, stepping forward, “but, ah, maybe this would help?” He held out a can wet with condensation.

“Slidell—” Barnes said, an edge to his voice. “I warned you…”

Garroway eyed the can suspiciously. “Is that what I think it is, or am I hallucinating?”

“Genuine article, sir,” Slidell said proudly. He turned the can so that Garroway could read the label. It was a beer. An honest to God Stony Brook beer.

Gently, Garroway reached out and accepted it, as though afraid it was about to disappear. “So, tell me, Slider,” he said, his voice soft. “How is it we seem to have stumbled across the only beer in a hundred million miles?”

Slidell managed to look both embarrassed and smug. “Well, ah, it’s sorta like this, sir—”

“These sons of bitches managed to stash a quantity of beer on board the cycler, Major,” Barnes said matter-of-factly.

“Smugglers, huh?”

“Aw, shit, sir!” Slidell said. “We just thought, I mean, Ben and me, well, we thought you would like a cold one, comin’ in off the desert!”

“You, ah, better have enough of these for everyone who wants one, Corporal.” Slidell’s face fell, then brightened again. “Well, sure, sir. I think I could swing that.”

“Let’s see ’em.”

“Yessir! C’mon, Ben. Gimme a hand.”

As the two corporals hurried off, Garroway asked the question of Barnes with his eyes. “It’s, ah, kind of a long story, Major.”

“I can imagine.” He looked at the beer can, turning it over in his hands. “This only violates about twenty or twenty-five Marine and NASA regulations that I can think of offhand.” He held the can up close, reading the fine print. “‘Packaged in USA.’ I’ve always known about the penchant Marines have for putting together stills in out-of-the-way locales so they can brew their own. This is the first time I’ve run into their importing the stuff. How much did they have?”

“About five hundred cans, sir.”

“What?”

“Yes, sir. Five hundred cans. In sealed, refrigerated, pressure-sealed cases marked ‘BATTERIES, GERMANIUM-ARSENIDE, SERIAL NUMBER 8373635, USMC, DO NOT OPEN.’”

“And, ah, what vital components were left behind to make room for these batteries, germanium-arsenide?”

“As far as I can tell, sir, none. The listing appears in the regular manifest and was factored in with all the rest. Total mass, two hundred kilos, plus another fifty kilos for the packaging. All I can think is that one or more of these guys had access to the supply depot back at Vandenberg.”

Slidell and Fulbert returned a moment later, dragging a large chest filled with cold beer. Garroway knew that he was adding a few violations of his own to the list already accumulated, but right now he didn’t give a damn. “Okay, ladies and gentlemen,” he said. “Help yourselves, one to a customer.”

Only when the beers were being handed out, accompanied by delighted shouts, cheers, and outright laughter, did Garroway pop the top on his and allow himself a cautious sip. Normally, he disliked beer. He’d tried it a time or two when he was younger, more to fit in with his buddies than anything else, but somehow he’d never managed to acquire the taste for the stuff.

This one tasted like pure, sweet, cold nectar. After several small swallows, he studied the can carefully. He was thinking of Lloyd’s words back at Cydonia. “Never trust a Marine who volunteers for shit details.”

“So, Captain Barnes. Why do you think this man did it?”

“Well, sir, I gather the idea was, if they were going to be stuck on Mars for a year or so, they’d have enough beer squirreled away to let ’em have a cold one every so often. Either that, or they could buy a hell of a lot of favors from the other Marines.”

“Hell, sir, it wasn’t nothin’ like that!” Slidell insisted. “It was just, you know, to kinda remind us of home, and everything.” He sounded hurt. “It wasn’t like we was smuggling drugs or hustling our buddies or anything.”

Garroway stared at the man. “You were aware, weren’t you, son, that every kilo brought to Mars is precious? I’d guess you have several tens of thousands of dollars of beer here, if you go by the cost of boosting it up from Earth and then hauling it all the way out here on the cycler.”

“We’ve been over this already, sir,” Barnes said. “I found him and Fulbert here sneaking a couple of beers a week ago and got the story out of them then. Maybe I should’ve put ’em both under arrest, but, well, I couldn’t see turning them over to the UN, and, well—”

“You did right, Captain,” Garroway said. “Marines take care of their own.”

