The stripes sped over the Martian terrain in a flat open plane. If Neil’s memory served him correctly it had been one of the smaller seas, long since dried up. The ground was too flat, so it must have been manmade, but that was where his interest ended. “What’s our ammo count?” Neil asked.

“Seventy clips of hard and ten full energy banks. Two on half charge.” Staff Sergeant Mara said at once.

“Can we consolidate?”

“I don’t believe so, not with the equipment we have here. I can check with supply at our next stop though.”

“Do that.” He nodded, and leaned back, adjusting his weapon between his knees so that it would be easier to bring up if needed. Away to the southwest he could see their goal. The great mountain had come into sight the previous day, though the outpost built into its side was not yet visible. By his measure, they had two more days to reach the slopes of the mountain, and even then… he shook his head.

Before they had set out yesterday he had found his comlink, dead, broken, just a bit of junk. Still he had tucked it back into the cargo pocket of his uniform, a little weight reminding him to hope that the message he had spent precious moments on that first night sending to Martin. Given Flint’s failure to secure a sending signal, he wondered if the message had even gotten out. It was hardly anything he could be concerned about… there were plenty of other things, but still the thought that his brother was just out there, unaware--

He’s aware. A small voice said inside him. The Tenth Fleet is coming, and your brother is assigned to the Tenth Fleet. He. Is. Coming.

Sure. Neil adjusted again and looked out again at Olympus Mons. The hot air whipped past him, the smooth but textured terrain grinding under the tires, and the scream of the stripes engine--

He sat up, palm flat on the floor of the stripe. It was smooth, quiet running on the electric energy absorbed by the solar panels. Levering himself up, he thumped Vane on the shoulders. “Get to cover!” He yelled in the Sergeant’s ear, and without hesitation Vane spun the wheel and they headed for… well, it wasn’t cover, but it was an old cargo freighter that had crashed in the small sea. The other stripes followed suit, right as three marauders screamed past, banking wide as the ground vehicles made the shelter.

Staring down his sights at the vessels, Neil swore. They hadn’t opened up with felbound missiles or hard rounds, just come in over top and banked when they turned. By the time Neil’s stripe had come to a stop Troy already had his APES set and was loading a charge clip. “On you!” Neil called, directing others to get into offensive posture. The thrumming charged fire of the APES filled the air, and the two marauders seemed to remember the sound too. They banked this way and that, knowing that they were out in broad daylight now and easier targets.

Why were they out in the daylight, Neil wondered. Even as he did though, the lead marauder banks too hard and was clipped by one of Troy’s lancing rounds. It went down as gracefully as could be expected, and Troy whooped, righting the weapons system. “Get behind cover!” Neil barked, but there wasn’t a reason. Troy was already sliding behind one of the stripes.

“Hold position here!” Neil shouted as Vane started to move with his squad. Neil looked down his scope to the spoking marauder, watching as its crew disembarked awkwardly through the belly hatch. They were diverse, all colors and ages represented… but they all wore the same black jumpsuit with shoulder insignia, something that looked like a cross.

A uniform.

Neil’s mouth was already dry, but he felt his fingers jitter on his weapon about what that might mean.

Three of them were in the kneeling ready, weapons pointed at their location. But they didn’t open fire and as Neil watched them he saw the urgency in their movements. Two on the surviving ship were directing the others into the boarding hatch, and to Neil they just looked like soldiers trying to get through a crisis. A minute later, and they were all boarded.

“Sergeant Ziggenbor?” Troy called.

“Hold fire.” Neil said. Everyone held their position as the marauder lifted off the ground, turned, angling their weapons system on their position for a brief moment… and zipped off to the west.

“The fuck?” Troy called. “Just like that?”

“Apparently. Vane, give me five. Anderson, on me. Troy, watch the skies.” Then he stood and walked the few hundred meters to where the marauder had gone down. It had indeed been a glancing blow from Troy’s APES, but enough to knock out one of the wing rudders. There was a wisp of smoke from the ship. Vane came up behind him, Anderson took up his usual spot at Neil’s left elbow.

“I thought they’d blow this one, too.” Vane said.

“Eyes up, they still might.”

But Vane shook his head. “The range for remote detonation is five hundred meters, and they’re long outside that range by now.”

“They blew the other two on their passes that first night, and they were more than a mile out on each run.”

“Sure.” Vane said. “The RM5Z Saber class has a detonation sequence that can be activated anywhere you have radio contact with the ship.”

“So what’s to stop them here?”

“These aren’t Saber classes. These are the old Rapier class. Similar, it’s mostly the guts that are updated, but the old pilots swear that these are harder to keep track of on radar.”

Neil digested that. “Not the same ships from the night of the attack.”

“Not the same.” Vane confirmed.

“You’re sure?”

“Absolutely.”

--

Space travel, Martin reflected, was the proof that the culmination of human innovation could be made manifest in the most cutting edge of all technologies mankind had ever seen, and could still be taken for granted. This was evidenced by the events that transpired after he had made his way back to the Vindicator: Boredom. Commander Seris had received the orders from the Ascendancy and had the ship ready to go underway, and if she disapproved of the situation it didn’t show. They followed the Ascendancy, though still officially Detachment Echo. Generally speaking, despite the blinding speeds that even the most routine movements operated at, Martin often found himself… just bored.

