I was first asked to write a history of the Earth/Mars conflict by Professor Joseph Elder of the University of Texas at Austin, over a beer and some overcooked calamari during a chance meeting in a restaurant in Dallas. Not the most prestigious of requests, or the most prestigious of beginnings – but, then, I’m not the most prestigious of individuals, no matter what the news broadcasts say.
Right then, my first answer was point-blank refusal.
I’m not the type to spend a book extolling the merits and flaws of my combat strategy, debating the twists and turns of the political and social climate between the planets, or fondly reminiscing of the ‘good old days’.
No soldier ever truly escapes the wars they’ve fought, and I’m no exception. The memories may be getting old, but the wounds – scarred and closed – stay as deep as ever.
I haven’t spoken to Dr. Elder since then. I’m not sure if he’s still around to read a book like this one. I’m certainly sure it’s not what he expected.
So, I suppose here’s where I put a warning to all potential readers: this is not a history book. It’s not a factual account of the events leading up to the war; there is no summary of key battles. I have never diagrammed space- or ground-battle tactics. In fact, this isn’t about the first war at all.
It amazes me what sort of life celebrities, or public figures, can lead – without the media ever truly understanding past the façade.
According to the press releases from the Department of Space and Defense, I’m the perfect general. My military record is spotless, my men love me, and I’m a cool-headed, tactically brilliant leader. They also happen to mention that I single-handedly won the Battle of Toridia, the “final defeat” for the Martian ground forces. The truth is far from the picture.
Honestly, as anyone who lived and breathed then knows, the world was in the grips of an incredible depression. Never before had a war been fought that drained so many resources from mother Earth. Machine shops in South Africa, Russia, Japan and Brazil worked 24/7 to even create enough raw material for the fleet of space ships that the ragtag Martian Navy shredded, one by one. Food was scarce, because who had the time for growing crops when rebels on the Moon might drop more of their rock “bombs” any second?
Earth won the war, at the Battle of Toridia. And if they’d gone for another few weeks, another few months, maybe another year, they would have won it with some other battle.
As it was, the Prime Minister of the Seventh United Nations needed a hero.
He picked me.
It wasn’t too hard. I had to strut my medals at public appearances; I had to smile at the cameras and pretend to be proud of my victory for the people of Earth. And I was proud, of course I was proud, I stopped the bloodshed, blocked the tide of hatred, changed history forever.
I did it wrong, though.
I will never forget the massacre committed in my name at that battle. To win a war, I lost something crucial, something it took me a hell of a long time to get back. Something I only regained because of one man.
If you’re a citizen of Earth, Venus, Mars, the Moon, the Stations, whatever, and you’ve heard my name, undoubtedly you’ve also heard the name of Derek Rayne. He was as infamous as I was famous (reverse those two, for the Martians in the audience. If any of them bother to read what someone like me would have to say).
Maybe you’ve even heard my name and Derek Rayne’s connected.
And maybe, maybe you’ve even heard that he was under my custody during the period of forced surrender, between the first and second Martian conflicts. If so, you’d be in the minority.
Well, I set out to introduce this book, and I suppose this, in the end, is what I have to say: This is not my story. This is Derek Rayne’s story, and I believe I’m the only one in this solar system qualified enough to tell it. It’s grueling, and it’s tough, and it’s not for the weak of mind or heart. But it’s a story I believe must be told, and Colonel Rayne has given his consent, tentative as it is, from within military custody where he currently resides.
Without further ado, on to the story.
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
Tuesday, May 20, 2008
33
It was the first snowfall of the year today. It's been a dry winter, so far. Some minor flurries, but nothing like this. It turned dark in the middle of the day; the base grounded all air and space travel, everyone closed their windows, the foot traffic disappeared from the streets. The weather warning was for three feet of snow. It's a little more than what Chicago is really used to.
Angilo couldn't get enough of it. He was near the window, all day, barely pretending to work on the files in front of him. He was entranced by the sky, and how the clouds were getting darker.
I couldn't stop watching him, but he didn't notice.
Once, he got a phone call. The person on the other end was doing most of the talking. I didn't really hear what it was about. The pain in my leg was flaring up, and I was breathing, deep and even. It was an exercise Cerebel taught me, back during the war.
"Thank you, sir," I heard Angilo say. "You have my word."
He slid the phone closed, and glanced towards me. "You tired of sitting around the apartment all day?"
I was. It's was maddening, being trapped here. The snow was a relief; it made my prison a prison of nature, not a prison of man.
"I have you another job."
He waited for my reaction. I don't know if I gave one. If I did, he's one of the people in the world who could have seen it.
"It's with kids," he said. "Martians."
It was like a flash of ice, through the pit of my stomach. "I don't know if I can-"
"Rayne," he interrupted (my name, get my name off of your tongue), "they need someone."
"Do you play chess?" I asked him, after a pause.
"Um," said Angilo, "a little?"
"Bring a set," I told him. "Next time you come."
Angilo couldn't get enough of it. He was near the window, all day, barely pretending to work on the files in front of him. He was entranced by the sky, and how the clouds were getting darker.
I couldn't stop watching him, but he didn't notice.
Once, he got a phone call. The person on the other end was doing most of the talking. I didn't really hear what it was about. The pain in my leg was flaring up, and I was breathing, deep and even. It was an exercise Cerebel taught me, back during the war.
"Thank you, sir," I heard Angilo say. "You have my word."
He slid the phone closed, and glanced towards me. "You tired of sitting around the apartment all day?"
I was. It's was maddening, being trapped here. The snow was a relief; it made my prison a prison of nature, not a prison of man.
"I have you another job."
He waited for my reaction. I don't know if I gave one. If I did, he's one of the people in the world who could have seen it.
"It's with kids," he said. "Martians."
It was like a flash of ice, through the pit of my stomach. "I don't know if I can-"
"Rayne," he interrupted (my name, get my name off of your tongue), "they need someone."
"Do you play chess?" I asked him, after a pause.
"Um," said Angilo, "a little?"
"Bring a set," I told him. "Next time you come."
Thursday, May 15, 2008
32
We walked back to the military base - me in badly-fitting civilian clothes, half-leaning on a cane, and him in his Earth military uniform, posture straight, gait even.
"Isn't this against the rules?" I asked him.
"Yes," he said.
- gods, I hate him. He says things like that - tosses them off, like they mean nothing, and then he looks at me as though he expects me to be grateful. If I would just break down and sign the surrender agreement, it means that he would be right.
Son of a bitch.
"Isn't this against the rules?" I asked him.
"Yes," he said.
- gods, I hate him. He says things like that - tosses them off, like they mean nothing, and then he looks at me as though he expects me to be grateful. If I would just break down and sign the surrender agreement, it means that he would be right.
Son of a bitch.
Monday, May 12, 2008
31
I find myself with little to write about, near the end of my recovery. The nurse is restless when she's in the room; the doctor is short-tempered, and he doesn't make eye contact. They want me gone, and with good reason. The riots are only three days over, and the President has yet to rescind the order of temporary martial law.
The days pass, like they did before. Angilo is here less often, and when he is, he keeps his distance. Perhaps the touch affected him more than it affected me.
There's a kind of poetry around growing up on Mars. I think Earth natives, who have never been, imagine a red sky, red light, fiery people and their fiery beliefs. They make it a kind of mystical place. It was their fear, the ingrained terror of the god of war, that we counted on to let us win the war.
Growing up on Mars isn't a poem. It isn't a nightmare, either, if that's what you were expecting.
(I say 'you'. I don't even know who I'm addressing.)
I grew up in a normal way, in a normal Haven. Its name was Whitefall - I think named after a river in the Earth-based hometown of the founder. I don't remember his name. I remember he had seven children...
Education in Whitefall was good. Not the best on Mars, not the worst. I remember a classmate of mine - in fact, later she became very important. She
Enough. Maybe I'll write more about her later.
The sky wasn't red, of course; in places where the original colonists bothered to properly top the domes, the sky is blue, like Earth's. In the cheaper, faster setups, the sky is gray, the color of the metal and ceramic construction.
I suppose the most important part of this trip down memory lane is that I grew up in peace. When you grow up in peace, you assume it will last forever.
The days pass, like they did before. Angilo is here less often, and when he is, he keeps his distance. Perhaps the touch affected him more than it affected me.
There's a kind of poetry around growing up on Mars. I think Earth natives, who have never been, imagine a red sky, red light, fiery people and their fiery beliefs. They make it a kind of mystical place. It was their fear, the ingrained terror of the god of war, that we counted on to let us win the war.
Growing up on Mars isn't a poem. It isn't a nightmare, either, if that's what you were expecting.
(I say 'you'. I don't even know who I'm addressing.)
I grew up in a normal way, in a normal Haven. Its name was Whitefall - I think named after a river in the Earth-based hometown of the founder. I don't remember his name. I remember he had seven children...
Education in Whitefall was good. Not the best on Mars, not the worst. I remember a classmate of mine - in fact, later she became very important. She
Enough. Maybe I'll write more about her later.
The sky wasn't red, of course; in places where the original colonists bothered to properly top the domes, the sky is blue, like Earth's. In the cheaper, faster setups, the sky is gray, the color of the metal and ceramic construction.
I suppose the most important part of this trip down memory lane is that I grew up in peace. When you grow up in peace, you assume it will last forever.
Saturday, May 10, 2008
30
I suppose I should record what happened, for posterity. I find it highly doubtful that there will be any records remaining - the security cameras, no doubt, were deactivated. The soldiers, in all probability, were not disciplined for their actions. This, like any other violent incident during the riots, will probably slip away from the historical record, like it never was.
How do I begin?
It was an ordinary day. That is, what passes for an ordinary day, now. I was watching the news, my only contact to the outside world - we're very sheltered, very isolated in the base. The news isn't in depth, it's not deeply insightful, but it's enough.
