“Commander Ziggenbor,” one of the systems operators called. “Request from hangar bay C to disembark.”

“Granted.” Martin said at once. “Do we have feed from the ship?”

“Negative, sir.”

“Then get me feed of Ascraeus Mons and five miles surrounding it, nearest possible rendering point.”

“Retrieving feed of Ascraeus Mons and surrounding territory, aye.”

Martin went to the center of the fridge where a circular terminal was built, nearly every inch of it covered with monitoring terminals and ship readings. These he minimized to the smallest screen and brought up the feed now rendering from the martian surface. With nearly a full circle of screens around him it was faintly disorienting at first, to feel like he was floating in a patchwork version of the planet, but with the ability to tap and zoom on single points. Not down to the rocks and sand below, but enough to follow the progress of Sergeant Valentine’s ship. The craft moved slower than he would have liked, but in the now fallen darkness he assumed they would be moving for stealth rather than speed.

Obviously, he thought to himself.

“Sir,” a communications officer said. She held out a small earpiece. “Captain Benson.”

Martin forced himself not to snatch the earpiece, remembering Neerson’s words. “Lieutenant Commander Ziggenbor.” He said when he had fixed the earpiece in place.

“Sir.” Came the gravelly voice of Captain Benson. “I thought you might want to have at least an ear in the action. Direct line, and secure.”

“I appreciate that, Captain.”

“First squad is set and marked, though don’t count on being able to track them much once they've been inserted.”

“Forgive me asking, don’t you need to focus on your descent?”

“I’m good sir. Trust me, if things get hairy you’ll be the first distraction I drop.”

“Can you communicate with Sergeant Valentine?”

“I can but I won’t unless it's mission critical. And whatever you’re going to say about your temper tantrum earlier isn’t.” The pilot said without rancor.

Martin was silent for a few moments. “Still.”

There was a sigh from the other end of the headset. “Look, sir, I’ve been in a lot of bad situations. I’ve seen better officers do dumber shit in more important moments, and I do mean that. So move on and get your head in the game because the next few hours are going to be dull as hell, but when this shit pops off there’s going to be fireworks.”

“I… if you don’t mind me saying, Captain--”

“Something, something, don’t talk to me like I’m an ensign, something, something, no regard for proper military protocol, something, something, earned my rank. Bout cover it?”

The knee jerk response to that was anger, and had it been Neil standing there the conversation would devolve quickly for very different reasons than the Captain expressed. Martin dismissed it as a reaction, and chose to respond instead.. “Well, no, Captain, I like to think that my ego isn’t quite so fragile, particularly in a situation like this. I was simply going to remark on the reputation of your task force living up to its reputation of placing the alacrity of the mission above everything else, including, at times, the respect that we officers come to expect, rather than earn.”

There was silence for a moment. “Oh.” Said Benseon. “In that case I apologize for being a dick about it, sir.” The overlying ease in his voice remained, but the underlying flippancy did not. Martin had encountered many pilots who thought themselves hotshots, better than the rest because they could navigate a ship autonomously rather than as part of a crew. “Is there anything you want to know about our status in particular?”

“ETA, intelligence of on ground threats, status of our personnel on the ground.”

There was another, longer, possibly more long suffering silence in his ear. Then, “We’ll be on the ground at 2230 martian time.”

Martin squinted at the screen he had minimized the systems check to. Fifteen minutes. “Thank you Captain. Will you remain on the line?”

“Yes sir, though I might not be quite as chatty once we make the planet.”

“Understood. Do you foresee needing any specific support from the Vindicator?”

“I’ve never heard of a hot extraction having too many CMTs on standby.”

“Twenty-five Cryogenic Medical Devices will be placed in hangar bay C. Will that be enough?”

“Fuck me, sir, I hope so.”

“I as well. It will be our entire capacity. I’ll also have all available medical personnel standing by.”

“Roger.”

