My fellows and I in Physics have been assigned across these projects, analyzing everything from the matter of the planet to the spectrography of space. Looking for what, exactly, is unclear. “Inconsistencies” is all we’re told. We’ve also been tasked with developing a new method to date matter based on temporal marker isotopes. The crushing caveat is that the Council doesn’t want dating in terms of eons, millenia or even centuries. The challenge has been to track age in decades, years.
And then there’s the oddest project: A select team of materials engineers, nanotech specialists and physicists (including me, until I started on this endless quest to find my idiot brother) have been engaged in the seemingly pointless task of using our field technology to break down simple objects—so far, common rocks—and then develop a technique to rebuild them in similar form, so that they appear natural to all possible tests. It would be far simpler to manufacture such objects from raw materials, but the order is to only use the original matter, a ridiculously painstaking process, and so far barely successful.
The Council has given no reason for any of these high-resource projects, but I’ve made my own assumptions (as, I’m sure, have many of my collegues). The Council’s madness appeared along with the anomalous immortals, their impossible (and it is impossible) tale of retrograde time travel and successful violation of the Novikov Self-Consistency Principle. I suspect that the Council is looking for hard evidence to prove or disprove the fantasy, perhaps by trying to determine if the claimed changing of the time line left any trace evidence. One unlikely possibility (inside an overlying ridiculous paradigm) is that the effects of the incursion only affected specific parts of our universe—i.e. the regions impacted by human actions, whereas the larger universe would show no significant impact by the actions of human history and activity, thereby be somehow unaffected by changes to the causal chain. In that theoretical model, the rest of the universe is still running on the original fixed timeline, and only our personal world has been altered.
The far better alternative (and one that I support) is that the Council is just going to obsessive lengths to definitively debunk the entire time-travel story as some kind of subterfuge, a barely-convincing “big lie” to distract from some underlying agency or agenda. This would be supported not only by the most common sense logic, but by the anomalous immortals own self-reports that their nanotechnology is capable of creating entire personalities and memory sets in the host body—the immortals themselves may be oblivious pawns, fictional constructs serving some unknown master.
However, none of our projects appear to be geared directly to revealing this agency or its mechanisms, which would seem to be the most practical approach: Instead of trying to disprove an impossible fiction, simply prove the truth behind Chang and his apparently manufactured “opponents”. (This approach is also supported by Occam’s Razor: The underlying truth would certainly be much simpler than some theoretically and practically impossible tale of sub-atomic retrograde time travel accomplished through quantum teleportation.)
And, if the Council is confident that the time-travel tale is a lie, why not say so? (Unless they don’t want to influence the outcome of our experiments.)
One thing (among many) that’s specifically bothering me: When the “converted” Colonel Ram came to Green Station to first tell us his version of the tale, we took the opportunity to scan him in detail. While this served to prove that the sheer amount of data that would need to be sent back through the alleged quantum temporal “splice” just to create his modifications would be impossible to accomplish by any conceivable sub-atomic stream (much less to make nine more like him), we have not yet invested in seriously studying his technology—this has in fact been banned by Council order. Such a study might yield practical answers as to the origin of that technology, and therefore its true source. It might also provide us with useful breakthroughs to advance our own technology, including the fact that these nanotech modifications can apparently re-create entire memory sets for identity formation, as well as entire bodies just from DNA coding.
We have the technically-living bodies of sixteen of our own people in indefinite stasis—including the Council Blue’s own son Simon—physically regenerated after catastrophic damage that included brain destruction, leaving them in a blank-slate state, all memories, learning and developmental events missing. Such technology could potentially restore them to what they were, or at least a functional approximation. (Such technology might also restore those more thoroughly lost—I cannot help but have pointless fantasies about resurrecting my own parents, though I know that they would only be convincing copies.)
I spend an hour centering myself, trying to restore objectivity, and then decide to return to work on my assigned projects, an occupation I can accomplish at any of the Stations as all are networked and engaged in the various experiments. But first I give in to my primary reason for being here, perhaps testing my ability to check my frustration. I make another stop in Operations.
It was a mistake.
The technicians are now idly tracking weapons fire down in the valleys. Their maps put the violence along the symbolic border between the North and Central Blades. (There is no real physical boundary except for one of our buried Feed Lines: the two small valleys simply join each other for about ten kilometers on their long sides.)
The implication stokes my ire.
“I thought the indigenous peoples didn’t possess firearms?”
The technicians ignore me, the non-essential outsider on his pointless personal errand. I’m sure they believe my brother is long dead, having stupidly wandered into any number of threats eager to do the deed, and I’m just a victim of denial.
But I am getting enraged again at their (our) inaction. Gunfire in quantity suggests Chang or the Earth forces. So either they’ve started a skirmish, and possibly in proximity to vulnerable locals, or one of them is brazenly attacking a practically helpless target.