When the door opened, I thought it was Angilo. I was tense, anxious - not in the quiet, terrified way the Terrans have been, for the last month. I wasn't terrified, I was angry, I was frustrated.
It wasn't just one set of footsteps that came inside. There were too many
{Note: This sentence ended without punctuation or further words. The next begins on the following line.}
It's harder to write this than I expected. What if the military is still spying on me? It's difficult to think that someone I don't know is finding this out about me, analyzing it, storing it in a little file with the potential for using it later.
There were six of them. Maybe seven. The highest ranked was a corporal. Enlisted army men, the kind that they use as guards to prevent the Martians from escaping.
Well, I suppose putting someone in the hospital is a sufficient deterrent to escape.
I would rather not record the rest.
{It is interesting to note that Rayne was correct in his criticism of the historical record. There is no mention of this incident in the logs surrounding his capture and imprisonment. Likewise, there are no disciplinary records for the postulated seven soldiers involved. The only other mention of this incident can be found in the video recordings of General Angilo's testimony at a hearing, prior to his appointment to the special fugitive investigation squad.}
How do I begin?
It was an ordinary day. That is, what passes for an ordinary day, now. I was watching the news, my only contact to the outside world - we're very sheltered, very isolated in the base. The news isn't in depth, it's not deeply insightful, but it's enough.
When the door opened, I thought it was Angilo. I was tense, anxious - not in the quiet, terrified way the Terrans have been, for the last month. I wasn't terrified, I was angry, I was frustrated.
It wasn't just one set of footsteps that came inside. There were too many
{Note: This sentence ended without punctuation or further words. The next begins on the following line.}
It's harder to write this than I expected. What if the military is still spying on me? It's difficult to think that someone I don't know is finding this out about me, analyzing it, storing it in a little file with the potential for using it later.
There were six of them. Maybe seven. The highest ranked was a corporal. Enlisted army men, the kind that they use as guards to prevent the Martians from escaping.
Well, I suppose putting someone in the hospital is a sufficient deterrent to escape.
I would rather not record the rest.
{It is interesting to note that Rayne was correct in his criticism of the historical record. There is no mention of this incident in the logs surrounding his capture and imprisonment. Likewise, there are no disciplinary records for the postulated seven soldiers involved. The only other mention of this incident can be found in the video recordings of General Angilo's testimony at a hearing, prior to his appointment to the special fugitive investigation squad.}
29
The riots ended today. Angilo tells me they estimated almost six thousand Martians dead - immigrants, officers, bystanders. Maybe they even caught a terrorist or two.
I can't eat. I suppose it must have been from the early hours of the riots, when food was hardly the foremost thing on my mind, to the - well, the break-in, I suppose, though you can hardly call it 'breaking in' when they have the keys - and the day or two in the hospital, when they didn't feed me solid food. My stomach feels like it's been shrunk, tightened, to the point where food just doesn't fit there anymore. I feel a swell of nausea every time I think about the act of eating - chewing, swallowing, digesting.
He's worried about it, I can tell. He stands by the window, more often than he sits, but there isn't much of a view. Grimy glass, and there's more across the street, just pane after pane of glass. The window lip is wide enough that you can't see to the street below.
The food from the hospital cafeteria cools, on the table next to my bed.
"Aren't you going to eat that?" he asks me - or some variation on that - every few minutes. I don't respond.
"Rayne," he breathes, finally, exasperated. "You can't starve yourself to death."
"I'm not trying to," I say, softly.
He turns, touches my forehead. It's unwelcome, I suppose. Any touch by the enemy is unwelcome.
My breath releases, in a quiet hiss, and I feel my eyes slide shut.
"It's over," says Angilo. "The riots are over."
"I know."
"Rayne."
"I know."
His fingertips trail down to the edge of my jaw, and there's something awed, shocked about the rhythm of his breathing.
His touch vanishes, all too suddenly, and I hear the door swish open.
It's a nurse - off-white scrubs, rumpled. I wonder how long she's been on duty.
"Ah," says a nurse, "haven't eaten again?"
"No," confirms Angilo.
"I'll take it, then," and she moves towards the tray.
"No," I object, half sitting up.
She pauses.
"I'll give it another shot."
"Okay." She smiles. "Just let me know if you need me," with candyfloss cheer. The door closes behind her.
Angilo watch me take the first few bites.
I can't eat. I suppose it must have been from the early hours of the riots, when food was hardly the foremost thing on my mind, to the - well, the break-in, I suppose, though you can hardly call it 'breaking in' when they have the keys - and the day or two in the hospital, when they didn't feed me solid food. My stomach feels like it's been shrunk, tightened, to the point where food just doesn't fit there anymore. I feel a swell of nausea every time I think about the act of eating - chewing, swallowing, digesting.
He's worried about it, I can tell. He stands by the window, more often than he sits, but there isn't much of a view. Grimy glass, and there's more across the street, just pane after pane of glass. The window lip is wide enough that you can't see to the street below.
The food from the hospital cafeteria cools, on the table next to my bed.
"Aren't you going to eat that?" he asks me - or some variation on that - every few minutes. I don't respond.
"Rayne," he breathes, finally, exasperated. "You can't starve yourself to death."
"I'm not trying to," I say, softly.
He turns, touches my forehead. It's unwelcome, I suppose. Any touch by the enemy is unwelcome.
My breath releases, in a quiet hiss, and I feel my eyes slide shut.
"It's over," says Angilo. "The riots are over."
"I know."
"Rayne."
"I know."
His fingertips trail down to the edge of my jaw, and there's something awed, shocked about the rhythm of his breathing.
His touch vanishes, all too suddenly, and I hear the door swish open.
It's a nurse - off-white scrubs, rumpled. I wonder how long she's been on duty.
"Ah," says a nurse, "haven't eaten again?"
"No," confirms Angilo.
"I'll take it, then," and she moves towards the tray.
"No," I object, half sitting up.
She pauses.
"I'll give it another shot."
"Okay." She smiles. "Just let me know if you need me," with candyfloss cheer. The door closes behind her.
Angilo watch me take the first few bites.
Wednesday, May 7, 2008
28
{Archivist's Note: This entry appears to be written almost two weeks after the last one. The chronological data is unclear; timeline states that Derek Rayne was hospitalized approx. 48 hours after the instigation of the Mars Riots. There is no official release on record.}
I've waited here for a long time, not sure what to write. I don't know why.
He was here today.
"The windows are barred," I murmured. Because I wanted to fill the silence.
"It's for your own safety," he told me. "The mob's only three blocks from here."
If I shifted position, my leg - ankle to thigh - was in agony.
"Nice to know."
I knew it anyway. I could hear the thrum of the crowd through the floor.
"We can't risk you getting hurt." Or killed, he didn't say.
"Would that really be so bad?"
You'd be rid of - whatever it is you see in me. I'd be rid of this obligation - I'll stay loyal to Mars, no matter what, but I don't want to be trapped where that loyalty means nothing. You can see that, can't you?
"You don't want to die, do you?" he asks. Surprised.
- no, I suppose I don't.
There were four of them; there was one of me. They were trained to kill. I may have been lucky. More likely, death wasn't their goal.
The news anchor says that almost a fifth of the Martian officers relocated to Earth were killed in the last week. I recognize some of the names.
I've waited here for a long time, not sure what to write. I don't know why.
He was here today.
"The windows are barred," I murmured. Because I wanted to fill the silence.
"It's for your own safety," he told me. "The mob's only three blocks from here."
If I shifted position, my leg - ankle to thigh - was in agony.
"Nice to know."
I knew it anyway. I could hear the thrum of the crowd through the floor.
"We can't risk you getting hurt." Or killed, he didn't say.
"Would that really be so bad?"
You'd be rid of - whatever it is you see in me. I'd be rid of this obligation - I'll stay loyal to Mars, no matter what, but I don't want to be trapped where that loyalty means nothing. You can see that, can't you?
"You don't want to die, do you?" he asks. Surprised.
- no, I suppose I don't.
There were four of them; there was one of me. They were trained to kill. I may have been lucky. More likely, death wasn't their goal.
The news anchor says that almost a fifth of the Martian officers relocated to Earth were killed in the last week. I recognize some of the names.
27
I can only record what the news says:
There were five soldiers, on crowd control in the concourse. Earth soldiers, controlling Martian crowds.
Or, not controlling, as it turns out.
They were going to be transferred home the next day, a woman sobs to a reporter. Who did she lose - a son, a husband? It doesn't matter. The violence of Mars has a face, now.
I think we've hit shatterpoint.
{Archivist's note: Shatterpoint, at the time, was a common term used by Martian miners to describe the area on a rock surface that would break the rock with a minimum of applied pressure. If you hit the wrong kind of shatterpoint, you could be facing a mine collapse.}
There were five soldiers, on crowd control in the concourse. Earth soldiers, controlling Martian crowds.
Or, not controlling, as it turns out.
They were going to be transferred home the next day, a woman sobs to a reporter. Who did she lose - a son, a husband? It doesn't matter. The violence of Mars has a face, now.
I think we've hit shatterpoint.
{Archivist's note: Shatterpoint, at the time, was a common term used by Martian miners to describe the area on a rock surface that would break the rock with a minimum of applied pressure. If you hit the wrong kind of shatterpoint, you could be facing a mine collapse.}
Tuesday, May 6, 2008
26
It's not a surprise. Since the attacks, I knew I was going to lose the job. I'll probably go back to some kind of hard labor. After all, I'm a prisoner of war.
"You're fired," she said, as soon as the door closed behind her.
"No kidding," I shot back - regretted it, immediately. She didn't want attitude. It wasn't her fault.
Then again, she's from Earth. It might as well be her fault.
"Don't get smart with me, jackass," she snapped. "You think I was a social worker before the war? You think I'm doing this because I have no other option?"