Then the two officers went silent, and Martin crossed his arms, watching first squad's descent. Fifteen minutes dragged by, but from his vantage point, Martin couldn’t be sure. Another ten minutes went before Benson muttered into the headset. “They’re away, sir.”

“Thank you, Captain.” Rubbing a hand across his face, Martin prepared himself for a long wait.

It came.

And remained.

And continued.

Though weariness itched behind Martin’s eyes he knew there would have been no rest to be had even if he had wanted to sleep. Not now, so close to knowing the answer that had been burning in his mind ever since Neerson had come aboard his ship.

A single vibration in his right breast pocket told him everything he needed to know, and he ignored it. Time enough for that, whatever the outcome of this operation. He looked out at the planetary curvature. Dawn was coming, as it was, this time of year. Soon there wouldn’t be much of a day cycle on Mars at all, the partially intact, mostly destroyed dyson sphere around the old sun would see to that.

Then there was furious rustling in his ear, and Martin stiffened. “Get ready for the fireworks, Sir. First Squad has engaged the enemy.

“Coms, send orders to hangar bay C to prepare for arrival!” Martin snapped.

“Send standby orders to hangar bay C, aye!” The response came.

Martin rubbed his hands together, trying to clear the clamminess from his palms as he stared at the monitors, trying to see what was happening. From his virtual vantage point, however, all he saw was the ship, stationary on the lower slopes of Ascraeus Mons. There had been many times that there had been violence of action unfolding unseen but not unknown to him, and he had thought years ago that he would have gotten used to it. But so far, it was the same. A jittery sense of helplessness knowing that only his proactive actions would have any bearing on the situation at hand. Nothing he did now would make a shit stain’s worth of difference.

So he waited, but from that point it didn’t take long for movement. The ship was suddenly moving down the slopes and across to the west away from Ascraeus Mons. There was a small network of naturally formed trenches some twenty miles from the mountain, and from the looks of it, this was the destination.

“Captain Benson?” Martin said into the headset, and was answered by nothing.

The ship slowed, rotated, and a hail of impacts, small, like rocks being thrown, came over the headset.

“Oh, for fucks…” Benson’s voice came over the headset.

The ship rotated more, and two missiles whipped out from its payload. Martin hadn’t even seen the wing of Saber Class marauders coming in, but Benson’s missiles landed home, the direct hits taking out one apiece and the resulting blast eliminating the one between them. The other five split off, and Benson rotated while drawing his ship to the ending tip of the canyon. Another of the Sabers exploded, though not from any of Benson’s doing. Two came to his starboard flank and the Captain turned to meet them, but it still left the last two whipping around.

Martin held his breath, knowing full well that even one hit from a felbound at this range would likely end the fight against their favor.

It was the unexpected wildcard that often changed the game, however.

Into his field of observation, two more ships sped. Though they carried more mass with them, the Rapier classes were built sleeker with a higher focus on aerodynamics than weapon’s capability. It didn’t matter for these two, who were able to end the two Sabers coming up on Captain Benson’s blindside. One of them zipped away, even as Benson inched his ship closer still to the edge of the canyon and ripped through another Saber with hard rounds.

There was a hiss and metallic grinding in Martin’s headset, and then the sound of voices. Distant, urgent shouts that he couldn’t distinguish. Another hail of pebble sounds, closer now, angier, more off putting.

The last Saber class zipped off, but did not turn and flee as Martin had seen, which was usually the case. That craft wouldn’t have been operating at even half of its capacity on any systems, and yet it set its course for Captain Benson’s ship, now obviously rising. Through the headset he heard the distinct trump-chunking sound of an Aircraft Prevention Electronic Suppressor weapons system.

The Saber buckled and swayed in the air, smoke pluming from its portside wing as the APES found its mark. But it wasn’t enough, and the Saber class somehow kept its course as Benson angled his ship for acceleration. Then, broadside of the Saber, the second Rapier swung its course and opened fire, not on Captain Benson, but on the Saber Class fighter.. It was hard rounds, and the Saber class buckled under the fire. For a moment Martin relaxed, exhaling… before it was strangled off in his throat.

