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Martian Planetary Guard Base, Eden
June 6, 2146
It was the third day of the basic training program and Jeff Waters was once more seriously considering just giving up. It was 0700 hours, the sun barely up in the eastern sky, and instead of soundly sleeping in his bedroom at home, he was out here on this exercise yard, dressed in a pair of red shorts and a white MPG T-shirt, a twenty kilogram pack on his back and an unloaded M-24 rifle in his hands, running around a damn track. Sweat poured off of his face in rivers, staining the cotton of his shirt. His breath heaved in and out of his lungs, lungs made inefficient by years of cigarette and marijuana smoking. They were only a kilometer into the run and already he thought he was going to die. Nor did he seem to be alone in this predicament. Of the fifty-six recruits partaking in this particular training class, at least forty were badly sucking wind in response to the physical exercise. They were supposed to be running in a tight formation, five abreast and no more than a meter between the fronts and backs, but in practice they were scattered all over, several people actually holding others up.
"Let's keep up the pace here, ladies and gentlemen," intoned Sergeant Woo, the infantry squad commander who was their drill sergeant. He was jogging along to the side of the formation, his own pack and rifle resting easily upon his fit body. He, like his two assistant instructors, had hardly broken a sweat, did not in fact even seem to be breathing hard. "You can't go outside and fight the Earthlings if you're not in shape enough to keep your suit from discharging on you. We need to get you folks up to three kilometers by the end of this week."
Nobody answered him. In part it was because the screaming of "yes sir" or "no sir" in response to a drill instructor's words, while common in the WestHem training system, was just not customary in the MPG. Mostly however, it was because no one had the energy or the breath to answer.
Jeff dragged himself onward, a sharp pain stitching through his side, his fingers starting to feel numb and tingly around the plastic stock of his weapon. He was about halfway back in the pack, running next to Steve Gallahad, a stocky retired gang member from the north downtown part of Eden. Gallahad was the closest thing to a friend that he had made so far in this nightmare. An intelligent, though crude, young man, he had talked Mark out of quitting three times so far and Mark had talked him out of quitting about six times.
"I can't take this shit no more," Jeff grunted out between breaths now. "This running is killing me, man."
"Keep it up," Gallahad grunted back. "You pussy out now and I'll kick your ass."
"You'll kick my ass in your dreams," was the obligatory reply.
Gallahad gave the obligatory laugh in response and they ran on, their sports shoes lifting up and pounding down on the neatly manicured grass. Soon the phenomenon of the second wind kicked in, easing Jeff's suffering a little. Endorphins flooded into his body, quieting the stitch in his side and imparting him with a gentle sense of well-being, a sense that was almost, but not quite, powerful enough to override the misery that he was in.
As they approached the two kilometer mark the majority of the recruits seemed to experience the same effect. The formation tightened up a bit, although it was still a far cry from anything approaching military standards. Even the opposing personalities of the group - and there were many of those in this bunch - seemed to drop their animosity for one another at the moment and run in peace.
Presently the misery came to an end. One by one the group passed the three kilometer mark and were ordered into a gentle walk by Sergeant Woo.
"Very good, people," Woo told them encouragingly as they made their slow-paced trek around the track one last time for the cool-down period. "We didn't have any drop-outs on this one. That's quite an accomplishment for this bunch. Another week or so, you'll be pounding out that 3K in no time."
A few of the mouths of the bunch made a few smart-ass remarks to his words but with the endorphins still flooding their bodies they were mostly good-natured and Woo actually chuckled at one of the funnier ones.
"Let's go hit the water fountain and then the showers," he told them. "And then it's back to the rifle range."
They broke the loose formation that they had been maintaining and started heading in mass towards the bank of water coolers near the entrance to the crew building at the far end of the compound. The recruits swarmed them, grabbing the small hemp paper cups and filling them with the lukewarm liquid and swallowing it down greedily. Jeff waited patiently in a small line at one until it was his turn and then filled a cup. Before he could even put it to his lips a hand grabbed his shoulder and pushed him roughly to the side.