The way he said the words had a chilling effect on Slidell. “Uh, really, Major, we didn’t mean—”

“Stow it, Marine. For now, consider yourself, both of you, on report. Who else was in this with you?”

“I was, sir,” Kaminski called out. He looked miserable, his eyes very white within the grime and dirt smearing his face. The only other clean part of his face was the skin around his lips, where a long swallow of beer had washed it off. “It was the three of us. Nobody else.”

He stared at the man for a long moment. “I’m disappointed in you, Ski,” he said. “You show real potential as a Marine.”

Kaminski’s face fell, but Garroway pressed on. Discipline—and even-handedness—were all-important. “Very well. You’re on report, too.” He allowed himself another sip. God, it did taste good…

He drained the last of the beer. He’d been drinking bottled and recycled water for so long that he’d forgotten that anything liquid could have any taste at all. He felt light-headed and wondered if the alcohol of a single can could affect him. Well, maybe it could. He was probably pretty dehydrated, and his stomach was empty. But he was feeling okay.

“All right,” he said, setting the empty can back on the table. “You said the rest of the UN people are in the commo shack?”

“Yessir,” Barnes replied. “I think someone in one of those crawlers they sent out to bring you in must have called in that things weren’t going so well for ’em. The word went out over the PA for all UN personnel to report to the comm room, and that’s the last we’ve seen of any of them.”

“Well, I’d say it’s about time we paid them a visit, don’t you?”

“Sounds like a plan to me, sir.”

The UN troops and personnel in the commo shack surrendered without a shot being fired or anything, in fact, stronger than a threat to blow the door in. As they were being led out, Garroway walked in and checked the consoles. It wouldn’t take long, he thought, to plug in a new set of encryption keys and get full communications working once again with Earth.

“You might as well surrender now, Major Garroway.”

Garroway looked up, surprised. Colonel Bergerac’s clean and clean-shaven features stared down at him from the comm center’s main screen. He was suddenly aware of just how dirty, disheveled, and out-and-out seedy he must look. “Hello, Colonel,” he said. “How do you figure I should surrender to you?”

“Obviously, you were able to ambush my men in the desert this morning, but you cannot think you could do that again, with me. I have thirty men here, and we will know when you are coming.” He smiled. “Unless, of course, you’d care to try the overland route once more. I don’t think, somehow, you would find five thousand kilometers as easy to cross as 650. You certainly don’t look as though you would survive!”

“Don’t bet on it, Bergerac,” Garroway growled. “We have the main base now. You’re cut off. Surrender now.”

“You don’t understand, my friend. We have plenty of food here, and extensive permafrost to provide us with all the water and fuel we need. We have more troops on the way, and they’ll be here in five months.” He gave a Gallic shrug. “In the meantime, we have the ruins here, the whole reason for Man’s presence on this planet, under our control. And, not to put too fine a point on it, we have two Marines here, including your commanding officer, as well as a number of American civilians. I suggest that everyone would be spared a great deal of pain and trouble if you would submit to United Nations authority on this.”

“And let you dump us back in the desert? Not damned likely!”

“Perhaps that was a mistake, monsieur. We can work out another arrangement.”

Garroway was too tired for subtlety. “The hell with it. I’m coming after you, Bergerac, you and that Joubert bitch, and when I catch you I’m going to kick both your asses.” He raised a finger, in warning. “And if any of our people are harmed, I, as acting military governor of this base, will declare you and all of your people to be in violation of the UN Act to Condemn International Terrorism. You will be tried as terrorists and summarily executed. My recommendation will be that you just be tossed out the nearest airlock. Have you seen people die of asphyxiation on the Martian surface? I have, and it’s not pleasant. I’d really hate to see that happen to you…”

“Empty threats, Major. You have done well, but you can do no more. If you elect to wait until our reinforcements arrive, you will find yourself in a box, with no way out.”

“I’ll see you at Cydonia, Colonel.” But the channel was already closed.

Garroway stared at the blank display screen for several long seconds, lost in thought. Lieutenant King appeared at his side. “You think the bastard meant it, sir?” he asked. “Would they hurt the colonel?”

“I doubt it, Lieutenant. But the fact remains, Marines don’t leave their people to the enemy. I want

Cydonia.”

