“I wouldn’t think missiles would need the regular transmissions we’re picking up,” Rick considers.
“And if they were bombs, I’d expect more,” I offer.
“Unless they’re bigger and better bombs,” Matthew has to point out.
“I don’t think so, Colonel,” Anton agrees with Rick. “Regular signals are updates. I think someone’s trying to get a look at us.”
“Could be a set of probes backed up by cluster-nukes,” Matthew calculates the worst, chewing his lip. “Something to get a look, then be ready to burn us if they don’t like what they see.”
Our silence confirms we all share his fears.
“Still no luck cracking them?” Lisa finally asks, Linked in from Melas Three.
“MAI can’t make sense of the code,” Anton repeats his previous assessments. “Their tech is generations ahead of ours—and I mean human generations, making it a good few hundred machine generations, assuming the tech was evolving like it was before the Bang.”
“Are you still thinking maybe they haven’t answered because they can’t understand our signals?” Matthew tries.
“No, Colonel,” Rick tells him, shooting down Anton’s earlier speculations, “just because I can’t believe they’d be that stupid. If the Shinkyo’s nukes or the ETE digging up their hidden colony is what got Earth’s attention, you’d think Step One would be to keep an ear out for friendly signals.”
“You always keep an ear out for old signals if there’s even a remote possibility somebody might try to call in,” Lisa agrees after a deep breath. “Even Morse Code is still on the books.”
“Gets us back to why they haven’t answered,” Matthew grouses.
This should have been good news.
I’m thinking again about my doubts, my fears, my reluctance to call out in the first place given how Earth might react to the story we have to tell. But I realize: They sent whatever they sent before we started calling, probably because they picked up nuclear detonations on the surface, and then saw a supposedly obliterated colony suddenly re-appear. Our calling out may be the only thing that stays their bombing us again.
“Then we wait and keep hope,” I tell them. “Let’s hope those probes see something they like.”
31 January, 2116:
I doubt any of us slept last night.
Anton’s news moved through our ranks like a shockwave, carrying the same uneasy ambivalence it did for those of us that first heard it: Earth has sent something but won’t answer our calls. Is this rescue or execution? Or something in between?
The tension was sufficient to prompt Tru to dare Sakina’s passion at dealing with all potential “threats” to her “master”, showing up at my door at 05:00.
“Let’s do without the official filters,” she begins seriously, sitting herself at the foot of my bed. She smells of the greenhouse, like she’s just come from there despite the cold dark hour—the smells of a living planet, not a sterile facility. “Tell me what you’re expecting.”
Sakina has made a space for her by sitting back in the corner by the bathroom niche. Her posture is hard as steel, and she makes it a point to keep her black eyes steady on Tru. I’m still not sure—or not willing to be sure—that she’s so particularly hostile to Tru because of what Tru represents or because she is indeed territorially jealous. I don’t see Sakina react this way toward Lisa, despite our long difficult romantic history being the stuff of popular culture. Perhaps it’s because Lisa is both a warrior and a life-long cadre, and not my former “enemy” like Truganini Greenlove and her former Eco insurgents (now all peaceful and productive co-residents of our little concrete world). That would be the easier condition to deal with. I’d rather not think about the other possibility because of what it implies: Sakina doesn’t like Tru around me because of the way Tru blatantly flirts with me. In any case, I find being in such a closed space with the two of them so tense that I hold myself ready to physically intervene in an instant. That makes it particularly hard to focus on the subject at hand.
“I’m still hoping for the best,” I tell her as sincerely as I can.
“The ‘best’ despite the fact that Earth hasn’t directly responded to our calls in two months?” she counters with what I didn’t say. I take a deep breath.
“I can only hope that they still retain enough remorse and grief over what they think happened here fifty years ago that they won’t simply shoot first,” I offer. “If it were me, I’d want to be absolutely sure before I pulled that trigger again.”
