The God Mars Book Four: Live Blades

by Michael Rizzo

  “And where is that?” I take a turn, getting frustrated. I don’t think I’m the only one.

  “Where is where you were last night. Only the when has changed.”

  “All right,” Murphy tries diplomacy, managing to not sound totally incredulous. “When are we?”

  “The time that was. Or at least a small piece that remained when this world was rewritten.”

  “It’s VR,” I decide. “Some kind of illusion. Generated by the swords.”

  He crouches down using his stick for support, scoops a handful of water and throws it in my face. It’s cold, wet, jolting, and very real.

  “It’s real,” he insists patiently. “It’s here. Except when it isn’t.”

  “I have no patience for stupid riddles,” Bly growls at him. He starts to advance again, but his feet seem to be stuck in the water.

  “What are you doing to us?” Erickson demands. The old man shrugs, shakes his head.

  “I’m just performing a service.”

  “What service?”

  “Ferryman.” He gestures across the water. The haze has thickened, come closer. But I think I see a large shadow in it. It gets larger as we watch, but I hear no noise, no sound of engines or treads. “I’m a captain, you see. Captain of a ship. Captain Jed.”

  He’s very childlike, innocent. (Or senile. Brain-injured.)

  “Why are we here?” Abbas demands, approaching, flanked by Murphy, Ishmael, Rashid and the Ghaddar.

  “Invited. As I said. And such interesting choices.” Jed looks at Abbas, old eyes boring into him. “The Father, the wise and world-weary fighter who seeks only a safe place for his family, his people, and has paid so dearly for hope.”

  Then he looks at Ishmael. “The Son, the young adventurer, still wide-eyed and invincible, who seeks to know where he comes from, no matter what he may find.”

  Ishmael looks uncomfortable with that public revelation, as if a personal secret has just been revealed.

  “The Royal Daughter,” he addresses Terina next. “Both privileged and cursed by life in her father’s shadow. Eager to distinguish herself, to do something to serve and protect her people in this dark time. And so far failing, at least I her own eyes.”

  Terina bristles at his judgment. Jed moves on to Murphy.

  “The Hunter. Of men. And sometimes of women and children. Who lived for duty, only to be cast out by his own, even his own family, for trying to help them survive.”

  And the Ghaddar: “The Warrior, seeking perfection. Running now from her first and only act of cowardice, having fled from the one love of her life.” She looks like she wants to cut him to pieces for that, but also doesn’t seem to be able to act.

  Then he turns to Bly: “And the Monster, who hopes for a modicum of redemption, at least for his people if not for himself. He’s long since given up on himself.”

  Bly manages to slog up through the water onto land, but every step looks like he has massive weights on his legs. He exhausts himself before he’s gotten within a dozen meters of his accuser.

  “Sir?” Rashid asks sheepishly, apparently forgotten.

  “Ah, yes. The loyal fighter. So easy to overlook. Hoping for some kind of recognition, distinction. Brave deeds in good service to his people.”

  The shadow has gotten closer, and now it appears to turn, getting longer. It’s hard to tell through the haze (which is actually a fine water mist—I can feel it now), but I’d guess it to be fifteen meters wide and ten high, and maybe forty or fifty long. The mist begins to blow away…

  It looks something like a Zodangan Frigate, Dutchman Class, only inverted. Now that I can see it better, there are three long poles—the Zodangans called them “masts”—sticking straight up from what I assume is the main hull, rather than downwards. They rise up at least three times higher than the hull. They’re crossed by a number of round beams—“yards”—that support massive white fabric “sails”, which are now rolling up, retracting (“furling”—I learned the terms when I briefly served on a Zodangan ship during our joint alliance with Chang). It all seems supported and controlled by an impressive network of cables (“rigging”). I do remember seeing pictures of something like this in my history lessons, some kind of ancient Earth water-going ship, propelled only by wind.

  A heavy object that roughly resembles a grappling hook, only much larger and bulkier, drops from the angular nose of the hull into the water with an impressive splash, attached to the ship by a stout chain. By the amount of chain that follows it into the water, the water must be several meters deep. The chain goes taut, and the ship slows and stops, creaking like it may just fall apart. It’s still dozens of meters out into the lake.

