The God Mars Book One: CROATOAN

by Michael Rizzo

Chapter 2: The Peacemaker

  14 July, 2115:

  Our pilot finds he has little actual flying to do.

  First Lieutenant Wilson Smith is one of only two combat pilots with us when we went into Hiber-Sleep. He was injured in a gunfight with the Discs—a shrapnel wound in his calf muscle—and was still grounded when we sent every able pilot skyward before the bombs fell. Halley’s given him clearance to fly, and he appeared more than eager to get in the air again (especially at the stick of an aircraft twenty years more advanced than anything he’d seen), but I think he started to reconsider once we got airborne.

  Once the flight-plan is entered, the Lancer does much of its own flying, so Smith has little to do besides watch the reads and stare at the virtual screens as the Martian landscape whips by beneath us.

  Paul told us that it did not matter which ETE Station we approached, since his Elder Council could all make themselves present through VR at any site. (The individual members apparently rarely leave their own Stations.) The closest Station just happens to be his own home “Blue” Station. (Each Station’s population is identified by a different color sealsuit). So we started out on the same course northwest as Carver’s team, her loaded ASV barely keeping up, even with the Lancer using only a fraction of its thrust.

  It only took an hour to get to the ruins of Avalon, where we left Carver to set down and take a closer look. We circled the site a few times before moving on, but there was little to see but the remains of cracked concrete and rammed-earth foundations and shield walls. The ESA colony of Avalon had been cleanly stripped, right down to chiseling the native steel reinforcing out of the concrete. There is nothing at all left of the nanotech labs and fabs, but neither is there any sign of contamination or outbreak. All the stripping was done by blast wave, slide battering or (most encouraging) human tools.

  “Processed metals are a precious commodity among all of the survivor factions,” Paul explains. “They will dig the reinforcing bar out of the deepest cast foundations. Unfortunately, they use most of it to blacksmith armor and weapons.”

  “Sounds medieval,” Lisa comments.

  “Very much so,” Paul tells her. “Every colony had stockpiles of guns, and those weapons have withstood the test of time and the elements, but ammunition began getting scarce within a few years because of all the fighting and raiding.”

  “So we’re looking at—what?—swords and axes?” Tru asks.

  “And bows, crossbows, all manner of basic projectile weapons,” Paul explains. “But there are groups who still keep stockpiles of ammunition like treasure.”

  “And they might break it out for a special occasion,” Anton considers.

  Paul nods heavily.

  Fifteen minutes later, we make our own pass over Mariner on the way to Paul’s home Station on the western tip of the Melas Northeast Rim.

  The site of the first United Nations’ continuously maintained base, Mariner grew into a sprawling set of habitations, shuttle facilities, supply depots, and a groundbreaking biotech campus. Tragically, it had to be completely evacuated back in 2057, after the main structures were hopelessly fractured when a two-dozen-mile-wide section of the nearby rim collapsed because of careless water extraction. The slides rumbled down from the miles-high canyon walls, sending billions of tons of rock and sand flowing over twenty miles before striking the colony and the original Melas One site. Five hundred and twenty people were killed at both sites. Thousands were injured.

  While UNMAC attempted to fund the reconstruction of Melas One (which was relocated another two dozen miles from the Melas rim for added safety), the Mariner survivors worked with whatever they could get to rebuild their colony in its original historic location. But both the Eco War and the Discs got in the way, and neither site was properly reinforced when the bombs did worse than the slides.

  Tru had lobbied hard to come on this run, desperate for any sign of what might have happened to several hundred of her fellow Mariner colonists. I considered shutting her out based on the risk, but she’s seen her share of violence, and her presence might go further with the ETE than mine.

  I’m regretting my decision the instant we get a visual of the colony site. Where Mariner was once promisingly close to being reborn, there is now little more than a few traces of unrecognizable, shredded wreckage: twisted scrap and broken concrete. It looks very much like test videos I’ve seen of nuclear shockwaves burning, shattering and blowing away target structures like so much ash. Whatever hope that there might have been survivors—or descendents of survivors—fades in a few seconds of scans. Tru just watches the screens in silence.

  “The metal that’s left wasn’t salvaged because it’s still radioactive,” Paul explains softly.

  Everything exposed above the drifting dunes is dusted with an undisturbed frosting of fine red sand. It doesn’t look like there’s been any activity here since the bombs did their worst. Our radiation detectors confirm Paul’s assessment: the site is still too hot for safety. I let Carver know to skip it.

  We turn north and begin climbing.

  The North Rim of Melas Chasma begins as thirty-degree slide slopes that rise over twelve-thousand feet, before terminating in almost sheer cliffs that tower another several thousand before they terminate at the plateau of the Datum-level Ophir Planum.

