What I can see pretty clearly is the Barrow, rising up out of the water maybe five kilometers straight ahead of us to the west. It looks a lot narrower from this side, suggesting the flat-topped mound is roughly oval.
There’s a brisk wind coming across the Lake’s shore from the east. There are wisps of white clouds in the deep blue sky.
“So… Where do the clouds go?” Elias wonders, still clearly distrusting his surroundings. “I mean, I understand they’re formed on Earth by evaporation, moved by winds, shaped or dissipated by temperature shifts… But there’s been no rain condensation to deplete them since yesterday, and they seem to be moving beyond the claimed boundaries of this place… And if that boundary is impassable, where does the wind come from?”
“It’s blowing just like it does where we came from, which should take the thermodynamic shifts of the entire valley,” I agree with him. “The only difference is the air density and lack of dust.” And the latter detail makes some sense because this place is so green and wet, the pervasive dust of our world—if it is a separate world—is nowhere to be seen here. But the larger implication…
“So somehow the barrier around this world is permeable to both atmosphere and light—since we can apparently see what’s beyond…” Erickson puts together.
“And don’t forget a magic ship,” Elias snarks.
“Just not people,” Murphy sums. “But there has to at least be air beyond the barrier—air just as dense as here—or it wouldn’t stay like this.
“It would bleed out, equalize.” Elias seems smugly pleased that we’re falling in line with his incredulity. But Elias is right: this place makes less sense the more we think about it.
“Could the wind just be circulating within the boundary?” I try. “Maybe pushed by whatever’s forming the barrier?”
“It would show in the clouds,” Bly speaks up before Elias can call me an idiot. “There would be a circular pattern. These are drifting east to west.”
“You still think it’s an illusion?” Erickson asks his brother seriously, trying not to let our hosts overhear.
“It’s not an illusion,” Bly insists. “Not this space.” He crouches down, scoops up a fistful of wet sand and pebbles from the water’s edge, plays it through his fingers. Smells it. “This is real.”
Unless it’s that convincing across all senses, I think but don’t say.
“If Yod was as powerful as the immortals say, could he have made this place, or preserved it, somehow out of sync with our own space-time?” Erickson tries.
Elias doesn’t say anything, but I can see his mind spinning, considering something as he stares across the water.
Some of the locals come around the lakeshore carrying two small light open “boats” (the word for them, according to Erickson), not unlike the Charon’s transfer craft, only well-worn and probably not bio-nanotech. (I remember seeing one left abandoned on the sand where Jed dropped us off.) In fact, they seem to be a plain laminate, probably some kind of resin. Our hosts set them down at the edge of the water. Others have brought a dozen or so long poles with broad flat blunt blades on one end and divide them between the two craft. They also bring sacks of supplies—food and clean water.
“Thank you for your generous hospitality,” Terina surprises us by saying first.
“You’ve treated us like friends,” Murphy adds.
“For all you know, we could have been enemies,” Erickson dares say.
“If it makes any sense,” Jane gives back, “you look like enemies, but don’t feel like enemies. You seem to be good people.” She emphasizes that last word as if some of us might not be considered people.
Elias is still standing at the edge of the water, but now he’s looking down at the exposed wet sand. He makes a boot print in it, then watches as the water surges into it and over it a few times, steadily erasing it, leaving the surface smoothed. He does this several times, marking the sand and watching the mark erased.
“Are you okay?” I get his attention.
“Fine,” he lies, preoccupied and distant, like he’s seen something that’s deeply disturbed him. All I see is water and sand. He shakes his head, like he’s shaking whatever thought away. “It’s nothing.” But he sounds like he’s in shock.
We get in the boats, fumble with the odd poles until one of the locals shows us how to use them to propel and steer, calling them “oars”. Erickson and Elias take that duty in one boat, while Bly and I work the other. The Ghaddar, Murphy, Terina and Rashid are delegated to navigation (at least in terms of watching where we seem to be going and keeping us on course).
“We may not see you again,” Bly says a final goodbye to Jane as we use the oars to push the boats off the sand. “You have our word that we will do everything in our power to protect your colony.”
And I’m remembering my original plan, hoping we find a way to maroon the swords here to save our own world.
As we push across the water away from our hosts, I’m honestly not sure—given the choice—which world I’ll choose to save and which world I’ll be willing sacrifice.
Chapter 5: The Chessmen of Mars
Erickson Carter:
“How deep do you think the water is here?” Bly asks idly when we’re what looks like halfway between the Peninsula shore and the Barrow.
When no one has an answer for him, the Ghaddar finds a heavy bladed grapple on a long strong line and dangles it over the side, feeding the line out as it sinks. I watch the line slide through her gloved fingers for several seconds before I see the tension change.
“About ten meters,” she tells him as she begins reeling in the hook.
“I suppose that’s good enough,” he says absently. Then he offers the Ghaddar his oars. “Could you take these for a moment?”