  The hull doesn’t look like a dirigible. The sides are flatter, only tapering at the pointed nose (that sprouts what the Zodangans call a “bowsprit”) and truncated aft end. The hull is flat on top, or perhaps open like a bowl, as the masts appear to extend down below the top edge. It looks to be made out of something dark brown and almost oily, assembled in long rectangular sections, except for down by the water, which has been covered in copper plates.

  “The Charon,” Jed tells us proudly. “My ship.”

  “Why are we here?” I repeat the earlier demand.

  “Your swords,” he finally gets somewhere near the point. “They’re lost, out of their world. And they’ve lost their fellows—two others of their kind—that are still there, still trapped, waiting for them. Waiting for suitable hosts. A father? A son? A princess? A hunter? A warrior? A monster? A loyal fighter? All good choices. All have reason to want what the swords offer, and perhaps offer them something in return. Therefore all of you are here.”

  (And the others—Ram, Bel, Lux, Azazel, Stilson and Dee—would have no reason to be tempted. But I doubt that’s all it is.)

  “No!” I manage to blurt out first.

  “The choice isn’t yours to make.”

  “Is it theirs?” Erickson confronts.

  “It is, actually. Just as it was yours.”

  “It wasn’t so much choice as manipulation,” Erickson throws back, also warning the others. “These things seem to offer when they know you can’t refuse. In at least one case, they set up that circumstance intentionally.”

  Jed shrugs. “They could walk away now, leave you, find their way out of the Borderland.”

  I see my un-companioned companions consider that, exchange glances, shuffle in the still squishy wet sand.

  “But we three can’t,” Elias figures.

  “I’m afraid not,” Jed admits like he actually is sorry. “Your swords want to find their fellows. Their fellows can be found there.” He gestures across the lake, north-northeast. Whatever might be out there across the water is, of course, invisible in the haze. The lake could go on forever.

  I test his claim, try to step back, walk away. I’m not stuck, not held by anything tangible, I just can’t seem to make myself go. Making it worse, Jed smiles at me for my effort.

  “And ‘there’ is where?” Elias wants a better explanation.

  “There’s a city. More of a town, really. One of the last sanctuaries for the unconverted, normal mortal human beings.”

  “In the future,” Elias isn’t buying. “The one that doesn’t exist anymore because somebody came back through time and rewrote history?”

  Jed shrugs.

  “And it’s over there? Across a lake that shouldn’t be here?”

  “It is and it isn’t,” Jed doesn’t explain. “This is the Borderland. It comes and goes. The energy of the splice created a bubble, a sub-dimension, leaving a small part of the original causal chain intact. It happened over there.” He points again. “The splice.”

  “You realize that makes no scientific sense?” Elias criticizes. “You’re spewing pseudoscience. Nonsense. The sloppiest speculative garbage.”

  “It may have something to do with the water,” Jed ignores him. He really does seem childlike. “Only my ship can cross the Lake. If I’m not here, the Borde
rland isn’t. Usually. There have been exceptions.”

  “Okay: He’s either lying, or he has no idea what he’s talking about!” Elias snaps. I think this is the most vocal I’ve heard him. He looks like his brain is going to burst.

  “Come and see,” Jed offers calmly.

  I realize two smaller craft are coming towards us: long pointed-bow open shells, painted white, with what look like bench seats, with seating enough for half a dozen each. They slide across the surface of the lake, from the Charon to the land. I can’t tell what’s propelling or steering them. They get stuck when they hit the sand of the “shore”.

  “As if we have a choice,” Erickson mutters.

  “You don’t,” Jed repeats. “They do.”

  The others still appear to be undecided, which means they’re actually thinking about coming on this crazy mission.

  I try to make it easier for them:

  “Taking the swords across… Will that remove them from this world?”

  Elias rolls his eyes, but Jed gives me a thoughtful nod.