"Honestly," I said, meeting her eyes, "I didn't think about you."
"Just like this isn't about you." She crossed her arms. "I'd rather not have a riot tear down the building. There are kids in here. And, to some of the people out there, a Martian is a Martian is a Martian."
"Then how the hell did I get this job in the first place?"
She shrugged. "What Angilo wants, Angilo gets."
"Why?"
"He won the battle of Toridia, didn't he?"
In a moment, she realized what she said and tried to backtrack, but I wasn't listening.
Angilo met me, in the lobby, just a few minutes later.
{Archivist's Note: While this and the previous entry are in the correct order, chronologically, the events of the previous entry appear to have taken place before those of this entry. On a stylistic note, this is very out-of-place in an otherwise well-ordered and organized journal.}
"You're fired," she said, as soon as the door closed behind her.
"No kidding," I shot back - regretted it, immediately. She didn't want attitude. It wasn't her fault.
Then again, she's from Earth. It might as well be her fault.
"Don't get smart with me, jackass," she snapped. "You think I was a social worker before the war? You think I'm doing this because I have no other option?"
"Honestly," I said, meeting her eyes, "I didn't think about you."
"Just like this isn't about you." She crossed her arms. "I'd rather not have a riot tear down the building. There are kids in here. And, to some of the people out there, a Martian is a Martian is a Martian."
"Then how the hell did I get this job in the first place?"
She shrugged. "What Angilo wants, Angilo gets."
"Why?"
"He won the battle of Toridia, didn't he?"
In a moment, she realized what she said and tried to backtrack, but I wasn't listening.
Angilo met me, in the lobby, just a few minutes later.
{Archivist's Note: While this and the previous entry are in the correct order, chronologically, the events of the previous entry appear to have taken place before those of this entry. On a stylistic note, this is very out-of-place in an otherwise well-ordered and organized journal.}
Monday, May 5, 2008
25
"We'll find something else for you to do."
"I'd rather not, thanks."
"There are people out there who could use your help."
"They don't want my help."
"They'd want your help if you signed the surrender, goddamnit!"
At Angilo's outburst, I stopped, in my tracks. Not the best of ideas; we were on the steps of a public building, exposed, in the middle of Chicago, at night. Not exactly the hotbed of twenty-third century liberalism, tolerance and understanding.
"No."
My voice was as cold as I could make it. He wasn't intimidated; he just got angrier.
"This is counterproductive, Rayne," he snapped. "The war is over. You lost. Accept it."
"I will never accept," I said, "the loss of this uniform, and what it represents."
"Mars lost the fucking war!"
"Mars hasn't lost until that," and I gestured, at the night sky, at the dull reddish glow of Mars, "until that glow is extinguished."
"You," he accused, "are the reason the war lasted as long as it did, claimed as many lives as it did -"
"You're one to talk about claiming lives," I returned, my heartbeat coming faster. I was going to start raising my voice, and it looked as though the security guards, already tense with the coming crisis, were just looking for an excuse to step in.
"The greatest good for the greatest number," said Angilo, tightly. "Ever wonder what it would have been like if I hadn't dropped that cruiser on your head?"
"We would have lost!"
He took a step back, a little stunned.
"We would have lost," I repeated, trembling. "We were no threat to you, just an army on the surface, you could have starved us out in a week and you started a slaughter-"
"Shut up," Angilo cut me off. "We shouldn't be talking here."
No kidding.
His hand closed on my arm, above the elbow, and I let him lead me to the car.
He was furious, upset; as the driver started moving, Angilo shot a glance at me, brief enough that maybe he hoped I didn't notice. It wasn't angry, it wasn't worked up. Worried, maybe?
"I'm sorry," he said, finally.
"Don't apologize to me."
"Goddamnit," he murmured, and he didn't meet my eyes.
"I'd rather not, thanks."
"There are people out there who could use your help."
"They don't want my help."
"They'd want your help if you signed the surrender, goddamnit!"
At Angilo's outburst, I stopped, in my tracks. Not the best of ideas; we were on the steps of a public building, exposed, in the middle of Chicago, at night. Not exactly the hotbed of twenty-third century liberalism, tolerance and understanding.
"No."
My voice was as cold as I could make it. He wasn't intimidated; he just got angrier.
"This is counterproductive, Rayne," he snapped. "The war is over. You lost. Accept it."
"I will never accept," I said, "the loss of this uniform, and what it represents."
"Mars lost the fucking war!"
"Mars hasn't lost until that," and I gestured, at the night sky, at the dull reddish glow of Mars, "until that glow is extinguished."
"You," he accused, "are the reason the war lasted as long as it did, claimed as many lives as it did -"
"You're one to talk about claiming lives," I returned, my heartbeat coming faster. I was going to start raising my voice, and it looked as though the security guards, already tense with the coming crisis, were just looking for an excuse to step in.
"The greatest good for the greatest number," said Angilo, tightly. "Ever wonder what it would have been like if I hadn't dropped that cruiser on your head?"
"We would have lost!"
He took a step back, a little stunned.
"We would have lost," I repeated, trembling. "We were no threat to you, just an army on the surface, you could have starved us out in a week and you started a slaughter-"
"Shut up," Angilo cut me off. "We shouldn't be talking here."
No kidding.
His hand closed on my arm, above the elbow, and I let him lead me to the car.
He was furious, upset; as the driver started moving, Angilo shot a glance at me, brief enough that maybe he hoped I didn't notice. It wasn't angry, it wasn't worked up. Worried, maybe?
"I'm sorry," he said, finally.
"Don't apologize to me."
"Goddamnit," he murmured, and he didn't meet my eyes.
24
I'd forgotten how this feels. It was just like this, on Mars, before the war. The world felt very fragile, like the slightest shift could shatter everything.
You wouldn't believe how it felt, unless you were there. Mostly, outside news wasn't a big concern - before the Reclamation Acts. Then, suddenly, it was as though Martians had spent all their lives asleep to the rest of the solar system, and they were, bit by bit, finally starting to wake up...
God, the tension. Everyone on the street was holding on, by their fingernails, to a reality that seemed more and more likely to slip away. You take peace for granted, until it's gone, and suddenly you have to fight for your life and your freedom and your planet, and you'll lose it all if you don't win.
Well, we didn't win. So, I suppose I have a unique perspective on the current situation. The worst has already happened. My world is gone. And I can watch as these people, all around me, are terrified that their own world is ready to shift into overdrive, again.
Angilo is always tense, now. Lauretta won't look me in the eye. I doubt this job will last much longer.
You wouldn't believe how it felt, unless you were there. Mostly, outside news wasn't a big concern - before the Reclamation Acts. Then, suddenly, it was as though Martians had spent all their lives asleep to the rest of the solar system, and they were, bit by bit, finally starting to wake up...
God, the tension. Everyone on the street was holding on, by their fingernails, to a reality that seemed more and more likely to slip away. You take peace for granted, until it's gone, and suddenly you have to fight for your life and your freedom and your planet, and you'll lose it all if you don't win.
Well, we didn't win. So, I suppose I have a unique perspective on the current situation. The worst has already happened. My world is gone. And I can watch as these people, all around me, are terrified that their own world is ready to shift into overdrive, again.
Angilo is always tense, now. Lauretta won't look me in the eye. I doubt this job will last much longer.
23
They let me go back to work, but most of the families refused to see a Martian soldier. One of the children kept asking me about her mother - she couldn't have been more than four years old.
Lauretta ran herself ragged. I barely left my office.
Lauretta ran herself ragged. I barely left my office.
Sunday, May 4, 2008
22
I suppose my face must have betrayed too much. She came on the news, again, speaking as a face for the Council of Havens - decrying the horrible act and denying all possible responsibility.
She has to do that kind of thing, I know. It still rankles a little. We're so whipped.
"Do you know her?" Angilo asked.
I must have straightened up, or something. Some part of my body language betrayed me.
"I've met her," I told him.
"And I swear," said Maurina d'Jorian, on the television screen, "that the Martian authorities will do everything in their power to investigate and apprehend the individuals that could be responsible for this crime. We guarantee our full cooperation with any Earth investigators that are sent by the United Nations."
Angilo regarded me, like he didn't believe me. Or, rather, I'm sure he believed I was telling the literal truth.
"Is she a member of Nest Haven?" he asked, eventually.
"Don't be an idiot," I snapped.
I'm not sure what he thought I meant - if d'Jorian really wasn't Nest, or if there was no way I'd ever tell him.
"I didn't know you were so high up in the echelons of Mars," commented Angilo, returning to the newspaper article he was perusing.
I gritted my teeth. "I'm surprised you don't remember her."
He looked up, startled. "What do you mean?"
"Well," I said, "she was dirtier at the time. And unconscious."
He stared at me, for a moment, in a kind of horror. "She was at Toridia?"
"Yes." I looked back to the screen. "She was at Toridia."
I didn't realize I could hurt him as badly as he can hurt me.
She has to do that kind of thing, I know. It still rankles a little. We're so whipped.
"Do you know her?" Angilo asked.
I must have straightened up, or something. Some part of my body language betrayed me.
"I've met her," I told him.
"And I swear," said Maurina d'Jorian, on the television screen, "that the Martian authorities will do everything in their power to investigate and apprehend the individuals that could be responsible for this crime. We guarantee our full cooperation with any Earth investigators that are sent by the United Nations."
Angilo regarded me, like he didn't believe me. Or, rather, I'm sure he believed I was telling the literal truth.
"Is she a member of Nest Haven?" he asked, eventually.
"Don't be an idiot," I snapped.
I'm not sure what he thought I meant - if d'Jorian really wasn't Nest, or if there was no way I'd ever tell him.
"I didn't know you were so high up in the echelons of Mars," commented Angilo, returning to the newspaper article he was perusing.