  The ETE Station is “planted” on the top of the slopes just at the base of the great cliffs, where a “point” juts several miles into the valley where Candor Chasma once “flowed” into Melas (this may have been due to ancient water—the central chasmata may have once been seas—or due to geologic upheaval and collapse). Paul tells us the location was chosen so that the Station would sit at the ideal elevation below the cliff line, but not directly under a lot of rock wall that might tumble down on top of it. (The Station is also almost atop the origin slope for the very slide that came down on Mariner and Melas One. The Station was planted after that slide, the ETE engineers and geologists confident that the slope wouldn’t break loose any further. A comparison of pre-bombardment maps against the Lancer’s later versions proves them right: the Station managed to sit put even through a nuclear bombardment.)

  The Station itself is larger than I’d expected—I never got the chance to tour one before the bombardment—comprised mainly of a cluster of four massive and highly reinforced conical towers that rise several hundred feet out of the rock, making the Station look like a combination of an old nuclear plant and a medieval fortress. This illusion is enhanced by the heavily bunkered multi-story Operations Complex that fronts the tower-cluster’s huge foundation, which is in turn cut into the cliff rock. A refinery-like cluster of tanks sits adjacent to the big towers. Huge feed pipelines snake out of the processing plants and take root into the slopes. I consider how intimidating the Stations must appear to the low-tech surface survivors, looking up at them from literally miles below, and remember what Paul said about the ETE being called wizards and demons. A steady pillar of steam billows out of the top of the tower-cluster, flattening and spreading out like the massive anvil top of a storm cloud when it hits what must be the atmosphere net barely a few hundred feet above the towers. It forms what’s probably a permanent dark shroud over the Station, adding significantly to how foreboding it looks from down in the valley. Then I realize that the valley is ringed with these stations—six of them around the broad bowl of Melas, spaced about a hundred and twenty miles apart—which must make anyone who has lived down in the valley feel hemmed in by these simultaneously essential and terrifying fortresses.

  “Most of the habitation and research facilities of the Station are underground, deep in the cliff-face,” Paul narrates, “bored out after the Station was ‘planted.’”

  I remember other facts from my original briefings: The main masses of each Station—the tower-cluster of the nuclear processors and the tank-cluster of the chemical and resource refining plant—were manufactured in Earth orbit, moved by shuttle “tugs” and then carefully dropped (with huge “parach
ute” balloons) into a massive hole prepared in advance by engineering teams based at neighboring colony sites. The Station’s onboard mining drills then began cutting taps into the planet to draw raw materials, while the engineers built facilities for the teams of scientists and operators, often in the very caverns the Station drills started cutting out. The Stations’ own terraforming process produced the raw materials for the construction, and for the Feed Lines to spread the new oxygen and to send water and hydrogen fuel to the colonies, the Lines themselves mostly assembled by automated rover-bots.

  Paul takes the controls from Smith (who seems to have reluctantly come to accept his role as “figurehead” pilot) and aims the Lancer toward one of the four landing platforms that project from the base of the tower-cluster. He chooses one of the two which connect directly to the massive block of the Operations Complex.

  “We haven’t used these in almost fifty years,” Paul muses, as the Lancer’s jets blow dust and sand off the small-craft landing pad.

  “You don’t have aircraft?” I pry.

  “A few,” he easily keeps it vague, “but we have no reason to use them since we reduced our contacts with the survivor factions. As I said, my interest in exploration is not something that’s encouraged by our Elders. And using aircraft to travel would unwanted attention.”

  “Like we are?” I hit on the obvious concern.

  “I assumed you intend to draw attention.”

  “So how do you get around, when need or hobby requires?” I pry again.

  “I like walking,” he specifically avoids universalizing. “I find it soothing.”

  Touch-down ends our conversation. The ship’s engines spin down smoothly, and then our dust begins to settle. But after a few long, tense minutes, there is still no response from the Station. It could be very convincingly deserted.

  “No one to greet us?” Anton finally asks.

  “Masks,” Paul only reminds us, and we unbuckle and head for the forward lock, following his quiet lead.

  “No pressure suits?” Lisa wonders. The gauges tell us the atmospheric pressure is 0.18 of Earth Sea Level, which would be like stepping out of an aircraft flying up over fifty or sixty thousand feet. An oxygen mask would help, but the pressure would be at least debilitating, even for a short exposure, and potentially lethal if it goes longer.

  “I can maintain a localized pressure field,” Paul tells her. “It’s how we work outside the Stations and travel on the surface—our Spheres make ‘shelter.’” He unhooks one of the metallic balls from his belt. “Unless you’d prefer suiting up?”

  “No weapons?” Lisa confirms one last time.

  “They wouldn’t do any good anyway,” I admit, and seal the lock behind us, leaving Wilson with the ship.

  The lock pressure-balances quickly once Paul lets us know he’s prepared a ‘transfer field’ for us with his Sphere. It’s still a noticeable drop—my ears pop painfully—but it’s nowhere near as bad as it should be. The lower hatch unseals, becoming a lift platform to lower us down into the open air and onto the landing deck beneath the ship. I can see some kind of energy field ripple around us as wind blows grit into it.

