“Congrats, Sergeant Z.” Said a grinning voice, as Neil dropped from the pull-up bar and flicked sweat from his brow. Nodding in appreciation, he knew that he recognized the young specialist from armament, but not enough to place him. So, in addition to his nod, Neil Ziggenbor raised a hand in acknowledgement. Such had been the day for Neil, but it was the way of things in the wake of promotion. Now the newly minted Sergeant First Class Ziggenbor just had to finish his last three months and prepare for a rotation out of this shithole.

Grabbing a towel, Neil walked out from under the overhang of the makeshift gym and looked out over the Martian landscape. After the first terraforming it had been beautiful, he had seen the pictures the same as anyone. Now the only plant and vegetation left were twisted thickets down in the valleys. There were more blown out buildings on the wrecked skylines than anything else now. “Too old to see Mars in its prime…” He muttered, pulling on his uniform jacket. “Too young to see what it’ll become.”

“There is a chance you’ve seen what it’ll become.” Said a voice from behind him.

Neil turned and assumed a position of parade rest. “First Sergeant.” He said.

“Relax, Sergeant.” First Sergeant Cassandra Crest said, and Neil returned to looking out at the view.

“You really think that this is all that will become of this place, First Sergeant?”

Crest shrugged. “Better than what happened to Earth. There’s rumblings from the Triumvirate that we’re the second to last tour through here. Next one up is supposed to scrub the place and leave it to become what it was.”

Sighing, Neil looked out. Far off he thought he could see the planet they had all originated at, though it might just be his imagination. The light past it, the half encased sun, was no figment in his imagination, though the idea that he could see the remains of the failed dyson sphere were laughable. “Pity, that.” He said. “Though it might be for the best.”

“I know it.” Crest said. “The next years might be spent on artificial structures after all, unless we can handle Titan or Ganymede better than this place.”

“Europa?”

“Not a lost cause yet, Sergeant.” She said with a sad smile. “Just another failed try.”

“Another failed try.” Neil said bitterly.

Crest turned to face him. “It’s the mission.” She said, her voice taking on that note that idealists get. “It’s our mission.”

“Yes, First Sergeant.”

“Don’t get down on me now, Ziggenbor.” She said with a small smile. “You’ll be back with the fleet soon, and there will be time to rest. Who knows, this might be the last time we go out after all.”

“That’s what you said the last time.”

“It’ll always be what I said the last time.” She shrugged. “Remember what Neerson said when we graduated from RAPIDS. He said we might not go out at all, but here we are. That’s the soldier’s charge.”

“We’re not Privates anymore, First Sergeant.”

“But sometime we could all do to think this them, those young, stupid, idealistic dreamers. Turn in, Sergeant. Tomorrows another day, and we’re expecting detachment Epsilon within the week.”

“Yes, First Sergeant.”

Crest turned and departed, but Neil stood there for a minute longer, letting the hot wind sweep him as he looked out at the shattered planet. A hellhole in the solar system, but his home for the last two years nonetheless. He had walked the streets in the capital cities enough that he felt like perhaps it would have been strange to see the place inhabited. The thought of it getting scrubbed on the next mission was… well, they all joked about it, how ripping a hole in the atmosphere would be the right move. But that was all it was to most of them.

Apparently it wasn’t a joke to the people who had never been here.

Neil turned his back on the setting sun and made his way back into the town they had occupied and went into where his company had made their home. There was plenty that was familiar, from the soldiers who enjoyed solitude racked out in their bunks, to the officers with their heads together talking endlessly about plans that would change as quickly as the topic could. Some of the Non Commissioned Officers were standing, talking quietly as they oversaw a game of cards being played.

Approaching, those at the table turned. “Sergeant,” One of the more senior specialists grinned. “Want to be dealt into the next hand?”

“Obviously.” Neil said, dropping his jacket on a vacated chair.

One of the NCOs, a Staff Sergeant named Jaden Clerk looking on smiled slightly. “Y’all fucked now.” He drawled in a rusty accent. “Count me out of the next hand then.”

