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  The woman glanced at the bearded man, uncertain.

  ‘I said hands up!’ the soldier ordered.

  The man nodded to her.

  They both raised their hands and stood very still.

  ‘We’re here to help,’ the man said, taking a step forward.

  ‘I said don’t move!’ the soldier shouted.

  The man froze.

  ‘Country?’

  Pause.

  ‘Same as you. America.’

  ‘Prove it.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Prove it!’

  The man undid the tied-up sleeves on the front of his overalls slowly, then pulled them up and pointed to the patch on the left chest of his uniform.

  It was an American flag.

  The soldier looked down the sights of his rifle at the familiar patch, the flames of the vessel licking the air to his left and making the space between them shimmer.

  The crackling filled the gaps in the conversation.

  ‘Who are you?’ he shouted. ‘And keep your hands up.’

  The bearded man raised his hands but pointed towards the direction they’d just come from.

  ‘We’re from a research station across the plain. We work there.’

  Suddenly, there was another small explosion from the vessel as some ammunition caught fire.

  They all instinctively recoiled, the soldier refocusing his attention first, training his rifle back on the pair who continued to keep their hands up.

  ‘What happened?’ the woman asked.

  ‘We took a hit.’

  ‘From who?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Where were you headed?’

  ‘Main military base on Mars.’

  Pause.

  The soldier with the rifle didn’t move, not yet willing to lower his guard.

  The bearded man looked back at the two casualties lying in the dust, focusing on the one bleeding badly from his leg.

  ‘We need to get your friends out of here,’ he called. ‘We have medical supplies at our base. We can help.’

  The soldier looked at them for a long moment.

  Then he lowered his rifle and moved forward to join them, clearly still on his guard.

  As he came closer, the man saw the soldier was young, less than thirty, but looked tough. He had a name printed in white letters on the black vest across his torso.

  It said Miller.

  He glanced at the woman beside him and nodded. She turned and ran over to the Dodge and pulled back the protective gate at the rear of the truck.

  Slinging the rifle over his shoulder, Miller bent down and picked up the unconscious female soldier, carrying her to the truck and laying her as carefully as he could into the rear. He went back and lifted his wounded comrade, the bearded man helping him, the two of them carrying Keller to the back of the Dodge and pushing him inside.

  Miller went back one last time and grabbed the radio from the ground before returning and jumping into the rear of the 4x4 to join the two injured soldiers, pulling the gate shut quickly after him as the man and woman ran around to the front and climbed in.

  ‘Let’s go!’

  The bearded man fired the engine, swung round and they immediately took off across the dusty plain, quickly gathering speed.

  Holding on tight as they moved off, Miller checked on Keller and Bailey and made sure their heads were cushioned against the rough ride ahead.

  With that done, he looked back at the wreckage of the Spartan transport behind him.

  The flaming vessel became smaller and smaller as they raced away across the dark plain.

  All but three of its passengers burning inside.

  THREE

  The journey to the outpost took around five minutes, although it seemed longer to Miller with Keller bleeding out beside him. The bearded guy behind the wheel drove fast and they sped across the desert, the burning wreckage getting further and further away until they dropped down behind a ridge and it disappeared out of sight.

  Miller looked ahead of the truck and saw they were approaching a three-storey building faded and hammered by the dust. From the few lights surrounding it, Miller could see it was rectangular, a simple but functional construction obviously designed with economy in mind.

  The lower two floors were all grey concrete, the top floor the same but with long reinforced glass windows which would provide a good vantage point in daylight. It was about the size of a medium-sized office building back on Earth, large enough to accommodate every need yet still compact enough to be constructed in just a couple of months. Standard design for outposts like this; Miller had seen many of them before.

  He glanced at a sign as they moved closer to the station and saw #94 printed on the front, the white paint faded from the constant pummelling of granules of dust and grit from the wind.

  There was a word underneath the numbering.

  Deimos.

  As he saw it, Miller suddenly felt reassured, or comparatively so given his current predicament. Two main moons orbited Mars, Phobos and Deimos. Deimos was the outer. Looking up at the sky, he saw the large red planet and realised they hadn’t been far from base, only a couple of hours flight time.

  Up ahead, a metal grille protecting a garage was already open, pulled up and over, the garage connected to the right of the station. The Dodge swung inside, the bearded man pulling to a sharp halt in one of two empty spaces.

  The place was low and wide, a series of fuel tanks piled in the corner alongside some spare tyres, a jack and a load of other maintenance gear. By the time the man killed the ignition, Miller was already out of the back, pulling down the gate and taking Bailey out as quickly as he could after slinging the rifle and radio across his back.

  ‘Grab him!’ he ordered, nodding at Keller as the man and woman stepped out of the truck and ran around to help.

  The man pulled himself up into the back, took hold of Keller’s arms and the pair lifted the unconscious man out with as much care as they could manage, blood now staining the entire right thigh of his BDUs.

  Miller stood there holding Bailey while the man and woman took the lead; they headed up three steps then moved through an open door at the top, the man going first and walking backwards.