I gritted my teeth. "I'm surprised you don't remember her."
He looked up, startled. "What do you mean?"
"Well," I said, "she was dirtier at the time. And unconscious."
He stared at me, for a moment, in a kind of horror. "She was at Toridia?"
"Yes." I looked back to the screen. "She was at Toridia."
I didn't realize I could hurt him as badly as he can hurt me.
21
"What do you write in that thing?" he asked me.
"Why don't you break in and read it, if you're curious?"
"I'm not going behind your back," he said. "I'm asking you."
"It's none of your business."
"And, see? That's an answer."
"Why don't you break in and read it, if you're curious?"
"I'm not going behind your back," he said. "I'm asking you."
"It's none of your business."
"And, see? That's an answer."
20
Martian soldiers were all put in lockdown today, after the attacks. The Sears Tower - it's not demolished, but the top twenty floors are completely gone. There's been some rubble damage to the surrounding buildings, but I haven't heard of any secondary fatalities. Not that I'm certain there would be news of them, if they did exist.
Angilo let himself into the apartment close to noon.
"Don't you have anything better to do?" I asked.
"No," he told me. "I don't."
He's watching me write.
Angilo let himself into the apartment close to noon.
"Don't you have anything better to do?" I asked.
"No," he told me. "I don't."
He's watching me write.
Friday, May 2, 2008
19
Angilo tells me there was a terrorist attack, today.
He stormed into the apartment maybe an hour after I got back. Furious and upset and torn - an emotional intensity I don't think I've ever seen from him. At least, not in person.
"What happened?" I asked - not looking at him.
"A bomb," said Angilo, through his teeth. "A bomb. In the Sears Tower."
My chest tightened. "Set by who?"
"Nest Haven."
My vision went red, for an instant. My hands were trembling. "That's not possible."
"Turn on the news!" Angilo snarled. "Watch it for yourself! They claimed responsibility an hour ago."
"They're full of shit," I told him, bluntly.
"And what," said Angilo, "do you know about Nest Haven?"
There's no point.
Two months ago Whitman told me he was from Nest Haven. I was surprised, then. I suppose I can't blame Angilo for holding the stereotype.
"What's going to happen now?" I asked. My voice was softer, somehow, than I'd been expecting.
Angilo hesitated, for a long, horrible moment. "I hope nothing," he said.
He stormed into the apartment maybe an hour after I got back. Furious and upset and torn - an emotional intensity I don't think I've ever seen from him. At least, not in person.
"What happened?" I asked - not looking at him.
"A bomb," said Angilo, through his teeth. "A bomb. In the Sears Tower."
My chest tightened. "Set by who?"
"Nest Haven."
My vision went red, for an instant. My hands were trembling. "That's not possible."
"Turn on the news!" Angilo snarled. "Watch it for yourself! They claimed responsibility an hour ago."
"They're full of shit," I told him, bluntly.
"And what," said Angilo, "do you know about Nest Haven?"
There's no point.
Two months ago Whitman told me he was from Nest Haven. I was surprised, then. I suppose I can't blame Angilo for holding the stereotype.
"What's going to happen now?" I asked. My voice was softer, somehow, than I'd been expecting.
Angilo hesitated, for a long, horrible moment. "I hope nothing," he said.
18
At maybe 3:30 in the afternoon, the ground vibrated, just for an instant. I thought it might have been an earthquake. It wasn't; maybe ten minutes later, the security forces in the building rounded everyone up - kids, social workers, families - and brought everyone down to the building's basement and subbasement.
I'd forgotten what it was like to be around civilians when they believe they're in danger. They were afraid. Terrified.
"What if it's another invasion?" I heard, from behind me. Lauretta touched my shoulder, stopped me from turning.
"Don't pay any attention," she muttered.
"Hey!" called a man. "Hey! What's he doing down here? We're not made of space, you know!"
"Yeah," chimed in someone else. "We don't need a Martian taking up our air-"
"What if he's in on it?" asked another woman.
Civilians. Nervous and tense and too eager to blame their problems on someone else.
The security guard looked at me, nervously, and gestured for me to stay aside from the others. "I'll have to ask you to stay over here, s-" and he cut himself off. "Keep your hands visible."
They kept me, at gunpoint, in the corner of the shelter, for the two hours it took to sound the all-clear.
I had a police escort, back to base. The windows of the car were tinted.
I'd forgotten what it was like to be around civilians when they believe they're in danger. They were afraid. Terrified.
"What if it's another invasion?" I heard, from behind me. Lauretta touched my shoulder, stopped me from turning.
"Don't pay any attention," she muttered.
"Hey!" called a man. "Hey! What's he doing down here? We're not made of space, you know!"
"Yeah," chimed in someone else. "We don't need a Martian taking up our air-"
"What if he's in on it?" asked another woman.
Civilians. Nervous and tense and too eager to blame their problems on someone else.
The security guard looked at me, nervously, and gestured for me to stay aside from the others. "I'll have to ask you to stay over here, s-" and he cut himself off. "Keep your hands visible."
They kept me, at gunpoint, in the corner of the shelter, for the two hours it took to sound the all-clear.
I had a police escort, back to base. The windows of the car were tinted.
Thursday, May 1, 2008
17
"So, you're brainwashing small children, now," is how he started the conversation.
"Brainwashing?" I questioned, acidly.
"I hear you told that girl that she could only trust Martians," said Angilo. "Specifically, ones in that uniform."
I flattened my palm against the seat, beside me. "I only hope she remembers it."
Angilo hissed a sigh, between his teeth. "It's risky for you to have this job," he said. "Please don't abuse it."
"Abuse it?"
"Can you imagine how you would feel," said Angilo, "if you were trying to adopt an Earth child, and it was an Earth officer who made the decision for you?"
I looked up, to him. "Did I win or lose the war in this scenario?"
"Don't be a smartass."
"Well, then," I said, "I imagine I'd feel a little better about having an Earth officer control only one aspect of my life."
He bit back whatever he was planning to say.
There was silence, for a while.
"Hasn't this war done enough damage?" he asked, finally, as we pulled up in front of the apartment.
There were a dozen things I could have said to him. I didn't have to, though; he stayed in the car, and I slammed the door behind me.
This evening, I saw Maurina d'Jorian on the news. Technically, she has no real political power, anymore - but I saw her speak to that crowd. She asked for peace; they listened. She asked for calm; they listened. She still has that kind of power over people.
And she's still alive. That's something, I suppose.
"Brainwashing?" I questioned, acidly.
"I hear you told that girl that she could only trust Martians," said Angilo. "Specifically, ones in that uniform."
I flattened my palm against the seat, beside me. "I only hope she remembers it."
Angilo hissed a sigh, between his teeth. "It's risky for you to have this job," he said. "Please don't abuse it."
"Abuse it?"
"Can you imagine how you would feel," said Angilo, "if you were trying to adopt an Earth child, and it was an Earth officer who made the decision for you?"
I looked up, to him. "Did I win or lose the war in this scenario?"
"Don't be a smartass."
"Well, then," I said, "I imagine I'd feel a little better about having an Earth officer control only one aspect of my life."
He bit back whatever he was planning to say.
There was silence, for a while.
"Hasn't this war done enough damage?" he asked, finally, as we pulled up in front of the apartment.
There were a dozen things I could have said to him. I didn't have to, though; he stayed in the car, and I slammed the door behind me.
This evening, I saw Maurina d'Jorian on the news. Technically, she has no real political power, anymore - but I saw her speak to that crowd. She asked for peace; they listened. She asked for calm; they listened. She still has that kind of power over people.
And she's still alive. That's something, I suppose.
16
A couple of the encounters stick out at me, from today.
The first girl I saw - little thing, couldn't have been more than nine, ten years old - came in a few minutes after Lauretta left.
She took the doorway one step at a time, leading with her left foot, then bringing her right and her left even, then taking one more reluctant, terrified step with her left. I froze up, for a second. Her eyes were straight down at the floor, and she wasn't even looking at me - not even in my direction.
I took a breath, and asked the ubiquitous first question. "Hey there," I said, "what's your name?"
"Grace," she mumbled.
Oh, lord.
"Well, Grace," I said, glancing around - no bowl of candy, I'd have to fix that - "how about you sit down on the couch, huh? We're just going to talk for a little. Nothing bad, I promise."
"'kay," mumbled Grace, and she glanced up, just for a second. Then she looked up again, her eyes widening, and she made this noise, like a little cry, and ran up and threw her arms around me, before I had the chance to react.
"Whoa, hey there." I pulled her back a little. "You all right?" - because she was crying.
"Mommy said that when I'm in trouble I go to the gray and red," she told me, sniffling. "No one wears gray and red, here."
I almost smiled, at that. "Your mother's a smart woman." I patted the chair, in front of my new desk. "How about you get up here, and we get started, huh?"
There was another one, too - a boy who didn't say a word, the entire time. Just sat there, with his arms crossed. By the end, I got him to nod or shake his head a few times - enough to answer the first few sets of questions. After Lauretta ushered him back to the common area, she came back, leaned against the door of my office.
"He's been here three months," she told me.
"Three months?" The forms said that the usual adoption period was more along the lines of three weeks.
"None of us could get him to talk," she said. "And families don't want an adopted child that isn't grateful."
"That's optimistic," I muttered, under my breath.
"It's human nature," she returned. "There are a few families here. Want to get started on them?"
"Why not."
- there was one family - a couple, a dark-skinned woman and a light-skinned man, both dressed well, clean-cut. Nice shoes. Good annual income. In application, they had all the qualities, I assumed, that earmarked them for perfect candidates.
They looked at my uniform like it was slime. Looked at me like I was {two words, crossed out, illegible} the enemy.
It's hard, to act professional, in front of hostility like that.
"What sort of environment would you provide for the child?"
"The right kind," the woman hastened to say.
