Because I’m not vomiting any blood, I can assume my upper GI tract is intact, but if I draw a line from entry to exit, I’m sure it took a piece of my liver, and probably punctured my transverse colon. And that means a lot of bleeding and endometrial contamination.
I make myself keep running, trying to distance myself from the pain by playing through the healing process in my head (at least how it should be proceeding), what I learned during my Pre-Implantation Orientation:
Stage One: The nanites rush to close any wounds by forming an inorganic analog called Tech-Scar. This takes seconds to minutes, depending on the severity of the injury. That means the internal bleeding is probably staunched, but not before it flooded my abdominal cavity, hence the pressure against my diaphragm preventing deep breaths. The nanites also provide an analgesic effect, but unfortunately not full anesthesia.
Stage Two: They initiate creating any backups to compensate for damaged critical systems. Right now, that means keeping my blood pressure up until I can replace the lost blood volume. Later, they may have to compensate for the liver damage until the organ can be regenerated.
Stage Three: They clear the damage. Right now they’re busy digesting stray bone and tissue fragments, reprocessing what’s bled internally, neutralizing any contamination. They feed off the organic matter, use it to replicate themselves and create what they need for Scar. Eating me to heal me.
Stage Four: They stimulate accelerated cellular regeneration over the Tech-Scar mesh, until the wounds are fully healed, organ function restored. This can take hours to days. Then the nanites forming the Scar disassemble, waiting until they’re needed again. Surplus nanites deactivate and dissolve.
But one thing the Orientation fails to describe is how it feels. I’ve certainly needed my wound-response technology on my questionable adventures, but this is the first time it’s had to deal with severe internal damage, organ trauma. I assume Stages One and Two have progressed effectively, just because I’m still able to move at all, that I’m not still gushing from entry and exit wounds, that I’ve got enough blood pressure to function, however weak and awful I feel. But Step Three takes time, and Step Four will take resources I don’t have the luxury of right now. I need to rest, sit still, hydrate, breathe, and eat. Until I can, I’m just a mangled mess being held together, and I’m straining on those temporary patches with every step…
The strange rust-skinned girl we rescued is pacing me on my other side. She looks like the run is barely taxing her—her long limbs and light frame could probably outpace all of us with ease. She’s staying with us by choice.
Behind me, the Ghaddar is covering our rear, also moving with easy grace.
I keep glancing back. There’s still no obvious sign of pursuit by the time we reach the mouth of the canyon, running for the open valley beyond. But I don’t see Azrael either.
I also realize we aren’t heading for their camp. We’re heading more westward, back for the tail of the Lesser Divide, though still staying well clear of the high ground.
Forty minutes of running later, I dully realize we’re headed for the nearest Tapsite.
My extremities are numb by the time we get there, my wounds still barely in Stages One and Two thanks to the continued abuse. Meanwhile, my band of new companions still seems little the worse for our long run. I’m especially regretting the bulk of my armor (and they’re each wearing far more than I am, except the slender girl, who’s wearing only her torn single layer of garment).
But as we reach the exposed and tapped Feed Line, one of them collapses, nursing his left arm. Ishmael sees his distress and runs to check him. (I take this distraction to sit down for my own sake, trying not to look as hurt as I am, as if I’m just winded.) When his injury is exposed through his thick and blood-soaked layers, he looks like he’s taken a bullet, or perhaps a projectile spearhead, through the forearm. Yet somehow the violence done to his own body seems to amuse him.
“Matching set… One arm, one leg…”
“You just need the left leg and the right arm,” the other man who made it out of the cave jokes, letting me hear that he’s at least breathing hard. He goes to join Ishmael in checking the severity of the wound.
The Ghaddar is already going about essential business, having arrived several seconds ahead of us, refilling tanks.
“You said something about my brother-in-law?” the wounded man calls to me. He pulls aside his mask so I can see his bearded face, and recognize him from the file stills that Hassim showed me.
“Abu Abbas,” I name him.
