Murphy stands.
“The Threshold spike is a result of the presence of our guest,” he tries. “I propose he should be Cast to restore balance. Then perhaps he can demonstrate his diplomatic skills with them.” He locks eyes with me to let me know: his harshness is just an act. I give him back a slight nod. But Palmer stands back up:
“The visitor is too high a value, both as potential asset and threat. We must keep him inside.” This seems to get majority agreement.
“I’m not sure how you’re going to do that,” I impulsively interrupt.
“ORDER VIOLATION.”
“Your opinions are not relevant to this Agenda Item,” Murphy gives the official rule before Palmer can. “You may not speak to it.”
So I’m left standing watching this. They spend the next several minutes coldly comparing Kara’s performance scores against Dory’s recovery prognosis. One particular issue in question is whether or not Dory is lucid enough to choose voluntary termination—apparently this decision can’t wait until she is. (Is the colony that fragile?) I consider leaving by force, trying to deal with the Cast instead, but I expect Palmer and his cronies would drum up some other reason to Cast someone (he seems bound and determined to teach Murphy some kind of lesson).
Palmer even graciously offers to submit one of his own Protecteds for review if Kara agrees to “enter his service” as a replacement, because he “sees her potential”. At this point, I really want to solve their excess population problem in my own way. But Murphy warned me: an attack on any H-K is an attack on the whole colony.
Chan finally stands and asks if there are any who would voluntarily Cast themselves—this sounds like a standard part of their rituals. After several long seconds, I see Ara force herself to stand, her daughter still clinging to her. (I also note the father did not move, his eyes on the deck. Nor did anyone else stand for this vulnerable little girl. I can almost understand why the H-K have so much contempt for their own people.)
“Denied,” Palmer shoots down. “Ara Cole’s scores are much too high.”
To her further credit, Ara doesn’t sit.
I lock eyes with Murphy again, but he looks stuck, trapped, helpless.
“Are there no other volunteers?” Chan at least tries. When there are none willing to stand, he heavily concedes: “Then it is decided.”
“AGENDA ITEMS CONCLUDED,” Gardener calls a grim end to this. “CASTING WILL PROCEED PROMPTLY AT AIRLOCK ONE. ALL RESIDENTS ARE DISMISSED.”
The deep bell sounds again. The masses slowly rise and file out—just a few pause to look back at the condemned girl. Only Kara’s family and the H-K remain.
I watch Kara’s father try to touch his daughter, but Ara turns on him and shoves him away with a scream of rage and agony, grabbing Kara and holding her close.
The H-K all rise. Then three of them advance calmly and pry the sobbing child from her mother’s arms, restraining them both. The father only watches from the side. Then Palmer is standing close beside me.
“At least I can enjoy watching what they’ll do to her,” he says softly in my ear.
Too many delightfully wicked ideas suddenly occur to me. Given what I’ve seen I can do to any matter I come in contact with, I’m sure my mods would allow me to kill him with only a casual touch: Heart attack. Stroke. Organ failure. Quick or torturously slow. And it would look like a natural death.
I realize I could just as easily kill every H-K in one night—angel of death, tenth plague of Egypt—and set these people free of them. Lobotomize Gardener. Then, in my mercy, I would repair their failing systems.
I’m already reaching for him when I stop myself, remember my preferred weapon, whisper back:
“You know, all I have to do is nothing. Then I’ll get to enjoy watching you all die. I probably won’t even have to wait very long.”
He shrugs this off with a cocksure chuckle, then goes to watch what he’s wrought.
Chapter 6: Here There Be Monsters?
The ritual goes as follows:
For security (and maybe so they don’t have to watch), the rest on the civilians are locked down in their quarters, the majority of the H-K force stationed to ensure everyone complies.
Six H-K—including Palmer and Murphy—escort Kara and her family to the airlock I came in through. It’s a long, horrible walk through the echoing domes of the home that’s rejecting her to an almost certain death. I follow behind them, to no one’s protest (I think Palmer wants to watch me suffer more, and perhaps Murphy is hoping I’ll pull off some kind of miracle).