"We've been unable to conceive on our own," added the man. "We would love to raise a child, and these orphans - these children, I mean - have been - um. They've been in the wrong sort of environment."
"By wrong," and I stressed that, gently, "do you mean war-torn and exploited, or do you mean Martian?"
There was a pause.
"Well," started the man.
"Application denied," I said.
Lauretta confronted me alone, after that one. "You can't deny applications."
"Then why am I here?"
"We don't have enough families as it is!" she snapped. "Do you think anyone out there wants to adopt Martian kids? It's a stigma, on them, on the children."
"I'm not going to have a child raised in an environment that defames their heritage."
"Then you're dooming another child to be raised in an environment where there's barely enough to eat. Where they're living all together, crowded and lonely, and utterly homeless-"
I turned away. At that second, that instant, her words, her expression, her body language were horrific, to me. I wasn't sure I could control my actions.
"I'm just trying to take care of these kids," she said, finally.
I was silent.
"We'll deny their application," said Lauretta. "Try not to do that too much."
I nodded, once.
"Right." She sighed, softly. "Right," and I heard the door shut behind her.
The first girl I saw - little thing, couldn't have been more than nine, ten years old - came in a few minutes after Lauretta left.
She took the doorway one step at a time, leading with her left foot, then bringing her right and her left even, then taking one more reluctant, terrified step with her left. I froze up, for a second. Her eyes were straight down at the floor, and she wasn't even looking at me - not even in my direction.
I took a breath, and asked the ubiquitous first question. "Hey there," I said, "what's your name?"
"Grace," she mumbled.
Oh, lord.
"Well, Grace," I said, glancing around - no bowl of candy, I'd have to fix that - "how about you sit down on the couch, huh? We're just going to talk for a little. Nothing bad, I promise."
"'kay," mumbled Grace, and she glanced up, just for a second. Then she looked up again, her eyes widening, and she made this noise, like a little cry, and ran up and threw her arms around me, before I had the chance to react.
"Whoa, hey there." I pulled her back a little. "You all right?" - because she was crying.
"Mommy said that when I'm in trouble I go to the gray and red," she told me, sniffling. "No one wears gray and red, here."
I almost smiled, at that. "Your mother's a smart woman." I patted the chair, in front of my new desk. "How about you get up here, and we get started, huh?"
There was another one, too - a boy who didn't say a word, the entire time. Just sat there, with his arms crossed. By the end, I got him to nod or shake his head a few times - enough to answer the first few sets of questions. After Lauretta ushered him back to the common area, she came back, leaned against the door of my office.
"He's been here three months," she told me.
"Three months?" The forms said that the usual adoption period was more along the lines of three weeks.
"None of us could get him to talk," she said. "And families don't want an adopted child that isn't grateful."
"That's optimistic," I muttered, under my breath.
"It's human nature," she returned. "There are a few families here. Want to get started on them?"
"Why not."
- there was one family - a couple, a dark-skinned woman and a light-skinned man, both dressed well, clean-cut. Nice shoes. Good annual income. In application, they had all the qualities, I assumed, that earmarked them for perfect candidates.
They looked at my uniform like it was slime. Looked at me like I was {two words, crossed out, illegible} the enemy.
It's hard, to act professional, in front of hostility like that.
"What sort of environment would you provide for the child?"
"The right kind," the woman hastened to say.
"We've been unable to conceive on our own," added the man. "We would love to raise a child, and these orphans - these children, I mean - have been - um. They've been in the wrong sort of environment."
"By wrong," and I stressed that, gently, "do you mean war-torn and exploited, or do you mean Martian?"
There was a pause.
"Well," started the man.
"Application denied," I said.
Lauretta confronted me alone, after that one. "You can't deny applications."
"Then why am I here?"
"We don't have enough families as it is!" she snapped. "Do you think anyone out there wants to adopt Martian kids? It's a stigma, on them, on the children."
"I'm not going to have a child raised in an environment that defames their heritage."
"Then you're dooming another child to be raised in an environment where there's barely enough to eat. Where they're living all together, crowded and lonely, and utterly homeless-"
I turned away. At that second, that instant, her words, her expression, her body language were horrific, to me. I wasn't sure I could control my actions.
"I'm just trying to take care of these kids," she said, finally.
I was silent.
"We'll deny their application," said Lauretta. "Try not to do that too much."
I nodded, once.
"Right." She sighed, softly. "Right," and I heard the door shut behind her.
Wednesday, April 30, 2008
15
I'm not entirely sure where to begin, on my notes for today. It wasn't what I expected - I have no idea what I was expecting, but I don't think this was it.
A driver took us both to one of the civic buildings, further inland. There was a woman waiting in the lobby - dark-haired. She looked as though she were living a life she'd expected to be happy with, but it had been sucked out from under her, somehow.
"This is," said Angilo, and he stopped, in embarrassment. "I'm sorry...?"
"Lauretta," she told him. And, belatedly, looked to me. "You'd be Colonel Rayne?" She extended her hand, for a handshake, keeping firm eye contact.
"That's right."
The handshake was strong, and the resulting smile, from her, was more about determination than about pleasantness.
"I suppose the General has told you what this is all about," she said, nodding for both of us to follow her towards the bank of elevators.
"No," I said. "He hasn't."
There was a brief moment of tension, flittering from Lauretta to Angilo, and then it was gone.
"All right, then," and she was more subdued, this time. She keyed the thirty-first floor, inside the elevator, and the doors slid shut in front of us, sealing us in silence.
"Anyone care to explain?" I asked. Maybe a little too frostily.
Lauretta and Angilo exchanged a glance.
"It's social work," said Angilo. "Lately -"
"There's been an influx of Martian refugees," interrupted Lauretta. "Children, mostly. Parents on Mars will use the last of their money to get their children over here, where conditions are better."
I clenched my jaw. It's true; it's best for children to grow up away from a place choked with riots and starvation.
"And what will I be doing?"
"Connecting children with families," said Lauretta.
The elevator chimed, and the doors slid open. There was a reception area, in front of us; to the right, behind a glass wall, a play room. Filled with children.
As I stepped out of the elevator, I drew their eyes. It was the uniform. All Martian kids know to recognize the uniform.
Lauretta noticed, and she hurried us along, down one of the back hallways.
"This is your office," she told me, pushing the door open.
By Martian standards, it's unbelievably luxurious. A desk of wood-plastic composite? A carpet?
There was still hesitation, I suppose. Angilo was watching me, like everything - everything - depended on my acceptance or rejection of this one opportunity. And I'm sure he could tell - that both of them could tell - what I was thinking. This job would be so much more important than hard labor. It would give me the chance to make a difference. It would let me help some Martian kids who just need someone to look out for them.
Accepting it would mean giving in to Angilo.
It was a near thing.
"When do I start?"
- I looked towards Angilo, when I said this. A subtle tension bled out of his frame, and there was a strange, reciprocal effect on me.
"Right now," said Lauretta. "If you feel up to it."
"Don't I need training?"
"You'll get it on-the-job." She hesitated, awkwardly. "And, some kinds of previous work disqualify employees from training requirements."
I think my heart may have actually skipped a beat. It felt like I'd been dipped in ice-water, for a half-instant. I always assumed that the records, on Mars, of previous employment, criminal history and schooling were all wiped by the sheer number of EMP weapons used on the surface.
Angilo's mouth twisted. "I'll send a car for you at five," he said. "It should take you back to the base."
I watched him leave; he didn't look back, didn't vary his stride.
"You want to get started?" asked Lauretta. "There are some kids in there ready for interviews."
"Yeah," I said, "sure. Send them in."
A driver took us both to one of the civic buildings, further inland. There was a woman waiting in the lobby - dark-haired. She looked as though she were living a life she'd expected to be happy with, but it had been sucked out from under her, somehow.
"This is," said Angilo, and he stopped, in embarrassment. "I'm sorry...?"
"Lauretta," she told him. And, belatedly, looked to me. "You'd be Colonel Rayne?" She extended her hand, for a handshake, keeping firm eye contact.
"That's right."
The handshake was strong, and the resulting smile, from her, was more about determination than about pleasantness.
"I suppose the General has told you what this is all about," she said, nodding for both of us to follow her towards the bank of elevators.
"No," I said. "He hasn't."
There was a brief moment of tension, flittering from Lauretta to Angilo, and then it was gone.
"All right, then," and she was more subdued, this time. She keyed the thirty-first floor, inside the elevator, and the doors slid shut in front of us, sealing us in silence.
"Anyone care to explain?" I asked. Maybe a little too frostily.
Lauretta and Angilo exchanged a glance.
"It's social work," said Angilo. "Lately -"
"There's been an influx of Martian refugees," interrupted Lauretta. "Children, mostly. Parents on Mars will use the last of their money to get their children over here, where conditions are better."
I clenched my jaw. It's true; it's best for children to grow up away from a place choked with riots and starvation.
"And what will I be doing?"
"Connecting children with families," said Lauretta.
The elevator chimed, and the doors slid open. There was a reception area, in front of us; to the right, behind a glass wall, a play room. Filled with children.
As I stepped out of the elevator, I drew their eyes. It was the uniform. All Martian kids know to recognize the uniform.
Lauretta noticed, and she hurried us along, down one of the back hallways.
"This is your office," she told me, pushing the door open.
By Martian standards, it's unbelievably luxurious. A desk of wood-plastic composite? A carpet?
There was still hesitation, I suppose. Angilo was watching me, like everything - everything - depended on my acceptance or rejection of this one opportunity. And I'm sure he could tell - that both of them could tell - what I was thinking. This job would be so much more important than hard labor. It would give me the chance to make a difference. It would let me help some Martian kids who just need someone to look out for them.
Accepting it would mean giving in to Angilo.
It was a near thing.
"When do I start?"