Martin saw the streak of white vapor, even if he couldn’t see the missile itself. In his headset he heard the terrible hiss and then a crunching impact. His heart beat once, and a deafening explosion rocked through his headset as a fireball plumed alongside the rising craft.

The ship bucked in the air, losing some altitude as Benson fought to keep control, and then he brought it around, finishing the angling maneuver and bringing the ship to the peak of its inter-atmospheric capabilities.

Captain Benson’s voice came over the headset. “Commander Ziggenbor.” Gone was any careless banter in the gravely tone of the pilot. Grim business was all he had now.

“I’m here, Captain.”

“Scarab Lord inbound for hangar bay C. Have all medical personnel on their highest alert. Prepare CMTs to receive immediate subjects.”

“Understood.” Martin said, and as moved the bridge, his pocket vibrated again.

--

Neil hadn’t wanted to get back into the canyon especially being as close to its end as they were, but the pseudo light of the martian sunrise was already growing lighter, and he ordered them back in. They went along at as fast of a pace as Neil felt comfortable with. Looking at the faces, it was clear that one way or another they were near their journey’s end. “Vane, how many more miles?”

“One or less, unless I’m stupid.” Vane muttered. “But it’s going to feel like three or more in this winding shitshow. We--”

Neil never heard the shot, and Vane never broke his step. His leg just crumpled as he came down on it. Half the Sergeant’s head was gone, the rest a bloody, destroyed mess of red and gore splattering the rocks.

Flint leaped, flattening Morgon against the canyon wall while another deceptively small puff of rock sprayed into the air. Neil helf tripped over himself as he tried to get around the corner they had been about to reach, and as he took in the scene behind him panic lanced through to his fingertips.

Maybe fifty men and women were either popping their heads out over the canyon’s edge or coming around the winding bends. They were dressed each in black jumpsuits with a miss-shaped cross on the right sleeve. They moved with something like military discipline, but not enough to make Neil think that they were defectors, or had ever been through an official training pipeline.

“Soldiers from the Cluster!” Came a voice. “You are ordered to lay down arms and surrender yourselves as prisoners taken in military conflict.”

Military conflict. The words sent a chill through him, and he gritted his teeth. He looked between the four, Troy pawing at his APES. Neil shook his head.

“Get ready to run.”

Morgon looked at the rim of the canyon. The group was spreading out there too. “Simmons, can you run--”

“No.” Morgon said, shaking his head and pointing away behind them. Neil checked, and saw that the canyon widened, and then narrowed into a pass that maybe two abreast could walk through. Past it was straight enough for maybe a hundred meters, at his guess. “Head there, Sergeant. If you want to watch the overwatch, but it’ll slow you down. We gotta make it there.”

Neil nodded. “Then move.”

Together they broke into as much of sprint as they could. Bullets flew wildly behind them, but Neil was operating on his brother’s faith as he set his eyes on the gap. He was behind Flint, his hand on her back, and tracking Troy in his right peripheral when he heard a grunt. Chancing a glance, he saw a streak of scarlet on the ground, and Morgon on one knee, his other spurting blood. Neil shoved Flint forward and made to turn.

“Troy!” Morgon gasped, and the APES gunner dropped his shoulder and rammed Neil in the gut, taking the wind completely out of him. Then with an almighty roar, Troy heaved Neil onto his other shoulder and pounded dirt. “Go back!” Neil screamed. “Get Morgon!”

“No sarge.” Troy said. “He knows what he’s about.”

When they made the pass, Troy dropped him and all but sat on Neil.

“We need to go get him!” Neil croaked through his winded lungs.