I remind myself: I’ve decided this is none of my concern, and made that clear when my father joined the Guardian teams. I am a physicist. I have my work, work that may one day better us all, better the planet. (Assuming I don’t continue to waste my time in pointless experiments. But if we could find a way to practically restructure matter…)
I have no taste for human violence, as I have no taste for human affairs, social or political. I barely tolerate the company of my own, and only do so when required. (I expect that’s why I chose such a cerebral career path, one that agreed with my preferences for solitude.)
So I consider any emotional triggers that I’m experiencing now to be a disorder, interfering with my functioning, causing me pointless distress. I realize this disorder may well be genetic, as I apparently had and father and have a brother afflicted with enough empathy for strangers to cost them their lives, and I’ve inherited just enough of this curse to make me request this useless journey.
I turn to leave, and find it difficult to do so.
But then the airlock slams shut in front of me, and the panels go bright with alarms.
“We’re being hacked,” Sung announces, with more urgency than I’ve ever heard out of him. “It’s coming in on our own network… Someone’s accessed our implants.”
Council White materializes as a holographic avatar almost on top of me. I have to back up a step to see him.
“Source?” he asks directly, but I can hear an edge in his voice as well.
“Local,” Guerrero reports. “Short range personal link. The rest of the network is unaffected. They’re using us as an access point.”
“Can you block it?”
“It’s weaving through our firewalls.” Sung is getting overwhelmed. “I’ve never seen code like this. I don’t think we can block it.”
“Shut it down,” Council orders. “Shut down the network.”
We’ll be cut off, unable to communicate with anyone beyond this Station.
“I’ll use an off-network link to warn the other Stations,” Council de
cides. That will make us all blind, deaf and mute. But the alternative… If someone could gain control of our Stations, they could sabotage our terraforming operations, even shut down the Atmosphere Net.
“Can you identify the source?” Council wants to know, possibly hoping for a practical fix.
It takes the technicians a few seconds to analyze the code, check it against local files. Sung and Guerrero then turn in their chairs as one, turn to look at me as if this is my fault, stony faces hiding none of their anger.
“It’s Erickson Carter.”
Without the customary wait for a pre-consultation, I am escorted into the Council Chamber. But there is only one Council present—White, in physical presence—because the others cannot be here without the network.
But he doesn’t say anything to me. He just stands there, faceless behind his helmet. Making me speak first.
“We have his general location from the ping before we shut down. We can go after him. Find him.”
“And destroy him, if his technology is too badly compromised?” Council confronts.
“If necessary,” I impress myself by answering without much hesitation. “He… He may already be dead. Given what we’ve seen today, it’s likely Chang that has him. And Chang would only want his technology.”
“To use against us,” Council agrees. “He would gain control over all life on this planet. Including the raw resources that Earth needs to operate here.”
“Then we need to do whatever is necessary,” I insist, as if the decision is mine, as if it hasn’t already been made. I realize the Council is granting me some small comfort by including me in this discussion at all. Or perhaps the comfort is his, having me somehow absolve him for ordering my brother’s execution.
“I will brief a Guardian team.”
“I want to go,” I blurt out. (My disorder, rearing its head.)
I can’t see the Council’s reaction, but I expect my face betrays my own storm of conflicting emotions, chipping away at anything resembling reason.
“You have no training,” the Council lists my shortcomings for me (though at least he does it gently), as if trying to help me restore my objectivity. “I’ve reviewed your file. You have never, according to record, even been outside. You have certainly never experienced a verdant environment first hand. You have no practical experience with our field Tools.”
“I would be vulnerable,” I agree. And then my disorder takes me again: “But I would have the protection of the team. If my brother is somehow complacent in whatever’s happened to him, if he remains reluctant to return, I may be able to convince him, to salvage him.”
Now I receive the expected Council treatment: White becomes still, unresponsive, likely communicating on a closed channel, considering his options, sending orders. (This would usually be the time he would be in communication with the rest of the Council. I wonder if it unsettles him to be making his decisions alone, without consultation or vote.)
We don’t have the time for this. Chang—or one of his fellow monsters—has my brother. Unless we shut down whatever means he’s using to hack his implants, we’ll remain in network shut down, and that’s assuming he doesn’t manage to hack his way through anyway. I’m sure Council White is processing all of these issues, but I need to push.
“Would you stop me if I tried to leave?”
This gets his attention, at least in terms of making his helmeted head swivel to lock on me. I don’t get a verbal reply for several more tense seconds, but finally:
“Airlock Six. A team will be waiting for you. Go quickly.”
When I get to the staging area, I discover that the Council’s idea of a “team” is only three White sealsuits with standard unmodified Field Tools. They take the time to fit my suit with an “apprentice” model supplemental heater and oxygen processor. I do not get any Tools of my own.
As we step into the lock, my red suit is a glaring contrast to their pristine white ones. I expect mine is the better camouflage, if only slightly. Sealed in my helmet, I get the barest sensation of the lock pressure equalizing with the outside, and then the blast hatch opens.
