Greenies

Chapter 26



MPG Headquarters, New Pittsburgh

September 14, 2146, 2000 hours

"It's confirmed, Kevin," General Zoloft told General Jackson via video link. "The WestHem marines are in full retreat from the main line. They started giving up in droves twenty minutes ago. It started at the Pillbox 73 and 72 positions and spread all along the line from there."

"Could it be some kind of trickery?" Jackson asked, wanting to believe what he was being told but not wanting to fall into a trap.

"I don't think so," Zoloft replied. "They threw down their weapons and left them in the dirt. They're walking back toward the anti-tank ditch with their hands in the air. I can't imagine what kind of trickery it could possibly be. Take a look at the video from Peepers two and three."

Jackson called those particular images up on his screen and looked at the two views taken from the small drone aircraft circling twelve thousand meters above the battlefield. He saw literally thousands of men, marching slowing westward, their hands held high in the air as they stepped around their fallen comrades.

"It looks like the real thing all right," he said. "Have you ordered a cease-fire?"

"I didn't have to," Zoloft said. "Our troops stopped firing at them as soon as the marines started their retreat... well... as soon as they realized that was what the marines were doing. There were a few incidents of retreating marines being shot down."

"Unfortunate, but understandable," Jackson said. "In any case, put out a general order just to make it official. Nobody is to fire on retreating troops for any reason. Extend this order to your aircraft and your special forces teams that are hitting the armor behind the ditch. Fire only if fired upon or if the marines start moving forward again."

"It will be done immediately," Zoloft said. He paused for a few moments, staring at his commander's image. "You were right, Kevin. You were right all along. They are retreating because they knew we'd stop shooting at them if they did. The order you gave during phase one, the order we all protested... that order just saved Eden."

"I'm pleased that I've vindicated myself," Jackson said. "Not so much for the repair of my stained reputation as for the cessation of hostilities it has caused. This is as close as I ever want to cut it."

"Amen," Zoloft agreed. "For a while there I thought... well... you know what I thought. My sincerest apologies, Kevin, for all the flack I shot at you about that cease-fire order after phase one. I should've known better than to question you."

"Bullshit," Jackson said. "My order went against basic military logic and practice. As commander, I'm allowed to do that if I think it makes sense. I would have worried, however, if you wouldn't have questioned my decision. You were just doing your job. I don't want people who follow me blindly. Now stop apologizing and start passing on those orders. Be sure to tell your people how goddamned proud you are of them."

"Yes, sir!" Zoloft replied smartly, a smile on his face. He signed off.

Jackson leaned back in his chair with a tired yawn. He looked over at Laura Whiting, who had been hanging out in the war room with him ever since returning from her trip to the hospital to visit the wounded. "We did it," he told her. "We actually went and did it, Laura. Eden held. New Pittsburgh is going to hold. The Earthlings will be crawling back home in defeat soon. Mars is still free."

"Yeah," she said, her smile genuine but faintly troubled for some reason. "We did it. How close did we actually come to losing Eden?"

Jackson held the thumb and forefinger of his right hand about a centimeter apart. "This close," he said. "There is no way we could have held those marines back from entering the MPG base if they would've thrown themselves at us. They would've taken heavy losses but they would have eventually pushed through or forced us to surrender. It was a mathematical certainty. We didn't beat them, Laura. We made them give up."

"That's what you always said would repel an invader," she reminded. "It worked admirably."

"I never thought it would be that close though. I'm going to make sure it's never that close again."

Jeff Creek and the rest of his squad were the point squad for the re-occupation of Pillbox 73. Intelligence had assured them that all WestHem marines still capable of fighting had pulled back from the perimeter, their weapons thrown down, their hands held high. Jeff had no reason to question the intelligence report. After all they had rarely, if ever, been wrong so far. What he was concerned about were the men still inside the pillbox. Most would be dead. Some, however, might only be wounded — wounded, desperate, and possibly not in the communication loop that the withdrawing marines were using.

They approached carefully through the access trench, two platoons of 2^nd Infantry soldiers and two main battle tanks waiting at the fallback trench to provide cover for them. They kept their M-24s locked, loaded, and held out before them, ready to fire at the slightest hint of trouble.

"Coming up on the entrance," Jeff reported. He had lost the random number drawing for point position, which meant he was the point man. "There's two dead marines just outside. They look like wounded that someone dragged out and then dropped there. I can see some arms and legs just inside. Nothing moving."

"Copy," replied Sergeant Walker. "Drogan, Zanderson, Clipjoint, Zing — get up on either side of the trench and against the wall next to the entrance. Get some frags out and ready to use but don't toss them in unless Creek comes under fire."

The four people Walker indicated scrambled out the top of the trench and spread to the sides, all of them pulling fragmentation grenades from their equipment packs. Jeff moved slowly forward, step by step, until he was able to put his head inside the opening. The entryway was reasonably clear but there was a pile of bodies at the foot of the staircase on the far side. He reported this and then moved inside. The four grenade holders jumped down and followed behind. When he reached the foot of the staircase and got a look inside he felt a gag rising in his throat.

You will not puke in your helmet, he told himself, repeating this incantation over and over as he looked at the sight before him in horror. More than a dozen marines had been in this section of the staircase when the fragmentation booby-traps installed in the walls had blown. The marines had been ripped open by the explosions, most in their midsections. Internal organs, intestines, rib and pelvic bones had been exposed on nearly every body. The entire stairwell was choked with a fog of red blood vapor that had become trapped in the confined space, that was still slowly rising from most of the bodies.

"Oh, now that is fucking disgusting," said Drogan. She and the rest of the squad had moved up behind him.

"I almost feel sorry for them," Private Clipjoint said sadly.

"Fuck that shit," said Drogan. "They tried us and they fuckin' lost. They shoulda stopped back at the line and this wouldn't have happened to them."

"Yeah, but still..."

"Could we wax philosophical a little later?" Walker asked. "For now, how about we clear the rest of this position before the marines change their minds and start heading back."

They moved up the stairs, trying as hard as they could to avoid stepping on body parts or entrails or kidneys or livers and mostly succeeding. They found more bodies on the next section of stairway and a lot more in the lower level defensive position.

If anything, the scene was even more gruesome here. Those marines that had been near the firing positions at the front of the position had been blown into pieces which were now scattered throughout the floor. Arms, legs, heads, and torsos were everywhere. Those who had been near the back, where the large openings were, had merely been ripped open. They were lying mostly intact, with hundreds of holes in them. A few were still alive, as was evidenced by the slight movements they were making and the outgassing of their exhalations. None were in any shape to put up resistance although Jeff and the others made sure to kick any weapons well away from them and to remove any grenades or ammunition clips from their biosuits.