  Despite Paul’s efforts, I quickly feel light-headed despite my mask. Paul notes our apparent discomfort: he squints, seems to refocus his concentration, and the field stabilizes. My ears pop again, but I start feeling better. I understand why the Stations are out of reach of the surface people, even as the atmosphere has thickened. Hiking up here in a heated pressure suit lugging enough bottled oxygen for the trip would make climbing Everest seem like an idle pastime.

  It is very cold, despite being late morning. The icy air is cutting through my LA’s, and the skin of my face feels like it’s freeze-burning where it’s exposed around the edges of my mask and goggles. My uniform gear tells me it’s thirty below, even inside the energy field. But within seconds, the air feels warmer. It’s now clear why Paul describes what his Spheres can do as making shelter, even if there are no visible barriers.

  I see a set of big bay doors just off the pad we’ve landed on: likely hangars for the aircraft the ETE may have, or receiving and cargo bays from pre-Apocalypse times. There is also a telescoping airlock tunnel at each pad to meet arriving ships, but they remain fully retracted. I hear nothing but the wind and the steady rushing sounds as the Station pumps out gasses and water. It could be running on automatic, abandoned.

  We follow Paul as he steps up to a heavy airlock hatch that looks like it was designed to let work crews in and out of the Ops Complex. It unseals at his approach (by someone waiting inside, automatically or by force of will I can’t tell), and he leads us in. It cycles behind us, takes a few moments to raise the pressure, and Paul puts his Sphere away. I immediately notice a sterile plastic smell, mixed with ozone. The inner hatch opens, and Paul brings us down a corridor that looks very much like we’re back inside our own base. We seem to be heading past Ops and under the towers. Then another hatch opens as we approach, and we step into a much larger space.

  I estimate we are in some kind of buffer layer between the external shield walls and the mass of the deep-cutting processors under the towers. I’m reminded of a power plant back home: big space, big machinery, lots of noise. I smell a mixture of stale and industrial, electricity and oil and metal. And it’s warm and humid—either the ETE like things tropical, or the tower processors are just radiating that much heat despite their shielding (and some of the freed water must be leaking into the air as steam).

  Still, we don’t see another living soul.

  Paul leads us to a lift-shaft, and we take a fast drop down what seems like a few hundred feet—down into the slopes of the Melas Northeast Rim. The lift stops smoothly and opens onto another, larger chamber, this one dark and echoing like an aircraft hangar. The noise of the processors is a dull drone that sounds far away. I realize uncomfortably how far we must be from our ship. I check my Link—the signal is almost non-existent. I doubt we could get an intelligible call out.

  “Really no one to meet us…” I hear Anton grouse nervously, opening his jacket.

  Light answers him—the white blaze of a spotlight-like beam burning in a column in the center of the chamber. By the time my eyes adjust, there are shimmering figures standing in the light. ETE sealsuits. I count nine, each a different color: red, green, yellow, orange, violet, indigo, turquoise, white, and gray. They just stand in the light, faceless in their identical chrome helmets. Then a tenth member—dressed in Paul’s blue—steps through the center of the light, his passing causing the images of the other nine to ripple.

  “Avatars,” Anton whispers what’s apparent. “Holograms.”

  “Very theatrical,” I say to them evenly, stepping forward toward the light. I can feel Paul tense behind me. The one solid and nine holographic figures do not respond. “Though I do appreciate your willingness to meet with me.”

  The light shifts, spreads. The figures fan out, sliding around us in a semi-circle like ghosts.

  “I am Colonel Michael Ram, Acting Commander of the UNMAC Installation Melas Two,” I try again. “This is Lieutenant Colonel Lisa Ava, my Base Operations Commander; Doctor Anton Staley, my Chief of Technical Sciences; and Truganini Greenlove, representative of our civilian population.”

  “We know who you are,” the blue suit says dully.

  “And you know why I’ve come,” I conclude, matching his lazy smugness.

  Ten expressionless masks leave us stewing in silence for several long moments. My team takes my lead in waiting them out.

  “Forgive us, Colonel,” White Suit finally says, though his tone is just as flat as Blue’s was. “It has been almost thirty years since we have seen… age…so close,” Then he nods toward Tru. “Or disability.”

  Tru shifts on her prosthesis, like she’s posturing for a fight.

  “We had forgotten their beauty,” Green quickly adds. “The fragility and impermanence of life is what makes it so precious.”

  I still
have no sense that this is any kind of compliment.

  (I’m also almost instantly struck by another implication of their statement: According to Paul, they’ve supposedly been keeping watch over the survivor tribes. They would certainly see age, injury, illness. So either they’re lying to politely cover their discomfort with our “natural” state, or they haven’t actually been doing any observing for—as White implied—thirty years.)

  “What else have you forgotten?” I redirect coolly.

