Abbas tells of his people, of life in Melas, in the desert, of his fortuitous meeting with Ram, and praises their deep friendship. Then the subject turns to the disaster UNMAC caused (the Pax are again disturbed by this news), and his dream of finding a new home for his people. He heavily recounts his many losses to the Silvermen and the bots. He specifically admits to the loss of his first wife, Fatima, killed just this morning in the first wave of attacks, while bravely protecting her sister-wife. This is followed by a long silence, and a tearful embrace with his son, who apparently hadn’t been given this news until now.
Leder Sower solemnly stands, lowers his head. His people match his gesture, the warriors putting hands over their slung masks as if hiding those metal faces. Sower then walks around the table to embrace Abbas, followed by Archer. It’s clear that many of those present understand such profound loss. Even I feel tears well afresh for my father. I look at Elias—he stares stoically at the table, chewing at his lower lip, but his grief is finally clear.
I’m then left to tell my own tale in the wake of this profound moment. I find I have nothing to say beyond basic details: Where I’m from. Why I came all this way. I insist I’ve done nothing of interest or worthy of praise, and that even my actions today were not of my own ability. But I make my promise to serve, to protect the Pax and the Katar to the best of my ability. (Somehow this seems to please my sword, but I’m not sure its intentions have anything to do with what’s right.)
“He’s my brother. That’s all I have to say.” And that’s all Elias has to say.
After the meal, and by way of our hosts telling their own story, Sower leads us deeper into the cavern complex. First he leads us to a chain of hangar-sized chambers to show us his “live stock”: numerous specimens kept in pens and cages made from parts of plants. The stink here is palpable: musky, earthy, pungent and almost choking. I recognize the species from my school studies of Earth biology and zoology, but they’re different than what I’ve seen: Longer, leaner legs; much larger rib cages; thicker fur (or feathers); fat-hooded eyes; wider nostrils. Adapted, like the Pax and Katar, to living in the thin air, the cold, and the lower gravity of a different world. These creatures appear to eat mixes of plant-based foods, or raw plant parts themselves, except the pigs, which are also fed from our table scraps (and seem happy to have it, even though they’re technically engaging in some cannibalism). Their waste is carefully collected to use as fertilizer in their gardens and open-air “farms”.
He shows us some of the in-cave greenhouses, lit and heated by skylight shafts capped by lenses that intensify the sunlight as well as its heat, watered by ingenious hand-crafted pumping systems. Their “farms” are hidden out in the valley, masked by the natural greenery, tended by individual “Steads” that are spread throughout their lands.
Sower tells us that while they’ve been gardening and farming in the open air for more than two decades now, they’ve only adapted their livestock to the low pressure within the last decade, after having proven that it was possible to tolerate the atmosphere unaided themselves. They still keep their animals under shelter for UV protection, but they’ve made a mandate—as have their neighbors the Katar—to conform themselves to being able to live on this planet without technological survival gear, to let go of the last remnants of Earth and embrace life on this world as it is. Only the old and the very young rely on oxygen supplements (which means my Normal companions must either appear childlike or geriatric—at least in poor health—due to their reliance on masks). They still use hydrogen fuel heat because the primitive burning they used to cook our feast might draw too much attention from orbit, so they only burn deep in the caves. The heat and smoke that bleeds from their “chimney” vents is made to appear to be the result of ETE tapping.
Finally, they show us a “dragon farm”, where they nurture the giant insect larvae in specially tended pools cut into the stone. Once mature, the dragonflies are released through cave openings into the outer world, to control the butterfly population. The dragonflies are apparently instinctive enough to return to the cave pools to lay their eggs (possibly because it’s the only standing water that doesn’t freeze every night), thus continuing the life cycle.
The Pax appear to be an intelligent, well-educated, and ingenious people, who have completely invested themselves in not only living in harmony with this world, but also in fostering the environment. Again, I’m surprised that my people have avoided contact with them to the point of effectively ignoring their existence. None of what I’m seeing and hearing is common knowledge to my fellows, unless it’s been restricted to an elite few. (And if so, why?)
As a testament to their history, to what their parents and grandparents began here, Sower shows us their “Gallery of Ancestors”: a large stone chamber arrayed with a silent council of empty pressure suits, bearing the nametags of their forebears, hundreds of them. (I expect this also serves as an effective census of those that survived the Apocalypse.)
I notice the young Nomad—Ishmael—takes particular interest in this display, taking the time to read each of the names, as if he’s looking for a specific one. I look to his father, and see him attempt to hide some consternation at this, as if he doesn’t approve of his son’s curiosity, or has some concern about it.
“How did you dig these caves?” Stilson asks Sower. The elder looks at him like he’s asked a surprisingly foolish question.
“You say you are Eternal?”
“ETE. Yes. Blue Team. From Northeast Melas.”
“And your companions?” he gestures to Elias and myself.
“Red Team is far western Melas,” I clarify.
“Do you not communicate with each other?” Sower can’t understand.
“There are secrets we keep from each other,” Elias says bitterly, “from our own.” Stilson seems to know what he’s talking about. Apparently I was right about the secret-keeping, or at least Elias and Stilson share my suspicions.