“Fire mission!” Morgon’s voice cracked through the canyon. Neil’s head whipped around to find Morgon with the 60mm mortar system already in place, and to Neil’s shock, private Simmons next to it. He was drawing small black tubes from his pack as bullets flew around him from the oncoming group of the black clad group.

“Broken arrow, broken arrow, broken arrow fuckery!” Morgon roared. “Prep all remaining rounds!”

“Fire mission, broken arrow fuckery!” Simmons replied.

“Gun up!” Morgon bellowed, and snatched Simmons’s rifle, kicking out to the prone. “Expend all remain remaining rounds on my command. Hang it!”

Morgon started snapping off rounds as Simmons set the first round of six into the muzzle of the mortar cannon. Half of the oncoming group started running, but the second, more wise half suddenly threw themselves back, or at the wall looking for cover. The overwatch on the canyon rim vanished, and Troy hooked his hands under Neil, forcing him to his feet and forward down the canyon further.

A bullet tore through Morgon’s right shoulder. “Fire!” He roared. Bullets tore apart his face and chest. Simmon’s was two seconds and four rounds deep when a bullet smashed into his ribs. He hung the penultimate round and let it soar as another ripped open his back. When the last round was in the air he seized his rifle back form his dead gunner and turned, taking two in the stomach and another in pelvis.

When the magazine was empty, he raised both hands in the air, and one finger up on each.

Neil’s feet had started moving in cooperation rather than resist Troy’s jostling, and it was a few moments after the last mortar round had been fired that Neil noticed the total, utter silence.

“Don’t stop,” Troy barked. “Might not even be safe--”

The air shook with impact as the mortar rounds came down; directly onto the position that they had been fired from. Cries of shock, pain, and death came from back where they had come from.

It was then that Neil’s legs gave way.

No bullet had hit him, no new sensation of pain wracked his body. All in the space of a moment, his legs just decided that they weren’t going to hold his weight anymore. Troy caught him, and lowered him to the ground, looking up to where the angled canyon wall was sloped at its end.

“Is he alright?”

“Fuck no.” Troy said, rolling Neil over. “He’s about done. Sorry about that mortar lesson.”

“You’re very calm.” Flint said, even as footsteps over the side of the canyon rim grew louder.

“Awe hell, my job is literally lay with my dick in the mud and try to shoot a big flying chunk of metal out of the sky before it shoots me. Problem is that chunk of metal’s got more guns, bigger guns, better maneuverability than I’ll ever have.” He sighed and shouldered the weapon. More gunfire erupted from out of sight. “What in the hell are they shooting at? People with guns don’t really have the same scare factor for me anymore. Might be all the times I’ve been shot at, but more than like it’s cause I’m nothing but a dumb hick from the rusty ports.” He looked down to where he held the three charge clips. “Might think of using these, tho it’ll cook us down here an--” He snapped the muzzle of the oversized weapon up to a portion of the canyon rim. Flint had heard it too.

“Friendlies.” Came a calm voice from over the rim of the trench.

“Say again?”

“Friendlies coming over into line of fire, Specialist Troy. Hold your fire.” And with that, six figures deftly crawled over the side of the trench and slid down to their position. Neil lifted his head to look at them. They were dressed in body armor the likes of which Neil hadn’t seen before. They were left almost entirely encased in what looked like brushed steel, but by the ease they were moving at Neil knew that couldn’t be the case.

“Sergeant First Class Valentine of Task Force Berghest, we’re here to get you home.”

Troy nodded, tears welling up in his eyes, then he looked down at Neil, who held out a hand. With what he had left, he stood and looked at Sergeant Valentine. “I’m Sergeant First Class Ziggenbor, and this is all that’s left of the 3-95th.”

Valentine nodded and pointed to another one of the body armor clad figures. They remained almost motionless except for the fingers of their right hand depressing buttons as they, presumably, communicated with a third party.

“You look in rough shape, Sergeant Ziggenbor.” Valentine said. “Intel had you at six strong.”

Neil’s throat seized up at the matter of fact tone it was said in.