It doesn’t take me long to decide what I’m going to do.
I do get a minor surprise when we get to the airlock: Murphy’s wife Kim is there, holding a small pack that I recognize from their apartment, probably the girl’s worldly possessions. One of the H-K escort goes to a locker and pulls out a breather mask, water bottle, insulated sleeping bag and a heavy coat. I notice these all look well-used. Do they recover the items after those cast out are killed? Do the Cast themselves bring them back to demonstrate the fate of the evicted? I find myself looking for old blood stains.
Palmer’s whispering his venom into my ear as the girl is made to take the items.
“It’s just a gesture, really. She won’t get to use any of those things. Maybe the mask, so she’ll last longer. Otherwise, she’ll die naked, skinned and eaten to the bones. But that won’t happen for a day or two. The Cast like to make their fun last. They even make sure to do it in full view of our cameras, if you want to watch.”
(All I need to do is touch him. Liver failure: slow and painful. Or a series of strokes to take his mind from him piece by piece.)
I take hold of the girl instead, stand with her by the airlock, let them know
“I’m going with her. She has my protection.”
“You’d have to exterminate the Cast to keep her safe,” Palmer lets me know his plan is more than just idle sadism. He’s smarter than he looks. “You can’t keep a prize like that away from them as long as they’re breathing.”
“I think I can be convincing.”
“You haven’t been so far,” Palmer insults.
“I’m trying not to hurt you. I’m not sure why you keep asking me to.”
He draws his gun on me, points it at my face.
“Nothing stopping me from hurting you,” he dares me. “How long would it take you to grow a new head?”
It strikes me: I can summon my own weapons. Can I…?
The gun is metal. Steel.
I raise my hand, feel the power surge. Shove. And Palmer staggers back, his gun barrel shoved up under his own chin.
His fellows draw their weapons before I can make a snappy comeback. Palmer struggles to pull the barrel of his gun out of line with his brain. Murphy just looks stunned, unsure of what to do.
“How long can you keep that up?” one of the other H-Ks challenges me.
I jerk Palmer’s gun downwards, point it at the floor.
“Just making a point: You’re only still alive because I’m really trying to be good. We’ll be going now.”
“No!” Murphy suddenly speaks up, stepping forward. All eyes are on him now, especially Palmer’s, daring him to do something stupid. He exceeds even Palmer’s expectation. “I volunteer to be Cast. Kara stays inside.”
“No!” Kim protests in panic, which quickly turns to rage. “For a Low-Score civilian? Why?”
“I promised to protect her, advocate for her and her family,” he tries to explain. “I’ve failed to protect her from my own partner. And if he’s going outside, I have to go with him.”
“He’s infected you with something,” Palmer accuses.
“My duty is to protect the colony. If this man can ensure our future, defend us from threats we can’t even imagine, then I’m going to help him. We should all help him.” But his call to duty is ignored by his fellows. Murphy grabs a coat and a mask from a locker. His wife gets in his way.
“What about our family? Our son?”
But her pleas seem more selfish than heartbroken.
Murphy draws his gun, hands it to her.
“Our son will make a fine H-K. And I don’t plan on dying out there. Or being gone long.”
She takes the revolver with shaking hands. I almost expect her to shoot him with it.
“You may need a gun,” I suggest. Then I rip Palmer’s from his grip, fly it into my hand, pass it to Murphy. He looks at me like I’ve just done something unthinkable. Palmer looks about to explode. Mission accomplished.
Murphy takes hold of his wife, forces a kiss on her that looks like both are in agony, then lets her go. He takes the rest of the supplies from Kara, then pushes her toward her mother, whose face is bright red and drenched in tears.
“Get your scores up, child. I won’t do this for you a second time.”
“No!!!” Kim protests again, hysterical.
“I’m coming back,” Murphy insists. “Now cycle the lock.”
“No one comes back!” Palmer seethes, almost like an angry child.
Murphy steps next to me inside the airlock, and the inner hatch begins to close.