  I’m thinking something I don’t dare say out loud, not with the swords—and Jed—potentially listening: If we actually could get the swords into another world, dimension, whatever, and then figure a way to trap them there, seal the border… (Destroy the ship?) They might not have the resources they need to push back through.

  It’s crazy. Desperate. And I’m sure Elias would call me an idiot for buying into any of this. (He may be right: this may all be a lie, a subterfuge, and illusion generated by the swords to sucker us into reuniting them.) But I have to take the shot. Even if it means a one-way trip.

  “Okay.”

  I start walking toward one of the small craft. Erickson seems to understand what I have in mind, because he follows willingly. Then Elias looks like he’s coming along just to prove himself right.

  But then all the others start walking toward the water, toward the craft.

  “No!” I repeat.

  “You can’t,” Erickson agrees.

  “We can’t leave you to face this alone,” Abbas insists.

  “You need to get back to your people,” Erickson states the obvious.

  “What’s left of my people, and everybody else in these valleys, is sitting between Asmodeus and the Unmakers, but suddenly that’s not the greatest or most immediate threat.” He nods to our swords.

  “You can’t trust that you’ve got control of yourselves,” Murphy clarifies all our concerns. “Your judgment may be clouded. We can’t let you go alone.”

  “You wouldn’t be able to stop us if the swords took over,” I protest.

  “They might not.” Bly steps up to one of the craft. “That’s why I’m coming.”

  The small craft prove very unstable getting into, wobbling badly as we step in and find a spot on a narrow bench to sit. Our group divides roughly in half, with all Normals in one, and we three and Bly in the other along with the bizarre Jed. Once we’re seated, the craft move themselves off the sand and slide back over the water toward the Charon. I still don’t sense any kind of engine, propulsion. And Jed isn’t steering—he just sits at the nose of our craft facing backwards, facing us, still grinning at us like someone with brain trauma.

  As we get up close, the Charon is impressively big, towering over the water—it’s dizzying to look up to the tops of the masts (especially with our transports still rocking under us). The small craft pull up alongside and appear to cling to the larger vessel. Crane-like arms swing out over the top of the hull above us, dropping lines that hook automatically to the fore and aft of each small craft, and we’re hauled up…

  The top side is open, revealing a recessed main deck, apparently made of the same rectangular strips as the hull, but white. We debark onto a small railed catwalk, only to find this vessel isn’t exactly stable either—it sways somewhat under foot. It’s certainly not as extreme as the small craft, and it’s more rhythmic. I realize it roughly matches the rippling of the surface of the water.

  “Look!” Ishmael starts, pointing back the way we came.

  A pair of Bug bots have come over the rise and stagger sloppily down to the water’s edge. Their limbs sink deep in the wet sand, making every step a struggle, but that doesn’t appear to be the only thing that’s de-stabilizing them so badly. They appear to be malfunctioning in some essential way, every move hesitant, almost as if they’re confused or disoriented. I look for battle damage, but see none—they look intact. If I listen, I can hear them: Crying out, sending signals, urgently pinging for a reply that doesn’t come. There’s no incoming command chatter. The machines sound almost… terrified?

  “They’ve lost contact with their master,” Jed confirms. “Poor things.”

  They tentatively step into the water, as if to try to pursue us, probably still obeying their last orders to hunt, attack. The Ghaddar raises her rifle, but Jed gently pushes the barrel down, shaking his head.

  “There’s no need.”

  The bots advance, struggle, persist. But with each step, they get deeper in the water. They begin to struggle, thrash, but they can’t stay up. They do look pathetic, pitiable. They should turn around, go back to the sand, but they don’t.

  We watch as they disappear below the rippling surface.

  “Ah. Speaking of which…” Jed reaches into a cabinet and hands us each what looks like a vest, bright orange. “Safety first. Please. Put these on. Should you wind up in the water for some reason, pull on the tab on the left breast. You’ll also need to shed the metal armor you’re wearing—it will pull you under the surface very quickly. You do know that you’ll die if you become submerged and can’t surface to breathe? Inhaling the water will choke and suffocate you very quickly. It’s called ‘drowning’. Very unpleasant.”