"Doc, start sorting through them," Walker ordered their medic. "Get some medivac teams up here to get them out of here."

"Right," Tom Huffy, their medic, replied. He went to work.

"The rest of you, man those firing positions and keep an eye on the WestHems. Second squad is coming up to secure the top."

Jeff tore his eyes away from the gore around him and walked over to the firing position he'd occupied during the battle. The 7mm gun was still there but was far from functional. Its body had been broken in half by the exploding tank rounds and its barrel had been bent. Not only that, most of the ammunition drums had been cracked open, spilling the rounds out onto the concrete floor.

One look outside the firing port told him he wouldn't be needing the 7mm, or any other weapon. There were no marines anywhere near the position. Three hundred meters away, he could see them lined up just on this side of the anti-tank trench, slowly working their way inside of it in small groups and then emerging from the other side. Only then would they put their hands down.

It was then that he realized he had actually managed to live through this war.

Aboard the WSS Nebraska, Mars orbit

2015 hours

"What do you mean they're giving up?" General Browning demanded of General Dakota Dickenson, commander of the Eden forces.

"The men have left their positions," Dickenson's image replied. "All along the length of the line they've thrown down their weapons and have walked back to the anti-tank ditch and the APCs."

"Who in the hell ordered that?" Browning yelled. "Did you order it? If you did..."

"Nobody ordered it, sir," Dickenson told him. "They did it on their own, just like they did during phase one."

"They're marines, goddammit! They can't just give up a fight without orders! You order them to go back, pick up those guns, and open that goddamn corridor to the MPG base!"

"I've already tried, sir," Dickenson said. "I've sent my orders through the colonels in command of each brigade and I've even opened a channel to all troops and broadcast my order in the clear. I've threatened to prosecute every marine who turned away from his duty for desertion, cowardice, even treason. They're simply not listening."

"What about the greenies?" Browning asked. "What are they doing?"

"Nothing," Dickenson said. "They stopped firing as soon as our men started to retreat. There hasn't been so much as an air attack since they turned around."

"Those greenies are just encouraging this behavior," Browning said, as if he thought the greenies should be encouraging the marines to attack them more.

"I agree, sir," Dickenson said. "So what are your orders? It would seem at this point that an organized withdrawal to the LZ would be the only thing we can do."

"No," Browning said immediately. "We will not withdraw. We came here to take Eden and we're going to take Eden. I order you to make those marines resume their attack!"

"Sir," Dickenson said, his voice sharpening, "you can't order me to do something that's impossible. The men are refusing to push forward. The men that were in the rear are refusing to go forward now that those in front of them have given up. The only thing we can do at this point is concede defeat and start getting our men and equipment back to the LZ — all of it that we can salvage anyway."

"That is unacceptable!" Browning yelled.

"It's also reality, General," Dickenson said. "I've got thousands of wounded down here that need to be evacuated. I've got thousands more that are going to start running out of breathing air soon. I don't have enough APCs to transport them all back. We need some kind of official cease-fire with the Martians in this sector so we can salvage what we can."

"There will be no cease-fire! If those men want to breathe they'll go forward and take Eden like they were goddamn ordered to."

Dickenson sighed. "I'm sorry, General," he said, "but if you won't make contact with the Martians for an official cease-fire, I will be forced to contact them myself."

"If you do that you'll be tried for treason!" Browning threatened. "I order you to make those men take their objective!"

"I think this conversation is over, General," Dickenson said. "I take full responsibility for my actions."

"Dickenson, don't you dare..." he started but was unable to finish. The screen went blank. Dickenson was gone. "Goddammit! Wilde, get him back on the line!"

Wilde had been standing behind Browning and had watched the entire exchange. "I can try, General," he said, "but I'm afraid he's right. The men have lost the will to fight. There is no way they're going to go forward. It's too late now even if they wanted to."

"What the hell are you talking about?" Browning said, turning his anger toward Wilde now. "They were within sight of the MPG base! They were less than two kilometers away. All they had to do was clear one more position and we would have taken that city!"

"I know, sir," Wilde said. "Unfortunately the Martians fought back much too hard. They destroyed our morale and robbed them of the will to fight. We're not going to take Eden. Dickenson is correct. We need to concede defeat to the Martians so we can get out as many men and machines as we can."

"Do you hear what you're saying, Wilde?" Browning asked. "This was your goddamn plan in the first place!"

"I was trying to do the best with what the suits in Denver left us with," Wilde said. "Mathematically it should have succeeded. But war is not just about math, as we're finding out."

"That's a copout. Those men are cowards! Treasonous, yellow-bellied cowards!"

"Call them what you will, sir. The fact remains, we've lost at Eden. Refusing to acknowledge that is not going to change anything. Now will you allow me to coordinate with General Dickenson on cease-fire terms with the Martians? The air supply situation is going to get critical down there before much longer — probably already is. If we don't come to some sort of arrangement with the Martians they're going to capture a sizable portion of our men."

"Permission denied," Browning spat. "Let the cowardly fucks get captured. I hope the greenies torture every last one of them. They deserve it for what they've done."

MPG regional headquarters, Eden

2030 hours

"General?" said Major Smoker, General Zoloft's aide in charge of communications. "I'm getting a transmission from the Eden LZ."

"Oh?" Zoloft asked, raising his eyebrows a bit.

"It's from General Dakota Dickenson," Smoker said. "He's the commander of the Eden area marine forces. Intelligence confirms that is his current position and the computer confirms voice-print analysis."

"I see," Zoloft said. "Did he say what he wanted?"

"He wants to talk to 'whoever is in charge of Eden', he says."

Zoloft chuckled a little bit. The fact that Dickenson didn't know who was in charge of Eden MPG operations spoke volumes about how much the Earthlings had underestimated them. They hadn't even bothered to develop dossiers on the MPG command staff. "Put him on my screen," he said. "Be sure to record for Intel."

"Coming on now, General."

The screen changed from a schematic of the battlefield area to a live shot of a balding, middle-aged man dressed in Martian camouflage fatigues. He had a single star on each of his lapels. His face looked tired, defeated, with bags under both bloodshot eyes.

"This is General Zoloft," Zoloft said. "Commanding officer of the Eden area MPG units."

"General Dickenson," Dickenson returned. "WestHem Marine Corps. I am commander of the Eden theater of operations."

"I know," Zoloft told him matter-of-factly. "What can I do for you, General?"

"I would like to discuss a cease-fire in this area of operation."

"We have already ceased firing," Zoloft said. "I'm sure you must have noticed that by now."