Those at the table guffawed and jeered in that good natured and respectful way, except for the two other Sergeants seated there, who threw more pointed insults at their peer. Neil waited patiently for the game to conclude, and was dealt two cards face down. He had fair shows, the two cards that went on top of his blinds, and was quickest off the mark with one of his threes at the call, but that was about the peak of his game. Slapping his sizeable hand down at the end, he glared at his untouched shows but chimed in with the traditional chorus of “Fuck yourself!” Directed at the winner, a Specialist Second Class who looked more surprised that he had won than anything.

“Hell, Zigzag, you choose now to roll over and show your belly?” Clerk said, “Shit then, deal me in.” They added another deck, bringing the total to five, and played three more rounds. Neil went two for three and grinned through the chorus of voices. Two of the privates mouthed the words more than anything, but the third had the loudest voice, this game being the only time that they could hurl insults at their leadership.

“Showing your belly?” Neil grinned at Clerk, as the man stared glumly at his blinds. He flipped, revealing a seven, and a ten. “Aw to hell with that!” Clerk snarled.

Neil spread his hands. “Can't end there, can you?”

“Sure I can.” Clerk said, rising. “Never have pretended I’m anything other than a sore loser. Meet me at the tables on leave and we can put some money on a real card game.” He drawled.

As he turned to go, there was a thumping sound, and the ground shook, causing Clerk to stumble. Neil was already moving as a second concussion shook the air, and the last three windows in the building shattered. Clerk turned and drew in a breath right as Neil crashed over the table, flinging himself onto the two privates as a third concussion hit, blowing out the wall. Shrapnel tore through Clerks body, killing him and the instinctive warning call he had been about to make, and he dropped like a chunk of flayed meat.

The fourth blast was close enough that it made all the sensation go out of Neil, and all he was left with was a ringing in his ears and a dazed feeling slogging over his mental capacity. But he curled his arms around the heads of the privates, shielding them as best he could. One of them he could feel, panicked movements and a thundering heartbeat. The other... he could feel something soft and squishy as brain matter slipped out the back of his skull.

Moving through the mental film slowing the alacrity of his reaction, he adjusted so he was on the living private entirely, and counted to five. Then he pushed up, propped the private up, and turned.

Two of the walls were gone, and where the officers that had been standing in conversation there were now chunks of flesh and dark red blood. He moved as quickly as he could, his brain still muddied and stumbled to his bunk. He secured his weapon and charge clip and walked from the building. He would rather have been running, but long experience had taught him that slow sure steps were a slower pace to death than quick and unsteady.

With his weapon raised, he looked out one of the shattered walls and tracked the sky. Shapes were zipping off out in the distance and he counted… five. Five marauder class ships the likes of which he hadn’t seen this tour yet.

“Ziggenbor!” Neil turned to see First Sergeant Crest standing over the body of their company commander in the doorway to their headquarters building. “Where are the other two?” She shouted.

Turning again, Neil tracked the sky. She was right, of course… marauders always traveled in seven--

There.

The cover lights were hard to see in the twilight, but if you knew what to look for… and they were flying low. Coming in for one more pass.

“First Sergeant, take cover!” He turned as he shouted, but it was too late. There was the unmistakable whirring click of a Felbound missile being locked in place, and the snapping hiss as it was deployed out. Neil threw himself down behind one of the shattered walls as the missile struck home less than two feet behind his old friend.

Fire plumed outward, engulfing First Sergeant Crest and incinerating her instantly, the old structure Neil was crouched behind enough to keep him from getting cooked. Then the sub-atmospheric engines of the marauder screamed angrily and the two vessels zipped off to join the other five.

Then, as one unit, the seven crafts turned and started flying back to finish the job.

--

Lieutenant Commander Martin Ziggenbor stood on the bridge of the RNWS Vindicator and glared through the forward observation at the Republic Dreadnaught Class warship that had come up on them so suddenly. Martin didn’t like changes to what the daily briefing had said would come, but he had no power to effect change on that front, so glare he did. But after a quarter of an hour with no immediate hailing, he turned and surveyed the workings of the command bridge.

A group of officers with whom he was very well acquainted hunched over weapons systems that would, unless they were all very unfortunate, remain unused. Nonetheless, those under his command were ever checking the status of missile inventories, electronic and thermal weapon battery readiness, and warhead capabilities. If they had a fault, it was that there were times when an admiral or dignitary would walk through the deck on a routine check or tour and they would be so absorbed in their duties that they might not even hear the call for attention.