- I looked towards Angilo, when I said this. A subtle tension bled out of his frame, and there was a strange, reciprocal effect on me.
"Right now," said Lauretta. "If you feel up to it."
"Don't I need training?"
"You'll get it on-the-job." She hesitated, awkwardly. "And, some kinds of previous work disqualify employees from training requirements."
I think my heart may have actually skipped a beat. It felt like I'd been dipped in ice-water, for a half-instant. I always assumed that the records, on Mars, of previous employment, criminal history and schooling were all wiped by the sheer number of EMP weapons used on the surface.
Angilo's mouth twisted. "I'll send a car for you at five," he said. "It should take you back to the base."
I watched him leave; he didn't look back, didn't vary his stride.
"You want to get started?" asked Lauretta. "There are some kids in there ready for interviews."
"Yeah," I said, "sure. Send them in."
14
It's quiet when I get up, this morning. Almost an hour early - it's still dark outside, but I have no trouble waking up. Had trouble sleeping, but that's another issue. The bed here is more comfortable than the one in prison. It doesn't feel right.
The clouds are starting to get light, outside.
I get the feeling that today will be hard. I don't know what this new 'job' is going to be. 'Government employ' covers so many different categories.
{The previous sentence is followed by an ink blot. Possibly from resting the tip of the pen against the paper.}
Goddamnit. I know it's trite, I know it's been said again and again, but -
I still can't believe that we lost.
During that war, everything depended on victory, and there was a certainty, this underlying shared assumption that everything would be ruined if we lost.
What the hell happened out there?
The clouds are starting to get light, outside.
I get the feeling that today will be hard. I don't know what this new 'job' is going to be. 'Government employ' covers so many different categories.
{The previous sentence is followed by an ink blot. Possibly from resting the tip of the pen against the paper.}
Goddamnit. I know it's trite, I know it's been said again and again, but -
I still can't believe that we lost.
During that war, everything depended on victory, and there was a certainty, this underlying shared assumption that everything would be ruined if we lost.
What the hell happened out there?
Tuesday, April 29, 2008
13
"What happens," I asked him, "if I try to escape?"
He paused before he answered. "The security team will catch you."
"There's an entire security team," I said, flatly. "Watching me."
A hesitation, then a nod.
I had my back against the arm of the sofa, legs half-curled, not stretched out. It's defensive body posture - I was well aware.
"We're not supposed to say much about the security arrangements," he added, unnecessarily.
I tilted my head back, and closed my eyes.
"Tomorrow we'll get you started on the new job," he continued. "I'll need you up and ready at 0700, at the latest."
"Yes, sir" - the words were a little extended, a little accentuated. Not quite sarcasm, but something very close.
Another hesitation, with his hand on the doorknob. "Don't try to escape," was all he said. He was gone, the door swishing shut behind him, before I had the chance to respond.
He paused before he answered. "The security team will catch you."
"There's an entire security team," I said, flatly. "Watching me."
A hesitation, then a nod.
I had my back against the arm of the sofa, legs half-curled, not stretched out. It's defensive body posture - I was well aware.
"We're not supposed to say much about the security arrangements," he added, unnecessarily.
I tilted my head back, and closed my eyes.
"Tomorrow we'll get you started on the new job," he continued. "I'll need you up and ready at 0700, at the latest."
"Yes, sir" - the words were a little extended, a little accentuated. Not quite sarcasm, but something very close.
Another hesitation, with his hand on the doorknob. "Don't try to escape," was all he said. He was gone, the door swishing shut behind him, before I had the chance to respond.
12
The weather turned cold today. I'm told that, in Chicago, it happens quickly.
The military base, outside the window, goes on like nothing has changed. The only difference is that the people walk tilted, leaning against the wind.
The military base, outside the window, goes on like nothing has changed. The only difference is that the people walk tilted, leaning against the wind.
Monday, April 28, 2008
11
The rank of Major, for the most part, was excluded from the surrender treaty. Major Whitman, then, probably is still on Mars. So's Jerricks.
I can watch the news, at least. It doesn't tell me much.
There were food riots yesterday. A lot of veterans were involved. Every time there's a story, on the television, I'm searching the crowd for people I know.
If Whitman is alive - he might be there. He might be one of the people fighting for their right to eat, to survive. If Jerricks is alive, he's definitely out there. He wouldn't be a ringleader, like Whitman might, but he wouldn't just be fighting for himself, either.
God, I miss it. I wish I were there.
Since General Angilo himself has assured me that this journal will no longer be read by the Martian authorities, I suppose I should be open with my feelings, now. I should confess.
Not a huge chance of that, I think.
But, then, I suppose this is something that I don't mind anyone knowing. I wish I were home. Back there, the Martian military uniform is outlawed; here, it's used shamelessly as a social badge of shame, the scarlet "A" of the twenty-third century. It's a low trick.
I can watch the news, at least. It doesn't tell me much.
There were food riots yesterday. A lot of veterans were involved. Every time there's a story, on the television, I'm searching the crowd for people I know.
If Whitman is alive - he might be there. He might be one of the people fighting for their right to eat, to survive. If Jerricks is alive, he's definitely out there. He wouldn't be a ringleader, like Whitman might, but he wouldn't just be fighting for himself, either.
God, I miss it. I wish I were there.
Since General Angilo himself has assured me that this journal will no longer be read by the Martian authorities, I suppose I should be open with my feelings, now. I should confess.
Not a huge chance of that, I think.
But, then, I suppose this is something that I don't mind anyone knowing. I wish I were home. Back there, the Martian military uniform is outlawed; here, it's used shamelessly as a social badge of shame, the scarlet "A" of the twenty-third century. It's a low trick.
10
The new apartment is better, I suppose. I'm not sure what he's trying to do.
He gave me my notes after the door closed behind us. "No one will read this anymore," he promised, and - I suppose he's learning - didn't bother to check for my reaction.
"Why am I here?" I asked, before he gave up - before he left me alone.
"I told you," said Angilo, "I'm getting you a new job."
"Why?"
He avoided my eyes. "High-profile prisoners. There are rules."
"And I'm high-profile."
"You have no idea."
- at first I didn't believe him. I'm not exactly a war hero, I'm not the type to be famous. I wasn't planning on rallying the Martian prisoners in rebellion. But now, I'm starting to wonder - ever since I got to that prison, I've been so sure of myself. So sure that I'm going to keep fighting. Would removing me from the equation change the situation, in there? I hardly ever associated with the others, but did they watch me?
Or was Angilo still lying? Did he have any reason to lie?
"Are you expecting me to thank you?"
He shook his head. "No. No - I just."
When he didn't continue, I turned away. Ran my fingers over the fabric of the sofa - well-worn. They obviously spared no expense for me.
"Is there surveillance in here?" I asked.
He hesitated, awkwardly, but I already knew the answer. Like they'd give me a place without surveillance.
"Only in the main room," he told me. "The rest is private."
I'm not sure if I believe that either. I think he might, though.
"Is there," he began, then, "Is there anything you need?"
"No," I said, shortly.
"All right." He nodded. "All right."
He gave me my notes after the door closed behind us. "No one will read this anymore," he promised, and - I suppose he's learning - didn't bother to check for my reaction.
"Why am I here?" I asked, before he gave up - before he left me alone.
"I told you," said Angilo, "I'm getting you a new job."
"Why?"
He avoided my eyes. "High-profile prisoners. There are rules."
"And I'm high-profile."
"You have no idea."
- at first I didn't believe him. I'm not exactly a war hero, I'm not the type to be famous. I wasn't planning on rallying the Martian prisoners in rebellion. But now, I'm starting to wonder - ever since I got to that prison, I've been so sure of myself. So sure that I'm going to keep fighting. Would removing me from the equation change the situation, in there? I hardly ever associated with the others, but did they watch me?
Or was Angilo still lying? Did he have any reason to lie?
"Are you expecting me to thank you?"
He shook his head. "No. No - I just."
When he didn't continue, I turned away. Ran my fingers over the fabric of the sofa - well-worn. They obviously spared no expense for me.
"Is there surveillance in here?" I asked.
He hesitated, awkwardly, but I already knew the answer. Like they'd give me a place without surveillance.
"Only in the main room," he told me. "The rest is private."
I'm not sure if I believe that either. I think he might, though.
"Is there," he began, then, "Is there anything you need?"
"No," I said, shortly.
"All right." He nodded. "All right."
9
As much as humans may complain about the mind-numbing routines they fall into, any disruption of that routine can produce immediate terror.
I had timed to within minutes - every day was the same. The same breakfast, the same featureless shuttle to the same kind of hard labor. The same half-edible dinner, the same electric buzz when they turn the lights out, every night.
They came to get me an hour early, this morning. Physically dragged me out of bed, set me on my feet - I woke up fast, like I always do, but it wasn't fast enough for them. Took me, at gunpoint, through the halls. Some people were already awake - not many, most are so exhausted they sleep as long as they can, but some still stick to the military discipline that kept them going through the war.
Those - the ones that still had a fighting spirit - saw me marched out, at gunpoint.
It's difficult to keep one's dignity, in that sort of situation. I stayed calm. I'm nothing but calm these days.
When we reached the front office, he was there.
{Archivist's note: Here, several scratched-out sentences are illegible. Possibly some sort of false start.}
"Are you ready to go?" he asked me.
I could feel my heartbeat in my chest - fluttering, too fast. My entire body was tense, nervous. When there's a routine, a human being can learn to live with it. This wasn't routine, this was the unknown, and it was absolutely terrifying. No way in hell did I want to leave here, with him.
He nodded, once, and looked towards the guard. "The car, outside," he said.
It was dim, outside. Rain had churned the prison yard's dust into mud.
