I almost tune her out at that point—the excuse sounds bogus. Someone should have kept listening; someone should at least have preserved a means to recognize and translate our signals. Even some die-hard crank, or fringe department buried in some nation’s intelligence community. The look on Matthew’s face tells me he’s thinking the same thing.
“The rest of the delay betrays how our fears persist. I cannot give you specifics, but you can imagine that any message coming from a planet assumed to have no human life for five decades, but unimaginably dangerous and possibly harboring evolving nanotechnology, was taken by many as some kind of cruel ruse, especially given the incredible tale of your long sleep, which I admit is still an issue for debate. Some went as far as to believe that the signals themselves might contain some kind of virus designed to take control of us from across space, and should be blocked absolutely. This was one of the reasons we had so radically changed our communications codes and completely discontinued using the old codes many years ago. It took time to argue that your story might have any truth to it, and longer still to debate that the potential rewards of reaching out to you would outweigh the risks of infection-by-communication. I am sorry to say that this debate remains unresolved and tenuous.”
At least that sounds more likely, and more honest. (And not just because Satrapi just addressed two of our more popular assumptions almost exactly.)
“I can only offer my own personal apologies for whatever they are worth. Expect that you still have many questions to answer, and so have we. Be assured I will speak with you again as soon as the vote is taken this afternoon, and that others will be in touch.
“Farewell for now. Message ends.”
Kastl and Shaloub are looking back at me like they’re expecting me to pass judgment on this latest news. Matthew comes up on my personal screen from his suite.
“Almost makes sense,” he gives me his take. “She’s still holding a lot back.”
“I feel like a child with cancer,” Tru puts it. “Nobody wants to tell me how bad it is.”
“I think Secretary Satrapi gave us something at least close to the truth,” I try hope, or at least a modicum of acceptance. “We may never get the whole story.”
“I’ll be happy just to get supplies flowing,” Lisa comes on from Melas Three Ops. “You ready to tell the troops?”
“Give me a wake-up chime and put me on PA,” I tell Kastl. He proceeds to wake up First Shift at both sites with a ready alarm. I rub my shaved head, find the words (and more important: the tone), and break the much-awaited news:
“All personnel, this is Colonel Ram. At just after zero one hundred hours this morning, we finally began receiving return transmissions from Earth. Since then we have sent and received two more transmissions, the last from the current Secretary General of the United Nations. I am releasing this transmission to all of you to listen to in your own time. The news isn’t all good—some of what happened that we didn’t know about is hard to listen to—but Earth is still there, and they will be sending material aid as soon as possible. I have sent out a personnel roster and requested news of your families, as well as a recap of the history we’ve missed. I will keep you all posted as we receive further communications. Ram out.”
I think I can hear cheering rumble through the bunkers below me.
“You want me to release the whole UN message?” Kastl asks, apprehensive. I consider having him edit the end of Satrapi’s speech, especially when she suggests that some on Earth may still think our communication attempts are some elaborate trap created by an evolved nano-intelligence, but
“I think our people have earned it.”
The rest of the day passes with brief transmissions that are few and hours between. Since there seems to be no further need of timeliness, I go for a light breakfast (all local-grown) down in the Officers’ Mess, and then a few hours of sleep in my rack.
Richards call us back by lunchtime to repeat his request for more information about the ETE. I have Rick compose something about the current environmental conditions and the specs on the atmosphere net, focused on “preparing” any relief for what they’ll be operating in. Tru sends a similar report detailing her horticultural research and a list of humanitarian requests for equipment that the locals could benefit from (new environmental gear is at the top). In turn, I ask to see their official reports on the “Martian Tragedy” and the subsequent Disc attacks in Earth orbit.
A few hours later, an Ivan Chandry identifies himself as being chairman of the “UN Committee Overseeing Research and Technology” (UNCORT?). He’s urgent with questions about ETE technology and resources, and wants to know specifics about how our Hiber-Sleep was so unbelievably extended. He also asks a lot of repetitive questions about our assurance that there is no sign of nano-contamination. He’s a hawk-faced man who brings to mind the Spanish Inquisition, Joseph McCarthy, and the Gitmo Extremist Trials. I have Halley send him the specs from our Hiber systems and add my politic explanation that we were discovered by ETE technicians who could not decide on how and when to revive us, but were able to adjust our systems to extend our sleep safely. I suggest he could get better information directly from the ETE, but warned him that they are very suspicious of Earth and haven’t been willing to speak to us much, at least about the issues he’s most concerned with. I expect I sound like I’m being intentionally abstruse. I conclude by idly asking him what it is that UNCORT does. I don’t get a timely answer.
Shortly before dinner, we get our promised call back from Secretary Satrapi.
“I bring hopeful news,” she begins with a subdued smile, maintaining her professional, matronly lines. “The General Assembly did pass by majority vote the re-institution of the United Nations Martian Affairs Council, so that our efforts to reach out to you will be coordinated globally. General Richards has been assigned as our military liaison. Security operations will be directed through the team he is assembling. Work on relief missions proceeds in earnest, though I am sorry I have no estimation as yet for when you should receive your first material shipments.