“Assuming there is grief and remorse,” she counters—I’ve never seen her mood this dark, even with what we’ve been through together so far. “Maybe they’ve been celebrating it all these years: The relief that comes with believing that what they really did was dodge the bullet that could have killed their whole planet. Terror is funny that way.” I notice she refers to Earth as if it isn’t her planet anymore.
“And now the monster is stirring again?” I follow her fears.
“Nightmares have a long lifespan in the cultural consciousness.”
I realize: She’s just been in the greenhouse. Probably looking up through the layers of transparent panels at the star-filled sky, which is now threatening what she’s so lovingly grown here. Threatening her people, her family, her home.
“You’re the one that’s supposed to have the faith in human nature,” I try.
“Does that mean you’re the one preparing for the worst?” she turns it.
I feel suddenly flushed. Matthew’s right: age isn’t agreeing with me. I hadn’t even thought about contingencies. We managed to survive one nuclear “sterilization”, though we had better resources and countermeasures then. And if Earth tries harder this time…
But what options do I have? Try to shelter us again? (And what happens to the other survivors living in Marineris who don’t have the benefit of our bunkers?) Get help? (From who? The ETE? The last thing I want is a war between Earth and the ETE, however inevitable that might be.)
“Maybe you should talk to our friends in the colorful suits,” she prods me in the obvious direction, reading my hesitation. I manage to give her a nod of agreement, and realize the ETE have probably been monitoring the incoming objects at least as long as we have. They might even have better eyes on whatever’s coming, or be able to hack (or at least read) their transmissions. (But how will Earth respond if whatever they sent gets taken offline or hijacked as soon as it gets here?)
When I don’t have a response for her, Tru gets up off the bed to leave, and I see her dart a look at Sakina that I’m surprised doesn’t get her killed. Sakina, for her part, seems to be in a forgiving mood, given the circumstances, and doesn’t react.
“I hope they’re just being cautious,” Tru tries to believe, staring at the bulkhead. “I don’t want this to be another war. Or worse. It’s just that you’re not very lucky that way, are you?” She bends down and kisses me on the head, then lets herself out.
After she’s gone, Sakina starts her morning hygiene ritual, stripping off her armor and running herself under my shower with the spiritual intensity and focus of a tea ceremony. I’ve watched her do this most mornings, idly appreciating the artistic grace and discipline of everything she does, but I can’t stop thinking about the way she reacts to Tru, and what Tru once said to me about how blissfully ignorant I am (or pretend to be) about what the women in my life want from me.
Watching Sakina bathe, I realize she makes it a point never to look at me while she does so, though she certainly knows I’m looking at her. I also realize I’ve assumed she thinks of me like some kind of father figure, reinforced by that one night she curled against me for solace like a vulnerable little girl—the only time she’s touched me (outside of a sparring session) in the four months she’s shared my room since showing up out of the desert and electing herself my personal guard. But I flush again when I remember what her own father—who was also her grandfather—likely meant to her.
I’m about to
open my mouth to ask her what she does want, when I realize I’d rather remain ignorant for at least a little while longer. I am getting old.
I haven’t even managed to get to breakfast when I find out the ETE aren’t the only ones who know something is inbound from Earth.
“Two miles out, Colonel,” Kastl shows me the optical enhancement of what we can barely see through our pillbox viewports. “They haven’t moved since the sunrise lit ‘em up.”
“And of course they know we can see them,” Matthew adds as I try to make sense of it: On a smooth low hilltop there’s a semi-circle of fabric curtains, like large banners on frames, each square and taller than a man, each white with the Shinkyo crest printed in the center. In the middle of the circle sit a formation of Shinobi, all kneeling and perfectly still around one figure who sits on a slightly raised platform, wearing a black hooded robe and a red sash.
“What is that?” Kastl idly asks.
“A tent,” I tell him. “Or what the samurai called a tent—really just a kind of showy privacy screen to give their commanders the illusion of having walls around them in the field.”