  “Specify,” Red plays in, sounding like he’s talking to a child.

  “Have you forgotten your mission?” I ask them, calm accusation. I feel Paul shift uncomfortably as he stands just behind me.

  “Why do you say this?” Gray responds, defensiveness leaking through his calm superior façade.

  “Have you come to be insolent with us, Colonel Ram?” Blue quickly interrupts, taking the lead in his home Station, all irritated arrogance.

  “You know why we’ve come,” I repeat. “And you knew we would, as soon as we had the means to get here. So why the games? Ignoring us, pretending our presence on-planet is insignificant.”

  “Keeping us sleeping for fifty years,” Tru blurts out. I don’t move to censor her.

  “This audience is a courtesy,” White answers coolly. “We do not need to hear you out. We do not need to speak to you at all.”

  “No, you don’t,” I allow him. “But then you would be forgetting your mission.”

  “Why do you say this?” Gray repeats, his tone trying to maintain.

  “Because you know what’s going to happen,” I tell them coldly. “Earth will come back to Mars, regardless of whether or not we manage to call them. And they will come afraid. Afraid of contamination. Afraid of the Discs. And—I’m sure this is no shock—afraid of you.” I pause for a breath to let that sink in before I take it further, but they remain expressionless statues in the light. “Because of those fears, they’ll very probably try to destroy what you’ve worked so hard to create here. No matter your motives or ideals, you know they will immediately seek to control your technology; take it away from you, maybe even stop your work entirely. You also know they will certainly resort to violence if you resist. And despite your superior technology—your defensive ‘tools’—lives will be lost, precious resources destroyed.”

  “Then why should we have anything to do with you?” Blue asks directly, trying to keep his temper. “You represent those that will bring death and destruction to this planet. Again.”

  “I do not wish to bring death or destruction,” I tell him. “But I won’t be able to prevent it. Not without your help.”

  “You expect us to simply turn our technology over to you?” Red assumes incredulously.

  “No, I don’t,” I tell him directly. “I understand your reasons for not trusting others with your technology, especially those who would likely apply it to military purposes. But Earthside Command will certainly make this demand as soon as they learn what you have. In the interim, I expect you understand my duty to do my best to acquire resources and intelligence, even from an ally.”

  “You are unexpectedly candid for a soldier, Colonel,” Green praises cautiously.

  “How long have we avoided this conversation?” I counter.

  “Decades, if you are assuming we kept you in hibernation for that reason,” Blue is surprisingly candid himself.

  “Did you?” Tru confronts again.

  Blue actually seems to soften, steps closer.

  “If you do manage to get to know us better, you will find that we are scientists, not tacticians,” he tries to explain. “Please do not be offended if I simplify the issue by saying we did not adequately prioritize you. But we did not know how to best address the situation, and had many more pressing issues in the interim.”

  “You didn’t know what to do with us?” Lisa translates testily. “So you left us stuck in our couches until you could get around to making a decision?”

  “It was more a matter of timing,” Green tries to soothe. “Please understand: The potential for catastrophe—atrocity—if you spurred contact with Earth in those early years, was just too frightening to risk. Once we had the luxury of longevity, we hoped that we would see a time when Earth evolved to be more… approachable.”

  “We simply chose to give you a similar longevity to await that time as well,” White tries.

  “You chose?” Tru begins to lose composure. “How could you believe you had the right?”

  “The alternative was to let you awake and de-stabilize the delicate and evolving dynamics of the survivors, survivors who still wish to avoid Earth’s eyes at all cost,” Red is more direct. “And if you failed to contact Earth, or if Earth—at the height of their Quarantine fervor—refused to risk rescue, you would have found yourselves marooned here indefinitely. You would either have fallen into violent competition with the survivor tribes as they coveted your resources, or—as those resources began to fail—you would be absorbed into their numbers, assuming any of you survived. In any case, the risk was unacceptable. The sudden influx of your weapons alone… Many would have died.”

  “And that won’t happen now?” Lisa doubts.

  “It may well still happen, but we no longer have the option,” Green admits. “Your sleep could not be extended further without endangering your lives. At least now the survivor tribes have evolved into stability, and terraforming has improved their environmental resources, reducing their vulnerability as well as the need for violent competition.”

  “But there will still be unnecessary violence,” Paul speaks up. “The tribes will fear them. Or attempt to take what they have.”

  “Very likely,” Blue admits like this is unimportant.

  “You are part of the dynamic of this world now,” Red insists. “You will have to assimilate, find your balance.”

  “And Earth will return eventually, even if we fail to call out,” I go back to my point. “What will they do to your precious dynamic? They’ll bring guns, aircraft, missiles, orbital weapons. They’ll try to ‘save’ the survivors, contain and relocate them. Examine them. Study them. If the tribes resist, they’ll be ‘helped’ by force. So will you actively resist them? How do you expect that will go? And how do you think the survivors will fare if there’s a fight between you and Earth?”