“I can also tell you that your news has created quite an upheaval back home. While there are massive celebrations in every nation, bigger than anything that has been seen in decades, I regret to say that not all has been positive: There is still great fear in the international community; fear of contamination as well as of the risks in returning to Mars. The Disc threat remains a primary concern despite your assurances, so the more intelligence you can provide from the surviving groups will hopefully help assuage those fears. I also apologize for Doctor Chandry’s tone in his communication; our military and scientific advisors channel the concerns of many of our members that certain questions regarding the extant technology on Mars remain unsatisfactorily answered. Do not take this as any criticism of your reports, Colonel Ram—we understand your limitations in mounting a full survey and inspection of the effected regions.”
I watch her face fall into almost-pained seriousness.
“However, I do very much regret to inform you that these concerns have supported the continuation of the Planetary Quarantine that had been put in place after the original disaster. What that means—for now—is that only material support will be sent, though I assure you it will be as generous as we can possibly manage. No personnel will be sent to the surface, and—far worse, I’m certain, from your perspective—no survivors will be evacuated to Earth. I dearly wish that this policy does not remain steadfast for long, but I can give you no assurances. I cannot begin to express my regret to you or your brave people.”
She pauses to collect herself, a performance very similar to her last communication. I can’t tell from the video if she’s honestly grieving or simply a good political player. I find I’m feeling too numb to believe in either possibility.
She goes through the motions of wishing us the best and assuring us of the usual, then signs off.
“And the other shoe drops,” Matthew grumbles, shaking his head.
; “Planetary Quarantine?” Tru can’t seem to believe what she’s heard. “No evacuation?”
“And no relief personnel,” Anton adds numbly over the Link.
“I don’t care about that,” Matthew snaps wearily. “I’d rather not have any of them down here bushing with us anyway.”
“But we’ve got people who would like to see home again,” I try, knowing the possibility of evacuation was not a priority heretofore voiced by any of my command team. And I strongly doubt any of the survivor factions are eager to visit “home.” But having that door locked against us suddenly weighs heavily.
“I think my people will handle,” Tru offers. “They won’t like it, even if they had no plans to shuttle out. But I think they’re good to stay on for the haul.”
I give her a tired nod of thanks.
Anton changes gears:
“Just odd: She keeps talking about all these big celebrations and all, but we get not one attached video file. We’ve asked—I know we’ve asked—but they’re not showing us anything of home. You’d think they’d let us see it at least…”
“Maybe things are just too different,” Tru considers. “Maybe they’re worrying we’d go into some kind of shock.”
“Or maybe their happy crap is just that,” Matthew cuts. I can see the look on Rick’s face on the Link feed from Candor: he agrees. Lisa doesn’t look too optimistic either. Maybe it’s just the burden of what we’ve been through in our time together.
“We’re used to not trusting,” I voice what I’m mulling.
“We’d be dead if we did,” Matthew reminds me—not just with his words, but with his hardening tone. I remember what happened to Amber, as far as I know the one actual love of his life. “You think the world has changed that much?”
I don’t have an answer for him.
An hour later we get an odd transmission: Not as strong as the others, spotty and jerky. Two heads crammed into a tight view on a blank background: one male, one female, middle aged and weathered-looking, a tannish blend of racial characteristics.
“This message is for Truganini Greenlove,” the woman begins with an urgent tone. “Colonel Ram, we have studied your file and trust you will not censor it, but please see that she receives it. We want her to know that her movement is still alive and well, but the news of your contact has divided us, and the rest of humanity, along bitter lines.”
“Ms. Greenlove: Many of us share your dream that your Mars can become a garden for future generations,” the male continues, “but more are afraid that what came before will come again, and that war will return with it.”
“There are many things they aren’t telling you,” the woman speaks faster. “You will not see the faces behind what they do. Mankind has not changed despite what they have been professing all these years. Beware of greed and the politics of fear. They are…”
The message dissolves in a storm of nonsense pixels.
“What the fuck…?” Matthew spits out at the blank screen. Tru looks pale.
“That’s it,” Anton confirms. “Jammed. No attachment.”
“You recognize any of those people?” Matthew asks Tru, who just sits with her mouth open. Then an old UNMAC graphic comes up on the screen.
“Apologies, Colonel,” an anonymous voice comes through. “This is Colonel Markus Burns of UNMAC Earthside Command. We should have warned you to expect the random crackpots. We’ve got fringe groups globally trying to punch in on your reception bands. I’m surprised the media nets haven’t hacked you into overload by now looking for exclusive interviews, and I know there’s an impressive queue of state leaders forming just to get a press-op face message to you. We’re working on dedicating your signal. Hang in there with us—we haven’t done this kind of thing in any of our lifetimes. Earthside out.”
As if fulfilling Colonel Burns’ prophecy, we detect hacking attempts twice in the next hour—shoddy attempts to access our files and Link system, both easily blocked. The virusware was sophisticated beyond what we’re used to; it was only the poor signal bandwidth that made the attacks so easy to deflect. And Anton can’t give us any assessment as to whether the viruses were civilian or military: the zealous intrusion of a hungry media service or something more sinister (including the possibility that UNCORT is trying to take whatever it thinks we’re hiding from them).