  With Bailey cradled in his arms, his rifle and radio over his shoulders, Miller went after them, the doc still unconscious with her head lolling back.

  Miller followed them through a stairwell and through a second door, then down a long corridor. They arrived at what seemed to be a recreation room on their left, three quarters of the way along. The man and woman led the way inside as quickly as they could.

  There were posters taped to the wall, an audio system in the corner, a fridge with a transparent window showing rows of cold cheap beer. Miller followed them into the room and lowered Bailey onto a pool table on the far side, pushing the balls out of the way, some of them falling into the pockets and the others knocking together and gathering in a cluster against her body.

  Nearer the door, the woman lowered Keller’s feet to the floor and swept a load of old magazines and empty beer cans off another table.

  With some effort, the man lifted Keller, placing him onto the surface as gently as he could, the soldier’s body completely limp and unresponsive.

  Miller moved around the table between the pair, then checked Keller’s pulse.

  It was weak.

  He was fading.

  As the bearded man ran out of the room to get the medical kit, Miller pulled his knife again, made a cut in Keller’s fatigue trousers then ripped them open to get a good look at the wound.

  He swore. It was what he’d dreaded, blood rhythmically pulsing from Keller’s thigh; shrapnel must have hit the femoral artery.

  Without hesitation Miller pushed his right hand into the wound to pinch off the artery and stop the bleeding. As he tried to locate it, he looked over at Bailey, who still wasn’t showing any signs of coming around. He was going to have to stop the bleeding and
work on Keller himself, but he desperately needed her help to talk him through it. His only medical training was what they’d taught him at Basic and that was just to patch someone up on the battlefield until a doctor or medic who knew what they were doing could take over.

  ‘Try to wake her!’ he told the woman beside him.

  She nodded, moving over to the unconscious medic lying on the pool table and doing her best to revive her.

  Bailey didn’t respond.

  ‘I can’t. She’s out cold.’

  The bearded man reappeared, carrying a medical bag and what Miller recognised as a defibrillator which he dumped onto the table beside Keller’s head. The man opened up the first-aid kit, revealing the usual collection of medical gear, sealed packages of medicines, syringes and iodine, gauze and bottles. Basic stuff.

  ‘Tell me what you need,’ he said.

  Miller ignored him, having suddenly struck gold. He grabbed the man with his free hand, pulling him over.

  ‘Hold here!’

  After a moment’s pause, the guy took over, his fingers pinching where Miller’s had been.

  Once he felt the man take grip of the artery inside Keller’s leg, Miller withdrew his bloodied hand and wiped it on his thigh then rummaged through the medical bag quickly.

  It was hopeless; the kit was far too rudimentary to be of any use.

  He paused and checked the unconscious soldier’s pulse again.

  It was gone.

  ‘Shit!’

  Forgetting the medical kit, he unclipped Keller’s vest quickly, then pulled it off and ripped open his combat fatigues. Keller’s torso was revealed, the dog tags falling to one side, his chest and ribcage not moving.

  Miller grabbed the defibrillator, switched it on and looked over at the bearded man.

  ‘Take your hand out!’ he ordered. If he kept it in there, he was going to get shocked.

  As the man withdrew his fingers, Miller glanced down at the machine; it was good to go.

  ‘Clear!’

  He held the defibrillator over Keller’s bare chest.

  The wounded man’s back arched from the electrical shock, then sagged back to the table, his body still limp.

  Miller waited for another charge.

  ‘Clear!’

  He did the same again, then checked Keller’s pulse. Nothing. He put the defibrillator down and started CPR, pushing down on Keller’s chest then pinching his nose and breathing into his mouth.

  He pushed down on his sternum rhythmically, his blood-stained hands smearing blood onto the bare torso, Keller’s body jerking with every push.

  He was limp and not responding.

  ‘Come on, you son of a bitch. Stay with me.’

  Miller kept pushing hard and rhythmically, then pinched his nose and gave him another breath.

  He quickly checked his pulse again.

  Nothing.

  ‘Fight, you pussy!’ he shouted.

  Miller kept up the CPR for what felt like an eternity.

  Then he started to slow.

  Eventually, he stopped.

  Keller was gone.

  The bearded man and woman stared at Miller as a silence fell.

  He glanced over his left shoulder towards the door. Across the room, a Hispanic guy had just appeared, watching him in silence, dressed in a t-shirt and overalls just like the man and woman, a third member of their team. He was staring at Miller too and seemed confused, glancing at the man and woman.

  Miller looked at him for a moment, then turned his attention back to his dead comrade on the table.

  He’d known Keller for a decade. He was the eldest of four, a New Yorker from Staten Island; he’d been a hero to his brothers and his mother’s pride and joy, so much so that she wrote to him every week without fail. Miller was one of the guys who never got mail from back home and Keller had let him read some of his messages; after a while, Miller began to feel he knew Keller’s family pretty well.

  On the frontline, Keller had been a good soldier, brave and loyal, selfless to the cause and a good guy to watch your back. He’d also been due to ship home tomorrow, along with Miller and two other guys.

  Now, he was dead, just like fifteen other members of the squad.

