Killing Titan Page 5

  Our rotation locks, but one last wobble gives us a slender glimpse of what might be the business end of the cube. It’s black, no details visible—shadow within shadow.

  “What’s this one called?” I ask.

  “Some call it the Big Box,” Kumar says. “Larger than previous versions, and special to Division Six. I know very little about it.”

  “Tell me more about these divisions.”

  Kumar turns aside and says nothing. He looks like he doesn’t want to be reminded of something.

  I look to Borden.

  “Six divisions of Wait Staff report to the Gurus,” Borden says. “Together, they carry out the Gurus’ instructions, plan big plans, and interface with governments and leaders.”

  “What’s Division Six?”

  “Logistics and other affairs internal to Wait Staff.”

  “Mostly civilians?”

  “Mostly,” Borden says.

  Kumar sinks deeper into his gloom.

  “What kind of civilians?” I ask.

  “Some were part of the original greeting parties, back in the desert days. Others were selected by the Gurus after the revelations, with special assignments and privileges. Division Four was like PSYOP.”

  “Oh,” I say. “Who controls the war effort?”

  “Division Four,” Borden says.

  “The war is part of PSYOP?”

  Kumar closes his eyes and looks sleepy.

  Borden says, “Yeah. All meshed together. Eventually, some of us got tired of our own bullshit and started asking questions.”

  “Enough about our questions,” Kumar says. “All will be obvious soon enough.”

  I doubt that.

  Hissing and clicking noises starboard. We resume our rotation. In the final quarter of our turn, with no more surprises possible this side of something really weird—hyperspace, electron spin space!—I see a much more familiar sight, three space frames tied to a big spent matter booster. Looks like we’re in for prep tanks, rotisseries, tubes…

  I let out a groan. “That?”

  “Our troops are already aboard and asleep,” Kumar says. “We’ll join them in the next hour. If all things work well—”

  “Which they rarely do,” Borden says.

  “If we get our job done,” Kumar persists, “then one or both of those other monsters might join us and carry us farther out into the solar system.”

  “Why all the show, then?” I ask, trying to be blasé and not succeeding.

  “Different kind of war out there,” Borden says. “The weapons are big. Everything is just… big.”

  “What the hell are we up against?” I ask, glancing between them.

  “Nothing much, at the moment,” Kumar says. “Right now Titan is undefended. Few if any surviving Earth forces, and apparently no Antags.”

  “Something pushed a big button,” Borden says. “A button marked ‘delete.’”

  “Or ‘reboot,’” Kumar adds.

  “Something?”

  Borden lifts an eyebrow, like maybe I have an explanation. A clue. That really makes me sweat.

  Our lifter falls into deep shadow. We’ve closed the distance and now we’re linking up. More hissing and grappling. Long guide ramps swing around and lock on to our craft, and with a scrape like fingernails on slate, the transfer tube fastens around the hatch. The hatch slams open. My ears go through their usual discontent, and our seats release us with reluctant sighs.

  “Time to go,” Kumar says, pushing past.

  Borden looks ready to be sick again, but manages to keep it down.

  The rest is familiar—to me. Humans take over. Prep teams float us to a pressurized work tank where cordons of vac techs, hooked foot and hip to cables that run the length of the tank, administer injections and brusquely ask how we’re feeling, in general, whether we’ve eaten in the last few hours, how much alcohol have we consumed in the last week, do we have allergies, have we experienced adverse reactions to Cosmoline?

  The techs tell us to strip. Personal effects will not be preserved—should have left them home. Too easily, I fall back into the old, old routine. But it’s brand-new to Kumar and Borden and they look like sheep being prodded down the chute to slaughter. Rugged. And gratifying, sort of. Still, I know nothing about our mission. I have yet to get my orders, much less any sort of decent briefing. We’re heading somewhere—presumably Mars—and when we get there we will do mumbly-mumble—and then if that all turns out well, maybe we’ll go somewhere else. Somewhere far away. Maybe on the creepy-looking, beautiful Spook. Or inside Box.