“We only know White Eternals,” Sower explains. “In the beginning, our relationship was a close one. They saved our lives after the Apocalypse, dug cave shelters for us under their Station, helped preserve our precious specimens. Together, we worked to green the Trident, to raise and craft the life our forefathers had brought from Earth. When I was a boy, when the forest was just seeding, the Eternals helped us dig this Keep, close to their Feeds. But then one day they were simply gone, sealed up in their Station. The Feeds kept flowing, but they would not speak to us, would not come down anymore. No one knows why.”
“Some say it was the Katar,” Archer addends, to Sower’s apparent displeasure. “They came from the west, seeking better lands. Our lands. Our forest.” He glares briefly at Terina as if he expects argument. She seethes silently. There’s old rage here, pain.
“Both sides are to blame,” Sower offers. “The Katar Founders were desperate. We were not generous. There was violence, from both sides, until we put the Spine between us, drew our borders, and occasionally redrew them in blood. Now we keep them with gifts. Mostly. But we cannot share land. North Blade is ours. Center is theirs. Perhaps that’s why the Eternals left us.”
“My people would not support one group of survivors against another,” Stilson lets him know. “But we did not try to help make peace between you, or any other groups in conflict. We just turned our backs. For that, for my people, I am sorry.”
(Is that it? Are we ashamed of that, so we don’t speak of it?)
“But here you are now,” Sower allows him.
“Some of us,” Stilson’s bitterness runs deep. I look at my brother. He turns his eyes to the stone floor.
A party of warriors—still masked—escort Lux and Azazel to join us. Ram and Bel embrace them heartily, at which point their escorts relax. (Stilson looks significantly uncomfortable with physical affection, but awkwardly accepts their hugging greetings.) The two look in much better shape than when last I saw them. There’s no longer blood on Lux’s white robes, no bullet holes in clothing or
armor.
They immediately reassure Abbas that his wounded men are in the hands of their main group (or what remains of it), and are waiting for them near the eastern end of the Spine Range before proceeding into Katar. Azazel feeds the coordinates of their camp into Ishmael’s map device.
Sower offers them food, which they initially decline, stating that they’ve recently eaten (the disturbing possibilities flash fresh in my imagination), until Bel tells them there’s “real meat” to be had, and “good beer”. They enthusiastically accept, and are shown back to the dining area. Before they go, I see both of them shoot glances at Ram at Bel, not-so-subtly nodding to our swords. Ram nods understanding, as if to say the issue will be addressed soon enough.
“We need to talk, Colonel,” I whisper to Ram, letting him know the concerns are shared by both sides. He nods, but says nothing, intentionally ignoring the subject while our hosts are so present. We continue our tour.
Chapter 6: Revelations
Jak Straker:
“BEWARE THE AGENTS OF THE TETRAGRAMMATON.”
My sword’s been whispering this to me since we united with Ram and his. I assume it relates to Ram and his, but I’m well-motivated to ignore it. I trust Ram. I owe Ram. I look up to him. And I have much more worrisome concerns, most of them due to this thing that’s attached itself to me and now seems to expect I simply trust its advice.
On top of my new lust for violence, there’s the indescribable agony and ecstasy I feel (and crave) as my blade drinks every kill, as well as all the changes to my body (and my mind?) that I can’t yet begin to fathom.
I’ve just eaten meat for the first time, something none of my people have tasted since our rations of it ran out before I was born. And I loved it. And I ate enough food for a squad, along with copious amounts of strong homebrew (and was only very briefly inebriated for my effort).
My hunger is mostly sated, but still persists at a low nagging growl in my gut. I’m deeply afraid that this will be my life from now on: Hunger. Insatiable. And rage and bloodlust.
I’m also crushed by the realization that I may never be able to return to my fellows, UN or PK. I’m infected. Whatever this technology is, Earthside will be terrified of me. Even if it can be reversed somehow...
I’m never going home. I certainly don’t dare return to my people at Melas Two.
I’m never going to be the same.
The wonders of this new world, these new people, are little consolation. Even the presence of Colonel Ram—who must certainly know what this is like—and two others in my exact condition does not comfort me. Especially since we cannot talk freely in front of the Pax.
The only thing that does comfort is the memory of the rush of battle, my new power.
Our selective tour of the Pax cave Keep ends roughly where it began, at the wide mouth facing the jagged choke-point maze.
“I must ask, Colonel Ram,” Sower diplomatically drops the other boot. “You and your fellows… What are you?”
“Abbas and his people are just human, like you, only they rely on oxygen and pressure shelters in the thinner air to the west,” Ram begins with the easiest news. “And they practice what they call ‘weight discipline’, which keeps their skeletons closer to those more recently from Earth.”
Sower doesn’t push the obvious next question, giving Ram time to respond. I notice Archer is listening intently, hand idly fingering his mask.
“As for us… We were human. Three of my companions are ETE, Terraformers—you call them Eternals. They’ve used nanotechnology to enhance their bodies, something that scares Earth. Earth rejected such technology after the Apocalypse, sure it had infected Mars all these years. But it isn’t contagious. It won’t even function outside of their bodies. Some of them have decided to use these gifts to help others.” He nods to Stilson and Erickson and Elias.