“Most of him,” he keeps up his humor. “And who should I thank for getting me shot?”
I’m struck speechless. His tone tells me he’s joking, but I feel a flash of guilt, of shame. I’m much more badly hurt than he is, but I’ll heal much faster and much better than he will. And he lost a man—a friend, perhaps family—likely to a wound that would have only caused me pain and inconvenience. I gather myself, find my words:
“My name is Erickson Carter. And that was not my intention, sir.”
“You’re a Jinn, a Terraformer,” he assumes correctly. “I saw you shot.”
“Minor inconvenience,” I discount, though I probably sound in the worst shape of our little band by far.
“So it’s true,” the other man from the cave says, crouching at Abbas’ side to start first aid with a portable kit. I realize he wears the black and gray light-armor uniform of the Tranquility Hammond-Keller under his cloaks and partial plate, and carries their signature revolver. “The Guardians have been barred from using their Tools?”
“Jon Murphy, Ambassador of the Tranquility Domers,” Abbas introduces with a wince as his wound gets prodded. “And my nurse, too many times more than I’d like.”
Ishmael, reassured that his father will survive his injury, goes to help the Ghaddar, distributing the oxygen tanks. He offers one to the slim girl, but she waves his offer away. I, on the other hand, am grateful to be able to plug one into my mask, take the strain off my systems so I can get a start Stage Four. Ishmael goes back to the tap to fill canteens, passes these around. The girl accepts this gift, gives a small bow to thank him. I consider that the girl must be cold in the open air wearing so little, no matter how much her biology has adapted. I make myself stand and hand her my cloak. She’s initially hesitant to take it, so I assure her:
“I need this less than the others. Please.”
She hesitates, but then turns her back to me and lowers her head, allowing me to drape it over her.
“My thanks,” she says quietly, eyes down, like it’s something she’s not used to saying. I sit back down, still trying to pretend I’m done healing.
The other sentry—Jibril—is watching the path of our retreat nervously, scanning the terrain with his binoculars. I make myself limp over to join him, try to be useful.
“Why are we stopping here?” I ask something practical.
“We stopped here before,” Ishmael explains. “The ground is solid all around. No sign of tunneling. The Silvermen don’t usually come out this far away from the hills.”
The girl spits when he names our attackers.
“Digging here might risk damaging the Feed Line,” Murphy guesses, but looks to me for confirmation of his theory. I give him a thoughtful nod, though I’m still not sure of the extent of the threat we’re facing.
“You’ve run afoul of them before?” I ask.
“Since Tyr,” Abbas confirms heavily. “And every time we’ve approached the highlands on either Rim since.”
I remember the body Azrael left me, realizing I must have strayed too close to their territory. I was dumbly lucky that I chose a path in the lowlands.
“They should not be this far east,” the girl finally speaks up, her voice a growl of simmering rage. “Concordia is ours. You saw them at Gagarin?”
Ishmael nods. She spits again. I realize she’s spitting blood, clots remaining from the beating she took. Her wrists are cut from her bonds and her use
of my sword to cut her bonds. She ignores the wounds, glares back toward the colony site.
“Our lands. The graves of our grandparents. They know better.”
“And who are you?” Abbas finally gets around to asking her, sounding tired.
“Kah Terina Sher-Khan,” she announces regally without looking at him. “First Daughter of Sagrev Khan, War-King of Katar.”
“A princess?” Abbas muses. She doesn’t confirm or deny it.
“And what, or where, is Katar?” Azrael’s silken voice interrupts the moment. He climbs casually over the Feed Line to join us. I notice he’s managed to recover quite a few of his arrows. The rest of the group starts at his entrance, ready for a fight.
“It’s okay,” I try to reassure. “He’s with me. Sort of. He works for Hassim.”
“There’s no sign of imminent pursuit,” he tells us easily. “The Silvers appear adequately discouraged for the moment.”
“I’m not sure what that was all about,” Murphy grumbles, packing and wrapping Abbas’ arm. “What did we just stumble into?”
