Battlespace. Ian Douglas
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And there were other problems, some of them not man-made. The weather was worse, a lot worse, than when Garroway had left Earth twenty-one years ago. Sea levels were higher, ultraviolet in the sunlight harsher, storms bigger and more dangerous. Most major coastal cities—Washington, D.C., coastal Los Angeles, Miami, New Orleans—all were enclosed now by high thick seawalls, and at least partly covered over by transparent domes to keep out both the worsening ultraviolet and the periodic storm surges that otherwise would have flooded them completely. Despite that, there was serious talk about abandoning the original cores of those cities and rebuilding inland. Some coast cities, because of their terrain, could not be completely protected; New York City, San Francisco, and Seattle were in grave danger.
Manhattan, in particular, offered such a tangled and problematical geography with its rivers and associated borough-cities that the seawall and dome offered only partial protection. Fifteen years earlier, Hurricane Trevor had come ashore at the mouths of the Hudson and East rivers, causing tens of billions of newdollars’ damage. The next year, the state of New Jersey had, against riotous protests, finally moved the Statue of Liberty to artificial high ground near Secaucus before her copper body deteriorated any further.
Most forms of cancer were treatable through various nanomedical techniques—one did not go into direct sunlight any longer without nanotechnical augmentation to eyes and skin!—but skin cancer in particular cost Americans tens of billions per year in both treatment and prophylaxis.
And the ongoing deterioration of the planet’s climate appeared to be accelerating. Temperatures in the equatorial zones were rising steadily, fueling migrations of local populations to the north and south—but especially into the north. All across the globe, equatorial peoples were on the move as local government broke down and whole populations became migratory.
Scuttlebutt around the barracks had it that much of the furor over tracking down ancient alien technology among the stars was centered now on learning how to control climate on a planetary scale.
But was such an audacious goal even possible?
And then there were the religions. Always the religions. Dozens of new ones seemed to appear almost weekly, the majority of them either claiming the An were gods or that they were hell-born demons. Each new exoarcheological revelation on Earth, the Moon, Mars, or elsewhere seemed to spawn more ways of dividing humankind in the name of faith, peace, and spiritual brotherhood.
Established sects continued to splinter, sometimes violently. Within the Catholic world, Papessa and Anti-Pope continued to snipe at one another over issues ranging from how to think about the An to the use of nanomedical anagathics. Most Baptists believed the An were demonic; several new Baptist offshoots, however, continued to disagree on whether the An, like Lucifer, were fallen, or if Lucifer had somehow created them—an important theological question, since if they were fallen, then Christian missionaries sent to Ishtar might bring a few of that deluded race to the light.
Even within Garroway’s own Wiccan tradition—as easygoing and nonjudgmental faith as existed anywhere—there were bewildering new branches and offshoots disagreeing over such burning issues as whether or not the An were ancient gods, whether use of nanotechnology for special effects within ritual circles could be considered true magic or not, whether or not Christians should be held accountable for the Burning Times, and over the Rede-ethics of weather-witching, using magic to control the weather.
And finally there were the wars. Everywhere wars and more wars. Any Marine of the forty-fourth who did end up staying on Earth—if he didn’t take an early out—was going to find himself much in demand. Temperature extremes were driving many inhabitants of far-northern or equatorial regions into the somewhat more habitable latitudes in between. Anti-migration laws had resulted in open warfare and in border massacres. In just the past thirty years, Marines had deployed to Mexico and Egypt, to Siberia and the Chinese coast, to a dozen other shores and climes, fighting at one time or another troops of the Kingdom of Allah, the Chinese Hegemony, the European Federation, the Ukrainian Nationalists, Mexicans, Québecois, Brazilians, Colombians, and forces of the Pan-African Empire. The Great Jihad War of 2147 was now being called World War V. Already there was talk of a World War VI, as migrating populations, spreading famine and disease, and the collapse of national economies propelled desperate people into paradoxically suicidal bids for a better life.
The black forces of War, Pestilence, Famine, and Death were abroad in the world, and it seemed that not even the UFR/US Marines could possibly hold them in check much longer.
Earth had become as scary and as strange a place as Ishtar … worse, perhaps, since Garroway and his fellow Marines thought it was as familiar as, well, as home.
Sirius couldn’t possibly be any more alien—or more disappointing—than Earth.
Garroway was ready to go. He wanted to go, since the only people he knew—his brother and sister Marines—were also going, or most of them were. The one thing standing in his way was what he was thinking of now as unfinished business with his father.
“Hey, Gare?” Kat Vinton said, interrupting black thoughts. “What’s with the ten-thousand-meter stare?”
He blinked, then looked up at her. “Hey, Kat.”
“Hey yourself. What’s going on? Why the intense glare?”
“Sorry. I’m feeling … a bit torn.”
“Your girlfriend was onboard the Isis, I know. You told me. I’m sorry. …”
He nodded. He looked past her at the other Marines in the barracks. He felt as though he were barely holding on.
“Thanks, Kat. I still can’t believe she’s dead.” Trying to conceal the unsteady emotions within, he turned his attention, part of it, at any rate, back to the disassembled laser rifle before him. He’d already cleaned the optical connector heads and replaced both the pulse-timer chip and the circuit panel pinpointed as dead by his initial diagnostic check. All that remained was to put the thing together, a task Marine recruits were drilled at until they could do it, quite literally, blindfolded.
“Maybe she isn’t. We rescued the Marines and scientists on Ishtar after they’d been hiding out in the mountains for ten years, right?”
“I guess,” he told her. He concentrated for a moment on connecting the barrel to the charge assembly. “Pretty grim stuff.”
“But this is different. You saw those downloads.”
“Yeah.” he snapped home the final piece, the pistol grip clicking firmly into the base housing. He set the completed rifle aside. “Grim isn’t half of it. If we haven’t heard from them in all this time, I don’t think we ever will.”
She reached out and touched his shoulder. “Oh, Gare. I’m so sorry.”
It was passing strange, talking to Kat about this. Lynnely had been his lover, and they’d reached the point of discussing marriage before he’d shipped out onboard the Derna for Ishtar. Kat had been his fuck-buddy since Ishtar … his lover, yes, but without the romantic overtones or plans for a serious long-term social connection. When your entire list of social contacts—those you could talk to, at any rate—were fellow Marines, such arrangements became common. Standing regulations frowned on sexual fraternization among enlisted personnel, but in practice both officers and NCOs alike ignored the affairs and relationships that inevitably blossomed among the lower ranks.
Marines were only human, after all, even if they rarely cared to admit it.
“Well, at least we can go out there and kick the ass of whoever did it,” Garroway told her.
“Assuming they have asses to kick,” Kat replied. “Yes.” She cocked her head to one side. “What else is going on behind those gray eyes of yours?”
She knew him too well.
“I told you about my father, right?” Damn it, the place was just too damned crowded