The Mars Shock by Felix R. Savage Page A

self-punishment. Colden had never set foot in Alpha Base’s Detainment Module, not being into self-punishment, but she understood how Gilchrist felt.
    “I can try,” she said. “But Hawker’s being a bit of an arse at the moment.” She switched channels again. “What the hell, Hawker? This man needs help! I have to get him to the buggies!”
    In her arms, Private Ustinov spasmed.
    Hawker dropped his arms. “It’s OK.” He sounded choked up. “You were a good man, Ustinov. The best. Fuck it.”
    The rest of Hawker’s unit crowded around Colden, touching Ustinov’s helmet with their gloves, saying goodbye.
    Ustinov’s faceplate was decaled with the logo of some electrofolk band, so Colden couldn’t see his face, but she knew he was gone. His weight in her arms felt limp, like luggage, not a human being anymore. “He took the stuff?!” she said in outrage.
    “He saved the rest of us,” Hawker corrected her. “He was infected. If we took him back to base, he would’ve infected everyone else, too. He chose the path of honor.”
    “Oh, Jesus. You really believe in the nanites, don’t you?”
    “I don’t believe in taking risks.” Hawker’s voice hardened. “You aren’t out here, Agent. You’re safe and sound on your couch. You have no fucking idea.”
    “Excuse me, Captain. I am out here twelve hours a day, taking the risks that your guys can’t … or won’t.”
    First one, then two, then several Chinese grunts came up and likewise bowed their heads to Ustinov’s corpse. They exchanged fist bumps with Hawker and left.
    “They do it, too,” Hawker said. “Nobody is risking contamination of their base, regardless of what the ruperts say.”
    Colden thrust Ustinov’s corpse into Hawker’s arms. “You carry him. Hide his body, or burn it, or whatever you do. After that, there’s someone you need to talk to.”
    “Who?”
    “Captain Saroyan. He apparently doesn’t share your views about contamination. He’s about to detain a dozen warblers and transport them back to Theta Base.”
    “Saroyan? He’s a fucking rules lawyer.”
    Those words were Captain Geoffrey Saroyan’s epitaph.
    The sky flashed. Everyone on the roof flung themselves flat. The regocrete vibrated. Slumped steeply.
    Rolling toward the now-much-larger hole in the roof, Colden dug her grippers and toes in, breaking her slide. She made herself an anchor for the soldiers sliding down on top of her.
    Debris pattered on their backs.
    Radio discipline dissolved. An incomprehensible din of English and Chinese filled the public channel. Everyone still down in the street fled to the safety of their vehicles.
    Colden barked on the operator chat channel, “Pratt! Watty! Houlet! Gwok! Mattis! Gimme a sitrep!”
    “We’re out,” came the disconsolate responses. Her platoon had lost contact with their phavatars. That could only mean one thing. Their phavatars had bought it.
    “Gilchrist? Sophs, are you there?”
    Now she was line-of-sighting Gilchrist’s phavatar, not expecting to get an answer.
    “… Here.” Gilchrist’s voice was shaky. “I’m … we’re OK. The rubble sheltered us from … the impact.”
    “KKV number two.” It wasn’t a question.
    “Yeah. Geoff was in there.”
    “I’m so sorry, Sophs.” Colden stayed stiff, letting the soldiers clamber over her to safety. She was hearing reports of more suit breaches. There’d be more self-euthanasia cases today. And Star Force thought they had a problem with soldiers getting depressed. Now she knew that what they had was a problem with soldiers being honorable. Bet they hadn’t expected that when they resurrected humanity’s fighting spirit from its dormancy.
    She consoled herself that at least the casualties would be minimal, compared to the massacre that would have occurred if everyone had still been at the farm site.
    “You were wrong, Jen,” Gilchrist said. “It wasn’t an ambush! They aren’t targeting us at all!”
    “How do you