I see daylight first-hand for the first time, and it makes me hesitate as the others step out ahead of me. Not wanting to lag, I step onto the access deck. The winds push against my suit. My boots grind sand into the steel grid. The open valley before me… I feel a sudden rush of vertigo… all this space… no walls…
I feel a hand on my shoulder, one of the Guardians reading my distress in my body language. The shock of physical contact steadies me. I feel sick, but I feel more like an idiot, a child. Fragile. Weak. I’m better than this. I wave the hand away, make myself step closer to the edge of the deck. My reaction is just a glitch in my vestibulo-ocular reflex. I am standing on a solid surface. I look down, see the slope drop thousands of meters down and out into the green of the valley basin. The deck feels like it’s tipping. I plant my feet, lock my eyes on the horizon, call up a pertinent graphic to focus on:
The Technicians managed to triangulate a rough origin for the hack signal, approximately eleven kilometers east-northeast, but that’s on the far side of the crater sink, Chang’s base.
Two of the Guardians take me by either arm, draw Rods, and as soon as I’m set in their grip, they propel us into the air.
The next several minutes are spent in stomach-dropping hops down the slope. My escorts are being careful not to gain too much altitude in order to minimize our chances of being seen, but that means our thrusts and drops are much more frequent. Still, I’m surprised how quickly I get used to the wave-like flight.
We’ve come down along the north side of the ridgeline that separates the western “tips” of the North and Central Blades, hoping that will keep our descent out of Chang’s view. On my graphic map, I realize our straightest course will take us almost directly toward where we’ve been registering weapons’ fire. I wonder if my companions will attempt to intervene, taking advantage of their permission to move out in the world, even if it deviates from our urgent mission. (And what will I do if they try such a foolish act of insubordination? What can I do, other than go along with them?)
The terrain steadily shifts from barren rocky drop to shrub-studded base slope to forest-density overgrowth, and we set down. I embarrass myself almost immediately by slipping and stumbling on the rocky ground. I feel a pang of deep regret—I really don’t want to be here, be out here. The chaos of the environment makes me deeply uncomfortable. I knew it would not be the ordered world I am used to, clean surfaces, logical arrangement without clutter. But even the larger gardens didn’t have this kind of randomness and entropy—the plant matter that has died simply lies where it falls, or is slave to the winds until it finds a place to decay. There are layers of it in places so thick I can’t see the regolith underneath, and it’s slick and treacherous to walk on, disturbingly inconsistent, spongy. Rot and debris is sticking to my boots—it won’t shake off like the dust. I’m thankful for my mask—I can only imagine what it must smell like.
“We need to walk from here,” my companions speak their first words to me, and we fall into a line: Two ahead of me, one behind. The lead Guardian pushes aside the greenery with a low-power pressor field to make our passage somewhat easier.
Despite my nanites’ best efforts, I tire easily, by leg muscles aching, my lungs burning, my boot-soles hopelessly caked with compost. Of course, my companions don’t appear fatigued at all, keeping up a brisk pace despite the density of the growth and the uneven terrain.
Our progress seems interminably slow, at least as viewed on my maps. Looking behind me, I can barely see the slopes we came down from. And it strikes me in the pit of my gut how far I am from home. My rooms. My labs. A proper shower and a meal and a neat, clean bed. (What happens if we’re out here past nightfall? How do we sleep? How do we bathe? At least my nanites can take temporary care of waste elimination—I can’t imagine attempting to defecate…)
If my escorts are aware of my distress, the
y do me the courtesy of ignoring it. Pity would make this whole experience exponentially more unbearable. I wonder how much they must be slowing their own pace for my benefit.
In the distance ahead of us, I hear intermittent bursts of gunfire, interspersed with the deeper booms of explosives. It sounds like some kind of protracted siege: silence falls, suggesting the violence is done, only for it to start up again, over and over. I realize it’s been about forty minutes since I first observed the signs of fighting from Ops.
Then I almost run into the suit ahead of me. The one ahead of him has stopped us still, holding up a hand that he curls into a fist. He crouches, as do the others. I mimic them.
The lead two exchange gestures, pointing in various directions through the brush. I see nothing but thick growth despite having similar ocular modifications. The only movement and sound comes from a gentle wind across the growth canopy above us, raining down the occasional loose leaf. I try my infrared, my parabolics. I think I can hear a low humming…
The Guardian behind me suddenly shoves me to the side, toppling me into the undergrowth and decay. He’s got a Sphere field around us, Rod in his other hand. The others have done the same.
There’s a sudden rushing sound, and something big comes at us through the brush, slamming into our lead field, thrashing. Then another joins it. I recognize them as “Bug” robots: bigger than a man, six jointed blade-tipped limbs, a three-sectioned body and an armored sensor “head” on each end. They struggle and tumble against the fields, trying to push through, their materials resisting disintegration. The Guardians strike back at them with their Rods, battering them, starting to break…
My world explodes. I’m thrown by a shockwave that feels like it’s crushing me simultaneously from the inside and outside, lost in an eruption of dirt and rock and shredded plants. I’m thrown into unyielding brush, blinded by smoke and debris. I feel another blast, but thankfully further from me. I shake my goggles clear.
The God Mars Book Four: Live Blades Page 15