  The cordon pushes the three of us along none too gently, despite the fact that for the moment we’re the only victims in line. Rank hath no privileges here, and after the first few injections we’re propelled by casual, expert hands toward a slowly rotating bank of transparent cylinders at the aft end of the tank. One by one, techs fold our arms and legs, tell us to hold still, and prepare to slip us into bags. A pipette not-so-gently squeezes past my ass cheeks and shoves into my rectum. A hydraulic mask clips over mouth and nose. Nozzles on the bag poke out to receive Cosmoline. With a couple of brisk pinches, a head clamp settles around my ears and I feel thick gel worm into my ear canals. I don’t mind. I’m already dopey, feeling no pain and not much concern, except for the usual hope that I don’t wake up before it’s over. I’ve taught myself to play blackjack in my head, but pretty soon I can no longer keep track of the cards.

  Then the old cool goop slurps into the cylinder and smears out against my skin. I smell cloves and lemon vodka—the usual. Soon I’m chilly all over. Then everything warms nicely. Warm and cozy.

  Hello, sleep! My old friend…

  Sweet dreams—long and dark and slow.

  THE NEXT THING I know, I’m being decanted. My bag is popped and stripped and I’m hauled aside. Rough hands throw me into the car wash, where rotating cloths slap me awake and sponge off the goop.

  Groggy, I look for my squad, anyone familiar.… Where the hell are they? Lots of faces! Grunts aplenty, and then I stop seeing triple and realize there’s maybe twenty of us, male and female, several different races, about half Asian—all naked, tense, shivering, and complaining, some loudly.

  I recognize one officer from training in Hawaii—try to recall her name. Naveen something—Naveen Jacobi. That’s it. Slender, blond, close-spaced black eyes, corded shoulders and arms, long legs. Tough and distant.

  One Asian is a Winter Soldier. Almost half of her body—one arm, one leg, half her head—is composite or metal. She’s cut her hair to match the plastic fuzz-lines on her composite cranium. Her organic eye is wide and very black; maybe she’s tinted the sclera. The fake eye is closely matched. She must have survived horrible wounds somewhere on Earth—maybe in training. We don’t bring them back from the Red when they’re that badly injured. She’s sleek, shiny, modesty minus. She’ll never really be naked again. Hard time peeling my eyes away. She sticks close to two females and two males. They fought or trained together. Typically, they’ve tattooed dead buddies’ names all over their torsos and legs. Tough crew.

  Also waiting to be processed are four males, two young and skinny and scared, two in their late twenties or early thirties who look elaborately bored. Small load. Peewee drop. Usually, each decant delivers two hundred and females fly separate from males, but we’ve been given special dispensation.

  As my eyes focus, I see Borden join the lineup. She’s five grunts away, beside Jacobi; the commander has nice but not spectacular breasts. Tries to cover her privates. Good luck with that. I turn to find Kumar. There he is—pale and pudgy. Makes no attempt to cover himself. Who the fuck cares. He seems just a tetch peeved, like someone’s delivered his Scotch sans rocks.

  More techs in padded outfits like dog attack suits move down the lines. Grunts fresh out of Cosmoline can behave poorly. Sometimes we bite. Anyone who misbehaves will be spun like a top and pushed out of line to a recovery team—which injects more enthusiasm—and gradually, if not under control, wil
l be spun into another tank, smaller, older, smells different—smells less like Cosmoline and more like shit and sweat and despair. But everyone’s tip-top. No wingnuts and no spaz. And so we’re rewarded with skintights dispensed by another pair of techs, blank-eyed and long past weary of slapping and sponging and injecting—looking forward to end of watch, to finishing this tour and hooking up with the next return shuttle. Maybe they go easier on each other when they return. Probably not.

  O, pass a bull to the butcher,

  Then pass the butcher your brother—

  Butcher takes care o’ the one

  Same, same as the other.…

  Old Corps tune. We like ’em tasty.

  We’re wedged into stalls. Two techs reach into a carousel and distribute helms. The techs help Kumar and Borden put on theirs; the grunts and I do our own, with critical squints and finger tests for seal flex. We work fast. The quicker we’re down on the Red the better. We close our faceplates to test suck. Borden and Kumar get help doing that. Finally, all our elbows and ankles cinch tight. Diagnostic lights flick on beside each grunt. Next step, I’m thinking, a puff pack, another round of enthusiasm, then getting cannolied—stuffed into a delivery tube—and the big drop. Burning puff all the way down.

  But that’s not the way it’s going to be. Not this time. Not for Commander Borden, Kumar, or me—not for any of our grunts.

