Man came to Mars.
Man saw Mars.
In the 25th Century Mars sturck back.
Mars is a terraformed wonderland made possible by the exploitation of Earth's resources by a monolithic corporate nation from Mars, known as RAM, which combines the worst traits of capitalism and communism. Genetically modified Martians swarm through the Coprates Metroplex, sail the polar Boreal Sea, and ride into space via the Pavonis Space Elevator.
Earth is a polluted ruin, dominated by seedy urban sprawls and fortresslike arcologies. The people of Earth writhe under the lash of physical, economic, and military slavery. Their only hope rests with the New Earth Organization's freedom fighters, whose organization is weakened by dissension and treachery.
Enter a man from a golden age, nearly five centuries before, miraculously kept alive in suspended animation. His mission is simple: Save Earth or die trying.
Buck looked around. They were in a dirt tunnel two meters high. It was roughly shored with bits of wood and metal. The only light came from a single luminary guttering above the doorway. Buck settled back against the tunnel wall, wondering how long he would have to wait for Wilma to regain consciousness. There was nothing to do but close his eyes and try not to remember the battle's grisly remains. A deep anger burned inside him. Now that the action was over, he shook with rage. The memory of Tremain's death would not be denied. The flare of laser was a throbbing blow, feeding his anger like an opponent's fists. The boy had died to protect him, sacrificing his life without a thought. Buck vowed justice for Tremain. He vowed justice for all the innocent of Earth. He had nothing left of the life he was born into, nothing but the planet he was born on. RAM was an infectious evil riddling his homeland, raping Earth's resources, and destroying the helpless in its quest for wealth and power.
The huge RAM bureaucracy, with its supercilious and dominating air, grated on his sense of individualism. The man who had sent him into space five hundred years before had been just such a politico. Buck would never forget the overbearing General Barker or his kind.
But from what he had learned in the few months he’d been awake, NEO freedom fighters still were independent, underdogs scrapping with a bear. They did little more than nip at RAM’s heels, however, and needed direction. He sensed NEO’s impotence.
He looked again at Wilma’s wound, then at her face. The color had drained from it, and her jaw hung slack. She scarcely breathed under the diabolical RAM dagger’s depressant. Hatred gripped Buck, making his hands tremble. "Enough," he murmured. "Enough!"