This seemed to fluster Dickenson a bit. It was obvious he was not used to being talked to in this manner by a greenie. "Well... uh... yeah, we did notice that. What I'm suggesting is that we come to terms for an official cease-fire agreement."

"Okay," Zoloft said, deliberately making his Martian accent a little thicker, "lay 'em on me and I'll consider it."

"Very well," Dickenson said. "I am willing to concede that my men will be unable to secure the liberation of the city of Eden in their current numbers under the current circumstances."

"Why that's mighty nice of you to concede that. Let's hear the terms."

Dickenson swallowed a few times, seemed about to say something, and then changed his mind. He took a few breaths. "We are willing to withdraw all of our men and equipment from the area of operations around Eden and move back to our landing zone. We would like to do this without being attacked by the insurgents you command."

"My insurgents, as you call them, have been ordered not to fire on you unless you fire on them or unless you start moving forward again. As long as you head back to your LZ and don't shoot at us, we will not shoot at you."

"Well, that is part of the problem," Dickenson said. "We have many wounded out on the ground out there. Those rebar traps and the mortar fire in the anti-tank trench are responsible for most of them. We also have many on the open ground between the anti-tank ditch and the pillbox positions. We need to collect them and load them onto the APCs for transport back to the LZ. In order to do that, we will have to move forward to some degree."

"You can collect all of the wounded in the anti-tank ditch and take them back to the LZ with you," Zoloft told him. "Any wounded east of the anti-tank ditch, however, will be attended to by my forces."

Dickenson shook his head. "That's not acceptable," he said toughly. "My wounded will not be used as further hostages in this conflict."

"They will be treated in our hospitals and given the best care possible," Zoloft said. "After that, they will be held as prisoners of war along with all of the other marines and naval personnel we captured at the beginning of this conflict until such time as a formal armistice is signed and prisoner exchange occurs."

"No," Dickenson said. "We will collect our own wounded."

"You seem to forget who is negotiating from a position of strength here, General," Zoloft said. "You are the one who got your ass kicked. You do not dictate terms to me. I dictate them to you. Your wounded will be collected, treated, and cared for as POWs under the terms of the Geneva Accords — which, I might add, is a courtesy not being returned for those of our forces that you've captured, but that's another story. In any case, the sooner we hammer out a cease fire agreement, the sooner we can go out and start hauling those wounded men in."

"I won't agree to that," Dickenson said.

"Then those men will die out there," Zoloft told him. "Any men moving forward from the main anti-tank trench will be fired upon. Now are you going to agree to this, or not?"

Dickenson remained silent for a few moments. Finally he nodded his head. "Okay," he said. "I'll abide by that. If any of my men are mistreated in any way, however, you will answer for it when this planet is liberated."

"Sounds like an ass-fuck to me," Zoloft said.

"Excuse me?" Dickenson said, genuinely shocked by this common Martian expression.

"That means I agree," Zoloft told him, suppressing a chuckle. "Anything else?"

"Yes, there are a few things."

"Lay 'em on me," Zoloft said.

"Many of my men are getting low on breathing air," Dickenson said. "Some do not have enough to make it back to the LZ. As a term of the cease fire I would like your forces to supply us with extra tanks so we can get everyone back."

"You're joking, right?" Zoloft said.

"I know that your biosuits use different air tanks than ours," Dickenson said. "But the Eden Marine Barracks had a supply of over fifty thousand tanks in one of the storage rooms. If you could put them onto some agricultural trucks and bring them out to us, that should be sufficient to get everyone back safely."

"Are you dusted?" Zoloft asked him. "You're suggesting I supply an invading army that I'm fighting with extra breathing air? Sure, I'll get right on that, Dickenson. Is there anything else you'll be requiring? I can call over to the Alexander Industries plant and see about getting you some extra ammo as well."

"Was that sarcasm?" Dickenson asked carefully.

"Yes," Zoloft said patiently. "That was sarcasm. We will supply no breathing air to your forces. Any of your men who do not have sufficient air to return to the LZ may cross the anti-tank ditch and walk forward to our lines with their hands in the air. They will be taken into custody and kept as POWs until a formal armistice is signed."

"My men will not give up to you," Dickenson said. "They all know how you treat prisoners. They've all seen the reports of you shooting the men from EMB, torturing them, using them as hostages. They will choose instead to die out there in the wastelands."

"Then they will be choosing badly," Zoloft said.

"This could be construed as war crime as well," Dickenson threatened.

Zoloft merely shrugged. "You have to beat us before you can try anyone for war crimes," he said. "I'll worry about that when it happens. No air tanks. You pass on the surrender instructions to your men and they will be treated well until they're released."

"You're being unreasonable," Dickenson said. "You are forgetting that we still have sufficient numbers to push forward and take your city. You're forcing me to consider utilization of that option."

"Don't try to finger my prostate, Dickenson," Zoloft told him. "If your numbers could have taken our city you would have had it by now. My troops are prepared to continue fighting if the need arises. Somehow, however, I don't think yours are. So do we have an agreement, or not?"

"There is one other thing," Dickenson said.

"This should be good. Go ahead."

"We have a number of tanks that do not have enough fuel to make it back to the LZ."

"Don't even suggest it," Zoloft told him. "If you think we're going to refuel your armor so you can take it with you when you go then you're even dumber than you look. Any vehicle that cannot make it back to the LZ becomes Martian property. I'm not going to discuss that one any further."

"That's nothing more than grand theft," Dickenson accused.

"As I said, I'm not going to discuss it any further. Let me summarize the terms I'm offering you, Dickenson. We will not fire upon you unless you move forward from the anti-tank trench in attack posture. Unarmed men will be allowed to cross the anti-tank trench for purposes of surrender as long as they have their hands in the air. In turn, we will collect your wounded from the area between the anti-tank trench and the city itself. This means my people will be moving about in that area, exposed to your men. If so much as a single bullet flies towards any of my people, this cease-fire will be considered null and void and we will unleash everything we have upon you. Do you understand my terms?"

"Yes," Dickenson said. "I understand them, but..."

"No buts," Zoloft said. "Do you agree to my terms?"

Dickenson sighed. "I guess I have no choice," he said. "But believe me when I say, you'll answer for this later."

"Whatever," Zoloft said, making a jerking off motion with his hand. "So it sounds like an ass-fuck then?"

"Uh... yes," Dickenson replied.

"Then say it."

"What?"

"I'm a Martian, Dickenson. I like to hear things in my own language, you know what I mean? So say it."

Dickenson's face was red with anger. Nevertheless, through clenched teeth, he replied, "it sounds like an ass-fuck."

"Very good. I'll send the order out immediately and we'll start getting your wounded in."