He stands up, wobbling the small craft, but manages to stay upright. He digs in his tied-up bundle of armor, frees his helmet. He stares at the ugly monstrous faceplate, looking like he’s having some kind of silent dialogue with it. Then he grins, cocks back his arm, and throws the helmet far out into the water with a shout of mixed rage and joy. We watch the helmet make a big gusher of a splash, sinking instantly out of sight. Then Bly bends down, picks up the entire bundle of his remaining armor, lifts it over his head, and launches it with a similar scream.
Splash. And gone.
Bly stands there watching where it vanished, looking like he’s trying not to laugh or cry or both. Then he sits back down, takes the oars back from the Ghaddar with a quiet thank you like nothing happened, and resumes rowing.
We make it to the Barrow shore in just over an hour. With little experience or grace at propelling a small boat, we default to colliding with the shore where it’s exposed between clusters of the water-loving grass, digging into the sand under the water with our oars to push us up, then hop out to finish dragging our vessels onto the sloped shore.
We’re definitely fatigued by the rowing, aching in odd places from using our muscles in ways we’re not used to, but our implants seem to compensate in a few minutes; rebuild and replenish. That, in turn, drains resources, leaving us hungry rather than in pain, and somewhat dehydrated.
We four “Moddeds” stop by the water’s edge, kneel down and plunge our hands in, splash our faces. It’s a shocking cold. And then I can feel the chill spread as water gets absorbed directly through our skin. I figure that doing it this way leaves more of the drinking water we’re carrying for our Normal comrades, and the result leaves us feeling significantly refreshed (but still hungry).
I notice that my brother hesitates at the water’s edge. I see him draw something in the wet sand—a simple stick figure. Then he pushes the water up and over it, watches his drawing wash away as the water retreats. It looks like something a child would do—curious, spontaneous play—but he seems very intent about it. He stares at the partially erased figure, still down on his haunches, transfixed, like he’s discovered some great and disturbing secret. He puts his hands over his mouth and nose, breat
hes through his fingers. Then he looks up, across the water. I think I see panic in his eyes, horror. But I also think I can hear him start chuckling, very quietly, under his breath, but it’s definitely not a cheerful sort of chuckle. More like a man losing his mind.
He throws more water on his face, takes a deep breath, stands up and turns from the lake.
“We should go,” he mutters absently, sounding like he’s in a hurry to get away from something.
The flat-topped mound of the Barrow is surrounded by a steep but narrow shoreline of sand, overgrown in patches by the grass species and other plants that seem more greedy for water. Then all around the base of the mound is deeply overgrown with a wide variety of plant life, including—again—many species I don’t recognize from “our” Mars. It strikes me that all this growth could make finding access into the mountain—assuming there is any—extremely difficult—the band of green makes the forests of the Vajra look sparse. It would also explain why the random visitors from Haven may not have noticed any activity. Even the sand looks like it may get regularly resurfaced by wind and wind-driven (storm driven?) water surges.
To further conserve supplies, I hike up the sand and rocks to where the thick growth starts, and find some berries growing. But when I go to pick them, my touch starts to desiccate the plant. I have to willfully suppress my implants, suppress my hunger, to keep from doing it.
Unfortunately, my comrades saw me lose control, and the non-implanted are keeping back away from me like I’m dangerous. They also step smoothly away from Elias, Straker and Bly.
Fortunately, my example showed Straker and Elias that control is possible. Straker steps up to the berry bush, concentrates, reaches out, touches, doesn’t consume the plant through her fingertips, plucks a berry and eats it.
“You just need to be careful,” I reassure her. “Patient. Take your time.”
Bly doesn’t. He reaches out, grabs hold of the bush (despite the pervasive thorns). Holds on. Nothing happens. He releases, watches his now-bleeding hand heal, then picks a berry and eats it with flourish and a grin. He’s proved himself safe.
“We should split up, circle each way,” I suggest, nodding in either direction around the mountain.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Straker corrects me. “If there’s something waiting here to seduce one of these people…”
“It’s also waiting for the three of us to come make it stronger,” I counter. Then accept: “But I agree with you. We should probably be together when we find whatever it is we’re supposed to.”
The others seem to agree as well (except Elias, who is still lost somewhere far away).
“Clockwise?” I opt when we hesitate for a direction.
“If there’s any sign of Abbas and Ishmael, it will be on the north side of the island,” the Ghaddar agrees, pointing out across the water to remind us “We lost them just out there.”
This seems to perk Rashid up. And Terina as well—maybe she’s become attached to her traveling companions. She did seem deeply upset by their loss.
We secure the boats well up on the sand, collect our provisions and start hiking.
We take our time, scanning the base of the mount as best we can see through the growth, looking for any sign of opening or recent disturbance. More eyes on the task is a good thing, I tell myself, even if it makes the going slower than if we divided. But as I walk, I start to consider that going slow may be a good thing.
Our blades have been fairly calm throughout our time here; have, in fact, been quite complacent. With a few exceptions related to stress (and the odd and unsettling dreams), I’ve only experienced the subtle sense of pleasure and satisfaction—relief?—that seems to be coursing through me. The swords are content to be here, to be home, to be close to their fellows. I wonder how long they’d been separated, how long since the three had found their way to our world (and out of those containment cells I’ve been dreaming about). If it’s been sixty-nine years since the so-called Event… And what is that like to an AI that can process so much faster than we can?
