Introduction
For some time now the Union Aerospace Corporation (UAC) has been running its established research facility on Mars. The UAC does not have full control over the base, however, for that is currently in the hands of Dr. Malcolm Betruger. Dr. Betruger, a theologian heading the base, has been running teleportation tests for some time now—and supposedly has discovered something that may change the world forever. However, the UAC does have its part in controlling the facility, providing the manpower and security needed to maintain order in the base; the job has been handed over to the Marines of the U.S. Corps. On Mars. But research isn't the only thing going on in the facility. Weapons testing and production has drawn the minds of many Marines to Mars—but been fooled upon arrival.
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Some joker probably laughed his head off as he started playing that moldy old song over the transport intercom. "Ha, ha, ha. I'll really bowl 'em over with this one." It might have been a funny prank if the grunts in my last platoon hadn't hummed the tune every time I walked by.
"Hey, Corporal, I heard you got transferred to Mars City," and they would hum "Rocket Man" by Elton John. Everyone thought he was the first to come up with it. I never laughed. Finding out that I got the 150-million-mile transfer to Mars City sucked the humor right out of me, but I didn't blame the other guys for joking around. We knew someone was going to Mars, and they were relived when they found out it wasn't them. Had I not gotten the nod, I may have been singing, too.
My old sergeant gave me the "Rocket Man" music chip as a parting prize. "Sorry you got the world's worst transfer, Corporal," he'd said with a grin. "But here's a little going away present." Then he'd laugh that sinister laugh I was glad to not here for awhile yet. Of course, who knows what I will find on Mars.
Mars City, however, was not a Marine Corps base. That just made it worse for me and the other jarheads. It belonged to the Union Aerospace Corporation—a multinational corporation with annual profits equaling the combined gross national products in all of South America. But the UAC did specialize in military contracting. There was a time when UAC specialized in contracting for the U.S. Military, but it grew too big to be carried with just one nation. Now it designed weapons for anyone who could pay. You couldn't wage a war without killing a fellow UAC customer.
Union Aerospace's work on Mars, though…now that was special. That was all ours. It was between the UAC and the U.S. Marine Corps. We told them that we wanted to redefine the term "rapid deployment." They told us that they were working on a special teleportation experimentation process that could make our—the Marines'—lives so much better. With their new device, we would be able to send platoons around the world at the speed of light—no more supply-line screw-ups or transporting hang-ups. No more setting up camp along the nearest friendly border.
UAC executives said that they wanted to develop the project in their new Mars labs, and the Secretary of the Marines said, "That's' fine. We'll supply the security force." That's me and 149 other jarheads. Put up with a 12-month tour of Mars City, living in a tin-can world babysitting a bunch of weak scientists, and you got an automatic promotion when you returned home. Piece of cake.
But the friggin' company on the way up…Normally you would transfer with a squad of Marines. I received the unfortunate pair of a UAC lawyer and a UAC security goon. The two were practically perfect for each other; of course, in a vile way. They didn't care for my company, either. They sat in the front of the cabin. I sat in the back.
Elliot Swann was the lawyer, and go figure—he wouldn't stop talking. He went on gabbing about contracts and legal issues. Jack Campbell, Swann's "body guard," tried to ignore him mostly. He grunted every now and then. In fact, I wouldn't have known if Campbell was alive if he didn't grunt so often. Can't say that I blamed Campbell, though. It was a five-day trip to Mars, and patience only descended over time. Quickly, too. And Swann, the kind of courtroom commando with coffee in his blood, never slept and never shut up. He sat there, receding hairline slicked back and extended scalp line shining in the cabin lights, and talked and talked and talked.
Not that I liked Campbell any better, though. The guy had the feel of a mercenary—somebody who enjoyed killing a bit too much to join an army. Armies have rules about when and where to kill. He reminded me of a bayonet in an undersized scabbard—his sharp edges were covered, but barely. Swann, meanwhile, who was undoubtedly Albert Einstein in a courtroom, lacked the social intelligence to know he was tempting death. Campbell just sat there and did his best to restrain from using his sidearm.
And just when I thought I couldn't handle another fun-filled minute on the transport, I heard the hiss of retro rockets and the ringing clank of thick iron.
We had landed in Mars City.