  I’ve heard of it, but only as a risk to infants in a bath or those tending our underground reservoir tanks, who wear full pressure suits to work submerged. The others look variously concerned and/or disturbed. All of us are well out of familiar reality here. We put on the flimsy-seeming vests.

  “Good. Please…”

  Jed gestures for us to take a steep and narrow flight of steps—almost a ladder—down to the deck level. It’s down low enough below the upper edge of the hull—about three meters—that we can no longer see the world around us. When we set foot on the deck, I notice it’s become significantly warmer, as if the air is being heated.

  “Where’s your crew?” Bly questions. There doesn’t seem to be another living soul on board.

  “No crew. Just me,” Jed continues to be aggravatingly casual. “The ship is a biotech hybrid. Grown. Growing. Alive. Based on an old Earth design. Very beautiful, yes? A marvel of early engineering. Mankind throwing themselves out into their oceans—the oceans of Earth cover more surface area than this whole planet, did you know that?”

  “A frigate,” Bly decides.

  “A barque, actually,” Jed corrects him. “It has to do with the masts. No square sails on the aft mast.” Bly seems to understand that, nods his helmet. But the idea that we’re standing inside a massive construct of active biological nanotechnology is almost more disturbing than the idea that I’m hopelessly infected by a hostile AI.

  My sword is still silent. It strikes me that we’re surrounded by nanotech. My blade should be trying to interface, maybe even consume, but it’s not doing much of anything. It could very well be just a normal sword right now. I try to discreetly draw it from its scabbard, just to see what it will do, but it won’t budge. It’s locked in.

  “Your blades have agreed to behave themselves for the passage,” Jed reveals me. “An old fable about a scorpion and a frog comes to mind, but I expect their AI to be smarter about honoring their bargain, if only because they have too much to lose, including themselves. They had a difficult enough time finding their way to your world. The Border is unstable on a good day, and this day isn’t particularly calm. Things can and do get lost trying to cross the water. And no, Elias, I don’t feel like trying to exp
lain the physics of it at the moment. Now, if you’ll excuse me, we’ll get underway. Please stay away from the rail for your own safety.”

  He goes to another set of stairs, climbs up to a railed catwalk that spans the hull from side to side, level with the topside. In the center of this literal “bridge” is a large spoked wheel on a vertical pivot. He faces the nose of the ship, takes hold of the wheel with both hands, and I think I see the wheel actually grow into him, fuse with him.

  The sails above us un-furl, and fill with wind, snapping and rustling. There’s a cranking and clattering from the nose that I realize is the chain and grapple that stopped the ship being reeled back in. Slowly, smoothly, we begin to move forward.

  Above us, the cable network turns the sails, cants them. I think we’re turning north—I can’t be sure since I can’t see anything but gray sky. We seem to accelerate, though slowly. The swaying of the ship gets worse under foot.

  The motion starts to make me vaguely nauseated. I see a few of my companions share my experience. I back up to one of the masts and hang on. One by one, my fellows all break down and find their own supports, except for Bly and the Ghaddar, who seem to be quietly competing with each other in maintaining their balance.

  I hear something strike the hull. Sharp, hard. On our port side. Again. It becomes a hammering, uneven but strong. I see Jed turn to look, then ignore it—his face looks entranced, as if he’s elsewhere, plugged into his ship. The banging stops. All I hear is the wind whistling through the cables and masts overhead, rippling the sails.

  Half an hour passes (during which I’m actually grateful that I don’t have breakfast in my stomach). As far as I can tell, the wind is picking up (which isn’t normal in a world of not normal—the winds calm as the morning passes). It’s blowing across us from starboard to port (I assume the nomenclature common to other vehicles applies here), so I assume we’re heading north. The sail yards are all turned about forty-five degrees counter-clockwise. According to the Zodanga, the angling of the sails apparently allows that sideways force to be translated into forward momentum, as long as the ship has a substantial “keel” and “rudder”—I’m guessing similar principles apply in water. I see Bly watching the sails work, possibly appreciating the engineering. (Reminding him of better times?)