“But if they know we’re coming, sir…”

“Yeah, that is a problem.” He was silent for another several moments. “Okay. Pass the word for me, King. I want all our senior people up here for a planning session. And… ask Dr. Alexander to come, too.”

“Shouldn’t… shouldn’t we let our people get some rest, sir?”

“We’ll get our rest. But I want to talk to them first. See if you can scare up a map of Cydonia for me.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

He wanted another beer. He wanted it very badly. A plan was forming, and he didn’t know if it was rising from his exhaustion or from the unpredictable effects of alcohol on his dehydrated system. He was betting that it was the alcohol, though, and another beer might jog the thing to fullness.

At least, he was going to give it a damned good try.

T
WENTY
-T
HREE

Monday, 18 June: 1658 Hours GMT

Kaminski

Mars Prime

Candor Chasma

Sol 5657: 1530 hours MMT

Thirty hours after the MMEF’s triumphant return to Mars Prime, all of the Marines on base, with the exception of those on radar or comm watch or outside on perimeter sentry duty, drew up in formation in the lounge area near the main lock. Kaminski, clean and depilated now, stood at parade rest in his freshly laundered BDUs between Slidell and Fulbert. In front of them, behind a plastic table, Major Garroway sat with his PAD and an unopened can of beer in front of him. Kaminski tried not to look at Garroway but kept his eyes carefully fixed on an imaginary point somewhere above and behind the major’s head.

In addition to the three Marines, the proceedings this afternoon had drawn quite a large crowd of civilians. The novelty of having US Marines at the base, evidently, hadn’t worn off yet. “Very well,” Garroway said, studying the three.

“Corporal Slidell, Lance Corporal Fulbert, Lance Corporal Kaminski. You three have a choice. You can voluntarily accept nonjudicial punishment, right here, right now, before me. Or, if you prefer, your cases will be held over for further investigation at such time as we return to Earth. At that time, depending on the findings of the Judge Advocate General’s office, you may be remanded for court-martial. What’s it going to be?”

What he was offering them was a choice between accepting whatever punishment he chose to give them, and going the whole trial route, complete with lawyers and the possibility of a much heavier punishment at the end.

“Uh, we’ll go along with the NJP, sir,” Slidell said. “Fulbert? Kaminski? You both agree to this?”

“Yes, sir!” Kaminski replied, chorusing his answer with Fulbert.

“Very good. I think we can sort this thing out pretty simply. You’ve all three been charged with a variety of crimes, including negligence, reckless endangerment, possession of a controlled substance, unauthorized access to company records, fraud, dereliction of duty…” He stopped, pausing to read something on his PAD, probably their service records. Kaminski was sweating, despite the cool temperature in the compartment. “Under the circumstances,” Garroway continued, “I have decided to drop all charges except one, and that is conduct prejudicial to good order and discipline.”

Kaminski’s knees sagged, and his heart gave a surprised leap. If Garroway had wanted to, he could have hit them very hard indeed on the smuggling and reckless-endangerment charges. Conduct prejudicial was the age-old catchall charge, the one that could be stretched or chopped to fit just about anything the commanding officer wanted.

“Now,” Garroway said. “Where did the beer come from in the first place?”

“Uh, we bought it, sir,” Slidell said. “We all chipped in and bought it before we left Earth.”

“Do any of the three of you have anything to say in your own defense?”

“No, sir,” Slidell said.

“We did it, sir,” Fulbert said.

“No excuse, sir,” Kaminski added. He was relieved that Slidell was behaving himself. The guy had a sea lawyer’s attitude that could have gotten them all in real trouble. A couple of hours ago, though, Fulbert and Kaminski together had gone to Slider and told him in no uncertain terms that they weren’t going to go along with his nonsense, not this time. They would take their lumps and not try to wiggle out.

Somehow, he didn’t think they could put much of anything over on Major Garroway. The guy was sharp. “Anybody else have anything to say, one way or the other?”

“Uh, Major,” Captain Barnes said. “I’ll just say that these three are good men and hard workers. Neither Slidell nor Fulbert gave me any trouble while they were assigned here.”

“I’ve taken their records into account, Captain.” He looked at the three, then reached out, picked up the unopened can of beer, and brought it down sharply on the tabletop. “I find you three guilty as charged under the Uniform Code of Military Justice. All three of you are reduced in rank one grade, and restricted to base, save for necessary military duties, for fourteen days. You are also assigned extra duty for the next fourteen days, at your commanding officer’s discretion. The, ah, contraband, of course, is forfeit.”