  I give them a moment to process, to respond. They continue to stand still as statues. And because of their damn masks, I can’t tell if they think we’re stupid, insignificant or frightening.

  “I’m sure you’ve already spent decades thinking about all of these possibilities,” I prod. “So I ask: Have you forgotten your mission? To bring life to this dead world, to preserve it for all mankind?”

  “It is all we live for,” Paul says, stepping forward to stand at my side.

  Another blue suit suddenly steps into the light. The mask folds away to reveal Simon.

  “What is it you are doing, Paul?” Simon accuses.

  “Honoring our mission,” Paul tells him.

  “Defying our laws,” Simon returns.

  “I have not defied our laws.”

  “Silence, my sons,” the Blue Suit scolds sternly. And I wonder if he’s speaking figuratively (as what Paul called an “Elder”) or literally—Paul did say his father was on the Council. Either way, the brothers stop, but still look like they’re ready continue the argument.

  “I’ve seen a small part of what you can do,” I throw out. Simon suddenly looks sheepish, guilty, but the “Council” suits appear to ignore him. “Earth will fear what you have, but I know you have the power to stop violence without killing, and I trust in your convictions to avoid bloodshed. If you use your abilities and your knowledge to help us avoid unnecessary violence in our contacts with the survivor tribes…”

  “It is not our way to interfere,” Red interrupts me. “We provide. We let the humans make their own way.”

  “’Humans’?” I question his choice of words. “What else have you forgotten?”
/>
  “Naturals,” Blue corrects evenly. “That is what we call anyone not altered by technology such as ours. It is no inferiority. We have chosen to change ourselves to better perform our primary task, which you have correctly stated. And we have not forgotten how people respond to outside control. How would you respond if we attempted to exert control over you by force, however non-violent and well-intentioned?”

  I am struck numb by their blatant denial: They did exert control over us—however non-violent and well-intentioned—by deciding to keep us asleep for half-a-century, and it seems they do not consider this non-consensual act significant. My jaw grinds. Anton’s jaw is halfway to the floor. Tru feels like she’s about to explode. Even Lisa tenses up.

  “The obvious hypocrisy aside, that’s not what I’m suggesting,” I let my venom leak out through my diplomacy, but they don’t flinch at the blow—either they have no remorse or they really don’t see what they did to us as at all objectionable (back to what they’ve forgotten about being human). In any case, I try to keep things focused, moving forward. “What I’m proposing is that you help us keep things from escalating into violence, that you use your abilities to save lives, that you provide us intelligence so that we can best approach the tribes without stumbling into tragedy.”

  “And you want us to help you contact Earth,” Red doesn’t make it a question (still completely discounting the issue of “containing” us in Hiber-Sleep).

  “If clear communication can be established, we can give Earthside Command a proper picture of what’s happening here,” I offer. “Allay their fears. Introduce them to you and your work in a positive light, create a dialogue so you can try to explain your intentions. And hopefully we can keep them from blundering into tragic conflicts with the survivors.”

  They don’t respond, don’t say anything. The light shrinks, then reforms a tight circle of avatars around the blue Council member. They appear to be having some silent debate—heads move, but the rest of their bodies stay still.

  “You made an impressively diplomatic argument,” Paul tells me quietly.

  “But will it convince?” Tru asks him in whisper.

  “You still have me,” Paul offers.

  “Even if it means defying your Council?” I ask him. He looks down, won’t meet my eyes. Simon glares at him from the far side of the light. The Council continues its wordless arguments.

  My Link beeps at me suddenly, but all I get is choppy noise, fragments of an urgent voice I think is Sergeant Horst.

  “Ram here,” I try answering it, turning away from the light, hoping for better reception. No improvement.

  “I can patch you into our arrays,” Paul tells me. I don’t actually see him do anything, but suddenly I have a much clearer signal.

  “This is Ram.”

  “Sergeant Horst, sir!” the voice sounds urgent, out of breath. “Explorer One just came under attack! They came out of nowhere, sir—they were buried in the sand! Carver’s been hit! So has Spec-4 Linns and Private Summers. We returned fire, drove them back, then fell back to the ASV dragging our wounded. Colonel Burke is sending support…”

  I feel the shock pour through me like ice water, but only for an instant. Then my old programming takes over, my conditioned rage—I feel my blood burn. I am back in the Terror War. I am ready to kill my enemies.

  “Colonel Ram, this is Colonel Burke,” I hear Matthew chime in with equal urgency. “The other ASV is inbound on full burn with Rios and another two squads—ten minutes. We can track these fuckers from the air—they’re on foot…” I hear it in him, too: He wants so badly to hit back. It’s reflex. It’s what they made us.

  “Sergeant Horst, is your position secure?” I need to know.

  “For the moment, sir,” he reports. “But these bastards are stealthy. And their goddamn arrows can find gaps in our H-As.”

