War Dogs: Ares Rising Page 12

  “I’ll listen in a moment,” Gamecock says. “For now,” and he looks hard at me, “I need to catch up on every little thing that’s happened in the last hour.” He turns to Captain Coyle. “And the last few days.”

  “Yes, sir,” Coyle says. “The Voors appear to have something to add to that conversation.”

  “That we do, and damned essential!” the old Voor says.

  Teal does not look happy, but there’s little she can do. She’s now effectively reduced to the same status as the Voors, until we find time to sit and share and get things straightened out.

  Until we understand what the hell this Drifter station is, and what’s going on around it, and what it implies both for the settlers and for our little war.

  IN HEAVEN AS IT IS ON EARTH

  In the early years of Mars colonies, idealism and pioneer spirit drew “investors” with promises of a new and better life under the hurtling moons of Mars, never closer than tens of millions of miles from Earth, often much farther. That appealed to an intriguing subset of humanity that held, even within that narrow purpose, many different opinions about life.

  The first pioneers on Mars were packed into small, chemical fuel spaceships, up to twenty at a time, without benefit of Cosmoline sleep, to suffer in high-tech discomfort the months-long journey.

  When they arrived—if they arrived, for as many as half died during those first voyages—they found supply and construction vessels at their landing sites, ready to be arranged into those famous white hamster mazes, while primitive versions of our fountains swept the air and soil of Mars for the ingredients essential to life.

  High adventure.

  Bravery and creativity and passion were essential to the success of those early settlements. Remarkably, nine out of ten of the new settlers survived the first few years, thanks to the genius and foresight of a small slate of terrestrial entrepreneurs, most of whom never made it to Mars.

  They were too old. Age was the single greatest factor in casualty rates during transit. Men and women over forty were ten times more likely to sicken and die. Some said it was physical frailty; as I look back on those voyages through the lens of my own experience, I am more inclined to believe it was a fatal pining for Earth’s basic luxuries—wide-open spaces, blue skies and clouds and rain, clumped dirt, clean, fresh air, the mineral tang of good water—that drove older travelers into decline.

  So many pioneers had been convinced that a heaven of simulated reality would make up for all that was lacking on Mars. It did not. They should have studied the examples of pioneer families on the Great Plains, hunkering in the murky shadows of sod huts, the ladies—away from home and friends and society—driven to spooning laudanum while the men hunted or plowed hard, rocky fields, turning grim and leather-faced as weather and natives challenged, their children seemed to run wild as animals, and the last reserves of sanity dwindled.

  Some dreamers believed that Mars could be terraformed—remade in Earth’s image. Barring that long possibility, they imagined great domed frontier towns with outlaws and sheriffs and saloons, or their high-tech equivalents. One such dome was erected, inflatable, a thousand meters wide. It lasted six months before being destroyed by a double calamity of meteor strike and high wind. No others were built, but the concept will likely return if Mars ever finds peace.

  But what I’m really working up to is an explanation for what the hell Voortrekkers and their ilk were doing on Mars.

  People who build utopias need places to put their nowheres. The groups that followed the first waves of settlers to Mars were filled to overflowing with grumble. Not a few felt constrained by Earthly trends that discouraged bigotry and patriarchal dominance and denied power to those who espoused biblical or economic purities. People seeking to build personal empires hid behind these idealists, then rose up to take advantage of their lapses, their unmet necessities… by imposing order and discipline, which utopias typically lack and desperately need, especially when conditions get harsh and death looms.

  Once these pragmatists were in power, all over the Earth hard-core malcontents took subscriptions for specialized settlements and shipped dozens or even hundreds of chosen ones—prepackaged and compatible seedling societies—to Mars.

  And so we now face Voortrekkers, not the actual Forward Explorers of South African and Rhodesian history, but a group of dedicated reenactors that espoused many of those ancient hard-core attitudes.

  No blacks, no wogs—hard ways for hard living.

  Latter-day patriarchs running roughshod over history.

  KAZAK AND MICHELIN have joined us in the southern garage. DJ is tending to the general.

