Neil had, at his disposal, forty of the 3-95th. Eighteen infantrymen, one communications specialist, the mortars section totaling seven, one full heavy weapons team and a spare, so four more, two from the supply team and six officers, including Major Darrow, and two medics.

Sitting out of sight from the rest, he sat with the roster on a knee, his head in his hands, and he wept. Out of a five hundred strong battalion, forty. They were all in bad shape, one way or another, even those who hadn’t been burned, mained, or otherwise physically injured in the attack, every single person alive was dealing with one thing: they had all lost many, many people very, very close to them. Some had lost their entire teams, people they had served with for years. He had seen it on their faces. No one was dealing with it then. The privates had been numb with shock, those who had lost people before and knew the severity of their situation were just… pushing it away. Keeping the pain of reality at bay. Neil had seen it before, and it would come out. He would have to deal with it when it did, the fits of anger, the complete shut downs, the freezes. But he needed to deal with it right here, right now. They couldn’t see it, minus one, because they needed to see him as invincible, but he couldn’t be the one taken out of commission by the facts. Not now, not till as many as could be made safe, were made safe.

He reached the count of three hundred, and put his head up, scrubbing at his eyes with a grubby sleeve. Neil was seated at the back of a cave, a hole that had been blasted in the side of a mountain face during some old battle when Mars had first gone to shit. At its mouth was the only one to see his tears. PFC Anderson glanced over his shoulder, and then back at the mouth of the cave, his weapon held relaxed, but ready. “Anyone?”

“Two.” Anderson said.

“And?”

“And I delivered your message word for word, Sergeant.”

Neil nodded, stood, and tucked the roster in his pocket, walking out of the cave. “You’re with me.”

Anderson stood at once and followed at Neil’s left elbow as he walked around the makeshift camp. They had driven through the night and most of the day till they had needed to post up and charge the stripes. The mess of rocks and boulders they had found was a tight fit, but there was still enough sunlight that the solar panels glowed merrily. Around them there was security, watching the skies, and the likely avenues of approach. But everything had been quiet since the attack. Neil walked past where the medics were passed out sleeping, under the constant eye of four of his infantrymen. Some distance away at the largest gap in the rocks there were five people. Sergeant Vane, two of his privates, and the communications specialists. Flint was seated with her back to the rocks with the headset clamped firmly around her ears, and her subordinate, Private Simon, was seated so close it would seem almost indecent in any other setting. Flint’s mouth moved, the words barely more than a whisper, and Simon’s hands blurred over a small keyboard, taking down everything she said verbatim. Neil waited patiently for another three minutes until Flint passed the headset to Simon and rose stiffly, going to Neil with a second pad. “Sergeant Ziggenbor.” She winced.

“What do you have for me.”

“It’s…” She looked down at the dictation on her pad and sighed. “It’s not good. What details do you want?”

“Mission critical.”

“Okay… everyone got hit. All marauders. Other than us, only the 9-907th got by, and most of them got out.”

“Everyone else is gone?”

“Everyone else.” Flint confirmed.

“Have you been able to send a transmission?”

“No, monitor only right now. I can’t get a sending signal, and even if I could I don’t know if it would be wise, given that we don’t know the proximity or capabilities of what's around us.”

“Is anyone coming to get us?”

“That's the troubling bit, Sergeant. There’s a lot of chatter about the Tenth Fleet coming to get the 9-907th, and I would assume they would get us too… but we haven’t come up at all over the frequency. But they haven’t classified our battalion as eliminated yet either. They just haven't brought up the 3-95th at all.”

Neil digested this. “If they send reconnaissance they’ll see that we scorched the ground on our exfil, and that should be enough for them to know that some got away.”

“I would agree. I haven’t heard anything from the 9-907th directly, just that the Tenth Fleet is certain of their survival.”

“Emergency evacuation protocol dictates Olympus Mons, and we’re closer than we are. Do we have an approximate arrival time?”

“If everything were to go perfectly, four days. That’s traveling in fifteen hour time slots with optimal charging time and location for the stripes, but I would allot an extra day of travel at least. Two to be safe.”

“What about the 9-907th?”

“They’re a week out easily, and with their manpower they’ll be able to make it.”

Neil was silent. “What would be their fastest time?”