“And you?” Archer prods. Sower shoots him a flash look of disapproval, like he’s been rude.
“From what I’ve been told, what we are is an extension of that science, sent back from a future where the Apocalypse didn’t happen. Apparently, most of humanity became what we are in that reality. Chang and his allies, and the technology of his killing machines, are also from that world. He found a way back in time, caused the Apocalypse, the bombing, to stop the technology from being developed, because of what it did to us. My friends and I were sent to stop him, or at least keep him from harming innocents if we can.”
I catch Elias rolling his eyes—I think I heard he’s some kind of physicist. (Did my sword tell me that?) Yes, I know the explanation is beyond suspicious, the so-called “time-splice” ludicrous in its improbability. But there’s no better explanation for the level of Chang’s—or Ram’s—technology. UNMAC has been studying it for decades. Supposedly, so have the ETE. Bottom line: what they’ve got is decades ahead of even what the ETE have managed.
Sower extends the hand of friendship again. (Perhaps more cautiously this time?)
“Our hospitality remains,” Sower offers. “You are welcome in our lands, in our homes.” This last part seems to make Archer squirm.
“We appreciate that, but must be careful to keep our distance,” Ram diplomatically semi-declines. “Earth fears us too much. I fear we may endanger your people.”
“Then I hope when next we meet it will be in better circumstance,” Sower gives.
Of course, I notice he doesn’t address our blades.
“Abu Abbas is a good man, and a fierce friend,” Ram makes a final sell. “If you accept him, he and his people will be loyal allies to you.”
I pick up some new tension now: Bly, still holding some old prejudice or grudge, going stiff in his armor. And the Katar “princess”—I suspect their treaty with the Pax is tentative at best. (I wonder what shadowy politics will stir when Abbas also asks the Katar for an alliance. My blade stirs at my hip, giving its own opinion.)
Abbas exchanges grips with Sower. Archer steps forward and does the same, then to his son, the warrior Rashid and the Tranquility ambassador, and finally to the Ghaddar. Their arms lock together significantly longer than the others. The competitive posturing of warriors, or something else?
(I think I feel Ram get a little uncomfortable watching the display. I remember he and the Ghaddar were close when he was still mortal. Were they lovers, as well?)
The Pax warriors bring us four carefully-packed emergency-type portable shelters for our journey, a most valuable parting gift. They also give us packs of food and water canisters. Then they put their masks back on as they array themselves on the terraces of their Keep to watch us leave. It’s an (intentionally?) intimidating display.
They watch over us until we make our way out of their canyon (and probably even after we’re far back into the green).
We decide to follow the foothills of the Pax mountain eastward for awhile before we start crossing back toward the Spine to the point indicated on Ishmael’s map, where the rest of Abba’s Nomads are supposedly waiting. The hope is to avoid drawing further attention from Asmodeus’ machines, at least for the benefit of the vulnerable. So we travel east until we pass just beyond the eastern end of the mountain—still on the outer edge of the North Blade—perhaps four or five klicks from the rendezvous.
Ram’s “team” has been leading our way, with myself and my two predicament-companions bringing up the rear. The green starts to thin—perhaps we’re nearing the unmarked boundary of the Trident—and they suddenly stop and turn on us.
My blade is immediately ready for a fight, but I don’t think that’s the intent.
“Are we followed?” Ram asks no one in particular.
“At distance,” Dee answers him. “Five hundred meters. I doubt they can hear us.”
“Then this is where we talk,” Ram decides. “Let’s look like we need a rest.”
Abbas and the others take his lead, set down the shelter packs, check their cylinders. It all looks very casual.
“It is good to see you again, Lieutenant Straker,
” Ram reassures me. “I’m just not sure how worried I should be.” He nods to my sword.
“Neither am I,” I admit uncomfortably.
The three of us quickly and somewhat awkwardly relate how each sword appeared and attached to us. (Erickson is particularly embarrassed in telling Terina of his collision with her father, and must reassure her that he did him no harm.)
“Asmodeus and Fohat called it a ‘Companion’,” Erickson ends with that detail. “Is that what they are?”
“And what does that mean?” Elias demands.
“A Companion was a piece of dead-end consumer tech,” Bel downplays. “Like cameras and media players and phones: Once upon a time, each was an individual device, but all became obsolete as soon as the tech combined into one universal device.”
“A Companion was a nanotech appendage of sorts,” Azazel tries. “A peripheral device. Designed to supplement bodily mods.”
“And a bit dangerously,” Bel takes it. “The nanites were morphic, so they could take any form, become anything the user might want. But they were also an adaptive interface: They could connect to other tech, but they could also assimilate and modify even inanimate objects. Using one, I could, for instance, plug into this rock or that tree, turn it into something else.”
“The idea was to allow the user to free-craft their environment,” Azazel almost defends.
“The idea was to get us out of our apathetic stupors, to get us to actually take interest in our environments again,” Bel condemns, then explains: “Too many of us had retreated into virtual existences. They stopped interacting with the world.”
The God Mars Book Four: Live Blades Page 24
