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."

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?

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.

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.

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.

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."

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.

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?

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.

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

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