“I do,” he tells Palmer, then puts on his mask.
Murphy has his stolen gun ready as the pressure drops and the outer hatch opens into the green. I step out in front of him, onto a path I now see is paved with bone chips.
“They watch this hatch,” he whispers urgently, scanning the foliage. “It’s like a feed chute to them.”
I shift my vision to infra-red. We are indeed surrounded, but the hundred or more heat-shapes I can make out appear to be slowing down, then stopping, waiting. I expect metal to come flying out of the shrubbery. Nothing happens.
Then a smallish shape glides onto the pathway in front of us like a jungle cat, low to the ground. I recognize the mop of red hair instantly.
“Fera,” I greet her evenly.
She makes a keening sound as she grins, but it doesn’t sound exactly threatening. Murphy levels his gun past me at her, and I push it down smoothly, shake my head. Fera’s vocalizing builds up to an excited howl (it reminds me somewhat of an Arab warble cry), and suddenly she lunges, springing herself directly at me. I step into it to give me distance from Murphy, start to raise my guard to intercept her, but at the last instant she throws her arms open, blades going wide, and… wraps herself around me. Arms. Legs. She’s gripping me for dear life. I’m really not sure if her noise is happy or sobbing, but now her face is nuzzling my neck, she’s sniffing my hair, like an animal or an excited child or…
Her face comes back and she pulls aside her mask, takes my head in her hands. And she kisses me.
I manage in the midst of this bizarre assault to turn and look at Murphy, who just looks back dumbfounded. Then something gets his attention. His gun comes back up, pointed down the path.
It’s Two Gun. He looks at us with a wry grin on his face, like this deeply amuses him, arms across his chest. Mak steps up behind him, hands on her knives.
“Weapons down,” I insist calmly. Murphy slowly complies. Fera is still hanging on me like a long-lost lover. I very carefully return the embrace. “This is really unexpected.”
Two Gun bursts out laughing. Murphy looks beyond-confused.
Fera eventually lets me go, kneels at my feet, shyly offers me one of her knives.
“I wouldn’t…” Murphy tries to discourage me, but I accept the offering before he can finish. His sigh as I do so suggests I’ve just done something exceptionally stupid. A howl goes up all around us, echoing up into the broken rafters, building to hundreds of voices. Fera is embracing me again (just with her arms this time). Two Gun continues to look highly amused.
“Don’t crush him, sister,” he jokes. “Save some for the wedding bed.”
Oh. Shit.
I pull back from her a bit. She’s chewing on her lips, looking up into my eyes.
“You saved her life, Sider,” Two Gun explains. “Gave yours. At least so it appeared. Happy surprise. Still, you took the bullet. Her life is yours while you both live. And you seem to have earned more than that, Pretty-Pretty.”
I consider the knife gift in my hand.
“You fought her well. Earned her respect. Impressed. None have ever. You’ve accepted her blade.”
“Girl, you don’t owe me anything,” I risk offending.
“Free-given,” she tells me earnestly. “Always always.”
“She’s our best,” Two Gun keeps selling. “I doubt I could even tag her. Sixty one kills.”
“I don’t doubt it.”
“We have to get away from the hatch,” Murphy urges. “Palmer. You took his gun.”
Two Gun almost barks, this new detail amuses him so much. “You’ve had a busy day, Pretty-Pretty. Beat us. Bought a life-debt. Back from the dead. And with a prize gift.”
“This man is under my protection,” I warn them.
“A pet? My-my Pretty-Pretty! Busy-busy you are! And you’ve taken a Hunter’s gun? And not killed him? True cruel…”
“He’ll come as soon as he can petition another one,” Murphy explains quickly. “Usually, he wouldn’t be able to—no one would give him their gun after losing his own, he’s done—but he could convince Gardener to lend him Hammond-8’s while she’s down. And he still has friends, or at least family that might fight for him.”
Fera lets me go to face the hatch—apparently the promise of violence overrides her debt (and her ardor). She’s eager for someone to come through it.
“No,” I insist, stepping forward and fusing the hatch locks.
