'Someone wants to see you,' was the reply. 'If you would come with us please?'
He went with them. After all, what else was there to do? They led him through a maze of corridors deep within the bowels of the base, through sections he had never been in before, through security door after security door, all of which opened with a touch of their hands. They passed several other MPG soldiers on the way to their destination, all of them armed, but no one else. The halls that had once undoubtedly teemed with WestHem officers and men were now virtually deserted.
'Where are all the Earthlings?' Brett asked them at one point, not really expecting an answer from them but unable to contain his curiosity.
To his surprise, one of the soldiers answered, his voice friendly. 'Most of them have been moved down to the surface,' he said. 'The rest are still over in the enlisted dorms. They should be down at the POW camps by the end of the week.'
'I see,' Brett said thoughtfully.
Near the front portion of the naval base, nearly two kilometers from where they'd started, they came to the main control building, the building that Admiral Rosewood had surrendered to the special forces troops on the orders of General Sega. Signs of the battle that had taken place here were everywhere. Glass was missing from many of the doors and little holes, obviously made by high-velocity bullets, peppered nearly every surface. Two more soldiers guarded the front entrance. They pushed a button on a computer screen and the doors slid open.
Brett was led into the entrance foyer, where two more soldiers — one with a light machine gun — were standing guard. One of them got up and walked over to Brett, standing before him impassively. He held a standard issue police scanner in his hand and he quickly ran it over Brett's body.
'He's clean,' the soldier said. 'Go ahead and take him up. The admiral is waiting for him.'
He kept his questions to himself and the two soldiers that had accompanied him took him to a bank of elevators in the far wall. One of them was standing invitingly open and they entered it, the soldiers flanking him on either side.
'Top level,' one of the men said and the machine began to rise, going non-stop to the tenth floor of the building. When the doors slid open again they were in a large hallway. Closed doors lined it on both sides.
'Right this way,' the other man told him, heading to the left. Brett followed.
Shortly they came to a door marked with Admiral Rosewood's name and rank. Someone had taken red spray paint and drawn a circle around his title and then put a diagonal slash through it. Brett was still staring at this curiously when the door slid open, revealing a reception area. The desk that had guarded the entrance to the inner office was still there but empty, its computer terminal darkened. The two soldiers guided him around it to the inner door. One of them put his hand on the locking screen and the door slid open.
Inside was a large office, complete with a huge desk that appeared to be made of genuine oak. A middle- aged man in civilian clothes sat behind the desk, a man that looked vaguely familiar to Brett. He looked up at their entrance and smiled a little.
'Come in,' he told the group at his door. He looked directly at Brett. 'Go ahead and have a seat, my friend.' He waved to a plastic chair before his desk.
Brett slowly went inside and sat in the offered chair. The two soldiers continued to flank him, their weapons clanking as they adjusted them.
'Thank you for bringing my guest, gentlemen,' the man told the soldiers. 'If you would give us a few minutes of privacy now I'd appreciate it.'
The soldiers didn't seem to like this idea too much. 'Admiral,' one of them said, 'he's still technically a WestHem POW. I'm not sure that...'
'I don't think he's going to try to harm me, are you, Mr. Ingram?' the man — the so-called admiral — interrupted.
'Uh... no,' Brett said. 'Not at all.'
'But...' the other soldier started.
'If there's trouble I'll call you,' he said. 'I'd like what is said between myself and this young man to be private and confidential, okay?'
'Okay,' one of them said doubtfully. Reluctantly they left the room, the door sliding shut behind them. Brett was now alone with the familiar looking man the others called admiral, who was looking across the desk at him, a small smile upon his face.
The man turned the computer terminal towards him and tapped a few keys. 'Spacer First Class Ingram,' he addressed him, paging through screens on the terminal. 'You were born December 3rd, 2116, in Libby, Mars. The son of Jack and Lisa Ingram, second generation Martians.' He looked up at him, his blue eyes probing. 'That makes you a third generation Martian. You've grown up on Mars, you were educated on Mars, and you are without dispute, a Martian, correct?'
'Uh... yes,' he said slowly, not knowing where this conversation was leading.
The man read a little bit more. 'You were admitted to the WestHem Navy on January 4, 2136 at the age of nineteen. Trained in electronic systems at Triad Space Base and assigned to the
'Excuse me... uh... sir?' said Brett, tired of the mystery. 'I'm not quite sure exactly what's going on here.'
The man smiled politely. 'No,' he answered, 'I guess you don't, do you? Perhaps we could start with an introduction. I already know who you are and I'm pretty sure that you know who I am; you just haven't recognized me yet. The pictures that they showed you back in your naval history classes were of a much younger me I'm sure.'
'Naval history classes?' Brett said doubtfully, although that did seem to ring a bell in his brain.
'I'm the man who surrendered the
Brett's eyes widened in surprise. Yes, he knew that story all right. Everyone knew the story of the
'I can see by your eyes that you recall the face now,' Belting said. 'Good. That saves me the trouble of explaining that rather painful episode of my life to you. Let us move on to current events, shall we?'
'Sure,' Brett said carefully.
'Governor Whiting has named me commanding admiral of the Martian naval forces,' he told him.
'The Martian naval forces?' Brett said. 'Mars doesn't have any naval forces.'
Belting smiled again. 'We do now,' he told him. 'I'm sure you're aware that we have revolted against WestHem, are you not?'
'Yes of course. We've been watching Internet ever since it happened. Its all we have to do.'
'Very good. We haven't said much about it to the media and they've been kind enough not to push the issue too much, but here at Triad Naval Base we have captured ten Owl-class ships, twelve California class warships, fully equipped with fighters and bombers, five Panama class transport ships, and a variety of smaller vessels; supply ships mostly. We have also captured a total of 16,462 WestHem naval personnel. Of that number, 1340 are native Martians such as yourself. So we're faced with the problem of just what to do with you all. Should we condemn you to waiting out this war in a cell as a POW just because a couple of years ago you needed a job and took what was available? That doesn't seem hardly fair now, does it?'
'No sir,' Belting answered, starting to sense what was coming.
'Indeed it is not. We have no reason to believe that you are any less a Martian than the droves of young men and women that are signing up for service all over the planet. So each of the native Martians that are among the POWs will be getting a speech similar to this one, though usually with a lower ranking officer. I took you because