As for myself, I’m not sure if I appreciate Colonel Burns’ assurances of “signal security”. It sounds too much like someone wants to restrict access to us, to what we might have to tell them. Or what someone on Earth might tell us.
“My people are taking the news as well as can be expected,” Tru tells us over a quick meal she’s brought up to us so we can keep sitting in Ops awaiting the next message. “First celebration, then anxiety as they realize Earth is afraid of us, or at least afraid of here. A lot of them weren’t looking to return, but someone puts a barrier up, and we humans start thinking harder about what we can’t have…”
The meal she brought for us is all local grown, including a generous helping of fist-sized engineered strawberries grown from ETE seedlings. I wonder if she’s purposefully reminding us that Mars can feed us, and better than preserved ration packs from “home.”
“I expect a lot of us are thinking about it,” I agree.
“I can’t imagine what anyone who had family back home is thinking right now,” Lisa—who flew in from Melas Three to join us face-wise—mulls. “Even if you could go back, if you’d left children on Earth when you deployed, you’d be meeting your grown grandchildren. Your children would be older than you. A life partner… if they were still alive… I can’t imagine what that would feel like…” And I catch her looking at me the way she used to, but only for a second. Then I have to catch the berry juice that’s running down my chin.
“That’s why most of us brought family if we could,” Tru reminds her of a luxury very few of the military personnel were allowed, then cuts herself off when she realizes her misstep.
“We’re old UNACT,” I allow her, speaking for Matthew, Lisa and Rick as well. “None of our group had family. But the majority of our personnel… All volunteered. Most knew they’d be leaving home for many years—at least full tours at a time…”
“But not lifetimes,” Lisa redirects. I nod heavily. I wonder how much this “generational shock” does factor into Earth’s frustratingly minimal communications.
“Any of your people recognize the couple on that message?” I ask again, changing the subject. “Any family resemblances?”
She shakes her head.
“No names, Colonel,” Anton cuts in from Candor—he and Rick have stayed live with us by Link. “I was thinking about that: They didn’t want to give their names but put their faces on. I’ve been scanning it apart—we may have been looking at some kind of avatar, fake faces to avoid identification.”
“And arrest,” Tru concludes with an edge. “I’m thinking Colonel Burke is right about the persistence of human nature.” Matthew turns his eyes away like he isn’t paying attention, idly nibbling at the warm grainy bread.
“Incoming!” Anton announces, breaking the mood at least a bit.
It’s General Richards, his dress A’s crisp, centered for effect in front of the UN symbol.
“Been a long day for all of us, I expect,” he greets with surprising humanity. “As you’ve already heard, you’ll be seeing quite a lot of me. I’d default to rank and duty, but I’d rather establish a better working relationship with you all from the start, so expect to receive some of the data you have been requesting.
“As for the Quarantine issue, I won’t waste your time telling you I’m sorry or I don’t agree with it. I understand the need to proceed with caution. But unfortunately the burden is now upon all of you: The more intelligence you can provide us about what’s happening there, the more thoughtfully we can proceed towards proper relief and re-establishment of operations. As for what that means, it’s all still a matter of debate. The least I can do is give you an idea of
where things stand…”
We get a montage of what Anton was asking for: Video of public celebrations set in landmarks we still recognize: Manhattan, Paris, London, Washington, Moscow, Beijing, Tokyo, Sydney, Baghdad. The cities around the old architecture seem to have grown up and out, but nothing is shockingly different—a handful of new super-scrapers, a few new pieces of large-scale public art. Each site has some variation on the same monument: a group of weathered explorers in various colonial gear, usually done in some kind of red rock or metal, with scrolling banners announcing memorials to the “brave explorers of a lost frontier.”
At one point I see a close-up of a red polished stone wall engraved with thousands of names. Zooming out, it’s a low flat-topped pyramid that fills an acre of what I recognize as the old Kennedy Space Center, derelict launch gantries rusting in the distance. The entire base of it is piled with flowers. Thousands of people stand solemnly around it, looking at the names, leaving tokens, touching the names on the stone.
Back to the urban crowd scenes, huge holo-displays hovering above the cheering masses show old file-shots of myself, Matthew, Lisa, Anton, Tru, Rick, Kastl, Rios, Halley, Ryder—our faces hundreds of feet tall. I see clips of the videos we’ve sent, which makes for a shocking juxtaposition simply in the fact that the old file photos of us still resemble our faces now fifty years later; I assume the effect is not lost on the crowds.
But I’m looking behind what we’re being shown: The skies are blue and clear. The people still look like people; though, like many of those we’ve talked to, the racial characteristics have continued to blur. Most are dressed in plain, functional clothing, but it still shows the touches of individual and cultural styles, so I don’t imagine some totalitarian dystopia. What I don’t see is a lot of what look like faddy trends, corporate logos… Even in the big city scenes, I don’t see the once ever-present glaring product placements. That alone makes me think the scenes are fictionalized. Or something unbelievably extreme has happened to global culture.
The God Mars Book Two: Lost Worlds Page 4