Jeff's platoon, as part of the reserve, had been tasked with venturing out into the open area beyond the pillboxes in order to clear and secure a landing zone for the evac aircraft that were coming in to remove the WestHem wounded from this sector. Two main battle tanks were sent out to accompany and support them. They parked themselves about twenty-five meters apart, forward of the LZ location, their main guns and their cannons pointing in the direction of the WestHem forces.

Jeff was nervous at first as he walked out into the open. Never had he felt so exposed. Sure, there was an official cease-fire in place at the moment but there were literally thousands of WestHem marines less than two hundred meters away from him, gathered at the edge of the anti-tank trench. If they decided to break the cease-fire, tanks or no tanks, he and his companions would be easy fodder. But after a few minutes of dragging dead marines out of the one hundred meter circle they were establishing, he began to relax a little. The WestHems were obviously not interested in fighting anymore. They moved slowly, with their heads down, none of them carrying any visible weapons, none of them showing even the least bit of aggression.

Clearing the LZ took about fifteen minutes, during which time they found two marines who were still alive. Once that was complete other squads accompanying teams of medics began to fan out across the field, working in sectors, scanning the dead marines and treating those they found alive. The former category was very much in the majority. The wounded were brought over to a triage area adjacent to the LZ where other medics began to work on them, preparing them for the hovers and the Hummingbirds that were on the way.

Jeff was positioned near the front of one of the tanks, his M-24 slung across his chest. He was sipping from his water every now and then but mostly staring out at the mass of fallen marines, wondering which ones he had shot down. Probably, he figured, quite a few of them since he had manned the 7mm through most of the battle. He wondered if he should feel some sort of regret about having killed so many people. He wondered if he should feel guilty that he didn't. He was about to get around to wondering if he should feel guilty for being happy that he'd killed so many marines when something hit him in the back of his helmet.

He spun around in an instant, bringing his M-24 to bear on whatever the threat might be. What he saw was a Martian soldier sticking up out of the driver's hatch of the tank that was guarding them. A closer look at the soldier's face revealed the all-too-familiar features of Belinda Maxely. She was smiling in a mischievous way.

"Motherfuck," he muttered, lowering his weapon, looking down to see what it was she had thrown at him. Without surprise he found that it was a used waste pack.

She signaled to him to come over to her. Reluctantly, he did. When he arrived she held up two fingers. He nodded and switched to short-range channel two.

"You found that funny, I suppose?" he asked her.

"As a matter of fact I did," she said. "I was kind of hoping it would break open when it hit your helmet."

"Nice," he said. "Do you have any idea how close I came to shooting you? It's not really a good idea to startle someone in a combat area during a war."

She chuckled a little. "I think I just found that out," she said. "I can't believe how fast you turned around. You had that rifle pointed at me before the waste pack even hit the ground."

"We get a little jumpy out here," he said.

She nodded. "I'm sorry," she said. "I didn't know you were going to react like that. I thought I was being funny. Thank you for not shooting me. That would've been your golden opportunity you know."

"Yeah," he said whimsically. "And I passed it up. I'll probably really be pissed at myself later."

"Probably," she agreed. She hesitated for a second. "You heard from X?"

He nodded. "She sent me a text right after the cease-fire was announced. She said she's safe and she's glad I am too."

"She sent me the same," Belinda told him. "I'm sure you've been checking her position on the forces screen every ten minutes like I have."

"Yeah," he admitted, although it had actually been about every five minutes. She was over by pillbox 43, guarding the evac operation in that sector.

"Listen, I really am sorry about throwing that at you. I was being childish. When I saw you were out there I wanted to get your attention so that maybe... you know... we could talk a little."

"About the state of the war?" he asked.

"Don't be a butt-plug," she said. "You know what I want to talk about. You up for it?"

He walked a little closer and sat down on the tread guard next to her hatch. "Yeah," he said. "I guess I'm up for it."

That sat in silence for a few minutes, both of them staring out toward the WestHems, not meeting each other's eyes, both waiting for the other to start. Finally Belinda broke the ice. "We're both in love with Xenia," she said.

"Yes," he agreed. "That seems to be the situation."

"I've admitted that to myself. I don't think you realize how hard that was for me to do. I'm primarily a muff-muncher, although I'm not above a little schlong every now and then for variety."

"Okay," Jeff said, unsure where she was going with this.

"My point is, I love Xenia. I've loved her almost since the first moment I laid eyes on her. I would give anything to be with her, to have her be with me. And I know that she loves me too."

Jeff wanted to dispute this but he didn't. She was right. Xenia loved her as well. It was apparent to anyone who saw the two of them together. He said nothing.

"So since I'm primarily muff-muncher," Belinda went on, "I had a tendency to assume that what Xenia felt for you was something other than love. Infatuation, lust, call it what you will. Since I find it inconceivable to feel anything other than physical attraction for a man, I was trying to convince myself that the woman I'm in love with was the same way. Am I making sense?"

"Somewhat," Jeff said. "I'm not sure what you're getting at though."

"I was wrong," she said simply. "Xenia does love you. She loves you just as much as she loves me. I didn't want to believe that, but I have to because it's true."

"Yes," he said, making the painful admission himself. "She loves us both. That's kind of the problem, wouldn't you say?"

"Well... maybe it's a problem only because we're making it a problem."

Jeff finally looked at her, seeing a serious expression on her face. "What do you mean?"

"She's not with either one of us because both of us have told her that we won't be with her until she says 'I love you'. Right?"

"Right," he said, "although I hear that she did actually say that to you and you still turned her down."

Belinda chuckled. "She has a big mouth. But yes, that's pretty much what happened. Although I know she really loves me, she didn't mean it when she said it to me in the tank. I mean... well... she means it, but she wasn't saying it because she wanted me to know she loved me, she was saying it because she was horny and wanted me to munch her out to relieve that. That's why I turned her down. I want a sincere, genuine 'I love you' before I give up the tongue."

"I will admit," he said, "you have some rankin' willpower."

"She'll never know how close I was," Belinda said with a small shake of the head. "But anyway, you know what she's been telling us about why she doesn't say she loves us?"

"About how we're in the middle of a war and she doesn't know if we're even gonna be alive?"

"Right," Belinda said. "I don't think that's really the reason why. I think she might believe that's the reason — that's why she sounds so sincere when she spouts off about it — but I think it's really something else."

"What?" he asked.

"She loves us both and she's afraid to choose."

Jeff thought this over for a few seconds and then nodded. "That could be," he said. "And do you have a solution to this dilemma?"

She laughed. "You're picking up some mighty big words there, Mr. Capitalist gang banger dust runner."