“Vane got sniped and our mortars bought us sometime.” Troy said. “They’re all dead.”

“Damn.” Valentine said. “Roger, we’re going to make our way back up over as close as we can to the mouth spur of the canyon for extraction. My second team is engaged with the force that ran you down, they should be able to disengage and make extraction by the time our transport arrives.”

“What if they can’t?” Neil asked. He was surprised at how steady his voice was, even if it wasn’t the volume he had intended.

“Extraction is our mission.” Valentine said it like a prayer. “You three are getting off this rock.”

“Fuck yeah.” Troy whooped. His elation turned into a string of heavy profanity a moment later as a keening screech could be heard coming up from the west.

“Ferris, disengage and head for extraction.” There was a pause. “Now. Specialist Troy, do you still have ammo for your APES?”

“Three clips.”

“Good shot?”

“Damn good.”

“I don’t want to ask more from you, but the mission’s been compromised. We--” The air was ripped apart as two missiles, larger than felbounds, tore through the air overhead followed by what sounded like a single explosion.

“Show me where to shoot, sarge.” Troy said.

“Ziggenbor we’re going up the slope.” But the moment had gotten to Neil and he was already moving, close to Flint and behind the other five soldiers to the jagged rim of the trench. Troy snapped out his tripod, and Neil followed the muzzle of the weapon. “Back up,” Neil said, but Flint was already, with her hands over her ears. Five of the Sabers still remained, and Troy opened fire as they went by. The APES went off with its disconcerting thwump-chunk-thwump-chunking cadance, and Specialist Troy led his shot perfectly. The portmost Saber took his blast on its belly, pitched, and exploded. The remaining four split off, two each in opposite sweeping arcs.

The roaring sounds of engines reached Neil’s ears and he whirled around. A black ship of a class he didn’t recognize was hovering sidewise towards them, a boarding ramp lowered. Even as it did it turned in the air, its hard round weapons roaring to life.

“Valentine!” Came a voice over the din. Three soldiers, two carrying limp forms, came up on them.

“Report.” Valentine snapped.

“Vandergriff dead, Andis probably too.” His eyes took in the three haggard remains of the 3-95th. “This it?”

“It is. Get them on board.”

Two more crafts whizzed by overhead. “Sarge its those Rapiers!” Tyro called to Neil. “The fuck are they doing here!”

“Board, board, board!” Valentine barked over the roar of the engines. They did, Neil collapsing inside the bay. He saw the remaining two Sabers on course for them and tried to shout something. Troy looked over his shoulder from where he was helping get one of the limp soldiers situated, and threw himself down behind his APES.

It saved his life.

One of the Rapier class fighters made a pass, tore through one of the Sabers with hard rounds and sent it crashing to the Martian surface as their ship started to rise. In the same moment, Valentine smashed a fist into a control panel and the armored door began to slide shut, but not fast enough. The lone Saber class opened fire.

Four more of Valentine's squad were ripped to shreds by the rounds, and Flint looked at Neil, her eyes wide for a single moment. Then she spasmed as rounds ripped through her and smashed into the wall. Then she slid lifeless to the floor.

The APES opened fire. Thwump, chunk, thwump, chunk, thwump chunk. The sound filled Neil’s ears as he stared at Flint’s eyes, still shocked. Then the sound. It was still the hissing sound that had become so familiar, but whirring as the felbound spun wildly through the air. Troy rolled as the five-foot long finned tube bounced through the still closing door of the ship.

Every eye stared at it blankly.

It was Staff Sergeant Ferris and Specialist Troy that moved though. With an adrenaline fused bellow of panic, Staff Sergeant Ferris seized the missile. At eight hundred pounds, he never should have been able to lift the projectile, but lift it he did.

Troy flung himself on Neil, wrapping his arms around him and sending them both to the deck, just as Staff Sergeant Ferris made to leap from the craft.

He never made the door.

The missile detonated.