“You really need to practice being less scary with the random shit you know,” Matthew grumbles in my ear.
“Would I be stupid to assume they’d know you’d know that, sir?” Kastl asks nervously.
“Sadly, Captain, you would not at all be stupid to make that assumption,” Matthew lets him know. “Just as I won’t be stupid to assume Colonel Ram isn’t about to do what I know he’s going to do.”
“If Lieutenant Smith is awake,” I tell Kastl, “let him know I need a ride.”
Sakina comes with me—I’m sure they expect that. Just as they expect I’ll be wearing the sword they gave me.
Smith sets us down a hundred yards short of their “tent,” then glides back to park the ship a half-klick off. He’s careful not to sit it in any direct line between the base batteries and our visitors, or on ground that isn’t clear and well-covered just in case this is a ruse to capture the ship (the Shinkyo would easily assume my choice of aircraft from prior encounters—the Lancer would be a tempting prize).
The Shinkyo don’t move as we approach. Sakina follows my example and bows deeply with me at the perimeter of their symbolic meeting space. I can hear the fabric of their banners whipping in the chill wind.
I could tell who was under the black hood before she pulled it back. She still wears dark goggles and a mask, though as they are a necessity out here I cannot tell if she still requires them all the time due to her exposure injuries. I also cannot read her expression—she’s like a doll, a mannequin.
“Hatsumi Sakura-san,” I greet her evenly.
“Thank you for coming, Colonel Ram. You honor us by wearing our gift.”
Her voice is calm and level, and almost mechanical through her mask.
“It is a fine sword,” I return politely. She gestures to a place on the platform in front of her to sit. There are two brocade mats, one slightly behind the other, for a lord and his bodyguard vassal. I take the front one, pulling my sword still-sheathed from my belt and setting it down in front of me as I kneel, a signal of ambivalence (to my left would mean enmity, to my right, friendship). Sakina settles down on the mat just behind my shoulder.
“We have been monitoring your transmissions,” Sakura begins, a rattle in her voice that lets me know she isn’t fully recovered from the exposure I’d inadvertently ordered, “but I am certain you have realized this. We have analyzed the incoming objects and have had some partial success with translating their code, enough to know that there is urgency about them, that whoever sent them demands updated data almost continuously.”
“I expect they’re nervous,” I return, “thanks to the actions of your people.”
She nods serenely, accepting my dig.
“And you are to be thanked for giving my father a good death,” she says as if she means it. “Because of that, and because you have shown us you are a warrior of exceptional honor and refinement, we have come here, knowing full well you have your batteries trained on us.”
I give her the nod back.
“And for what have you come?” I ask her, maintaining my politesse.
“My brother Oda has taken his rightful place as Daimyo,” she explains flatly. “Nothing else has changed. We do not come here to surrender.”
“I do not expect you to,” I respond, “nor will I ask it.”
“But you would have us under your leadership?”
“I would have you desist in your aggression against the ETE. I would have you stand with us, especially given the current situation.”
“And I would warn you to consider who you already stand with, Colonel. The ETE will be your undoing. I think you know this.”
“There’s what I fear and what I hope, great lady,” I counter vaguely. “I don’t lose sight of either. Nor do I forsake my allies on the advice of their enemies.”
“I do not expect you to,” she repeats my sentiment, “nor will I ask it. But will your old masters embrace the nano-infected who enforce their will on this world? Or will they prefer those that would act to break their hold?”
The Shinkyo always have at least two reasons for everything they do, and
“A good strategist will win even in losing,” I say out loud. “You knew that the ETE would have to militarize just to defend themselves against you, and how much more frightening that would make them appear to Earth.”
“You were one of us in a former life, Colonel. I am sure of that.”
“You honor me,” I play. “But that isn’t why you’ve come.”
The morning wind is picking up, snapping at the fabric of the “tent” panels, threatening to blow them down. But the flimsy break at least keeps the rising dust at bay.