He shrugged. "I've been hangin' out with educated people. So what's your solution?"

"Well, we've been assuming all this time that whoever she says she loves the first time — whoever she says it to sincerely — is the one who wins, right?"

"Yeah," he said. "Are you saying that's not the case?"

"I'm saying that's why she hasn't told either one of us. She loves us both and she doesn't want to pick one or the other. If she does, she'll lose the one she didn't pick. Either you or I will be hurt and she'll probably have some lingering resentment towards whoever she did pick because she lost that person, possibly enough resentment to sour any further relationship."

"So what are you saying?"

"I'm saying that the path we're traveling on has the potential of making everyone lose. There's another path though. One where everyone can win."

"What path is that?"

"You ever heard of a triad?" she asked.

He licked his lips a little. "You ain't talking about the city up in fuckin' orbit, are you?"

"No," she said. "I'm talking about a relationship between three people instead of two. A relationship in which we would basically share Xenia instead of forcing her to choose between us."

Jeff was quite flabbergasted. "Share her?" he asked. "Are you fuckin' dusted? That could never work."

"On the contrary," she said. "I know of many triad relationships back in New Pittsburgh. A few of them that have been going on for ten years or more."

"You're shitting me," he accused.

"Not at all. When you're a muff-muncher or a rump-ranger you get quite attuned to the ins and outs of the members of that community. Such things are illegal, of course, under the WestHem system, but we're not really under the WestHem system anymore, are we?"

"These people you're talking about," he said. "They've been doing this for ten years?"

"Yes."

"Do you actually know them?" he asked. "Or are you spouting off some rumors you heard from the other muff-munchers?"

"One of the triads I know very well," she said. "When I first started working for the Mama Rosa's in NP the manager there was part of a triad. I didn't know that at first until I ran into him at a community bar but..."

"A community bar?" Jeff asked. "What's that?"

"It's a bar where muff-munchers and rump-rangers hang out. Surely you've heard of them?"

"I'm vermin, remember? We don't have bars in the ghetto, community or otherwise. We get our intoxicants at the fuckin' AgriCorp welfare mart."

"Oh... I see. Well, anyway, I went into the bar and found Robert — he's the manager — in there with this other dude and this bitch. And both of them were hugging and squeezing and kissing and sucking all over him. He invited me over to join them and that's when he first told me about the whole triad thing. They've been living together for years and all three of them are quite in love. They are some of the happiest people I've ever met."

"In love," he said. "Doesn't your plan kind of fall apart there?"

"What do you mean?" she asked.

"Well, you love Xenia and I love Xenia and she loves both of us, right?"

"Right," she agreed.

"But we don't love each other," he said. "In fact I think it would be safe to say that we can't stand each other. Wouldn't that make it kind of hard to work this triad thing?"

"That is a very good point," Belinda said. "But let me ask you something. Why don't we like each other?"

"Huh?"

"Well why don't you like me?" she asked. "Is it because I'm a muff muncher?"

"No," he said. "Why should I give a shit if you fuck girls? It ain't none of my business."

"Exactly," she said. "That's a very Martian attitude. Do you not like me because I wasn't vermin? Because I've been part of the working class all my life?"

"Well... no," he said. "I used to hate all working class people — that's true enough — but since I signed up I've been around them a lot. I've realized what Laura Whiting has been saying is true, that we were programmed to hate each other. Shit, Xenia is working class and I sure as shit don't hate her."

"And I don't dislike you because you're not a rump ranger," she said. "And I don't dislike you because you were vermin. I've been around a lot of former vermin myself and I've come to the same realization. So what does that leave us with?"

"You're saying we don't like each other because of Xenia?" he asked.

"Fuckin' aye," she said. "That's the only reason. Jealousy and competition with each other. We both love the same woman and we developed an instinctual dislike for each other because of the competition. But what if we're not competing? What then? When I force myself to do some examination of your character without the factor of Xenia involved, I find that you're actually quite a nice guy. You're funny. You're actually kind of smart. Most of all, you care for Xenia a whole lot. If the competition is removed maybe we could learn to like each other."

"Wow," he said, doing as she suggested and removing Xenia from the equation. If she weren't there would there have been any reason for him to dislike Belinda? No, there really wasn't. "But what makes you think the competition and the jealousy would go away if we tried this? Wouldn't we still be trying to prove something to each other?"

"That's possible," she admitted. "I'm not saying this thing will work. Hell, we might end up all hating each other. I think it's worth a shot though. It's better than where we're at now, which is hating each other and neither one of us getting any fuckin' poon from a bitch who is dying to give us some."

Jeff was still thinking it over when the first two hovers came flying in from Eden, preparing to land and pick up the worst of the WestHem wounded. He was ordered back to his position by Sergeant Walker.

"Think about it," Belinda told him as he stood up from the tread guard. "We'll get together when they let us back inside. If you're game, maybe we'll have a little chat with the X-girl about all this."

"I'll do that," he promised. And he did.



Eden MPG base

2206 hours

Matt Mendez was barely cognizant of the fact that the Mosquito he was in had just touched down on the main runway outside the base. He felt the gentle thump, felt the push against his restraint harness as Brian put on the brakes and slowed them to taxiing speed. He was weak all over, feeling like it was an effort just to move his arms or turn his head. He had never been so tired in all his life. The pain in his butt cheek was still there but had mostly faded to a dull, aching numbness.

"You okay, kid?" Brian's voice asked in his earpiece.

"Yeah," he mumbled automatically. "I just need some rest is all."

They had been circling fifty kilometers north of the battlefield for the past two hours, on standby in case there was a break in the cease-fire. So far, there hadn't been one. Matt had actually dozed off at his control panel several times. Once he had gone so far asleep he had started dreaming.

"Coming up on the airlock," Brian told him.

"Static," Matt said, hardly comprehending him.

"Get ready for heavying."

"Yeah," he said.

He came fully awake when the artificial gravity field was turned on, suddenly making him weigh three times as much as he had the moment before. A wave of nausea and sickness suddenly washed over him, bringing with it a searing pain in his chest. He found it hard to breathe, as if every inhalation was against an elephant sitting on his chest.

"Boss," he said, his voice barely audible.

"Yeah?" Brian asked.

"I think... I think you'd better get some medics over here for me."

Brian turned around to look at him, gazing on his face for the first time in hours. Even in the dim lighting, even through the helmet, he could see that Matt's face had gone beyond pale and into the land of ashen. "Jesus fucking Christ, kid," he said. "What happened?"

"I don't know," he said. "I'm just really... weak and it's hard to breathe."