"Out of the way, Capitalist fag," a contemptuous voice told him.
It was Recruit Hicks, a former Thrusters gang member from Helvetia. Though Jeff had never met him before the first day of their training, Hicks had brought the traditional animosity that had existed between the Capitalists and the Thrusters into the MPG training ground with him. He never let pass an opportunity to make some snide remark whenever he ran into Mark in the classroom or on the range or on the exercise yard. Jeff of course, in the great tradition of the Capitalists, had never failed to return an equally hostile remark. Nor were he and Hicks the only members of the class engaged in such behavior. On the contrary, Woo and the other instructors constantly had to break up verbal and physical altercations between former gang members or between gang members and non-gang members. A few of these confrontations had been quite heated, to the point where it was a good thing that the M-24s that they were carrying were not loaded with ammunition.
Up until now Hicks, who was always the aggressor in the confrontations, had kept them on the verbal level only. But now that he had carried things to the next step by putting his hands on Jeff, the code of the Capitalists demanded a suitable response. Jeff didn't think about what he did, he just reacted as his upbringing told him to. He dropped his rifle and his pack on the ground, took two steps forward, and swung a roundhouse into the side of Hicks' face, snapping his head to the side and causing it to slam into the wall. Hicks grunted with the impact and charged at him, grabbing him around the middle and forcing him to the ground. He began to punch at Jeff's face, most of the blows deflected by Jeff's blocking wrists or elbows but two of them getting through. The crowd of recruits immediately surrounded them, like kids on a playground, shouting encouragement to one or the other of the fighters.
Jeff absorbed three more blows to his face before he managed to buck Hicks off of him and onto the ground. He rolled upward, pulling himself to his knees just as Hicks tried to rise. A straight armed punch sent Hicks reeling back to the ground once more and opened up a small cut on the side of his face. Jeff then stood quickly to his feet and prepared to give a kick to his body, a kick that would fracture a few ribs and maybe puncture a lung or lacerate a spleen. Before he could do so however, he was grabbed roughly from behind at the elbows and twisted around. A second later he was facedown on the ground, his arm twisted painfully up behind him. He struggled for a moment, trying to rise and pressure was put on the arm, increasing the pain and compelling him to give up the fight in a second.
"Keep your ass down there, Waters," he heard Woo say calmly from above him. "If I break your arm I have to fill out paperwork."
Meanwhile Hicks, sensing a chance to renew his own attack, got quickly to his feet and started forward. Before he made it two steps Corporal Vasquez, one of the assistant instructors, appeared as if by magic behind him and circled an arm around his neck. With a seemingly effortless maneuver, Vasquez pulled him backward and dumped him neatly onto his back, his arms splayed out to the side. Vasquez's boot then came to rest on his throat, keeping him from rising.
"Are you two done with your little high school scuffle now?" Woo asked conversationally. "If not, Vasquez and I could maybe show you how real men fight. You want to learn that?"
Neither Jeff nor Hicks said anything. Nor did any of the other recruits.
The pressure was suddenly released from Jeff's arm. The boot was removed from Hicks' throat. The two instructors took a step backwards.
"Get your dumb asses up," Woo told them. "And if you lunge at each other again, you're gonna be right back down there and this time you're gonna be visiting the infirmary."
Jeff, panting from the adrenaline of battle, his face flushed with anger and embarrassment, slowly got to his feet. Across from him, Hicks did the same.
"What the hell is the matter with you morons?" Woo asked, although it seemed he was addressing the entire class instead of merely the two combatants. "What the hell are you fighting about?"
Again, like kids in a schoolyard, they stared ahead defiantly, refusing to answer.
"Goddammit," Woo said, stepping forward and putting his face inches from Jeff's, "I asked you a question! Waters, tell me what you two were fighting about!"
"He pushed me off the water cooler," Jeff said.