  He’d only been a few hours from his flight back to Earth.

  Miller looked over to where Bailey was lying, sprawled on the pool table. The woman was still beside her, staring down at the injured medic and holding her hand.

  ‘How’s she doing?’

  ‘Concussed. Broken leg, I think. She’s unconscious, but stable. I’ll keep an eye on her.’

  Another silence followed, the only sound a quiet humming coming from the defibrillator on the table beside Miller.

  Wiping his hands on his BDUs, he took a deep breath then turned his attention to the radio he’d dumped on the floor beside his rifle. Contacting MC1 was his next priority.

  He looked at the bearded man to his right, who seemed to be the leader of the team here.

  ‘You got a toolkit?’

  The man nodded.

  ‘Upstairs. Follow me,’ he said, stepping past Miller and heading for the door.

  Miller took a last look at Keller, then picked up his rifle and radio and followed him out of the room.

  On the way, he moved past the slender Hispanic guy at the door, who seemed to have been mouthing something to the woman.

  He stood back to let Miller pass, staring at the 101st Spartan Corporal as he departed.

  FOUR

  Miller followed the bearded man as he led him down the ground floor corridor.

  When they reached the far end, the man hit a button beside a door and the metal panel slid up, revealing a second stairwell.

  Miller followed him up two flights and entered a control room to the left of the stairs on 2. The room was relatively large with lots of technical equipment lining the walls, computers, screens and machines that Miller didn’t recognise. Then again, that wasn’t a surprise. Despite the huge technological advances society had made in the last century, Miller had never been a big tech guy back on Earth. He understood basic stuff but that was about it, which didn’t bode well for his next task.

  Above the long desks of technical equipment, those substantial-looking windows he’d seen from outside lined three of the four walls, giving a panoramic view of the barren landscape outside. From this vantage point, he’d able to see over the ridge in daylight, but right then the orange shape of the transport burning in the distance was the only thing he could see.

  He placed the portable radio on a desktop in the centre of the room and examined it closely. The device was in bad shape. The side panel had been ripped away, the slot holding the chip fried and burnt.

  When he saw it, his heart sank.

  The bearded guy moved in beside him, watching closely, leaning forward and resting his right hand on the desk, his fingers still bloodied.

  ‘You got something to solder this together?’ Miller asked, examining the damage.

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘What do you have?’

  The man looked around, nonplussed. He walked over to a shelf and came back with a basic toolkit and a roll of duct tape. As he returned, Miller took another look at the radio and realised it was a waste of time. The portable had sustained too much damage for a screwdriver, duct tape and his limited skill to repair.

  He cursed and pushed it away. ‘Son of a bitch.’

  ‘You can’t fix it?’

  Miller shook his head. As he straightened up, he looked around the room and suddenly realised the station would have its own communications system.

  He turned to the man.

  ‘You got a radio?’

  The man nodded, pointing. ‘Over there.’

  ‘And you didn’t think to mention this?’

  The man just looked at him for a moment, then shrugged.

  Shaking his head, Miller rose and walked over to where the guy had pointed.

  It was a comms system built into
a section of the technical equipment lining the walls, overlooking the plain. He lifted the handheld receiver and went to press the transmit button, but noticed a red light on the panel was already engaged.

  He turned up the volume and heard an intermittent beeping, a sequence he recognised.

  ‘What the hell?’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘You realise you’ve got the SOS beacon on?’

  ‘What?’ the man said, stepping forward.

  Miller pointed at the red light as the bearded man looked closer.

  ‘Oh Jesus. One of us must have pushed it by accident.’

  Miller flicked it off, and quiet static came from the speaker.

  He started playing with the frequency, looking for 101.2, the MC1 main line.

  As he did so, he looked out through the windows, up at the sky and the red shape of Mars.

  Home base.

  He pressed the transmit button, holding it down.

  ‘MC1, do you copy? This is Corporal Will Miller of the United States 101st Spartans.’

  He released it.

  There was nothing but static.

  ‘MC1, do you copy?’

  Pause. Nothing.

  Miller cursed, then played with the bandwidth.

  ‘Anyone out there, do you copy?’

  ‘Copy that,’ a voice said. ‘Who is this?’

  Miller glanced at the man beside him and smiled.

  ‘This is Corporal Will Miller, Spartan Company, United States 101st Airborne Space Division. Please identify yourself, over.’

  ‘This is Carl Johnson, Corporal. I’m on a civilian exploratory vessel, two man crew, working for USSDA. We’re heading back to MC1 from Jupiter, over.’

  ‘My transport, the USSS Ford, took a hit, sir. I’ve been shot down and stranded with one other survivor. I need evac back to base ASAP.’

  ‘Location?’

  ‘#94,’ Miller said, looking at the other man, who nodded. ‘Deimos. At the research station here.’

  Pause.

  ‘Copy that. We’ve found you. You said you were shot down?

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘By whom?’

  ‘Unknown. Sixteen fatalities, two remaining including myself. My companion is in bad shape. Probable broken leg and concussion. She needs to get to Medical ASAP.’