Colonization

The walker strode across the plains of the alien world, master of all it had surveyed.

It had travelled 140 million miles to arrive on this planet. It was one of many – the vanguard of the colonization efforts of its species. Now, atop the soils it strode on, it was unchallenged. The alien species that had called this world home were either extinct, or in hiding. Either way, it mattered little. The War of the Worlds had been won. This planet was home to a new people. This planet would be changed, and take a hundred years, or a thousand times that number, it would be transformed to suit the species that now claimed it as its own.

The walker continued to stride, its head swivelling to and fro as it approached the habitation unit. It came to a stop, towering above the structure. Held aloft upon its legs, the conqueror standing for all to see. The alien within the command module, foreign to this world but now its master, saw the light flashing upon its communication console. It reached out with an arm, as bizarre as a native of this planet could imagine, and activated the communication feed. Simple radio waves that were still among the most advanced technology in the Sol system. Within the command module, a screen activated, and the pilot beheld its master. A creature unlike anything the species of this planet could comprehend, speaking in a tongue none could ever understand.

"You're late Steve."

The alien pilot leant back in his command chair and smirked. "You miss me?"

"Hardly. Now get your arse down here."

"Roger wilco. Arse ETA in five."

The alien terminated the feed and let out a sigh. Colonization was coming along nicely.

But Mars was still a shithole.

Habitation Unit 19 was exactly the same as Habitation Units 1-18, and as far as Steven Strong was aware, the same as Habitation Units 20 to…well, truth be told, he wasn't sure how many habitation units were on Mars. Over the decades, it had gone from one, to two, to a number beyond counting. In the year 2019, he was part of a second wave of human colonists who had come to the Red Planet, even if he was no less aware of the irony that had made the thing possible.

He walked through the habitation unit's corridors towards the command hub, walking by scientists, administrators, and even a handful of military personnel. Compared to the first wave of colonization, there was the same number of the first group, more of the second group, and far less of the third. Entering the command hub, he saw a holo-table and two people. One, he recognised as Administrator Macron. The other was a woman who was wearing fatigues of the FEUSC whom he hadn't seen before.

"You're late," Macron said.

Steven smiled. "I said five minutes. I'm here in five minutes."

"Actually seven minutes and…" He looked at his watch. "Twenty-six seconds." He held out his arms in a mock gesture. "But of course, Englishmen have never been particularly punctual."

Steven gestured to one of the walls. "Step outside Frenchie – we'll see how long it takes you to boil."

Macron shrugged. "I can live with that."

"Highly debatable."

"And I also doubt that you'll still be on Mars in a year's time with your record," Macron continued. "Nevertheless, we're here. I'm here. We've got thousands of people on this planet, and the European Space Agency wants to reach ten-thousand within the next two years."

Steven raised an eyebrow. "That quick?"

Macron smirked. "New world, Mister Strong. You think the rest of the world isn't trying to stake its claim?"

"No." Steven walked over to the table. "I suppose not."

Before the two men was a holographic map of Mars, displayed in the form of a 2D map. It was divided into various colours representing the different territories claimed by the power blocs of Earth. Blue for the Federal European Union. Red for the United States of South America. Black for the East Asian Alliance. Yellow for the West African Confederated States. And various other colours for the smaller power blocs of Earth. If Mars was a pie, everyone wanted their piece of it.

"That's gotten bigger," Steven murmured. He gestured at the white, representing the North American Alliance. "When did they expand into Utopia Planitia?"

Macron looked at him. "You don't keep up on current events, do you?"

"Yeah, most of my time is spent in a walker outside the habitation units. Hard to keep up on current events." He looked back at the borders, the white right up against the boundaries of the black. "Don't see that ending well." He looked at the woman in the corner, whose nametag listed her as being a "Singh." "That why you're here?" he asked.

She remained silent. Shrugging, he looked back at the map. By his estimate, about 35% of Mars had been claimed by one of Earth's powers. Chances were that by the end of his lifetime, there wouldn't be a speck of dirt anywhere that didn't belong to someone.

"It's bad," Macron said.

Steven looked at him.

"Very bad," he said. "When the League of Nations drafted the Extra-solar Colonization Treaty, I don't think anyone thought it would be this fast." He sighed. "There's even talk of a second War of the Worlds."

Steven scoffed and Macron scowled at him. "This funny to you?"

"No. Not at all. Still…" He looked back at Singh. "Calling it a Second War of the Worlds is a bit of a stretch, isn't it? I mean, the first one wasn't even a war."

"Watch yourself Strong."

He looked back at Macron. "Come on. I know the French like to beat their chest…"

"And the English are arrogant twats, but go on."