Not today, though playing over his brother’s peril could only be done so many times before he slipped into the familiar monotony of pacing back and forth between the control stations, always pausing longer than was necessary at the weapons monitoring terminal. Ridgewater and Hightower were used to his hovering, but on the fourth time through, Hightower turned with a somewhat pained expression on her face. “Anything in particular that you’re looking for, Lieutenant Commander?”

Martin shook his head in apology. “Just making sure everything’s running smoothly.”

Ridgewater sighed and kicked one of the chairs that an ensign had vacated. At once he sat and pushed the chair underneath the alcove that covered half the work station.

“Hats off.

“Spill, boss.” Ridgewater said, dropping pretense and protocol. “What the hell is going on?”

“Headed to Mars for extraction.”

She rolled her eyes around to look at Hightower. “Obviously sir, but you’re like a manic rabbit that’s covered in tar right now, I've never seen you so nervous.”

“I’m not nervous.”

“Worried then, goddamn it.”

“She is right,” Hightower said. “For whatever my opinion’s worth.”

Martin crossed his arms. “It’s the 3-95th. Neil’s unit.”

“Fuck me, that’s right.” Ridewater said, looking at Hightower, who narrowed her eyes.

“I told you that.” She said, “I did tell you that, I literally walked you through it.”

“You walked me through speculation.”

“Guys, guys.” Martin waved down their wearying and all to familiar arguments. “Just… Neil’s in trouble. I’m worried about him.” He felt Hightower’s eyes on him. Unless he was very much imagining things, he felt them narrow.

“That tells us exactly jack shit about why you’re worried though, boss.” Ridgewater said, leaning back. “We only go to extract units who are in trouble, or due for recovery. We weren’t scheduled to leave for Mars for another two months, and we’re moving at emergency speed.”

“I think I know what’s going on.” Hightower said.

“You’re probably right.” Martin said, hopping up as his comlink pinged. “Hats on.”

“Yes sir.” They chorused, and went back to studying their monitors.

Martin climbed back up to the deck and walked through one of the port corridors down to the briefing room indicated. WIthin was Commander Seris, and two ground force army types. One, a major with a face that looked more in line with desk work than emergency extraction, rose. “Commander Ziggenbor.”

He nodded, and they took their seats.

“I’m Major Denton, junior operations officer for Task Force Barghest. This is Sergeant First Class Jackson Valentine, leader of first squad, second platoon, bravo company, 3d battalion.”

“Sir.” Jackson Valentine said, with a nod. He was black with a lean face and long dreadlocks tied back at the base of his skull.

“Sergeant.” Martin said. “Forgive me, but for this operation we may need more than a squad.”

“You have them.” Major Denton said without offense taken in his voice. “Two companies of capable soldiers aboard the Viceroy. Sergeant Valentine is here at the request of Admiral Neerson personally, in the event that there are ground forces compromised needing a more specialized extraction.”

Masking his relief, Martin nodded. “Personal request?”

“Several squads volunteered, sir.” Denton said. “Admiral Neerson went with the man he knew.”

This calmed some of the war of nerves inside Martin. The reputation of Task Force Barghest was well known, even if the details of their operations was not. A single squad still seemed like there would be strength in numbers left lacking.

As if sensing Martin’s misgivings, Jackson looked to Denton, who nodded. “Sir,” Jackson said. “We’re here to assist in the extraction of the survivors of the 3-95th battalion, despite the general consensus. All intelligence points to their being less than fifty survivors, based on your brother’s transmission. If they’re down there, we’ll get them out. If you would like, I can introduce you to my squad personally.”

“I would like that.”

“I’ll take my leave.” Commander Seris said, rising and excusing herself from the room.

Denton and Jackson led Martin down to hanger bay C, where there was a single ship in ready dock. Martin and Denton waited outside while Jackson filed his squad out. They stood in their respective teams. One stood removed from the rest, dressed in a pilot’s jumpsuit. Every soldier stood at attention.

“Team one, Staff Sergeant Macklot with Sergeants Taylor, Bock, and Flowers. Specialist Mennin. Team two, Staff Sergeant Ferris with Sergeants Tack, Vandergriff, and Greenlaw. Specialist Andis, sir. Our pilot,” Jackson said, gesturing to the soldier standing to the side. “Captain Crew Benson.”

“Duties and responsibilities?”

Jackson’s gaze lingered on Martin for a brief moment. “Specialist Andis is our medic, Specialist Minnin our communications operator. But all trained in special operations, including medical, weapons, and tactics, and communications systems. Captain Benson is in the top percentile for combat flight aptitude and tactical prowess.”

The faces of Task Force Barghest stared forward. “At ease.” Martin said, and they slid as one to parade rest, their eyes on him. They were a diverse group, men and women, short and tall. Sergeant Tack was short and looked as though he were one of those men who could never quite rid himself of sogginess around his chin and midsection. Grim was usually the look attributed to soldiers, but not these. They looked… calm. As though today were just another day in their company areas of operation.

“I’m hoping that we have a smooth extraction for all, first squad.” He said. “But if we do not, I’m glad you’re here.” He turned back to Jackson. “You’re receiving regular updates on the situation?”

“As they come, sir.” Jackson said. “Whatever is waiting for us down there, we’ll be ready.”