"He pushed you off the water cooler?" Woo repeated.
"He put his fuckin hands on me," Jeff confirmed. "I ain't lettin him get away with that shit!"
"I see," Woo responded thoughtfully. He turned towards Hicks. "You pushed him off the water cooler? Is that true, Hicks?"
Hicks shrugged. "He was standin in my way. I ain't gonna let no Capitalist faggot keep me from getting a drink."
Woo looked from one to the other, his face showing mild disgust at what he was hearing. "A gang rivalry huh?" he finally said. "That's what you two idiots are fighting over? That's what most of the fights I've broken up these last three days have been over. A fucking gang rivalry."
"They never said they'd be putting me in training with no fuckin Capitalist!" Hicks said.
Woo stepped up to Jeff and grabbed him by his hair, not quite violently, but not quite gently either. He twisted his head so that his face was looking at Hicks.
"Look at this man, Hicks!" Woo yelled at him. "Look at him. What the hell does he look like to you?"
"He looks like a fuckin Capitalist bitch!" Hicks shot back angrily. "And I ain't gonna train with none of them faggots!"
"Why did you join the MPG, Hicks?" Woo asked next. "Why did you put your fingerprint on the line and agree to put on this uniform? Why?"
"To fight the Earthlings," he said defiantly.
"To fight the Earthlings," Woo said, nodding his head. "Tell me something, Hicks. Does Waters here look like an Earthling? Does he sound like one?"
Hicks said nothing, just continued to stare forward defiantly.
"Waters," Woo said, still holding onto his hair. "Where were you born?"
"In the heights," Jeff told him.
"That would be in Eden, right?"
"Right."
"And where was your daddy born, Waters?"
"In the heights," Jeff said.
"And where was your daddy's daddy born?"
"Heights."
"So your family has been on Mars for at least three generations then, right?"
"Right."
Woo looked at Hicks again. "You hear that shit, Hicks?" he asked. "Waters and his family have been on Mars for three fucking generations. I'd say that makes him a Martian, wouldn't you?"
Hicks continued to say nothing.
"Wouldn't you?" Woo repeated, raising his voice a little.
"I guess," Hicks finally responded.
"And how long has your family been on Mars, Hicks?" he asked next. "More than three generations as well?"
"Yeah."
Woo finally let go of Jeff's hair. "So what in the hell are you two morons fighting each other for? Because Hicks was a Thruster? Because Waters was a Capitalist? Give me a fucking break. You assholes are both Martians! You both have Martian blood flowing in your veins. And neither of you are each other's enemies!"
The two young men said nothing. Woo stepped back away from them, so that he was facing the entire group of recruits.
"People," he said, "we're here to learn how to fight the Earthlings. The Earthlings! They're gonna be here in about ten weeks or so and they're gonna have guns and tanks and hovers and they're gonna outnumber us by at least four to one. The cards are already stacked against us. We cannot waste our valuable training time picking at each other and fighting with each other. We need to work together. We need to be a goddamned team, don't you understand that? If we're not, a lot of you are going to die out there and this planet is going to fall to the WestHem marines. This is our best and only chance for freedom and I don't want to blow it because our soldiers can't put aside their stupid-ass gang rivalries and learn to fight the real enemy!"
Everyone stared at the ground at his words, a few of them shamefaced, most at least thoughtful looking. Even Hicks seemed to be pondering the words he had just heard.
"So here's the deal," Woo went on. "The next time that any of you assholes start fighting with each other over some stupid gang shit or any other petty difference of opinion or philosophy, you're out of here. I've been given the power to dismiss anyone who is not cutting it from the MPG and I will start using that power effective immediately. You hit each other, yell at each other, do any fucking thing at all with each other that cuts down on the efficiency of my training program and I will kick both of your stupid asses out of here. And don't think I'm bluffing because I'm not. I need to get the people who really want to take on the Earthlings through this program. I don't have the time to be acting like a goddamn playground monitor. Do I make myself clear?"