Brian immediately got on the communications link and told them he had an injured sis. They vectored him toward the far section of he aircraft hanger where a transportation point had been set up to transfer the wounded marines from the hovers and the Hummingbirds to the dip-hoe carts. He brought the plane to a halt and opened the hatch, waving frantically at two dip-hoes who were manning this area.

They came over just as he pulled his helmet off. "My sis is not looking good," he told them. "Get a ladder set and help me get him down from here."

They immediately ran and got one of the wheeled ladders and brought it over. By the time they got Matt pulled from his harness and down to the ground he was only semi-conscious. He woke up a little bit when they laid him flat.

"Did he get hit?" one of the dip-hoes asked.

"He got hit yesterday," Brian replied. "During the air-strike. We got shot down and he took some shrapnel in his ass. Nothing today though."

The two medics looked at each other. "Was the wound fused shut?" one of them asked.

"They couldn't fuse it because of the way it was," Brian said. "He left the hospital and came back to fly with me. He's been hurting the whole time we've been up there but he's hung in there."

"His biosuit doesn't fit right," the other medic said. "It's really loose right on his ass."

"It's not the one they fitted for him," Brian said. "That one got shredded when he was hit."

"You let him go up with an uncleared injury and wearing a biosuit that doesn't fit?" the first medic asked angrily. "Why didn't you just take him out behind the building and shoot him?"

"What the fuck are you talking about?" Brian asked.

"What do you guys pull up there? Two Gs? Three Gs?"

"Yeah, about that," Brian said.

"All of that weight pushes down on your ass, doesn't it?"

"Well... yeah."

"I hope I'm not right," the medic said. "Lets get the suit off of him."

They did, pulling off the helmet and then unzipping the suit itself. When they pulled it off of his body a large glut of congealed blood spilled out of the aft portion onto the ground.

"Jesus fucking Christ," Brian exclaimed, shocked at the sheer amount of it. Matt's entire leg was drenched in it and there was even more still inside the suit.

"He must've lost two liters," the medic said incredulously. "If he wouldn't have been in reduced gravity all this time he'd be dead."

"All from a little skin off his ass?" Brian asked.

"Every time you pulled Gs up there it was forcing the wound back open and making blood pour out of it. How long were you up there?"

"Almost eighteen hours," Brian said.

"I'm surprised he was able to stay conscious that long. Let's get an IV line in him and put in some synthetic blood."

"Is he gonna make it?" Brian asked.

"He'll make it," the medic said, running a scanner over him. "I wish I could say the same for his kidneys though. They're completely shut down from the blood loss."

"My kidneys?" Matt mumbled. "I can't afford no new kidneys." Organ cloning was something that had been available since World War III, but only to those with the money to pay for it.

"Don't worry, kid," Brian said. "We'll get you some new kidneys if I have to fuckin' pay for them myself."

Main anti-tank trench, Eden

September 15, 2146, 0224 hours

Captain Callahan was not as exhausted as Matt Mendez, but he was close. For the past six hours he and the remains of his company (they had re-grouped after the cease-fire but only forty-eight of his men were still alive and unwounded) had been down in the anti-tank trench, sorting through the dead, through the body parts, through the absolute horror of the aftermath of the battle, trying to find men who were still alive and salvageable. Upon finding such men they would pull them out and lift them to the west side of the trench where other marines would carry them to one of the waiting APCs that had survived. When the APCs filled with wounded as many men as could climb onto the outside would do so and they would head back towards the LZ.

Callahan had been offered rides back on several occasions but he had refused, wanting to stay and coordinate the rescue effort for his section. And now that six hours had passed and all of the spare air tanks had been given out, it was no longer possible for him to go back. He, like many of his compatriots, only had about an hour's worth of air left.

"What are you gonna do?" asked Captain Jacobs, who had been in charge of Delta Company from his battalion. He, like Callahan, had tried to evacuate the lower ranks first.

"I don't know," Callahan replied. "I've got about fifty-five minutes left at the rate I'm sucking it up. I guess it's about time to shit or get off the pot."

Jacobs looked at him. "I'm not gonna be a Martian prisoner," he said. "I made up my mind about an hour ago but I've been trying not to think about it."

Callahan did not question his decision. He was thinking of making the same one himself. Ever since the Martians had first taken control of Mars all those long months ago they had been told, sometimes in graphic detail, what the greenies did to captured prisoners. It was said that they had lined most of the Fast Reaction Division from EMB up against walls and gut-shot them, letting them die slowly. Others, it was said, had been tortured for hours before being burned alive, or killed with electricity, or allowed to succumb to radiation sickness. Though there was no independent verification of these atrocity reports other than mysterious statements attributed to "WestHem loyalists caught on the planet", neither man had any trouble believing them. After all, not a single marine or a single sailor that had been captured with the planet had been heard from since.

"How you gonna do it?" Callahan asked him. "Just let your air run out or are you gonna take the easy way?"

"The easy way," Jacobs said. "I don't see any sense in suffocating. Not when there's a way to make it quick."

Callahan nodded. "It's a little more courageous that way, isn't it?"

"Yeah," Jacobs agreed. "Any chance I can get you to do it for me? It's not a mortal sin that way."

"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.

Another MPG MP was standing on the other side of the shower. He looked Callahan up and down for a moment and then directed him forward. "Go see the doc over there," he said, "and then we'll get you some clothes."

Callahan simply nodded and stepped forward. A medic ran a scanner over him and asked him a few questions about the wounds on his back.

"I got 'em in phase one," he said. "Shrapnel. It's healing."

"Sounds like an ass-fuck," the medic said. He reached into a bin beside him and pulled out a pair of green shorts, a green T-shirt with the letters POW on the front and back, and a pair of leather moccasins. "Put these on and then you can hit the chow line."

Callahan took them. "No underwear?" he asked.

"We don't wear underwear on Mars," the medic said with a chuckle. "Now hurry along or your food will get cold."

Callahan hurried along, stepping forward and putting his new clothes on. He walked to the next station where another MP stopped him and ran an identity scanner over him once more.

"Captain Eric Callahan?" he asked.

"Yes," Callahan said, hiding the fact that he was impressed they'd updated his rank so quickly.

"Hold out your right wrist please."

He did as told. A small bracelet was clamped onto it.

"This is a GPS tracking bracelet," the MP told him. "It can locate you no matter where you go and it will alarm our control center if you step outside of your authorized area. It's programmed with your name and rank. Don't try to remove it or destroy it."

"I won't," Callahan said.

"You're good to go," the MP said. "Your authorized area for now is anywhere inside that white line. If you go outside the white line the alarm will go off and we'll be very upset with you."

"What happens when you get upset with me?" he asked, unable to help himself.