  Being outnumbered has done nothing to subdue the old Voor, who is already stepping up his rhetoric. His name is Paul de Groot. He’s been on Mars for thirty-two years. “Listen up!” he shouts. We fall silent as his shrill voice rings across the hangar.

  “Bit of a stinker, sir,” Captain Coyle mutters to Gamecock.

  “We are Trekboers! You’ve commanded my wagons, you’ll know our names and where we stand!” De Groot makes a point of walking around his men, tapping their heads—a reach for some, as he is the shortest—and naming them. “This is Jan, this is Hendrik, this is Johannes, that is Shaun,” and on down the list. The broad-shouldered brute I saw from the overlook is named Rafe. He has a quiet stealth that concerns me. Pent-up, strong, like a coiled snake. I wonder if he and the stinker are father and son. For all I know, they might all be his sons.

  The Voors settle to parade rest. Teal looks even more miserable.

  “Understood, sir,” Gamecock says, breaking in just as Captain Coyle is about to lay down her share. The captain is not impressed by any of the Voors. “We’re willing to come to an accommodation, providing it’s mutually beneficial. We need information—”

  “You’re here a-learn what this pipe does!” de Groot cries out, though everyone else is quiet. He clamps his teeth with a click, levels his shoulders, and thrusts out his jaw. “Trekboers protect what’s ours.” His dialect is different from Teal’s, but then, he’s trying to speak English. To my ear, he’s easier to understand.

  Gamecock approaches him. “You were willing to murder us,” he says. “That could explain our general lack of courtesy, don’t you think?”

  “No such!” de Groot says, but in a lower voice. “We have little to share and no kindness on principle.”

  “Leave that be,” Gamecock says. “Captain Coyle tells me you have information that could go a long way to patching up our differences. If we can establish mutual trust… for now.”

  De Groot sniffs. “This is our pipe,” he says. “Our station. We keep it under hold, patch and drain it, waiting, a-hope of return and mining. And living! But you can understand, we do not want its quality a-shouted any who listen. Strange ears, out on the dust!”

  “We can agree on that,” Gamecock says.

  The old Voor turns to Teal. His face sharpens and his lips purse as if he is about to spit. “You are the hoer,” he says. “Do you know this one?” he shouts to all of us, advancing until he sees the sisters and Gamecock have palmed their sidearms. Then he nods like a dip bird and backs off a step. “She betrayed her camp, and now she betrays all us. None should be here! This is our salvation, our hope. We follow her, a-stop her betrayal.” He flings his arms at the heavy dark space. But then his bluster fades, he seems to deflate a little, and he nods at Rafe, the big fellow, who steps forward.

  “We come from bad news,” the broad-shouldered young Voor says softly. “Piet Retief Kraal and the Swellendam Pipe have been destroyed. The Far Comers have not bothered with us until now, but our legerplaatze are silent. And this woman’s camp—silent a-well. It may be all were murdered by ice, rocks.”

  “The comet took out a settlement?” Gamecock asks.

  “All we had, gone,” Rafe confirms, sensing, hoping for a turn of sympathies. Shaun and Andres, both young and light-haired, lean against each other. Andres is shaking.

  “We th
ink,” de Groot says, watching this emotion with gimlet eyes. “Same compass. No radio after. Shock nearly scrubbed our wagons. Our brothers wanted a-look, but I am hard man, we go on. If the leger is there, it is there. If it is gone… But the others, they disagree. They take a wagon and leave.”

  “The ranch wife saved you,” Coyle says in a wondering undertone.

  “Hoer has luck a-get out in just time,” de Groot counters. His voice rises for effect, and he thrusts out his bound hands. “She knew. She’s glove with the Far Comers!”

  Our tall rescuer has frozen in place, face screwed up and drained of color. “T’at’s a lie,” she says very softly.

  Rafe continues, “As vader says, what’s done is out. We have a-decide new all soon, friend or foe, or we’re over. We are finished, dood.”

  By which he means, I assume, we are dead.