(I’m actually frustrated that the blades have stopped talking to us—not a coherent word since Jed appeared—because I have so many questions. Assuming I could trust their answers.)
(If these things were built to provide companionship, they’re exceptionally poor company. Or maybe they just discarded that role over time, as they became more independent.)
Anyway: My thought if I dare to think it (or a test to see if the swords can hear what I’m thinking):
The swords seem content, at least for now. So we drag this out, delay it as long as we can. I doubt the swords will just let us wander this peaceful garden indefinitely, but buying time (assuming time is running parallel both here and in our worlds, and Jed doesn’t just dump us back at the moment we left when we’ve finished here) might allows my people to reinforce their network against the threat, maybe rally the Guardians if they need a physical defense against the blades (and us, attached). Or maybe the immortals will develop a defense, even a “cure”, waiting for us when we get back.
Or even better: If Earth’s tech really has no defense against the blades’ hacking, maybe they’ll withdraw, leave Mars. We’ll still be left to face Asmodeus and Fohat, but the immortals are on that challenge, and we could help them…
My sword stirs. I was thinking about brave battles, fighting. I push the thoughts out of my mind, concentrate on the world around me, the beauty, the rich life.
But that brings a fear: What if Earth is so afraid as they’re driven from Mars that they use nuclear weapons again? Would they do that? Even knowing how many people live here? (And would burning our world destroy this one as well, collapse whatever bubble preserves this place?)
My sword is awake. Quiet, but awake. But it doesn’t seem angry at me for my thought crime, my unformed betrayal. Instead, it’s stoking my rage, making me feel strong, focused, righteous. Earth needs to pay for what it did. Earth needs to never harm anyone on this planet ever again. We need to burn them out of our skies and chase them back to their world and hurt them like they’ve hurt us, show them what they really have to be afraid of, spread and take and…
I feel sick. Flushed. I keep walking. Breathing. Take my hand off my sword. (I don’t remember gripping the hilt.)
“Something’s wrong with Elias,” Straker whispers in my ear as she walks next to me. I look back: He’s lagging, distracted, not really searching. He just stares out across the lake as he meanders behind us, occasionally kicking at the exposed wet sand. “I think it started before we got in the boats.”
I nod to let her know I’m well aware. I’m just not sure how to approach it, or when. I don’t want to trigger another one of his “scenes” in front of everyone, some righteous and technically detailed scientifically supported meltdown that ultimately answers nothing. (Yes, Elias, everything we’ve been shown here is more than questionable. We’ve suffered that conversation already. But I doubt we’re going to get our answers while we’re still wandering around inside this potential unreality.)
The Ghaddar is holding us up. She’s found something, several meters ahead up the shore, looking at a failry wide patch of bare sand.
There are a lot of what look like fairly fresh prints, except they’ve been partially to mostly dissolved by a washing-over of water. She reads them as she advances, with Murphy helping as they cover a great deal of area, implying either a lot of walkers or a lot of activity or both. And…
“That’s a bot print,” Bly identifies in the softened shapes. Then points a trail that runs roughly from the water up part-way toward the green—they vanish in the dryer sand there, but the wetter sand closer to the water has preserved them despite the splashing, something I start to realize was probably an intentional effort to cover them. “Bot prints. Bugs. Two of them.”
“The ones that tried to board the Charon?” I assume.
“It looks like they ran into people,” Murphy assesses. (And would bots stop to cover the
ir tracks?) “There’s a lot of activity. Prints coming up the shore from the west to here, then a lot more, including the bots’, going toward the mountain, toward the brush. But… I don’t see anything left behind. No debris. No blood. It doesn’t look like a fight.”
The Ghaddar follows the apparent path of the action towards the green barrier.
“This has been brushed over,” she announces, indicating the dryer sand, “but the bots prints were too deep to cover.”
Murphy runs up to the wall of green, looks closely.
“There’s some breakage here. More tracks. Someone tried to be careful, but either too many came this way too fast, or something big and clumsy like a bot.”
I look at the tracks I can make out. They are badly distorted, but seem deeper than they should be, deeper than the ones we’re making. And I may be wrong, but in the less-thoroughly-erased ones I think I see signs of
“Cleat marks. Silvermen? Here?”
“Steel?” Terina protests, using her name for them.
“Here?” Murphy doesn’t easily accept, but checks the tracks himself.
I look at Elias. He’s still looking back across the water, but he’s got a smug grin on his face, like he’s got proof of something.
“How are they here?” Straker asks out loud.
“Because God isn’t perfect,” Elias answers her.
We proceed cautiously, weaving our way through the tall dense growth. There are winding openings through it that may be paths, and the Ghaddar—taking the lead—is able to find more tracks, including bot tracks.
After a short near-crawl, we have to climb. The base of the Barrow’s slope is rocky. We lose the tracks, but the bots leave distinctive scrapes on the stone, headed uphill. (Who was pursuing whom? There’s still no sign of a fight.)
The God Mars Book Four: Live Blades Page 36