“They won’t come this way,” Murphy tells me I’ve wasted my time. “We have sally-ports all over, tunnels. Well-hidden. That’s how we sneak up on them, get in and out without being seen.”
That gets another chuckle out of Two Gun. We really seem to have made his day.
“You get out because we let you,” Fera is not so amused. She glares at Murphy like she’d eat his face if I’d approve. “We know all your holes. Just better to draw you into our world. More fun in the green.”
“If we don’t want you out, you die in your doorways,” Two Gun reinforces. He makes a series of hand gestures, and the heat shapes of his people move with purpose. Then he’s looking up somewhere above the hatch. I track his eyes, find security cameras. The H-K—and Gardener—are watching this.
“Come come,” he finally says, gesturing us down the path. “What shall they think?”
We don’t stay on the path. We quickly divert through the greenery. It’s like a jungle, but narrow passages have formed through the vines and leaves from use, invisible until one has stepped into the brush. We seem to make junctions at random—the place is a maze barely wide enough to move through. It all has nightmare ambush potential. (Fera was right: they would have the upper hand if they could draw their so-called hunters into their ground.)
We climb over a railing, up a cracked ramp, climb a ladder. We’re up a level or two in the terraces now. I can barely see a few meters through the green all around us. Up a flight of steps. Another garden terrace. I see metal and concrete barricades—battlements—pockmarked with bullet divots. Old blood stains. But no bones.
Two Gun is leading the way. Fera stays right in front of me, looking back regularly to make sure I’m keeping up, smiling when I am. Murphy keeps right behind me, and Mak right behind him, looking ready for any sign of what an H-K would normally do.
More ladders. We move quicker now that we’re up higher. I’m imagining cliff ruins I’ve seen, defensible because the only access is a narrow climb, except these are masked in overgrowth (probably to prevent snipers). I see heaters left out at random points on the terraces, sitting next to metallic cut-outs that are roughly body-shaped. I expect they do a good job of deceiving heat imaging.
We’re about five levels up when we get led down a tunnel, a dark corridor, and wind up in an old Ops hub. It’s been set up as a living space, and not as primitive as I expected: There are bedrolls, blankets, water cans, a heater, an o
ld cooktop, spare survival gear. The paint is worn and faded, but the place is neat, everything fit into the smallish space between the existing conduits and valves. The old piping provides an O2 feed once the hatches are shut. (And there are four exits, just in case.)
In a few moments, they can take off their masks. The air is thin but rich.
I see an old hardcopy photo on the bulkhead over one of the bedrolls: A straw-haired H-K and his family in better times—the dome behind him still has its transparent panels, intact.
“My Grand,” Two Gun tells me, seeing my interest. “I’m Keller Legacy. He was one of The First.” He gestures to his jacket, then his right-hand gun. “His. From my own father.” He takes two old aluminum cups and fills them from one of his tanks, hands one to me, and we share a simple necessity. The water is cold and tastes metallic.
“I appreciate the hospitality,” I give him sincerely.
Murphy, poking around, pulls aside a curtain made from an old survival blanket, revealing a creatively rigged bathroom—or at least a stacked shower/sink/toilet—in what may have once been a storage closet. (Whatever door or hatch there was seems to have been scavenged.)
“Your pet probably thinks we live in corpses and shit, drink blood,” Two Gun grumbles about Murphy. “None of his have been this far. Not and got away to tell.”
“They think you’re cannibals,” I admit. “That you rape, torture and eat the people they send outside.”
He pulls up an old tech chair, sits on it like a throne. Grins lazily.
“We have our fun,” he postures.
“We don’t eat the flesh,” Mak seems to need to explain. “It’s taboo. But we strip it all from the bones, process it into fertilizer like our other waste. It makes the plants grow lush, produce good fruits, healthy eating. No waste. Life to life.”
“And the bones? Trophies?”
“Warnings,” Two Gun corrects. “On the paths, the entrances. Lets Siders and Domers know the price of trying to hurt us.”
The God Mars Book Three: The Devil You Are Page 12