  “Now all listen,” de Groot resumes, building up again, able to inflate and deflate apparently at will. He folds his twisty-tied hands in front of his crotch, lowers his head, gazes up at us under his brows. “This pipe is hope, but only if we fix and restore. And here the hoer could help, if she tells what she knows—and trims time so doing.”

  Gamecock has been listening without comment until now, but he quickly arranges us to block the Voors just as they move forward, despite their plastic shackles, to begin these labors.

  “You are not in command here, sir,” he reminds de Groot in a confidential voice.

  “It’s our pipe, damn!” the Voor named Shaun cries, and the others bristle, but de Groot shushes them, waves them down with his hands like a conductor with an orchestra. I swear that Rafe is just waiting for a chance to make a stupid move. Tak and I instinctively take a couple of steps left and right to flank him. He’s big. They would all die, but maybe that’s good enough for their pride under the circumstances—who can say? Humans are invariably wild animals. We learn that early in boot. I doubt it’s any different on Mars.

  “Do you know our history, this place?” de Groot asks. “Where we are, where we stand, where we suffered and suffer now?”

  “We’ve left you alone,” Gamecock says. “That’s what you want, isn’t it?”

  “We stand in fear of soldiers taking all, and now—she brings you!” De Groot tries to jab a knobby finger at Teal, who narrows her eyes. The Voors are bound—she is not. I suppose that’s a telling point.

  “Where in hell are we, Venn?” Gamecock asks me, aside. “What is this place?”

  “We could tell,” de Groot says.

  Gamecock looks between us, concentrates on me. “What have you learned?”

  “Far from all I’d like to know, sir. This woman’s father told her this mine, Drifter, pipe—whatever—was a place where she could retreat if things got bad at her camp. Apparently, they did.”

  “How?” Gamecock asks Teal.

  “Long story,” she says, swallowing hard, eyes still tracking the Voors.

  Gamecock looks back at me. “Venn, what the hell is all this about?”

  “The settlements, towns, laagers, whatever they call them—have had it rough, Colonel. They’ve managed to explore and build camps, but I think their population hasn’t grown much.”

  “Hard times!” de Groot says. “Hardest for Voors!”

  “You fight for what isna yours!” Teal cries, her brittle restraint snapping. “You raid and kill and t’ieve!” Gamecock is losing control of the discourse, but at least there’s information emerging, of a kind. He looks at me to indicate he will interrupt if passions overflow, or if the talk is not useful.

  I stand aside.

  “We were told by her station, this hoer has left, she is angry, she is going a-our pipe,” de Groot says.

  Teal looks down. “Na such,” she murmurs.

  “Her vader, he was an engineer,” Rafe says. “He left the Trekboers long past. Went a-Green Camp.”

  “Lost the Trekboer way,” de Groot adds firmly.

  “You killed his wife!” Teal says, eyes up, accusing.

  “At Green he lost his wife again!” de Groot says. “Man is good at losing wives.”

  “How many camps know about this place?” Gamecock breaks in.

  “Just Voors and Green Camp,” Teal says defiantly. “Te Voors killed most te Algerians.”

  “Not such,” de Groot says. He’s about to add something, but, looking around at all the brown faces, his Adam’s apple bobs and he clamps his jaw.

  “My fat’er told na else but me, and t’en Ally Pecqua took my intended and made him her own.” An old story. Teal is intent on saying more, letting out her frustration. “Among te Rationals, wit’out a husband, I am a burden.”

  De Groot snorts. “Among Voors, women are value.”

  “White women,” Teal says.

  Our sisters study the Voors closely, eyes narrowed to slits. Rafe notices and nudges his father, who looks around, less smug but no less defiant.

  “They were fools, but we partner,” de Groot concludes with a deep sniff up his long nose.

  Gamecock listens with a serious and sympathetic expression. To Teal, he says, “Your father told you how to get around this place, where to find food and resources.”

  Teal nods. Her eyes are dry, weeping done.

  “You did not intend to bring others with you, including us.”

  “No. But t’ey woulda died out t’ere,” she says, eyes like headlamps in the shadow.

  Gamecock turns first to Captain Coyle, whose expression is neutral with a touch of grim, then to de Groot, and observes his reaction. I watch Rafe, who cringes in anticipation. He knows de Groot just can’t keep still and shut up.