  “Maintain defensive posture,” I order. “Stabilize your wounded for evac.”

  “We running?” Matthew wants to know, his voice edged with the frustration that comes from helpless distance.

  “No,” I assure him. Then I stuff the rage back down, do my job. “Sergeant Horst: Hold if you can. I’m coming to you. But if they come back hard, bug out. No unnecessary kills.”

  I turn and approach the Council circle. They have been listening, but I make it clearer for them, let them (finally) hear my simmering anger:

  “It’s too late. It’s already started.”

  Then I turn and tell Paul: “Take me back to the Lancer.”

  I watch it happen, replaying the armor video feed on my heads-up, as Paul guides Smith—however unnecessarily—through the takeoff sequence again.

  “Lieutenant Carver’s group had moved on from the Avalon ruin,” Rios is talking me through it from his own inbound flight. He sounds tense, and it’s more than his eagerness to get there. I’d heard rumors that he and Carver had become intimate, though they managed to keep professional when eyes were on them. “Her team had found signs that someone had made a try at rebuilding there, but there were also signs of violence—damage from small ordnance. It looks like they bugged out or got overrun a long time ago. No recent signs of life. Nothing worth salvaging.”

  He hesitates, his voice getting edgier. I check his progress: he’s still five minutes out. We’ll get there about the same time he does.

  “They packed up and headed for Melas One. Touched down at one of the marked tap sites in the open desert on the way. Carver took her squad out to get a look at the tap in the Feed Line. She had plenty of guns and eyes. The site looked secure. No one saw anything but cold rock, not even on infrared.”

  The camera is bouncing as Carver skips over the rough, rocky terrain toward the big exposed pipes of the ETE Feed Line. There’s a makeshift valve setup welded into it.

  “Somebody’s been here recently,” I hear Carver say on the recording, looking down at a jumble of footprints in the dirt around the tap, which appears to have been packed down by repeated traffic. “Looks like a popular place.”

  Someone shouts and Carver’s camera spins. I hear the sound of metal hitting the laminate armor of the H-A suits, but it isn’t the sound of bullets. I can see the blurs of objects—projectiles—flying through the air. Then I hear the rattle of ICW fire.

  “Hold…!!” Carver starts to shout, then her camera jerks back and swings skyward. I see her heavy gloves claw at her neck. I hear her choking.

  Another view—from the ASV—shows Carver’s squad fan around the tap, weapons ready. But then the ground erupts in dozens of places all around them, shapeless masses shoving up from under the rock and sand, and the projectiles—arrows, javelins, jagged throwing axes—start flying. The sheer density of the storm of metal flying at them takes them off balance. They begin firing back, their AI-assisted targeting cutting down the nearest half-dozen or so attackers that try to charge them—I can see now that they are human, only wearing heavy cloaks painted with camouflage patterns and laden with what looks like assorted scrap. The ICW shells clang as they cut metal (Paul had mentioned homemade armor). One of the H-A suits—the ID code is Summers—staggers and falls—I can see the red-camo hardshell of his heavy-armor suit stuck with arrows like a pincushion. Carver shouts for a hold-fire but is hit between the neck-guard and helmet by what looks like a crossbow bolt and falls back.

  Lieutenant Acaveda—our only other combat-experienced pilot—spins up the ASV and lifts it over the fight, then uses the nose guns to cut a swath of chain-fire between Carver’s team and the swarm of dirty cloaks. It takes a second strafing before they start running.

  “Incoming!” Acaveda shouts as a rocket comes streaming at them out of the hills. The ASV’s auto-turrets spin and cut it down just before impact. Acaveda fires another spray after the fleeing cloaks, then sets the ASV down almost on top of Carver. Carver is face-up, her hands grabbing at the short shaft stuck into her. The occasional arrow ricochets off the rocks. Short bursts of ICW fire answers.

  The ruins of Mariner Col
ony flash past below us.

  “Weapons?” I ask Smith. He keys up the Lancer’s forward and rear gun turrets, extending them from the smooth hull.

  “You planning on using those?” Tru wants to know.

  “I’m hoping the display will be enough.”

  The second ASV is coming in for a landing next to the first by the time we arrive. Rios’ H-As start piling out before the landing gear even makes firm ground. A few run to help carry the wounded inside, while a circle of red suits forms a perimeter of guns around the landing site—Rios’ squads makes the circle bigger and meaner. There are perhaps a dozen cloaks scattered around the tap-site in the sand, lying unmoving where they fell in the initial exchange. It’s difficult to see blood against the red landscape.

  “Lancer to Explorer One, your priority is to evac the wounded,” I order as the Lancer slides into a hover over the tap-site. “Explorer Two: Rios, hold the LZ to cover the evacuation. Do not pursue the hostiles.”

  “Understood, sir,” he accepts, however reluctantly. I can almost feel his teeth grinding over the Link.