“I was sent for diplomacy,” the girl—Kah Terina—tells us, still the bite of her rage in her words. “The Black Clothes, they came to our lands, set killing machines on our scouting parties, began digging in the Grave to bury their flying city. Violating our sacred ground.”
Chang. She’s talking about his Stormcloud, his flying fortress.
“We came to seek treaty with the Steel, to ask them to honor the old pacts,” she continues, getting even angrier as she brings up these possibly former allies. “But they have violated those pacts, moved into our old lands… We were attacked as we arrived, only by more Black Clothes. Except different.”
“Deserters,” I give my guess. “After their master and their ‘flying city’ were destroyed, they probably broke away, tried to make a new home for themselves here…”
I realize she’s turned and is staring at me like I’ve said something exceptionally confusing.
“The Flying City is not destroyed,” she insists. “It is still there. Hidden. Deep inside Lucifer’s Grave. They work on it day and night as their machines stand guard, bringing loads of scrap from the Outlands on their big airships.”
“What?”
No. She’s mistaken.
“How long ago did your people see this flying city?” Murphy asks, sounding as unsettled as I suddenly feel.
“It was there when we passed our borders. Twenty days ago. You say it has been destroyed?”
My abused guts sink. My limbs shake. The Stormcloud was completely destroyed seven months ago. We all saw it dissolved by nuclear fire.
“No,” the Ghaddar confirms grimly. “This is another one.”
The girl—who testily insists we call her “Terina” rather than “Kah Terina”—won’t answer further questions until we explain ourselves. So Abbas tells her the tale of his people, of the return of the Unmakers, of the war against Chang, and of the stupid thing the Unmakers did to try to defeat him; the resulting damage to their homeland, their hope to find better. And their hope that better might lie beyond the reach of the enigmatic and merciless Silvermen (or more simply “Steel”, as Terina calls them).
Murphy adds on a description of his home, his people, his mission to meet and hopefully make treaties with new peoples, to trade and to form alliances against the Unmakers and the “Black Clothes”. He also admits the extent of their dual threat: Nuclear weapons on one side, immortality and superhuman power on the other. It’s Ishmael that gives hope to the tale: the coming of the other immortals, those that stand with Colonel Ram to defend us. (I watch Azrael’s eyes during this part of the narrative, see them become especially alert at the mention of Colonel Ram.)
Terina seems to take this all with only mild shock, as if she’s already seen enough to make our tales less than fantastic.
The makeshift camp falls silent, waiting for my tale. My tale is short and unimpressive, my mission sounding petty now that I put it in words before other ears. I am a fool on an errand I know not how to complete. But I have completed one mission: I’ve found Abu Abbas for Hassim. Or at least I’ve half-completed it: I must find a way to report my news.
“Already done,” Azrael surprises me. We all stare at him until he decides to be more forthcoming. “I can discreetly hack into the UNMAC satellite network. I’ve contacted Hassim on an encrypted Link, gear he kept from the time when you enjoyed peace with the Unmakers, thanks to Colonel Ram, before the Earth commanders returned. I’ve been updating Hassim regularly—the Unmakers don’t detect me. He’s very pleased to hear that you’re alive, though he mourns with you your losses.” He hands Abbas a flashcard which plays a message from Hassim.
“What are you?” I decide to confront, despite the company.
“This is neither the time nor the place for…” Azrael begins to deny, then has to catch a sharpened rod thrown at his head by the Ghaddar, but finishes his sentence as if nothing happened: “…that discussion.”
He tosses her back her weapon.
“You are Immortal?” Ishmael guesses, the awe of a young boy coming through.
“Not remotely,” Azrael tells him lightly.
“ETE?” I give a guess I’m already sure is wrong.
“You know I’m not.”
“You are not the Angel of Death, despite the name you use,” the Ghaddar confronts him.
“Not intentionally, but I have indeed played that role incidentally. And you, despite the name you use, are not a demon that bites off men’s genitals,” he returns, coolly. “I’m only guessing about that second part, of course.”