  Borden grimaces as suit techs pluck us from our nooks, rotate us like bags of sawdust, and push us past a short lineup of impatient pilots and chiefs to an accordion tunnel and another ship. But what kind of ship? A passing, spinning glimpse through a narrow port shows us a command orbiter snugly secured to the accommodating flank of a big lander, side by side with an impressive transport sled strapped to another lander. Such lovely accommodations. Orbiters usually fly high, under threat of Antag G2O—Ground-to-Orbit bolts or other weapons. Even command orbiters are generally about half this size and never fall below fifty thousand klicks. By itself, our next ride confirms there have been big changes on Mars: total G2O fire suppression, apparent theater domination—

  Or one of those big old reboots. Both sides on pause—Antag and Earth. Maybe we won the last round after all.

  The weapons techs are busy finishing inventory. They look up from their slates, expressions neutral, but I sense their scorn. I’m obviously Skyrine—semi-shaggy fuzzcut, wide shoulders, a Virginia Beach tan around my arms, mostly faded—but I’m not dropping in puff, I’m descending to the Red in luxury. I feel like a fucking POG: Person Other than Grunt. Nothing lower in Skyrine hierarchy than a POG.

  The burly drop chief meets us at the end of the accordion. Blaze reads CWO 5 Agnes Chomsky. “Twenty-three for command descent,” her voice booms in the confined space. On seeing me, her expression sours. I’ve passed her way five times before. “Limo to the Red, ladies?” Chomsky grates, waving a big hand as we pull ourselves to the lock beyond. Her smirk is a masterpiece of contempt. I glide past. “What, no tip?” she sneers.

  “No tip, Chief,” Borden says, coming next.

  “None deserved, ma’am,” Drop Chief agrees with no sign she feels the bruise. Her voice rises to crescendo. “Move it out, VIPs! Ten minutes to clear lock.” Even the grunts wince. They’re strapping on blazes, printed and handed out by the chief as she confirms inventory. I do not get one. Tourist. Fucking POG.

  Kumar hands himself along a guide wire to the far side of the lock. Borden and I follow, then the first six of our squad—if they are a squad and not just random reinforcements. I note the Winter Soldier is named Ishida—Sergeant Chihiro Ishida. She’s tight with Captain Jacobi and four others, including two sisters—Tech Sergeant Jun Yoshinaga and Sergeant Kiyuko Ishikawa—and two males, Gunnery Sergeant Ryoka Tanaka and Master Sergeant Kenji Mori. To me, they look integrated and aware, like they share unseen scars.

  Jacobi seems to be in command of a highly trained squad with four snowballs, one truffle, and seven caramels—Asians who speak American with no accent. Our Japanese sisters go through hell in two countries to get where they are in the ISD Skyrines. Two decades ago, Japan fought China for three months in and around the Senkaku Islands. Thousands died. The old Bushido tradition was revived in Japan with a stacked deck of consequences. For these sisters, combat training of any sort, but especially in the USA—I’ve heard from the likes of Tak—makes returning to a normal life in a more and more conservative Japan unlikely. So they phase American, more American than me, probably.

  And they fight like furies.

  We pass through the lock in two packs. The passenger compartment of the command orbiter, a cramped cylinder, is grand by Mars standards but still no one’s idea of a limo: a crowded, cold jumble of crew spaces broken up by surveillance gear, sats stacked like tennis balls in a tournament launcher, emergency pods jutting halfway into the main hull—but compared to a space frame, this is luxury.

  “Do they serve tea?” Jacobi asks.

  “No, ma’am,” calls a hoarse voice forward. From between two pod shrouds, a lieutenant in pilot blue pointedly salutes as Borden grapples past. He watches with no visible joy as she inadvertently knees herself into a half spin followed by three painful collisions. Me, however, he tracks with a critical eye. He’s a small, wiry guy with a trim shock of black hair, olive-colored eyes, and a softly drawn, mouse-brown mustache. His blaze says he’s Pilot: Transfer: 109—Jonathan F. Kennedy. JFK. PT-109. Cute.

  “Coming with?” I ask him.

  He shakes his head, unwinds, and emerges. “Just next door,” he says, and swoops a forefinger full circle. “I’m solo on the sled. They’ll release me at ninety klicks, I’ll spread chaff, see if there’s G2O, then drop first. If I make it, you’re next.”