"You end up locked in a cell somewhere," the MP said. "What did you think?"

Callahan didn't answer him. He stepped inside the white line and made his way through the other prisoners, his nose leading him to the barbeque area. His eyes widened in amazement as he saw what was being prepared.

A team of five MPG cooks were flipping hamburgers on the grill. Fresh-baked buns were stacked in bins next to this. On the other side of the grill were fresh tomatoes, pickles, lettuce, and mountains of cheddar cheese slices. Beyond this were tubs full of potato salad, macaroni salad, and baked beans. Beyond this were large tubs filled with ice and plastic bottles of water, juice, and soda.

"Is this some kind of interrogation trick?" the man next to Callahan asked.

"Or maybe a last meal?" Callahan replied.

They looked at each other and then Callahan shrugged. "Oh well," he said. "I'm going with it for now. If it's a last meal I might as well enjoy it."

He stepped forward and picked up one of the thick, hemp paper plates. The MPG cook manning this section of the line nodded at him in greeting. "How you doin', my fine ass-buddy?" he asked. "What you down with? One burger or two?"

"Uh... can I have two?" he asked quietly.

"Fuckin' aye," the cook said. "You can have three of the motherfuckers if you want."

"Uh... two then," he said.

"That's the shit," the cook told him. He pulled two of the fresh buns out of the bin and peeled them open, setting them on Callahan's plate. He then used his spatula to remove two of the beef patties from the grill. "Medium okay with you?" he asked.

"Yeah, sure," Callahan replied.

The patties were put on the buns. "There you go," the cook said. "Sorry it's not the best quality of meat we have but production in the stockyards has been down a bit during the war. You know how it is?"

"Yeah," Callahan said, refusing to say anything else. He moved down the line and put every available vegetable and condiment onto his burgers. He then grabbed a large spoonful of the beans and the potato salad. He was given a packet with plastic silverware and hemp napkins in it by one of the other cooks. He then grabbed a bottle of AgriCorp lemon-lime soda from the ice.

He sat down at one of the tables and dug into his food. He didn't know if it was because he'd spent the last few days eating nothing but food paste, but the hamburgers were delicious, the best he had ever tasted. The potato salad and the baked beans were also a culinary experience to be reckoned with.

"This is some good fuckin' food," the man next to him — he had introduced himself as Lieutenant Dan Baker from the 327^th ACR — proclaimed. "Do you think this is some kind of a trick, Captain?"

"I don't know," Callahan said, unsure what to think anymore. "I guess we'll find out soon enough, won't we?"

Aboard the WSS Nebraska, Mars orbit

September 15, 2146, 0330 hours

General Browning had been hiding in his office ever since Dickenson had disobeyed his orders and negotiated a cease-fire in Eden. The only communications heard from him were orders to Major Wilde to make sure that the marines in New Pittsburgh attacked as soon as possible.

"Since that coward Dickenson refuses to go up against Eden like a man, I need to make sure we at least take New Pittsburgh. I will not leave this planet in defeat, Wilde. Do you hear me?"

"I hear you," Wilde had assured him. "The New Pittsburgh units are still trying to resupply and refuel so they can make their attack on the line. They're being hampered by fierce artillery fire, special forces attacks, sniper attacks, and air attacks. APC losses are nearing critical."

"Exactly," Browning had said. "So the sooner they attack, the better. I want them moving the instant they have sufficient supplies and fuel. The second!"

"Yes, sir," Wilde replied. "I'll see what I can do."

That had been five hours ago. Now, Wilde entered Browning's office to find him sipping from a whiskey drink. Judging by the redness in the general's eyes, it wasn't the first one.

"What do you want?" Browning asked. "Are they moving on New Pittsburgh yet?"

"No, sir," Wilde told him. "They're not... and uh... well... they're not going to be moving on it."

Browning's face began to turn red. "What do you mean by that?" he asked.

"I just got off the com with General Blackwood," he said. General Blackwood was the commanding officer of the New Pittsburgh operations. "He says his men are refusing to advance against the line. They know what happened in Eden and they've apparently decided that retreating sounds like a good idea."

"They heard about what happened in Eden?" Browning thundered. "Who the hell told them about Eden? It's not like they're sitting out their with view screens and Internet access!"

"I don't know, sir," Wilde said wearily. "Most of the command staff back in the landing ships probably knew about the cease-fire in Eden. All they would have to do is mention it to one of the field commanders. If two or three field commanders started talking about it on the radio frequencies some of the lower ranks would have overheard the conversation. It wouldn't take long before everyone heard about it."

"That's treasonous!" Browning exclaimed. "Loose lips sink ships. You ever heard that one, Wilde?"

"A time or two," he said.

"That's exactly what happened in New Pittsburgh. We need to tell those marines down there that any rumors they've heard about a cease-fire in Eden is a bald faced lie. We need to tell them that Eden will fall within hours."

"That's already been tried, General," Wilde said. "It seems the men don't believe that."

"Get me Blackwood on the com," Browning ordered. "I'll tell him what he needs to do."

"Blackwood is not taking any calls from command, General. He has already contacted MPG command in New Pittsburgh and asked for a formal cease-fire. His request was granted and the firing stopped five minutes ago."

"He asked for a cease-fire without orders?" Browning cried. "At least that traitor Dickenson asked me first before he disobeyed my refusal. That's why this goddamn war was lost, Wilde. Because men won't obey their fucking orders!"

"Yes, sir," Wilde said, making little effort to sound placating. "In any case, the withdrawal from New Pittsburgh has just begun. Like in Eden, we have many wounded and not enough APCs to get everyone back to the LZ. Although we're not short on supplies and we do have the ability to replace air tanks, the Martians have refused to let the APCs make more than one trip. Any men that can't be carried out on the withdrawal with have to surrender."

"And Blackwood agreed to this term?" Browning asked. "That's as bad as Dickenson agreeing to leave nearly nine hundred of our tanks out there for the Martians to capture."

"Sir, there really wasn't much of a choice in either case I'm afraid. We've lost. We should be grateful the Martians granted the terms they did."

"Grateful," Browning spat. "They engineered this whole thing by refusing to fire on our troops when they pulled back the first time. They deliberately encouraged cowardice in order to foment this disgusting withdrawal."

"Yes," Wilde said. "That's exactly what they did. And it worked."

Browning was shaking his head, seemingly near tears. "I lost a war to a bunch of fucking greenies," he said. "I'll be the laughing stock of all time. They'll drum me out of the service and put me in the ghetto with the vermin. I'll go down in history texts as the man who couldn't beat a fucking bunch of vermin descendents when I outnumbered them eight to one!"