  The ambushers headed south as fast as they could run, likely counting on the terrain and their homemade camouflage to cover their escape. The floor of Melas Chasma is rich with shallow ravines and rises, natural cover ideal for ground warfare, setting ambushes, or to shoot a missile at an unsuspecting aircraft (tactics the Ecos made devastating use of before UNMAC sent the nimbler and more heavily armed ASVs). With thermal imaging scans, ground forces became easily visible in the cold of Mars, unless they insulated themselves and dug in deep. And digging in was exactly why Carver’s team didn’t read their assailants until it was too late.

  But as long as the enemy is on the move, they’re visible from the air.

  Smith brings the Lancer southward, climbing to two hundred feet to get a better vantage. Heat and motion imaging highlights two dozen or so running shapes barely a klick away—they move with surprising speed, bounding over the rocky ground, leap-frogging each other in a well-practiced, synchronized rhythm, to let one wave move while another turns and covers their retreat. And they’re careful not to cluster to avoid becoming tempting targets.

  “SAM!” Smith yells as the screens pick out the flare of a small incoming missile, its size and smoke trail reading like a shoulder-fired unit. The Lancer’s own auto-defenses lock the Gatling guns and shred the projectile before it gets halfway to us. Another follows after it, originating from a rise well ahead of the retreating cloaks—they apparently have support nearby.

  “Saved for a special occasion?” I ask Paul about the missiles. He looks frozen, paralyzed, well out of his depth. The Lancer’s guns knock out the second missile. Now bullets start pinging off the hull.

  “About what you said before…” Paul finally manages to say, pulling a Sphere from his belt and heading with purpose for the forward lock, his chrome mask folding itself into place. The hatch seals behind him, and I hear the lock’s lift take him up through the topside hatch.

  External cameras show him standing on top of the ship, holding his Sphere out in front of him, his head down as if concentrating hard. The pinging of the bullets stops. I can see flares in the air around us, the same effect I saw when Matthew tried to shoot Simon. Another rocket flies at us, only to turn to dust before the Lancer can shoot it down.

  “Does this thing have a PA?” I ask Smith. Anton swivels in his seat and keys one up for me.

  “THIS IS COLONEL RAM OF UNMAC,” I send my voice booming out of the ship as it circles over the mass of running bodies. “HOLD YOUR FIRE. YOU WILL NOT BE HARMED. I REPEAT: YOU WILL NOT BE HARMED. I WISH TO SPEAK WITH YOUR LEADERS. WE WILL HOLD THIS POSITION AND AWAIT YOUR REPLY. REPEAT: THIS IS COLONEL MIKE RAM OF UNMAC. HOLD YOUR FIRE. I WISH TO SPEAK WITH YOUR LEADERS.”

  The cloaks stop running one by one, begin to turn back and stare up at the ship as if I’ve said something especially shocking. I can see now that they wear a variety of masks, some looking like they’ve been patched together out of assorted colony and military gear. Their cloaks are in layers of different materials, probably a mix to protect them from the cold and the solar radiation, but also likely helping to mask them from our imaging systems until they started running. The outermost layer is a rust-red terrain camouflage pattern that could easily hide them from the naked eye. Under their cloaks they do look like they’re laden with scrap: metal plates arranged as primitive armor, multiple packs and canisters and tools and other gear. Their weapons look like they were manufactured from salvage: bows, crossbows, javelins, short swords, axes, and even guns that look like they were made from old plumbing parts.

  “You seem to have gotten their attention,” Anton assesses, sounding shaken

  “At least you didn’t say ‘Resistance is futile,’” Tru tries to joke.

  “Uh, Colonel,” Smith calls back. Out on the horizon, it looks like the hills themselves have come alive. A hundred or more cloaked and armored shapes have appeared on the ridgeline, maybe half a klick away. “You got somebody’s attention…”

  Locking in on the center of them, the image shows one figure standing tall, holding a pistol up over his head. He sets the weapon down at his feet, then holds his open palm high.

  “Now what?” Lisa wants to know.

  “Is this even remotely wise?” Matthew presses me over the Link as the Lancer does a lazy turn overhead and leaves me standing alone in the middle of the open plain. Rusty cloaks partially circle me at roughly two hundred meters away.

  “I’ll let you know,” I tell him.

  One solitary figure is walking towards me. His gait betrays some age—he moves more heavily than the cloaks that ran from us, all nimble and quick despite what must be forty or fifty pounds of gear (and that much under Martian gravity, likely doubling their body weight). Behind me, the Lancer touches down on a rise some five hundred yards back. Paul is still standing on top of the hull, but he’s put his Sphere back in its belt carrier.