  “Brave fellow,” I say.

  “Any clues?” he asks.

  “I wish.”

  “Pure fucking snake,” he says. By which he means BOA—Brief On Arrival. At least that’s familiar. Kumar floats a few meters ahead, knees drawn up and ankles crossed in a kind of lotus. Drop Chief Chomsky emerges last from the lock and pulls herself forward. Her voice is almost gentle now; she’s filling couches and assigning escape pods. I’ve never heard of anyone using a pod. Taking a big Antag bolt is decisive.

  I have more time to check out Jacobi’s Skyrines. Goddamn, they sure do look like Special Forces. They all move with a freakish physical poise that reveals absolute conviction the rest of the world is their own pre-shucked, swig-’em-down raw oyster. We have seven sisters and eleven brothers—four corporals, three more sergeants, three engineering chiefs, four majors, two captains, two lieutenants. As a full commander, Borden seems to rank. All the Skyrines appear totally down with the program, however unfamiliar and risky. Can’t let Navy see them sweat.

  The orbiter pilot, also in light blue, emerges from the cockpit after Chomsky has finished. He’s a junior lieutenant in his mid-twenties, olive complexion, balding, bigger than the norm. He grabs a brace and stays to one side as Borden salutes in passing, then he lifts a lumpy, soft-sides bag containing the real pilot: a preprogrammed Combined Software Navigator: Astral—CSNA. These units are replaced by fresh tech every few weeks, hence the bag. No peeking.

  “Welcome aboard, frequent fliers,” he says. “I’m Lieutenant JG Clover. Our trip tonight nets you three hundred million bonus miles, good for a free trip to the beaches of Pearl-Hickam, with no return.” The joke doesn’t raise a grin. “Wunnerful audience. Please be seated. Separation from cluster in five. We’ll be on the Red inside twenty. Drop Chief, cross-check and link skintights. We’re on ILS for the remainder of our trip.” ILS = Internal Life Support. Borden has been assigned the couch next to mine. Jacobi straps in opposite and introduces herself to Borden, then to me—meaning she doesn’t remember. No matter. Officers rarely pay attention to noncomms. She’s out of Skybase Canaveral and tells Borden this is her fourth drop.

  “My first,” Borden admits.

  “Welcome to Vertical Limit,” Jacobi says, then settles in, closes her eyes—clams up.
No sense getting acquainted. In a few minutes we might all be dead.

  Up front, the cockpit hatch is open. I see Clover strap in and expertly slide the navigator into its slot beside his couch. He looks back, flashes a nerveless smile, and says, “Release in two.”

  The hatch to the cockpit slides shut.

  Chomsky calls out, “Suck guts and grab ankles, cadets!” She settles back, seals her faceplate, and closes her eyes. We seal our own plates, hook patch cords into the couches, bend until helms touch a rear seat pad, shove both hands between our legs, grab our curtain handles, and finally, lay thumbs over the plastic covers on the emergency switches—the diddles.

  With a jerk, the couches whir and roll into landing config, spaced around the cylinder beside assigned pods variously at eight, ten, twelve, fourteen, and sixteen of the clock.

  Drop Chief, eyes still closed, runs down the seconds to release. The whole damned orbiter makes scary noises, and they’re getting louder.

  “Crap,” Borden murmurs.

  I ignore the angel boot-up rolling across my faceplate. Focus on my gloves. Flex my fingers. Steady respiration, in one two, out one two. Even. Calm. God, I hate physics. From here on down, physics is God.

  “Orbiter checks prime,” Clover announces through our helms. “Sled checks prime. Lander checks prime plus. Release from cluster… now.”

  The orbiter shudders and lurches free. I feel motion along the axis between my shoulder and my butt. I’m good that way; I somehow know which way I’m going just from sensing inertial vectors. Our descent is smooth, only a little buffet. Then—a low, piggy groan, filled with hypersonics, chords, nasty little demon tunes—

  We tense.

  And shoot off toward the Red. Our plunge takes five minutes. When upper Martian air begins its low banshee wail, I look left through a palm-sized port and watch the ionized glow, like dying coals, torch to brilliant cherry. Inside, all is smooth and cool and dull. Dropping in puff is so much more amusing. Grunts have all the fun.