This was why one, the second most junior ensign stood slightly at an angle, his eyes flicking whenever they could so that he could keep an eye on the walkways and corridors while also trying to absorb as much information as he could from Ridgewater, the Captain, and most senior of the weapons officers. She stood in the stance officers did while teaching, which is to say that it looked like she had at the start had her arms crossed, but had since taken to gesturing at the screen and indicator levels while keeping the other awkwardly crooked across her chest. There were two other Lieutenants there, one sitting idly by making sure that the other two ensigns, more junior than the one keeping a pseudo watch, were devoting their full and undivided attention to the lecture, and that their pencils never stopped scratching across their traditional paper notepads.

The other Lieutenant was sitting silently by, her half closed eyes deceitful. Martin knew that Lieutenant Hightower was better than Ridgewater, and Ridgewater knew it too. She didn’t resent it; the two women had been friends through RAPIDS and the LAC. So long as seniority was maintained to levels of discretion, there was never an issue. Still, everyone on the Vindicator, Detachment Echo, and the Tenth Fleet know that Margret Hightower was the brightest upcoming officer in the navy. If she could only learn not to flaunt that in the face of officers who couldn’t tell their asshole from a head evacuation chute, her rank would begin to reflect it.

Which is why Ridgewater was teaching the class, and Hightower was sitting there with her mouth firmly closed. Martin valued wit and confidence in all of his officers, but only under the conditions that they backed up their sharp tongues and knew the time and place to unleash it. The moment either of those unwritten protocols were broken, Martin was quick to bring in the written ones to the fullest level of their letter.

The comlink in Martin’s pocket buzzed. He glanced down on it to see a message from Neil. Another standard update on the hideously stagnant goings on in the Martian fieldings. He would get to it. In the meantime, something else caught his attention, that being the ensign keeping watch. His head had snapped around to one of the starboard corridors, and standing there in it was none other than the commander of the Tenth Fleet, Richard Neerson. “Vindicator!” Martin shouted. “atten-SHUN!”

All personnel not performing mission critical taskings snapped to attention just in time for Neerson to call in a similar tone, “Carry on, Vindicator.” The Fleet Admiral moved through the deck, and it became clear where he was going. Martin met him halfway. “Commander Ziggenbor.” Neerson said. “You’ve come a long way since the last time I saw you.”

“I won’t forget that lecture soon, sir, I assure you.” Martin said. “It allowed me to have a new perspective on the LAC.”

“I hope it lent perspective to a bit more than that.”

Martin denied himself a smile, though he felt the corners of his eyes wrinkle slightly. “A bit, sir. We’re honored to have you aboard today, though I’m surprised that the Commander didn’t accompany you.”

“I gave her orders to stay in her office when I boarded.” Neerson said. “It’s you I wanted to speak with.”

Tight nerves of apprehension gripped Martin’s guts. Whether for good or ill, whenever Admirals began seeking out uniformed personnel by name, there was always hardship ahead. “I am at your command, sir.”

Neerson smiled. “Oh, trust me. I know that. We’ll need to depart to the Ascendency as soon as possible. If you have leaving orders to assign, I would do so.”

“Yes sir.” Martin said, and moved quickly, gesturing as he did so that when he came to a stop it wasn’t just Ridgewater, but a representative from every station on the bridge who stood smartly, if not at rigid attention. They knew what was coming. “I’m out for a time.” He said. “I don’t know what for, and I don’t know how long, but I’ll get word--”

His officers snapped to the finest positions of attention Martin had ever seen them execute.

“He’s going to be briefed on a situation unfolding in the Martian Sector, Second Fielding.” Neerson said from over his shoulder. “Commander Ziggenbor will be in touch with you no later than 2000 hours today, and I would ensure that his ship is prepared to go underway upon his return. Understood?”

“Yes sir.” The officers choroused as one, and Neerson put his hand on Martin’s shoulder.

“Time to go, Commander Ziggenbor.” The Fleet Admiral said softly.

Turning as though his feet were heavy and unwieldy, he met Neerson’s gaze. “The Second Fielding?” He asked in an even tone. Neerson began walking, and Martin knew better than not to follow. “Sir, that’s the Violet City and surrounding territories.”

“It is.”

“It’s where the 3-95th Infantry Battalion is emplaced.”