"…but it's been over a hundred years since the Martians invaded. Calling it a war is like saying cutting down a forest is 'war.' Orangutans might scream, but they can only do two things to the invading army – jack, and shit."

Macron didn't say anything. No-one did.

The war that had marked the end of the 19th century. The war that wasn't even called a war, but had taken on the name of "War of the Worlds" or "Martian War/Invasion" in the decades that had followed. It had been a war that had revealed to mankind that he wasn't alone in the universe, and a war that had shattered the old national order. Some nations had banded together. Some had splintered further, especially as the old empires lost control of their overseas territories. Decades of chaos had led to the creation of the United Nations in 1928, which had proven ineffective in bringing order to a world that was finding its voice. When China had invaded Japan in 1933, setting off the Pacific War (one that had lasted until 1939 and claimed millions of lives in the process, ended only with the carpet bombing of Shanghai and Beijing), the League of Nations had been formed to take the UN's place. A reminder that humanity was still one people, that it could do better than war, and that it had to be prepared for a second invasion from Mars.

It was after this time, in the 1940s, that technology really began to pick up, as humanity finally began to crack the secrets of the Martian tripods that littered the landscape. In the Martian Invasion, Europe had suffered more than any other continent, but in this new age, had thus been left with the greatest amount of Martian tech to play around with. The Martians had reversed the fortunes of the world when they'd invaded, and now, their legacy had reversed it once again. And while the Cold War had nearly got hot, as countries began to look for territory in the Antarctic (otherwise called the Antarctic War, because summer still occurred at the south pole), the first probes sent to Mars in the 1960s had revealed one thing – the planet was dead. The Martians weren't there. It was ripe for the taking, if people so wanted. And in 1971, Kwame Changarai of the West African Confederated States had made history for being the first man on the moon. Within the decade, all of the world's powers made plans to go one step further. Colonize the moon, a feat achieved in the year 1989 with the first fully functioning lunar base.

And now here they were, Steven reflected. There wasn't a single piece of territory on the moon that didn't belong to one of Earth's power blocs, nor was there any piece of territory that hadn't seen at least some blood hit the lunar soil because of it. The eyes of the world had turned to Mars, still orbited by various probes, all of which had reported no signs of life on the surface. Some people had urged caution. By the year 2001, no-one was still alive who had fought in the War of the Worlds, but children who'd grown up in the ruins afterward could remember the devastated planet they'd been born into. Mankind might have mastered space travel, had even mastered Martian weaponry (and at times, used it to horrific effect – the gas chambers of the Nakba had seen to that), but the Martians would have had a century to improve their already considerable lead against humanity. Having probes in orbit of Mars was provocation enough. Actually landing on the surface could be a death sentence.

Nevertheless, they'd managed it in 2002, as Ingrid Himmler became the first woman on Mars, planting the flag of the Federal European Union in the red soil. Once, Europe had ruled the world. Now, it could rule this one.

"Strong?" Macron asked.

Or not, he reflected.

"Strong!"

He blinked. "What?"

"God damn it, you were daydreaming again weren't you?"

He shrugged. "It gets lonely out here. Keeps me sane while in the walker." He looked back at the table. The blue was the dominant territory, but what had happened on the moon was happening on Mars. Technically it could even be worse, given the entrance of the North American Alliance – the most newly formed power bloc on Earth. After the War of the Worlds, the United States had entered nearly a century of isolation, and while topping most lists for wealth equality, racial harmony, and gross national happiness, had lagged behind in space exploration up until recently. The only part of the world that had lagged even further behind was Australia, which even now, was a battleground between competing fascist, communist, and democratic ideals, the borders between states constantly shifting. Not helped at all by the constant string pulling of New Zealand and the Malaysian Conglomerate.

"Well," said Macron. "While you're not dreaming, let's see what you make of this." He highlighted a part of the map situated on the edge of the blue territory, but otherwise unclaimed. The room dimmed and a holographic image was displayed of a marine's shoulder-cam. The feed was dated 15/9/2019, and belonged to a J. Goodwin. The insignias on the spacesuits told Steven that the people walking through the canyon belonged to the FEUSC – Federal European Union Space Corps. Or "Space Marines" as they were called. Well in keeping with the armed forces that most countries had stationed on Mars in the event of having to deal with the natives.

Or, as the case turned out, if the natives tried to deal with them. Because J. Goodwin let out a shout as machines started bursting out from the ground, and emerging from the canyon walls. Miniaturized tripods, standing at ten feet tall. Flying saucers, like the type that first appeared in Russian pulp novels in the 1930s. All of them bore the same colour as the tripods had over a century ago. And firing beams through the Martian air, incinerating the marines in bursts of flame, using the same type of weaponry as well.

"Holy shit," Steven murmured.