“Three days without stops.”

Those words hit home. Neil had been in briefing rooms trying to make the hard decision about the definition of ‘acceptable loss’ and what one unit's worth was weighed against the expenditure to recover them. They couldn’t take six days, he knew that.

“Thank you specialist. Has there been any talk,” he lowered his voice. “About St Angel?”

Flint’s eyes came up to his, fear of several varieties there. “No, Sergeant Ziggenbor.”

He nodded. “Carry on, Specialist. Make sure you get some rest.”

“Yes Sergeant.”

Neil and Anderson walked back into the main security ring, where Major Darrow rose. The stump of her arm was swathed in bandages now. “Sergeant Ziggenbor.” She said, with a small, annoyed smile. “When I told you to take a few minutes to yourself I wasn’t expecting to get told to fuck off by a private if I came looking for you.”

“When you told me to take five minutes to myself, I wasn’t expecting you to come looking for me in two.” Neil responded. “And he didn’t tell you to fuck off. Anderson, what was the response I told you to give?”

“Sergeant First Class Ziggenbor is taking a few minutes to examine the personnel roster and plan our next move.” Private Anderson said at once.

“If pushed?”

Without his voice changing in the slightest, Anderson said: “Sergeant First Class Ziggenbor says to go fuck yourself, he’s thinking about how much he hates Mars and would like to do so in private.”

Neil nodded and spread his hands.

The Major did not look impressed. “I hope, in that case, that you were able to plan our next move.”

“I did.”

“And?”

“And as soon as the stripes are done charging we are going to point them in the direction of Olympus Mons and keep moving.”

“Time of day, route, security rotation, sleep schedule?”

“All things I learned at the NCO academy, but not things that are going to be applied here.” Neil said. “I’m sorry, ma’am, but it’s going to be a long few days for everyone. We’ll rest when we’re onboard with the Tenth Fleet.”

“This is how soldiers die, Sergeant.”

“Yes ma’am.” Neil said, his temper flaring. “The other way they die is when we miss extraction and the Triumvirate orders a fucking hole ripped in the atmosphere, or we get pinned down again and fucking blown to shit by--” he caught himself. “--by whatever maniac pirate group is brazen enough to attack ground forces. We have three days to get to Olympus Mons or I guarantee you, ma’am, that we get left behind.” He stepped a little closer. “You know that. You’ve seen the Crisis Protocols. Mars is lost. Again.”

“I don’t believe that.”

“You don’t have to believe it.” Neil said, his voice dropping even lower. “What about the coordination of those marauders? Their location? Their intelligence?”

The Major was silent.

So was Neil, for a moment. “We need to get off this planet. From here until we are all dead, or all off this rock, we move for Olympus Mons. Tactically if we can, in the open if we can’t, aggressively either way.”

Major Darrow looked down at Neil, her eyes blazing. “They were right about you.” She said quietly. “Both Daley and Neerson. And their opinions could not have been more different.”

Then, wincing and favoring her arm, she turned and walked away.

Neil watched her go, his heart racing, his hands shaking violently despite the fists that they were balled into.

--

Senator Matthias Ziggenbor had been seated at his desk for less than twenty minutes when a smart dressed woman came through the door, her eyes wide. “Commander Samantha Roth, aid to a Fleet Admiral Neerson here to see you, sir.”

Matt looked up to the door. Then nodded once, glancing at the time to see how far he would need to push things. It wouldn’t be bad if it was quick, and if it was a civilian matter. But this was a military officer on, no doubt, military business. He pushed his schedule an hour to the right, and the door opened.

Commander Roth entered the room, stood smartly to attention, as if out of habit more than anything, and inclined her head. “Senator Ziggenbor.”

Matt rose. “Commander.” He extended his hand, shook hers, and gestured to the chair across from him. She sat, placing a tablet on the table on top of what Matt saw was a card stock paper folder the likes of which he hadn’t seen… well, since the slides that had showed him what they were, exactly. “Pleasantries?” He asked, running a thumb over the knot of his tie, the damned thing. “Or is this a matter of urgency?”

“You’ve dealt with the military before, Senator.”

“I have two brothers who made it through RAPIDS.” He said with a smile. “I am regaled by their opinions of politicians often, loudly, and at great length.”