Wilde didn't quite know what to say to this. Everything Browning had just told him was true, of course. He decided to bring up another subject. "Sir," he said, "the media reps are quite upset that they haven't been updated in the past eight hours. They keep comming me, demanding to know what's going on down on the surface. As you'll recall, you promised them you'd be in Eden by sunset. And... well... since you're not briefing them any longer they've started to send off speculation."

"What kind of speculation?" Browning asked.

"The most prevailing rumor is that we've entered Eden and are experiencing heavy insurgent resistance in the streets there."

Browning shook his head. "If only that were the truth," he said. "Okay, I guess its time for me to bite the bullet. Have someone bring me a cup of coffee and I'll send a briefing off to the Executive Council. My guess is I'll be arrested shortly after and I won't have to worry about briefing the fucking press."

MarsGroup had been reporting on the battles for Eden and New Pittsburgh non-stop, on nearly all of their video channels, for the past forty-eight hours, pre-empting most of their regular programming to broadcast updates as they came in. MarsGroup reporters were located in various places throughout the fringes of the battle. Several teams of them had been allowed onto portions of both bases, including the flight lines and the wounded triage areas. Pictures of Mosquitoes and Hummingbirds taking off on their missions or returning for refuel were one of the staples of the war coverage. So were pictures of wounded MPG troops being brought in from the field. Though General Jackson or General Zoloft or General Montoya or Laura Whiting had given no official briefings, the reporters had plenty of unofficial contacts and during the course of the battle had been able to tap these sources in order to present the Martian citizens with a fairly accurate picture of what was going on.

Greater than ninety percent of the Martian viewing audience had stayed awake all night, watching as the reporters told them that Eden was within thirty minutes of falling, that WestHem marines were within sight of the MPG base and then, later, that they'd suddenly lost their taste for the battle and had turned away at the last second. It had been rumored that a cease-fire had been arranged by General Zoloft in Eden and then, later, by General Montoya in New Pittsburgh. There were even shots of hundreds and then thousands of WestHem marines being brought in as wounded or marched in as POWs. But still, everyone held his or her breath, waiting for some kind of official word.

That official word came at 0700 hours on the morning of September 15, 2146. For the previous thirty minutes the reporters, after hashing over already reported information and showing the same old file shots, had been reporting that a briefing was being scheduled from the Martian Capital Building in New Pittsburgh. When the appointed time came, the view changed from a shot of WestHem prisoners being led into the Eden MPG base to a live view of Laura Whiting's desk. Laura herself was sitting there, looking tired, worn, but cheerful, dressed in her now-customary half-shirt, her face without make-up, her hair carelessly styled. As she began to speak the media computers were logging a record-breaking ninety-nine point three percent viewer rate.

"My fellow Martians," Whiting said, a smile forming on her face. "I am proud to report to you that we have apparently succeeded in our endeavor to keep this planet in our hands and out of the hands of the WestHem corporations who have ruled us for so long. As of 2035 hours last night, an official cease-fire in the Eden area of operations has been in place. As of 0325 hours this morning, an official cease-fire in the New Pittsburgh area of operations has been in place. For the moment, all hostilities have stopped, none of our cities have been breached, and the WestHem marines who tried to jack them from us by force are in full retreat back to their landing zones. Mars will remain free, people. We have done it."

From every building in every city on Mars, from every bar, every factory where workers toiled, every patrol car belonging to every police station, every hospital, every tenement-housing complex, wild cheers erupted as the word officially became official.

"I can hear cheers coming up from the lower levels of this very building right now," Whiting went on after pausing for a moment to let her news sink in. "I think all of you know me enough by now and have been watching enough MarsGroup reports to realize that I am not exaggerating in any way. We've beaten them, people. All of us, together. We have kicked the invading forces off our planet through sheer force of will. They have just lost their best chance to return us to their corrupt system of rule.

"The price for this victory was not cheap. As you've seen from the MarsGroup reports, we had frighteningly high casualties during the past forty-eight hours. The latest figures I have — which include those casualties taken in Operation Red Grab at the beginning of the conflict and those in Operation Interdiction — are three thousand, two hundred, and thirty-seven men and women killed in this conflict. Six thousand, four hundred and ninety-three have been wounded. Seventy-four combat soldiers are reported missing in action, which means they are most likely captured by the WestHems. And, not to be forgotten, there are currently forty-four thousand, eight hundred and sixty-one Martian citizens who were on Earth, Ganymede, or serving in the WestHem armed forces when the conflict erupted. My information is that all of these people are being held as enemy insurgents by the WestHem government as well.

"We have no accurate count of the WestHem casualties we inflicted in this struggle but our best estimates put it in the neighborhood of one hundred and seventy thousand dead, perhaps half that many wounded. We have destroyed over three thousand tanks and five thousand armored personnel carriers in the ground conflict alone. And, as of five minutes ago, we have captured more than twenty-five thousand WestHem marines and sixteen thousand WestHem naval personnel.

"Those are the numbers, people, and I've reported the figures as accurately as I could. I'm not proud of the fact that we've killed so many young marines in this struggle and you shouldn't be either. We did what we had to do and our goal in doing it was ultimately successful. For those who want to know the ins and outs of the battles for Eden and New Pittsburgh, General Jackson — the primary author of those battles — will be giving a briefing on it early this afternoon. But for the time being, the WestHems are pulling back and I'm told they are incapable of mounting any sort of offensive against us that would have any hope of succeeding. Most of our combat troops will remain in their positions outside Eden and New Pittsburgh until those landing ships actually leave our planet. That will be anywhere from forty-eight to ninety-six hours according to General Jackson and his staff.

"Tomorrow morning, after the WestHem commanders have had time to brief the WestHem Executive Council on their defeat, I will be contacting that body myself with an offer to open negotiations for a formal armistice in this conflict. I will stand firm in my demands for this planet. Mars will remain free and separate from the WestHem or the EastHem economic system. Prisoners of war will be exchanged in accordance with standard Geneva Convention rules. Most important, WestHem will recognize our planet as an autonomous government.

"I don't expect them to agree to these terms. They will make up the stories they need to and try to convince their populace that this was not really a defeat for them. At some point — probably sooner than later — they will send more troops to this planet and they will try to take it from us again. If we stand together, if we continue to cooperate with each other as we've done since our vote for independence, they will not succeed.

"We are free, people. You all know what it feels like now and you all know that we can fight well enough to maintain this freedom. That is all I have to say for now. We've freed Mars, people. We've freed Mars."

She signed off a moment later, not taking any questions from the reporters. Within minutes of the end of her speech the streets of every Martian city were swarmed with the citizenry as they danced and celebrated victory.