  “We live!” de Groot shouts. “We feed our people! We trek and settle and build, flee battles, soldate, but even so, lose families and land! And now, because of your war, the laager is gone!” He stares around as if his look could pierce us all. “We have waited years. When the water is down, the pipe is no longer flooded, we mine and build and make crops. Here there is much metal—but down below, vents, vluchtige—pockets of methane, ammonia—stikstof—nitrogen!”

  “And sulfide,” I explain under my breath to the colonel. “They seeded oxyphores in the pits.”

  Gamecock frowns. Biology is not his strength. Skipping over that, I add the important point: “Enough water still flows to power the old generators. And they have a printer. Quite a few barrels of slurry—metal, ceramic, medical, and nutrient.”

  “How many?” Gamecock asks.

  “Hard to know, sir. Lots. They finished most of the installation before the hobo—before the water rose and they left.”

  “Drifter. Pipe. Hobo,” Gamecock says, trying to absorb the words.

  “Why not just pump out the water and sell it?” Tak asks.

  “Water iss everywhere,” Rafe says. “We got water.”

  “That gives suurstof, oxygen, hydrogen,” de Groot says. “But very little stikstof, not so much metaal, not like this, just ready to dig and melt. This pipe means huise, kos, food—life! But what is that now? Nutteloos! No use!”

  His agony is honest. His eyes fill with tears. Everyone is still, quiet. The other Voors seem embarrassed. Rafe flexes his arms, tugging at his twisty-ties. Hard times indeed.

  “I never wanted t’at,” Teal says.

  “You led them straight here!” Rafe says, not shouting, but with deep resentment.

  “So did you,” Captain Coyle reminds him.

  “Not our choosing,” Rafe says.

  The tension is rising. Gamecock feels it. We all feel it. Teal can feel it most acutely. We’re all that stands between her and de Groot’s vengeance. These guys would love to resume their little gnome works without our interference.

  “There’s no point assigning blame,” Gamecock says. “Save that for later. How many Voors left your buses, your wagons?”

  “Trekboers. Many,” Rafe says.

  De Groot clamps his jaw. “They go where home was.”

  Too many to fit in one wagon. Coyle asks, “Can they wa
lk that far?”

  “They die,” de Groot says. “When hope it is gone, we go on trek, like our ancestors. Dutch go hard on them, they walk from Cape Town to the Big Karoo and the Little Karoo. Our way.”

  “King Solomon’s Mines,” I say.

  “That is right,” Rafe says sadly. “Ophir. Right here we are. We are no danger. Set us free!”

  Gamecock lowers his eyebrows a notch. Coyle shakes her head.

  Vee-Def and Kazak have gone back to the northern garage at Gamecock’s murmured instructions and now rejoin us. They confer with Coyle and Gamecock, away from Voor ears, and after a minute, Gamecock motions for me and Tak to come aside with them. Tak repeats his report. “We’ve got a good line of sight to the northwest. Lots of activity—there’s a big cloud out there. Venn saw it earlier, just after we dropped. Well, now it’s bigger and closer. There are tunnels and hidey-holes all through this place. We really need a map or a native guide.”

  I tell them about the southern watchtower and the control panel. Gamecock sends DJ to check it out.

  “I’m not sure any of the Voors have been here in years,” Gamecock says.

  “Teal might know more, but she’s terrified,” I say.

  “They keep calling this a ‘pipe,’” Kazak says, drawing closer. “What the hell does that mean?”

  “Volcanic pipe, like where diamonds are mined,” Tak says.

  “I saw something on a display up in the watchtower,” I say. “A cavern or room, bright, shiny, crystals all over.”

  “Diamonds—here?” Gamecock asks, incredulous.

  “Don’t know that, sir, or where it is, even if it’s in this formation.”

  “The big fellow did grab on to calling this place Solomon’s mine,” Coyle says. She points to me. “Master Sergeant Venn seems to have a relationship with the ranch wife. She showed you around, didn’t she?”

  “She’s just scared,” I say.