A military car idled in front of the entrance. This was the one, obviously; they held back, for a moment, hands loosening on my wrists. Like they hoped I would try to break free, try to make a run for it. They hardly ever let us outside. I don't know, maybe they were afraid that the sight of the open sky would incite rebellion, and who wants to deal with a rebellion of dozens of trained military prisoners?
I didn't move. Calm, stay calm, even though my breathing was starting to accelerate.
One of the guards cursed under his breath, and he shoved me into the car, so I landed at an angle, braced against the far door.
"Sign here," I heard, from outside.
A moment, and I shifted upright, tracing the cuffs around my wrists.
"The keys, Corporal," he said, to one of the guards.
"Sir," objected the corporal, "he's dangerous, you don't know -"
"Keys," interrupted Angilo. "Do I have to make it an order?"
"No, sir," came the mutter.
I looked outwards, towards the prison wall.
The door closed, and he moved to the other set of seats, the ones facing backwards - the back of the car made a compartment, limousine-style.
"Give me your wrists."
I wanted to say no, but I didn't.
{Again, several false starts, here. Illegible.}
As he unlocked them, his fingers skimmed the skin of my wrist. I don't know whether it was on purpose.
"You're being transferred to a different location," said Angilo. "You'll have an apartment to yourself."
"Why?"
"I don't know," Angilo responded. It was a lie. "It'll be better," he added, after a pause. "Not like the work camp."
We made eye contact - he was looking for something, in my expression.
{Another false start, scratched out.}
We didn't speak much, for the rest of the trip.
I had timed to within minutes - every day was the same. The same breakfast, the same featureless shuttle to the same kind of hard labor. The same half-edible dinner, the same electric buzz when they turn the lights out, every night.
They came to get me an hour early, this morning. Physically dragged me out of bed, set me on my feet - I woke up fast, like I always do, but it wasn't fast enough for them. Took me, at gunpoint, through the halls. Some people were already awake - not many, most are so exhausted they sleep as long as they can, but some still stick to the military discipline that kept them going through the war.
Those - the ones that still had a fighting spirit - saw me marched out, at gunpoint.
It's difficult to keep one's dignity, in that sort of situation. I stayed calm. I'm nothing but calm these days.
When we reached the front office, he was there.
{Archivist's note: Here, several scratched-out sentences are illegible. Possibly some sort of false start.}
"Are you ready to go?" he asked me.
I could feel my heartbeat in my chest - fluttering, too fast. My entire body was tense, nervous. When there's a routine, a human being can learn to live with it. This wasn't routine, this was the unknown, and it was absolutely terrifying. No way in hell did I want to leave here, with him.
He nodded, once, and looked towards the guard. "The car, outside," he said.
It was dim, outside. Rain had churned the prison yard's dust into mud.
A military car idled in front of the entrance. This was the one, obviously; they held back, for a moment, hands loosening on my wrists. Like they hoped I would try to break free, try to make a run for it. They hardly ever let us outside. I don't know, maybe they were afraid that the sight of the open sky would incite rebellion, and who wants to deal with a rebellion of dozens of trained military prisoners?
I didn't move. Calm, stay calm, even though my breathing was starting to accelerate.
One of the guards cursed under his breath, and he shoved me into the car, so I landed at an angle, braced against the far door.
"Sign here," I heard, from outside.
A moment, and I shifted upright, tracing the cuffs around my wrists.
"The keys, Corporal," he said, to one of the guards.
"Sir," objected the corporal, "he's dangerous, you don't know -"
"Keys," interrupted Angilo. "Do I have to make it an order?"
"No, sir," came the mutter.
I looked outwards, towards the prison wall.
The door closed, and he moved to the other set of seats, the ones facing backwards - the back of the car made a compartment, limousine-style.
"Give me your wrists."
I wanted to say no, but I didn't.
{Again, several false starts, here. Illegible.}
As he unlocked them, his fingers skimmed the skin of my wrist. I don't know whether it was on purpose.
"You're being transferred to a different location," said Angilo. "You'll have an apartment to yourself."
"Why?"
"I don't know," Angilo responded. It was a lie. "It'll be better," he added, after a pause. "Not like the work camp."
We made eye contact - he was looking for something, in my expression.
{Another false start, scratched out.}
We didn't speak much, for the rest of the trip.
Sunday, April 27, 2008
8
{Handwriting almost incoherent. Paper crumpled. Some words may be reinterpreted as necessary.}
I remember the ground was cold. Rock-cold. It trembled every few seconds, often enough that you didn't notice it, and when it disappeared, it was scary, it was terrifying, it meant something big was coming and you were going. to. die.
I remember the radio crackled and hissed. All this technology, and we can't get a goddamn radio to broadcast through a battle zone.
The signal wasn't clear - so there's no way his voice could have cut through it. It's not possible. My memory can't be right.
The first time I heard his voice, did it really feel like that? Like someone slipped a hook into my stomach and pulled, not painfully but insistently, irresistibly. Barely even a conversation, and I can still feel the floor trembling under my feet, the gravel dotting the map in the center of the table, the earpiece hooked around my ear.
"This is the commander of Martian ground forces, speaking."
- my throat was dry.
"Is there a name to go with that title?"
"No." I straightened - the rest of CIC was watching me. Jerricks, Whitman - oh, god, Derian and De Marco, I remember what their bodies looked like. "Just a rank," I said. "Colonel."
"How's a colonel in charge of the Martian ground forces?" he asked, then.
"Well, General." I looked away from the other Martians in the room. "I think it happened when you killed all my superior officers."
Why, why why why in God's name do I remember this - like it was yesterday?
I remember the ground was cold. Rock-cold. It trembled every few seconds, often enough that you didn't notice it, and when it disappeared, it was scary, it was terrifying, it meant something big was coming and you were going. to. die.
I remember the radio crackled and hissed. All this technology, and we can't get a goddamn radio to broadcast through a battle zone.
The signal wasn't clear - so there's no way his voice could have cut through it. It's not possible. My memory can't be right.
The first time I heard his voice, did it really feel like that? Like someone slipped a hook into my stomach and pulled, not painfully but insistently, irresistibly. Barely even a conversation, and I can still feel the floor trembling under my feet, the gravel dotting the map in the center of the table, the earpiece hooked around my ear.
"This is the commander of Martian ground forces, speaking."
- my throat was dry.
"Is there a name to go with that title?"
"No." I straightened - the rest of CIC was watching me. Jerricks, Whitman - oh, god, Derian and De Marco, I remember what their bodies looked like. "Just a rank," I said. "Colonel."
"How's a colonel in charge of the Martian ground forces?" he asked, then.
"Well, General." I looked away from the other Martians in the room. "I think it happened when you killed all my superior officers."
Why, why why why in God's name do I remember this - like it was yesterday?
7
I wonder what Cerebel is doing, these days. She always seemed pretty good at taking care of herself.
It should have been impossible to get out of that base. You talk about hell, that's hell - you couldn't see anything, for the gas. I remember my lungs were burning; later, they told me that the gas literally ate away lung tissue. The antidote injection is some kind of miracle reversal drug, but it only works within a couple minutes of exposure. The doctors, afterwards, said that the survivors were lucky. Lucky is definitely a word for it, I suppose.
Cerebel wasn't marked as one of the higher-ranking officers. She wasn't obviously an important civilian. If the world made sense, she would have died in the gas, and never revived, like I was, like Whitman and Jerricks and Dejorian were. I honestly cannot conceive how she could possibly survive a one-exit death trap like that one.
But she did. They couldn't find her in the bodies. And if you don't find her body, you never count her out.
I hope she's making trouble. She's good at that.
It should have been impossible to get out of that base. You talk about hell, that's hell - you couldn't see anything, for the gas. I remember my lungs were burning; later, they told me that the gas literally ate away lung tissue. The antidote injection is some kind of miracle reversal drug, but it only works within a couple minutes of exposure. The doctors, afterwards, said that the survivors were lucky. Lucky is definitely a word for it, I suppose.
Cerebel wasn't marked as one of the higher-ranking officers. She wasn't obviously an important civilian. If the world made sense, she would have died in the gas, and never revived, like I was, like Whitman and Jerricks and Dejorian were. I honestly cannot conceive how she could possibly survive a one-exit death trap like that one.
But she did. They couldn't find her in the bodies. And if you don't find her body, you never count her out.
I hope she's making trouble. She's good at that.
Saturday, April 26, 2008
6
For the most part, none of us get visitors. We get cells. We stay in the cells all night, leave in the morning, stay at work all day, then come back at night. There's not really time to do much but sleep. Makes for a mind-numbing routine.
Could be thrown around, once in a while. Break the rhythm. Maybe a few bingo games, or a couple extra hours of sleep. It would be nice.
My original point, though: we don't get visitors. I mean, who's rich enough to raise the funds for a liner to Earth - even if it is to visit a loved one? And if they did, where's the guarantee that the Earth government will grant them a visa, let them get off the ship without throwing them in jail, or, if they have passage to the surface, that they'll ever be able to find out where to visit. There are almost four hundred different base locations around the world that hold Martian prisoners of war. Where would you begin looking?
And, if there are people on Earth who want to visit you, what the hell are you doing in the uniform?
I had a visitor yesterday, though. It was him.
I was trying to stay awake, at the time. You can see a few stars from the window, and I thought I might be within the range that could see Mars that night. Sappy, sentimental, okay, but I'm hardly the only one who was talking about it.
Strange, though - I knew it was him, before the door shut. I didn't have to look up. Maybe it's smell, or a feel to the air, or something. I just always know.
He sat down across from me, without a word.
There were a lot of things I could have said. Accusations, maybe. Against him, I have the right to moral indignation. - This isn't really news, for anyone well-versed in the military sequence of events. Maybe not your average Earth citizen, I suppose.
When I actually did look at him, he wasn't looking at me. And his face was twisted, like he was searching for something to say.
"Enjoying your job?" he asked, finally.
"Why?" I asked.