Neerson gestured for them to enter the elevator down to the hangars. “Indeed. And your youngest brother is a newly promoted Sergeant First Class in their ranks. If this were not the case, I would not have come to find you.”

“But… sir, what situation--”

“The briefing.” Neerson said. “You know enough to make you understand that it is nothing to be taken lightly, but not here. Thirty minutes.”

Martin worked hard to calm his mind, and tried to ignore the comlink feeling very heavy in his pocket. Together, he and the Fleet Admiral boarded a docking shuttle and made their way to the Tenth Fleet’s flagship. The RDC Ascendancy was a behemoth of military might, as all Republic Dreadnaught Class warships were, and though he had seen a number of them in his time, this would mark the first one he had been on since graduating from RAPIDS. They were ushered swiftly to transportation once onboard, and true to his word, before Martin had time to be even more worried, they were seated in a briefing room. Neerson was the highest ranking officer there, but there were two Rear Admirals, three Sergeants Major and a General, with various other brass in attendance as well.

Without preamble, one of the Sergeants Major rose. “At 1900 Martian time today, the three units deployed to the Second Fielding of the Martian and the two deployed to the Seventh Fielding were attacked in what appears to be a coordinated assault by a group using RM5Z Saber Class Marauder Fighters.” She said, in the clipped tone of a woman who had spent the majority of her military career delivering briefs. “The 50-12th of the Seventh Fielding, and the 4-101st and 12-901st of the Second Fielding were destroyed with no survivors detected. The other two battalions, the 3-95th of the Second Fielding and the 9-907th of the Seventh Fielding sustained heavy casualties. All transatmospheric vehicles were destroyed in the attacks, apparently intentionally to strand our soldiers on Mars.” We have received a fragmented transmission from the 9-907th indicating that they had a working chain of command despite their casualties and are en route to Olympus Mons for extraction.”

“Have we had word from the 3-95th?” One of the Rear Admirals asked. The Sergeant Major looked to Neerson. “I have been led to believe that we have, though I have not been privy to it myself.”

Neerson turned to Martin and held out his hand. Drawing the comlink from his pocket, Martin sincerely hoped that it was another holographic projection of his kid brother shaving the underside of his scrotum again and not…

Neerson placed the comlick into a docking station on the arm of his chair, and the holo winked to life on a much grander scale than it would have had it been merely held. For a moment it seemed as though there had been some mistake, that the comlink had been called by accident. Nothing but green haze and a rubbing noise could be heard, until…

The bloodsoaked face of a man came into focus, and Martin felt the bottom go out of his stomach as his brother screamed something so loud that it overloaded the comlink’s input sensors for a moment. “At the stripes, fucking move! Green and Troy, go around, set that-- FUCK!” There was a blinding flash and the comlink spun before landing. Boots ran past it for a few moments, and the voice could be heard shouting. “Set that APES here, goddamn it, here. Third pass, and our last if those motherfucking mortars don’t get those rounds so fucking move!” The comlink whirled again and Neil’s face came into focus. “Dunno if I’m getting out of this one bro.” He breathed into the comlink. “Top is dead, and they hit HHC if what I saw is right. Just letting you know, cause hell. Gotta let the best of us know too, right? Thanks for everything. Love you guys. Z3 out. GET THE--”

And the comlink winked away.

Martin felt like he might never breathe again, and though he could feel the emotion pushing hard against his eyes, he kept his bearing. “How long until the 9-907th can reach Olympus Mons?”

“By our estimates, roughly 120 hours, but we will know more when we’re in contact.”

“And the 3-95th?”

The Sergeants Major exchanged looks between each other, then looked at the General. The name Crossin was stitched next to the two stars that emblazoned his chest, and he rose. “There’s a high likelihood that the 3-95th is gone too, just like the rest. I’ll be giving orders for reconnaissance and confirmation on that, along with the necessary personnel to extract any survivors, but I need to divert my assets to those whom I know I can get out.”

Martin wanted to explode. This two-star was going to leave his brother out to die? And he was going to tell them all about it so… matter of factly? He tensed as the thought hit him like a wet glove, and Fleet Admiral Neerson might have thought he was beginning to rise, because he clamped a hand down on his shoulder. “I will give the order for Detachment Echo to break ranks with the Tenth Fleet and depart for Mars.” Neerson said. “For recovery of the 9-907th infantry battalion,”