didn’t feel the need to pass that along.
Both men watched the carnage for several moments more, until an incoming message interrupted them. “Shen to Faulkland and Donovan. We’ve just received a priority encrypted transmission from Ares Colony with your names on it.”
“On our way,” Faulkland said. He continued to watch his ship’s destruction for another second, then they both headed for the tube and left for the bridge. The trip took them from the factory to the primary hull and more than another kilometer to the bridge, all within thirty seconds, after which they were lowered down to the landing pad on the other side.
Faulkland marched double-time to Mason’s station down on the second tier, while Marcus used the gravity systems to fly there directly. This new trick left a look of surprise on everyone’s face.
“The transmission came straight from the office of the Colony Administrator, and requires both your biometric keys to decode. It’s pretty big. Would you like it transferred to private quarters, sirs?”
“No need,” Faulkland said, and placed his right hand on a lit pad where its measurements were scanned and converted into a decryption key. When he finished, Marcus did the same. A progress bar crawled across Mason’s monitor, and then flashed to say it had finished.
“The archive contains two separate files: a brief message from Ares and another larger file labeled… Radio Free Copernicus?”
Marcus cocked an eyebrow. “Play the message from Ares,” he said.
The screen went black and then showed Administrator Saladin, the greying but still potent head of Ares Colony, seated at his desk. The Great Seal of Mars was behind him, the Roman god of war posed triumphantly atop a caricature of Olympus Mons, motioning across the barren Martian plains. The administrator straightened his shirt and received a cue from someone off screen, then began. “This is a priority transmission to the heads of the Shackleton Expedition. As you’re aware, Earth has been silent for the past seventy-four days, and we’ve been monitoring the situation with cautious optimism. Today, we received and decoded a transmission that, if true, surpasses even our greatest fears.
“While we’re still working to confirm its veracity, I’ve decided to send you an unaltered copy. We would appreciate any thoughts you and your specialists might have, and we patiently await your response. Be blessed.” With that, the transmission ended.
“That was cryptic,” Faulkland said.
“And ominous,” Marcus added. “Mason, go ahead and load up the other file.”
Mason tapped at the keyboard a couple times, and the other transmission began. This time, the screen showed a video feed of the Earth from orbit in crystal clear and excruciating detail. The northern edge of the Amazon was visible, as was the horribly defaced northern coast of South America. The former territories of Venezuela, Guyana and Suriname were blackened husks, as if some force had simply burnt them away.
Even more striking were the two blue circular structures that had taken root in the rainforest, each measuring nearly twenty kilometers across. Tendrils spread out from them, reaching into the embattled jungles which were being overtaken by some kind of orange and purple growth. It looked like an infection.
Legacy was noticeably silent in Marcus’ head.
A voice accompanied the video feed, and Marcus thought it was familiar. ”…from here, you can just barely see what remains of Trinidad. I went there for vacation last year, and lemme tell you, it was a hell of a time. Great food. Good music. I suppose I can go ahead and add that to the list places I’ll never see again.
“And now for a station break. For those of you just joining us, this is Nils Jansen for Radio Free Copernicus, your eye in the sky in these troubling times. The footage is, as always, streaming live from our position three- hundred and twenty kilometers high above the Earth.
“But how did this happen? Well, it’s a funny story. Actually, it’s not really funny, but humor me… It all started about seventy-four days ago…”
Soon, all of the crew were on the bridge, and they watched the forty-five minute transmission from beginning to end in stunned silence. When it was over, they watched it again. As the second play-through finished, Faulkland asked the question on everyone’s mind. “Is it the Nefrem?”
Marcus didn’t know and Legacy was confused. The enemy shouldn’t have had any reason to come to the Garden. The whole system should have appeared dead and uninteresting to them. She was sure of it. The invaders’ craft and tactics were unfamiliar, too. Then again, a lot things can change in sixty-five million years.
“I don’t know,” he finally said. “Maybe. If it is, Legacy’s not strong enough to engage them. Not yet. We need more time.”
“What about the men on Copernicus?” Sarah Park asked. “They don’t have much time left, sir.”
Jansen had been clear about that fact. Their rations were running low, and he didn’t know how much longer they could hold out. “We have to hope someone on Midway heard them. I’m sorry, but there’s nothing else we can do.”
Park didn’t seem satisfied with that answer.
Marcus put his hand on Mason Shen’s shoulder and said, “I want you to send a priority classified message to Administrator Saladin.”
“What should it say, sir?”
“Transmission source confirmed and considered reliable. Shackleton Expedition now en route to Mars aboard new vessel. ETA three weeks. Tell them we aim to retake Earth, and to prepare for war.”
Chapter 21:
Reunion
The old cargo plane brought them in under the cover of night. The world was just as black above as below in the absence of electrical light, and Jack had never before seen a darkness so deep or thick. So all consuming and complete. He slipped in and out of consciousness, each time troubled by the same dream. In it, he was adrift on a shiftless sea of black ink attached to an impossibly large tattoo needle which etched portraits of the dead on the world’s aging, wrinkled skin.
Jack despised when his dreams waxed poetic. Why couldn’t he have nice dreams about sunny beaches in Cancun?
After God only knew how long, the plane made a steep descent and then rumbled along a rough patch of road. When it came to a halt, the rear cargo ramp lowered and revealed the dim lights of civilization’s last gasp.
The makeshift runway was lined with hooded lamp posts which lit the ground but were invisible from above, as well as the same oil drums, stacks of crates and wooden pallets found at every small airfield. There were soldiers spread everywhere, dressed in unmatched uniforms and carrying a motley assortment of small arms.
Mashriq soldiers in red berets jogged over to the plane and ushered its passengers down the ramp. Each spoke in a different language. “Welcome to Al Saif. This the base of the sword. Exit the vehicle and bring all of your belongings with you. You will not have another chance to retrieve them. New recruits report to the registrar at the far end of the airstrip. Welcome to Al Saif. This is the base of the sword…”
Jack, his corpsmen, and the cargo plane’s other fifty bruised and dirty passengers hurried down the ramp and went where the soldiers’ fingers directed. They found the registrar seated at a shabby desk at the end of the airstrip, and he was just another soldier but with a clipboard instead of a rifle. The recruits lined up single-file, were asked a few questions, then signed their names and were hustled along to the next stop.
Jack formed a theory that the enlistment, which involved constantly moving from one station to another, was intended to disorient them. Combine that with their lack of sleep and empty stomachs, and the recruits were left in an exceptionally pliable state.
After an hour of being spun in circles, they found themselves on wooden benches inside of a long building made of spare corrugated metal. Harsh light came from lamps overhead, and the walls were decorated with posters in primary colors, depicting soldiers charging victoriously on cowering foes.
“This is the last damn place I ever expected to end up,” Jack said to Nikitin.
“Come on, Jackie-boy. Replace the soldiers in those pictures with medics and firefighters, and this ain’t so