He wasn't expecting an answer. Least of all, not one that fast. "I - well. I think I may be able to arrange something better."
His eyes were searching my face. Looking for gratitude, maybe.
I looked away.
"I'll see what I can do," he said. He lingered in the doorway, a little, before he left.
I hate to say it, but a change - it would be, well, not nice. Nothing would be nice. An improvement, maybe. You see the same tired Martian faces - fewer every month, because there are people who give up. And some people who convince they're not really giving up, just changing the battle strategy.
I fight better on my own, anyway.
- Derek Rayne
Could be thrown around, once in a while. Break the rhythm. Maybe a few bingo games, or a couple extra hours of sleep. It would be nice.
My original point, though: we don't get visitors. I mean, who's rich enough to raise the funds for a liner to Earth - even if it is to visit a loved one? And if they did, where's the guarantee that the Earth government will grant them a visa, let them get off the ship without throwing them in jail, or, if they have passage to the surface, that they'll ever be able to find out where to visit. There are almost four hundred different base locations around the world that hold Martian prisoners of war. Where would you begin looking?
And, if there are people on Earth who want to visit you, what the hell are you doing in the uniform?
I had a visitor yesterday, though. It was him.
I was trying to stay awake, at the time. You can see a few stars from the window, and I thought I might be within the range that could see Mars that night. Sappy, sentimental, okay, but I'm hardly the only one who was talking about it.
Strange, though - I knew it was him, before the door shut. I didn't have to look up. Maybe it's smell, or a feel to the air, or something. I just always know.
He sat down across from me, without a word.
There were a lot of things I could have said. Accusations, maybe. Against him, I have the right to moral indignation. - This isn't really news, for anyone well-versed in the military sequence of events. Maybe not your average Earth citizen, I suppose.
When I actually did look at him, he wasn't looking at me. And his face was twisted, like he was searching for something to say.
"Enjoying your job?" he asked, finally.
"Why?" I asked.
He wasn't expecting an answer. Least of all, not one that fast. "I - well. I think I may be able to arrange something better."
His eyes were searching my face. Looking for gratitude, maybe.
I looked away.
"I'll see what I can do," he said. He lingered in the doorway, a little, before he left.
I hate to say it, but a change - it would be, well, not nice. Nothing would be nice. An improvement, maybe. You see the same tired Martian faces - fewer every month, because there are people who give up. And some people who convince they're not really giving up, just changing the battle strategy.
I fight better on my own, anyway.
- Derek Rayne
5
I know you're looking through this writing. I know you probably have a group of experts, looking through artifact after artifact, photographed from prison cells and dormitories and work rooms, analyzing every Martian on this planet. Developing a profile of the prisoner of war. I know you're trying to figure out what I'm thinking, why I'm thinking it, and whether I'm a risk to the Earth population nearby.
Well, analyze this:
Your army slaughtered my entire command. You left seven people alive, out of thousands.
I will never rest, I will never give in, and I will never, ever abandon this uniform.
Keep trying.
Well, analyze this:
Your army slaughtered my entire command. You left seven people alive, out of thousands.
I will never rest, I will never give in, and I will never, ever abandon this uniform.
Keep trying.
4
In traditional Earth society, red is a color of war, of passion, of love, and, occasionally, of evil.
Blue and green are colors of water, calm and life. Also, money.
Put it like that, and it's a lot easier to tell why they won the war.
Blue and green are colors of water, calm and life. Also, money.
Put it like that, and it's a lot easier to tell why they won the war.
Friday, April 25, 2008
3
I've rarely been as exhausted as I am right now. How do they even find these jobs? The worst, most back-breaking, dangerous labor imaginable, and it just gets worse every time. The uniform isn't the best set of work clothes, either. Every time I come back here, I'm filthy.
The tunnel machines were relics, anyway. Probably fifty or more years old, and they break down every other time they start up. Every time they break down? We're the ones that have to fix them. They also overheat like you would not believe - and really, the underground exhaust ducts are already below capacity. They don't really need us to make any more.
I suppose that's petulant of me. Even in labor as a prisoner of war, I want to be doing something important.
There's a gash, from the machinery, on my left arm. They cleaned it up and bandaged it. The nurse didn't say a word to be the entire time, and the doctor treated me like a machine. Certain stimuli, certain responses, certain repairs.
She bandaged it too tight. I know how much it should hurt, and this isn't it.
I suppose there are many definitions of 'humane treatment' as agreed upon in the treaty.
He visited the work site today. He thinks I didn't see him.
The tunnel machines were relics, anyway. Probably fifty or more years old, and they break down every other time they start up. Every time they break down? We're the ones that have to fix them. They also overheat like you would not believe - and really, the underground exhaust ducts are already below capacity. They don't really need us to make any more.
I suppose that's petulant of me. Even in labor as a prisoner of war, I want to be doing something important.
There's a gash, from the machinery, on my left arm. They cleaned it up and bandaged it. The nurse didn't say a word to be the entire time, and the doctor treated me like a machine. Certain stimuli, certain responses, certain repairs.
She bandaged it too tight. I know how much it should hurt, and this isn't it.
I suppose there are many definitions of 'humane treatment' as agreed upon in the treaty.
He visited the work site today. He thinks I didn't see him.
2
A note:
He was here again today. Talked with some of the brass, in the inner office. I think he outranks them all.
He looked at me, particularly, before he left.
He was here again today. Talked with some of the brass, in the inner office. I think he outranks them all.
He looked at me, particularly, before he left.
1
{Archivist's notes: These pages were collected from the diary of Colonel Derek Rayne, Martian veteran. They begin December, 2296.}
I used to think the ass-backwards end of the solar system was Venus.
I visited once - the place was utter hell. The temperature was always twenty or thirty degrees beyond my personal tolerance. The space stations are even built specifically for maintaining comfortable temperature, but they never work right. Everything's always breaking down because of the sunlight, or because of the difference between the sunlight or the shade, or because of the accelerative stress of launching so many heavy skippers back and forth from the planet's surface.
Oh, don't get me started on the planet's surface. Thank god I've never been there.
Venus, though - it was rough. Rough physically, mostly, but the officers who served there were pretty rough too. You got nasty, after too much exposure to that place. No wonder they put the prisons there.
But it's not the worst place in the solar system.
For me, the worst is Chicago.
You laugh, don't you? Chicago is a nice city. Everyone says so. It's one of the best remaining on the North American continent. The rest are starting to look a little run down around the edges, especially with the wartime economy.
Do you know about the military base there?
Do you know what they do on that military base?
It's the biggest in the country. The most personnel. The most veterans of the war.
Veterans of this war are some of the most screwed-up people this side of the seventh circle of hell. They did crappy things for crappy reasons, and it caught up with them, eventually. No one figured on having a war, in this day and age, that was decided by a ground battle, and by ground forces. We threw all our might into navies. Space navies. And instead we slaughtered each other for years.
I suppose you've heard of the Battle of Toridia. You might even celebrate it.
I'm sorry. I'm not the type to wax maudlin. It's this damn city. It makes you philosophical, living between human creations - these skyscrapers - that dwarf humans so well that they block out the sun. The only redeeming feature is the lake. The military base is right next to the lake - all the easier to launch the skippers, from base to the station in orbit, once a day, when it hits the right location.
You know, I doubt this will ever leave my hands. I'm not even really sure who I'm writing to. Probably those nice men who go through my room every day when I'm gone. Well, check it out, guys. You can read all the state secrets you want from my journal. Your state took over my state anyway.
I never thought there'd be a time that I stick to a cause as long as I have. Wish me luck; I've been here six months, as something that you Earthers still won't call a 'prisoner of war', and I haven't given up yet. And you can keep trying.
- Derek Rayne
I used to think the ass-backwards end of the solar system was Venus.
I visited once - the place was utter hell. The temperature was always twenty or thirty degrees beyond my personal tolerance. The space stations are even built specifically for maintaining comfortable temperature, but they never work right. Everything's always breaking down because of the sunlight, or because of the difference between the sunlight or the shade, or because of the accelerative stress of launching so many heavy skippers back and forth from the planet's surface.
Oh, don't get me started on the planet's surface. Thank god I've never been there.
Venus, though - it was rough. Rough physically, mostly, but the officers who served there were pretty rough too. You got nasty, after too much exposure to that place. No wonder they put the prisons there.
But it's not the worst place in the solar system.
For me, the worst is Chicago.
You laugh, don't you? Chicago is a nice city. Everyone says so. It's one of the best remaining on the North American continent. The rest are starting to look a little run down around the edges, especially with the wartime economy.
Do you know about the military base there?
Do you know what they do on that military base?
It's the biggest in the country. The most personnel. The most veterans of the war.
Veterans of this war are some of the most screwed-up people this side of the seventh circle of hell. They did crappy things for crappy reasons, and it caught up with them, eventually. No one figured on having a war, in this day and age, that was decided by a ground battle, and by ground forces. We threw all our might into navies. Space navies. And instead we slaughtered each other for years.
I suppose you've heard of the Battle of Toridia. You might even celebrate it.
I'm sorry. I'm not the type to wax maudlin. It's this damn city. It makes you philosophical, living between human creations - these skyscrapers - that dwarf humans so well that they block out the sun. The only redeeming feature is the lake. The military base is right next to the lake - all the easier to launch the skippers, from base to the station in orbit, once a day, when it hits the right location.
You know, I doubt this will ever leave my hands. I'm not even really sure who I'm writing to. Probably those nice men who go through my room every day when I'm gone. Well, check it out, guys. You can read all the state secrets you want from my journal. Your state took over my state anyway.
I never thought there'd be a time that I stick to a cause as long as I have. Wish me luck; I've been here six months, as something that you Earthers still won't call a 'prisoner of war', and I haven't given up yet. And you can keep trying.
- Derek Rayne
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