The rest of the group stays silent, but I can feel them all coil, as if ready to get out of the way of a brawl between two exceptionally dangerous beings.
“So what are you?” I repeat, hoping to distract the imminent violence brewing.
“I’m just looking for an old friend.”
“Ram,” I name.
“Yes,” he confirms easily. This seems to shift the Ghaddar’s focus.
“You’re another time traveler?” I assume.
“Sorry. No. Someone else’s turn to guess?” He’s being intentionally frustrating.
“You have my Brother-in-Law’s trust,” Abbas gives him, trying to put an end, at least temporarily, to this tense exchange. “You have mine. Nothing else needs be said.” He shoots a look at the Ghaddar. According to what I’ve heard, Abbas took her into his service when she fled from what Ram had become. And then Abbas was willing to embrace and accept what Ram had become; that terrifying, unexplainable being. And the others like him.
“You have my service, if you intend to continue your journey,” Azrael offers.
“You intend to keep going east?” I have to ask, given the hardships they’ve apparently been through thus far.
“We must. We’ve come this far, and still not found what we’re looking for.”
Azrael gives him a solemn nod.
“We have told our tales,” Abbas confronts Terina politely but firmly. “I believe it is your turn.”
She seems to seethe at being told what to do, especially by strangers, invaders, even if we did rescue her.
“I left Katar twenty days past with thirty warriors and six hand-men. We bargained passage through the lands of the Pax, as my father went to negotiate with them against our mutual invader. The Steel control the Rim Lands of our Origin, but our Grands had treaties with them that I hoped to renew. But when we came to the Cemetery Ground of Concordia, we found Black Clothes, entrenched in the slopes, in the caves. We killed many, but their weapons and positions were superior. The last of us were taken to their cave camp, tortured for information, for amusement. There was talk of ransom—they needed passage west for some reason, but could not pass the Steel borders, and their ambassador had not returned in many days. They thought we would be worth something to the Steel. But the Steel just returned the bodies of those left as offerings, impaled alive… my Hand-Servant… my War Chief… The Black Cl
othes became enraged. They demanded that we guarantee passage back to their people at the Grave, desperate. I refused. They began to torture the rest of us…”
“Is that when I… we… arrived?” I guess. She nods.
“Is it possible the Silvermen—the Steel—were attempting a rescue?” Murphy wonders.
Terina glares murder at him.
“They had plenty of time to set that ambush,” Azrael assesses.
“They chose to strike while we were busy shooting at each other,” the Ghaddar agrees with him. The looks they exchange are tense but hopefully promising an accord, at least for now. I don’t know how far Hassim’s assurances go with her.
“Where is your home?” I ask a practical question.
“In the Spine of the Fork, the Home Mountain,” she answers cryptically. “From there, we control the Central Blade of the Green Trident. Or we did, until the Black Clothes came with their hunter machines. Even the Pax are coming under attack in the North Blade.”
“How far?” Abbas asks her.
“One hundred and twenty kilometers.” She points east. Toward the Vajra. I realize her descriptions of trident parts make sense, especially if her people only know the western half of that region. “But we must pass back through Pax Land. And past the Black Clothes.”
And the shadow of White Station. (Again, I’m frustrated with how little my people choose to know about those that live in the valleys all around them. And worse: Chang may well have another flying fortress being readied right under their noses.)
“Is there viable land between here and there that my people might make a treaty for?” Abbas asks her, sticking to his own mission.
“It is much like this for the next fifty or sixty kilometers. Open. But then are the Gate Mountains, the Teeth of Coprates, marking the halfway point. Beyond the Teeth comes the Throat, the Narrows, which funnel the winds, make them cut, for ten kilometers. Then come the Badlands, for thirty kilometers. Hard to traverse. The land is jagged, a maze of terraces. And higher. Colder. Harder to breathe. The valley floor is raised up, thousands of meters, before it finally falls into the Green Lands, into the Belly of Coprates. Into the Pax Lands.”
The God Mars Book Four: Live Blades Page 9