Again, in keeping with the practices of the MPG, there was no return of "yes sir" or anything else. But all the same they seemed to get the message.
Woo looked at Waters and Hicks contemptuously. "You two," he said, "will be my test of the program. I'm reassigning you, Hicks to fourth squad. Congratulations, lovers, you just became teammates."
Both Hicks and Waters opened their mouths to protest this but Woo held up a hand, silencing them.
"Uh uh," he said. "That is my decision and it will stand. If you two want to stay around here long enough to graduate from this training class, I'd suggest you learn to get along with each other real quick."
Less than a kilometer away at that very moment, Jeff's best friend Matt Mendez was struggling not to vomit. His stomach gurgled in a most unpleasant manner as his inner ears and sensory organs insisted that he was falling. He was sitting in the rear seat, the gunner's position, of a Mosquito that was idling in the airlock of the base. Just seconds before he had undergone the experience of lightening for the first time in his life.
"Not as pleasant as a blow job, is it?" asked Lieutenant Mike Dwyerson, who was strapped into the pilot's seat.
"No," he burped, closing his eyes and desperately trying to fight off the nausea and vertigo.
"Just breathe through it," Dwyerson advised as the outer door of the airlock began to slid upward on its track. "And keep your eyes open. The sooner you can convince yourself that you're not really falling, the sooner you'll start to feel kind of normal again."
"Right," Matt grunted into his throat mic, not even offering one of the smart-ass remarks that were his trademark. He tried to stretch a little in his seat but the biosuit that covered his body and the tightness of the restraining straps prevented any motion that would be therapeutic.
The door finished its upward motion and Dwyerson throttled up the aircraft, bringing it out onto the taxiway. It bumped and swayed a little as it rumbled away from the base at a sedate forty kilometers per hour, it's engine humming along at barely over idle. Matt continued to take deep breaths and to focus his eyes on the outside scenery and gradually, little by little, the vertigo and the nausea faded away. By the time they made it to the head of the runway, he felt almost normal except for a last lingering gurgling in his troubled stomach that was probably more from nervousness than anything else.
"I'll keep this first flight as sedate as possible for the mission," Dwyerson told him over the intercom. "We'll work our way gradually up to the more extreme turns and maneuvers. Still, we're gonna have to do some turning and burning when we get to the target area. It's the only way to do it, you know?"
"Static," Matt said sourly.
"Chances are you're gonna puke. Don't be ashamed of it. Almost every sis does on their first flight. But cleaning that puke out of your helmet when we get back will make you fight like hell not to do it on the second flight. Gradually, as you put in more and more hours in these things, you'll hardly be sick at all."
"Hardly?" he asked.
Dwyerson managed a shrug despite his restraining harnesses. "They tell me that it never goes away completely. Looking at a computer display while we bounce up and down all over the place has that effect I guess. What can you do?"
"Static," he repeated, depressed at the thought that he would always be sick when he flew. For the thousandth time since being told what his MPG assignment was going to be he wondered if the powers-that-be had really analyzed his ASVAB test correctly. They had told him that his learning skills, psychological profile, and reaction times were ideal for the position of Mosquito weapons and navigation system operator, or "sis" as the term went. His medical exam had confirmed this supposition as well. And so, while Jeff, whom he had hoped to serve with out in the field, was on the other side of the base learning to shoot M-24s and anti-tank lasers, he had been sitting in a classroom being taught the finer parts of the Mosquito's navigation and weaponry equipment. He had played with the systems in the simulators for no less than two hours of each day. Now it was time for his first flight in an actual aircraft.
"Give me a rundown on your take-off checklist," Dwyerson told him as he positioned them at the end of the runway for take-off.
Matt swallowed a little and looked at the display screen in front of him. He read from it aloud. "GPS is synchronized. Mapping software operational. Main guns discharged and on standby. Cockpit depressurized."
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