“I see.” Commander Roth said, and handed the tablet to him. “This is a report from the RDC Ascendancy, flagship of the Tenth Fleet under the command of Fleet Admiral Richard Neerson, do you know him, sir?”

“By reputation only, Commander.” Matt said, after a pause, holding the tablet. “What is the classification on this report?”

“Top Secret on a need to know basis.”

Matt grunted. “This office is secure but is equipped with a silencing web, your permission to activate it?”

“Unnecessary, but at your discretion, senator.”

Matt did not activate the tablet. He placed it in front of him and looked across at the naval officer. “Under normal circumstances Senators are not included in classified military reports, unless times are changing since my election.”

Roth nodded. “Neerson’s orders were to deliver it to you personally.”

“Did he tell you why?”

“No sir.”

“You understand my apprehension.”

“I do.”

Matt’s apprehension was due to the fact that when politicians were privy to classified information, more often or not the issue became theirs to deal with. He decided, in the name of urgency, on caution. Tapping the screen of the tablet, a single blue dot winked to life in the middle. Matthias stared directly into it, and large words played over the screen.

They read: MILITARY CRISIS IN THE MARTIAN SECTOR, AS PERTAINING TO THE TENTH FLEET, DETACHMENT ECHO.

Matt’s heart fluttered, and he put the tablet down. “Damn.” He said. “The situation already had two Ziggenbor brothers and Admiral Neerson thought that he would go for the set.”

“I am sure he has his reasons, senator.”

“Indeed.” Nine years in the political field had taught Matt to keep his cool in uncomfortable situations. As much as he wanted to flick through the part and pick out the parts where Neil was safe in some untouched outpost and Martin was assigned to the rear guard of the fleet, Neerson wouldn’t have sent a senior aid if that had been the case.

In fact, he might not have sent it even if both his brothers were dead floating in the cold vacuum of space. And so he flicked through the report, reading quickly but thoroughly as he went. It was grim, of course, and the subtleties sent more flutters through him than the prospects of his brother's well being had. He reached the end, noting that a single file remained.

Matt tapped a sequence of buttons, and a small hiss emanated from the corners of the room, indicating that the silencing web had been activated, but otherwise the room remained unchanged. “What does he want me to do about this?”

Roth picked up the paper folder and passed it across the desk.

“What is the classification on this?” Matt asked, without opening it.

Roth looked uncomfortable for the first time. “Unofficial, sir.”

“Damn.” Matt sighed, and flipped the envelope open. On a single piece of unlined paper was a handwritten note in the familiar blocky writing he knew so well.

Matt,

St Angel active

Make them see reason

JRN

“Have you seen the contents of this?” Matthias asked softly.

“I was present when it was written, but no, I haven’t been exposed to the information.”

Matt nodded once and stood, crossing the room to a small drawer set into the wall. He opened it, tore the paper into quarters, dropped them into the drawer and set them alight with a small lighter. The papers burned down to ash, and Mathias shut the drawer, returning to his desk. With another sequence of buttons, the silencing web was lifted. “What exactly does the Admiral want me to do?”

“Brief the senate.” Roth said at once. “Inform them of the situation.”

Matt sighed and nodded. If it hadn’t been for that damned piece of paper it could have just as easily been Roth, or a junior aid, to do that. But Neerson needed him. Needed him to put his career on the line again, and perhaps not for the last time.

“Damnit.” He nodded. “Please inform the Admiral that I will see to it. But inform him that--”

“I’m sure he knows the particulars, Senator Ziggenbor.”

Matt nodded, overlooking the break in protocol. The commander was sharp, and had come to her own conclusion. And from the looks of it, she wisely wanted no more of the situation that Neerson had already given to her. “Is there anything else?”

“Admiral Neerson was insistent that you watch the message attached to the end of the report.”

“I will do so.”

“Thank you for your time, Senator.”

Matt nodded, and when the door was firmly closed behind her, he tapped the video message. The image of his little brother’s bloodsoaked face looked back up on him, and the message played.

When it ended, he watched it again.

After the third time, Senator Matthias Ziggenbor powered off the tablet, knowing that it would purge itself of data once he did.

Then, pulling up his schedule, he cleared it for the day.