“I come to let you know that you have options, Colonel,” she tells me with theatrical dryness, “and that we are not the only ones who’ve been monitoring your communications.” Then she gives me a formal bow and rises. “Time is short.”
Her Shinobi rise with her. We follow suit. They file through the panels of the “tent” and into the wind. Sakura is the last to go. She turns to face Sakina.
“I look forward to crossing blades with you again, Cousin. Another time.”
The instant Sakura passes through the panels, the intensifying dust storm brings them down. We must retreat quickly from the platform. We can see no sign of where the Shinkyo went, and they’ve disappeared from our scans in the rusty clouds. Smith flies in and has to guide us blind using our goggle Link heads-ups to get us back into the airlock.
“You think they planned for the dust blow to cover their exit?” Matthew asks me as I’m vacuuming off.
“Winds are easy enough to predict with a decent AI modeling system,” I counter. In fact, the winds shift with the consistency of tides as the sun travels the length of the Marineris valley. Even the synergistic variables that turn the usual steady currents into a significant dust blow can be reasonably anticipated even by eye, assuming you’d spent your life watching them.
“Nice timing, though…”
Sakina doesn’t say a word while we clean up, which is hardly unusual. But I’m left idly wondering how literal Sakura’s use of the word “cousin” was.
Chapter 2: Mortal Sins
1 February, 2116:
It finally comes the way things like this do, at exactly the moment you’re not expecting it. I will specifically remember this little detail every time the cliché question is put to me: “Where were you when it happened?”
I’d just dozed off in my rack.
I had slept not at all the night before, and had been lying awake until some moments before 01:05. I only realized I’d finally fallen asleep because the priority signal on my Link woke me, and because I was so slow and groggy in answering it. In fact, I distinctly remember being in that cognitive disorientation between dreaming and waking, because I was sure I knew what the message would be before I answered it.
“It’s Earth, Colonel!!” Anton manically greets me, the light from the screen burning my unadjusted eyes. “I have them! It’s Earth!”
I think I told him to make them hold. I did. I ordered him to put Earth on hold after fifty years. And the next coherent thought I had was that Matthew would never let me forget it.
I remember feeling shaky, even nauseous. The lights came up in my quarters automatically and it hurt. The room felt very small. I remember Sakina was already sitting up at disciplined attention, her black eyes looking into mine like she was afraid we were under attack, like she was waiting for orders. I staggered over her and got into the toilet niche. I saw enough of myself in the mirror to know I was pale and drawn and looking very, very old. I managed to get my LA jacket on but not clasped, and I got myself out the hatch and up the stairs to Command Ops.
I needn’t have rushed.
Anton had warned me about this months ago: Even at closest conjunction, it would take a radio signal at least four and a half minutes to get across fifty thousand miles of space. I knew the math already—it was rattled into me with so many more necessary facts of operating on Mars before I left Earth—but I got used to relaying messages and mission briefs through Ares Station or Phobos Dock, not ever having to talk directly to Earth and wait out the delay. (I suppose it says something that I had no one back home to keep in touch with.) And apparently—fifty years later—the scientists back home still have no shortcuts around the speed of light.
Nine minutes to send a signal and get a reply, plus whatever time it takes for them to receive and reply. I sit and wait forever until 01:22. I don’t even realize Tru has been holding my hand the whole time. Matthew is actually sweating.
“Melas Base, this is Planet Earth,” it begins with the kind of measured enthusiasm I would expect, given the span of time and the likely suspicion about the source of our signals. “We have received your confirmation signal.” The tone is equal parts elation and caution, hope and anxiety. The voice is that familiar slightly-Southern US accent very common with soldiers and space program specialists. I’m not sure if I find it reassuring or creepy—part of me wonders if this is some kind of tactical trick or cruel hoax perpetrated by one of our less-friendly on-planet fellows. I notice the voice doesn’t identify itself by name, or even by organization or command.
The God Mars Book Two: Lost Worlds Page 2