Slidell’s face fell at that, but at this point, Kaminski didn’t give a damn about the beer. The major had all but let them off with a slap on the wrist.

“Do any of the three of you have anything to add?” They didn’t.

“Your first assigned extra duty will be to load the contraband—all of it—on board Harper’s Bizarre. Captain Barnes will tell you what needs to be done. Dismissed!”

Fourteen days restriction, when there wasn’t a damned place to go on this planet anyway? A one-grade reduction when enlisted rank was all but meaningless anyway? They’d gotten off scot-free!

Then he realized that he and Fulbert were now the only PFCs in a platoon heavy with corporals and sergeants, a private’s natural enemies.

And two weeks of cleaning out the heads. Maybe they hadn’t gotten off completely free…

1705 Hours GMT

Garroway

Mars Prime

Candor Chasma

1537 hours MMT

As the three turned and walked away, Alexander unfolded his arms. “You went pretty easy on them, didn’t you, Major?”

“I’ll say he did,” Sergeant Ostrowsky said, laughing. “Being restricted to base on Mars doesn’t mean a damned thing when there’s no place else to go anyway!”

“There’s no real point,” Garroway said. “Technically, I suppose what they did constituted reckless endangerment, but we had a big enough safety margin in what we brought along and in our assigned mass allotment that no harm was done.”

Captain Barnes nodded. “They also didn’t go and get blind drunk, which some in their situation might have done. In fact, about the only thing I see they did that was really reprehensible was the two of them volunteering to come down here and give me a hand.”

“Yes,” Garroway said, grinning, “and in so doing, missing out on getting captured and going for a long walk in the Martian desert.” He shook his head. “I may never forgive them that one.”

“So why the nice-guy routine, Major?” Gunny Knox wanted to know. He rubbed his newly beardless chin. “Hell, back in the old Marines, those three’d’ve been skinned alive and hung out to dry.”

“The way I see it, Gunny, those three have contributed significantly to our effort here. In fact, they may have provided us with exactly what we need to beat Bergerac and his people.”

“What, sir?” Ostrowsky said, puzzled. “We’re going to give the UNers beer in exchange for the colonel?”

“Not quite, Sergeant. But we now have something we need very badly.”

“What’s that, Major?” Alexander asked.

“What every Marine prays for.” Garroway grinned. “Close air support.”

1833 Hours GMT

Mars Prime

Candor Chasma

1625 hours MMT

David Alexander was on his way to the base communications center when someone called to him from behind. “Hey! David! Wait up!”

He stopped and turned. It was Craig Kettering. “Hello, Craig.”

“I’ve been looking for a chance to talk to you! Welcome back to civilization!”

“It’s good to be back.” He closed his eyes for a moment, shaking off memories of thirst, crowding, and discomfort. Most of all, there’d been the never-ending, grinding fear that something else was going to go wrong, that they weren’t going to make it. He opened them again. “How long have you been here?”

“Oh, they came by and picked us up a couple of days after you left. The grunts really had them ticked, too. They had all of the shuttles fitted out as lobbers, taking short, suborbital hops back and forth looking for you. Anyway, we’re glad you made it.”

“So am I.” He turned away.

“Hey, hey! Wait! Where you going!”

“Comm shack. I’ve got something to send to Earth.” Kettering’s face darkened. “Not… ah…”

“I’m sending a report on what we found at Cydonia.”

The other man looked thunderstruck. “David! You can’t—”

“I’ve already published, Craig. Last week, on Usenet.”

“Damn you!” Kettering exploded. “How could you?”

Alexander folded his arms. “The UN is trying to suppress the find, Craig. I’m letting the world know about it.”

“How irresponsible can you be? You’ve ruined it for all of us!”

Alexander was fascinated by Kettering’s anger. Obviously, the man had a personal stake in this. “You’ve been talking to Joubert, haven’t you?”

“Mireille is a professional, a responsible scientist,” Kettering replied. “You should have listened to her.”

“They’re trying, she’s trying, to stop us from publishing the truth!”