Macron smirked. "It gets a bit better."

Goodwin got behind a rock, as did the other marines who opened fire with their rifles. In secondary school, Steven had read works such as The Battle of Richmond Hill and Last Stand of the Thunder Child – works that had conveyed how while the Martians hadn't been invincible, only the most powerful of artillery could make a dent in their walkers. Here, the marines were faring better. The walkers buckled under rifle fire. One burst into flames as an RPG hit it, causing it to topple over and a burning, squid-like thing to tumble out, its flesh scorched black from the heat. The saucer things kept firing, but they also kept moving, which suggested that they still had to avoid the humans' firepower.

So, Steven reflected. Either our weapons got a lot better, or they've had to downsize.

Historians, scientists, and military minds had theorized for decades why the Martians had never returned to Earth. Maybe they'd deemed it too inhospitable with the pathogens that dotted the world. Maybe they'd expended everything in a last ditch effort to colonize Earth, and didn't have the resources for a second shot. The Norman landers had confirmed that water had once existed on the Martian surface before its atmosphere had been stripped away by solar winds, so it was clear that Mars had been in terminal decline for well over a billion years before the Martians looked to Earth with envious eyes. And now? Now eyes were looking the other way. The invaded had become the invaders. And as Goodwin fell, as his body was dragged away as both parties retreated, it was clear that the invaders this time didn't outmatch the natives as much.

The hologram faded and Macron looked at Steven. Steven looked at Singh. Singh continued to look at the table.

"So," Macron said.

Steven looked back at the administrator. "Is this where I start talking about first contact, or that we might have just started an actual War of the Worlds?"

"We didn't start anything," Singh said. She looked at Macron as well, then at Steven. "Ten men are dead compared to a handful of Martians. That isn't a good ratio."

Steven saw immediately where this was going. "Wait. Are you telling me that…" He looked at Macron. "One skirmish, and you're going to escalate it?"

"Not me," said Macron. He looked at Singh. "Her."

Steven stared. "You're the administrator of this habitation unit. You're in touch with some of the most powerful people on Mars."

"I am. But the charter's clear. In the event of making contact, martial law is to be declared until otherwise necessary."

Steven scoffed. "What defines necessary?"

"When the threat's removed," said Singh. "Which is where you come in."

Steven blinked. "Me?"

"You've got more walker experience than anyone else in this territory. So twenty-four hours from now, I'm going to make a planet-wide declaration that first contact has been made. Forty-eight hours from now, you're going to help my men retrofit your walker with heavy ordnance. Seventy-two hours from now, you're going to be providing backup for a reconnaissance in force operation."

Steven, deciding not to point out that measurements of twenty-four hours didn't mean much on Mars, instead looked at Macron. "She's serious?"

"Course I'm serious," said Singh.

He ignored her. "One skirmish, and you're escalating things."

"Did the Martians start off with a skirmish?" Singh asked.

He continued to ignore her and look at Macron. "Come on," he said. "You're a pain in the arse, but you've got to realize this is a mistake."

"It is?" Macron asked quietly.

"Well, for starters you're not involving any of the other factions. Second of all, you're escalating. Third, the Martians might see us as the aggressors. I mean…" He looked at Singh. "Don't do this," he said.

She stared at him.

"Come on," he pressed. "We've had a hundred years to learn since the invasion. Humanity's more united than it's ever been, hard as that is to see. But if you do this, if you go in guns blazing, you'll be doing the same thing every empire ever has."

Singh glowered. "I'm from India, Mister Strong. My country's been dominated by plenty of empires. One I believe was one of yours."

"I-"

"And you're already here," Singh said. "You're here, thousands of people are in this territory, thousands more have come from all corners of the world. "However you spin it, the Martians attacked first. So. Either they continue to attack us, or they scurry back down beneath the sands and mind their own business. Within the week, we'll have a flag planted where I lost my men, and the Martians will know that we haven't forgotten what they did to us."

"To us?" Steven whispered. "There's not a single person on this planet who was alive for that."

Singh looked at Macron. "This really the best walker pilot you have?"

Macron, looking uneasy, nodded.

"Fair enough," said Singh, before looking back at Steven. "Bear in mind, you're to speak of none of this until I've made the announcement. Afterwards, you do what I say, when I say it. And if you don't do any of that, I can have you shipped back to Earth at the drop of a hat."

"Not really," Steven murmured. "Mars is on the opposite side of the sun right now."

"Don't get cute, Strong."

"Me? Cute? Never. Just concerned."

He looked at Macron, who remained silent. He looked at Singh, who was already back at the holo-table, looking over holographic lists. He looked at the door, before heading out.

Fearing that he'd just seen the start of the Second War of the Worlds.