Kettering reached out, placing one hand on Alexander’s arm. “David, look. I know you were upset. I know you thought the UN Scientific Authority was trying to usurp your work. I think you have a legitimate complaint, something to take up with them when we get back. But, damn it, David, don’t you see that they have a point? A good point? This information should be classified, should be kept classified, so that it can be studied by responsible experts.”

“You keep using the word ‘responsible,’ Craig, and I’m getting a little sick of it. It’s irresponsible of these so-called experts to withhold the truth from people. What happened here half a million years ago is important! It may have shaped us, who we are, how we think!”

“And what is the truth? Sorry. I sound like Pilate, I know, but what have we got? Some bits and pieces, some fragments. You know as well as I do that archeology is like trying to assemble a thousand-piece jigsaw puzzle, when all we can find in the box is a couple of hundred random pieces. The picture we come up with is subject to interpretation, to judgment. We see a little bit here, a flash there—”

“So what’s your point?”

“My point, David, is that the people you keep calling on don’t know what to do with the information we uncover. All you have to do is look at the record! Archeology gave to modern civilization the story of the Incas, of the Mayas, of Angkor Wat, of Sumer, of Xian’s buried warriors. And what do the people believe in? Von Daniken’s chariot-spaceships. Pyramidiots with their numerological interpretations of Giza. Little men from Mars who raised the heads on Easter Island, built the Great Pyramid, and shot John F. Kennedy for good measure. They believe in astrology, for God’s sake. In the Biblical Flood. In crop circles, flying saucers, and gods from outer space! Can’t you understand that what we’ve found here is just going to fuel all that nonsense? Every nation on Earth is being torn apart right now by conflicting cults, churches, and crackpot theories, and they’ve all been started or made crazier by the discovery of that damned Face. Hell, half the people on Earth think the Cydonia complex was built by gods who also created humans. The rest think they were demons, out to destroy God’s Word.”

“What does all of that have to do with how we do our job? There are always crackpots and fringe elements, Craig. You know that. Our job is to learn about Man’s past, to dig up the dinner leavings and the garbage and the art that’ll let future generations of archeologists put together a few more of those jigsaw pieces. It’s not to worry about how what we learn is misused.”

“I disagree,” Kettering said. “Mireille disagrees.”

“How long have you two—”

“That’s none of your damned business!”

“Sorry. But I understand. She can be… persuasive in her arguments.” He shrugged. “Excuse me, Craig. As I said, I’ve already published on Usenet. I’ve been asked to follow up with a piece for Archeology International.”

“And are you willing to accept the deaths the premature release of this information will most certainly cause?”

Alexander raised his eyebrows. “Deaths?”

“The bloodiest wars of history, the most savage butcheries and massacres, the worst bloodshed have always been wrapped up with religious differences, one way or another. We are looking at a century or more of religious warfare, Dr. Alexander. Religious warfare that will make the Hundred Years’ War and Ireland and the Jewish pogroms all look like Sunday teas. And you are contributing to the bloodshed by giving these fanatics and crackpots the ammunition they need. It’ll all be on your head!”

“The bloodiest wars,” Alexander replied quietly, “are the ones brought on by ignorance, Dr. Kettering. That is the enemy we should be fighting. And I’m damned if I’m going to be guilty of aiding and abetting that enemy.”

Angry, he turned and strode off toward the comm shack.

Tuesday, 19 June: 1500 Hours GMT

Cydonia One aboard MSL Rocky Road

South of Cydonia Prime

Sol 5658: 1215 hours MMT

Garroway caught hold of an overhead grabstrap and leaned across the seated, armored forms of Sergeants Jacob and Caswell so that he could see out the tiny porthole in the ship’s bulkhead. The shuttle Rocky Road, piloted by a former NASA astronaut named Susan Christie, had been put into its lobber configuration the night before, then launched in a high-trajectory suborbital jump that was bringing the bulk of the MMEF down on the Cydonian plain just a few miles south of the archeological base there. They’d been in free fall for nearly ten minutes, and only a few moments ago Christie had cut in the main engines to gentle them in toward their landing site. There was very little sound, nothing much at all save a far-off whisper from the engines. They were making the suborbital hop “hollow,” meaning depressurized. It was easier to have everyone suited up and ready to bounce from the moment they touched down. Besides, if the bad guys were waiting for them with a surface-to-air missile, or even a decent heavy machine gun…