  The figure stops when it’s thirty yards from me, repeats the gesture of raising and then setting down its pistol, holds its open hands out, then slowly opens its over-cloak. It’s wearing a kind of scale armor fashioned from what’s likely salvage metal, but it’s well polished and cut, laced together artfully like Samurai armor with some kind of synthetic cable. I can see that the plate is dented and cut in several places, scars of old battles. He turns to show me he has no visible weapons, only a set of pressure canisters and a few canteens. Under the armor is what looks like an old colony work suit in a sandy tan. His boots are wrapped in layers of fabric, like bandages. His cloak is comprised of several different layers of material that all appear selected for different functions, different protections. He wears a thick knitted scarf around his neck, and his headgear is a cowl and headband that looks almost Bedouin, except it’s heavier and has a sort of face-flap. There are metal plates in the headband. Underneath the cowl is a well-worn pair of goggles and a breather mask. Around the seams I can see he has long, graying hair and a full beard.

  I turn around smoothly and show him I have brought nothing but my LA uniform and my breathing gear. My holster is empty. He comes closer.

  “You invoke a powerful name, Unmaker,” he says almost cheerfully, his voice gravelly but deep and harmonic, his English only slightly stilted. “But you tell me a camp-tale.”

  I take a deep breath, then pull off my cap, goggles and mask, letting him see my face. Then I put them back on before I need to breathe again. He seems stunned, confused. Then he pulls off his own mask between breaths to show me his own face: he’s an older man, olive skinned, broad features, strong nose, deep eyes, thick brows. His skin looks like old leather. His eyes are dark gray.

  “My name is Abu Abbas,” he introduces himself. “Sharif and Imam of my humble tribe. I was born in the ruins of Baraka, raised by my father to live in the open desert. But I know the name of Mike Ram. I have seen his face in the old video records. Your face. Are you a ghost, then, Peacemaker? Or has your Jinn
made you a demon like he is?”

  “Neither,” I let him know. “We have slept, buried, under a slide. Our systems woke us when they could no longer keep us in hibernation. This man…” I point back to Paul, “…came to us and offered his help. He told us some of what had happened while we slept. He told us we would meet you. I’m sorry it had to be like this.”

  “As am I,” he says with what sounds like honest regret. “But I would warn you not to trust the Jinn, or what he has told you.”

  “The ETE provide you air, water, fuel,” I try.

  “They do God’s will because even demons fear God,” he tells me seriously. “But they are still demons, abominations fallen from God’s path.”

  “And I’m an Unmaker.”

  “You are Mike Ram,” he corrects me like I’ve forgotten something basic. “I know the tales: You defied the Unmakers before they rained nuclear fire on us all. You tried to make peace between all God’s peoples on this world, just as you tried to make peace on the warm, wet world of our ancestors. You stand for right even when your masters do not. And this is why I am standing here. That, and you did not shoot us down with your aircraft when you could, even though we attacked you—and that is more proof than your name or your face.”

  “Life is too precious on this planet,” I tell him. “’To murder one man is to murder all men.’”

  He smiles at the quote. “You know The Quran. I have heard this about Mike Ram as well: He fights in the Terror War on the side of the Crusader, but he respects Islam. He dares to stand for his enemy even against his own leaders when his leaders do evil. He is truly the Prodigal Son, lost for a time to the unbelievers and their sins, but he will certainly return to God.” He steps forward and clamps a hand on my shoulder like an old friend, long parted. “And now, here you are.”

  “I need your help,” I give him. “Even if we did not wake up, Earth—the Unmakers—will be returning soon. Paul—the ETE with us—has told me of the fear of Earth and of what they may do when they come, and I agree with him. We need to be united when they come, not fighting like animals, not afraid of each other.”

  “And then you will stand again to defend your enemies against your leaders,” Abbas is grinning under his mask. “I would not believe such a thing out of the mouth of any other man, but you appear to live up to your tales. Unfortunately, I can only discuss the terms of a treaty with my own small tribe. There are others.”

  “And what terms would you ask?”

  “We should discuss this in a more comfortable place, if you are willing to trust me enough to accept my hospitality.”

  “I trust your hospitality because I trust you are a man of faith,” I let him know I expect Muslim values to be the same on this planet as on Earth. He smiles warmly, gestures for me to walk with him.

  “Not remotely wise at all…” Matthew is grousing in my ear.

  It takes us half-an-hour to walk overland. Abbas asks me if I need to recharge my oxygen cylinders, and offers me spares. I order the Lancer to stay back. The first ASV made it back to base, offloaded our wounded, refueled and reloaded, and is returning to the tap-site. There’s no word yet on the condition of Carver and the other wounded troopers.

  “A more comfortable place” is a large camp of portable shelters—inflatable squat cylinders each as big as a four-man tent—all painted and covered up by camouflage netting to make them fade into the Martian terrain. I can only see the sentries when we pass within a few meters of them.

  Most of Abbas’ visible soldiers carry a wide variety of improvised weapons, including ingenious multi-shot crossbows and what look like gas-fired spear guns, but a few have light assault weapons likely left over from colony security. Abbas himself is proud to show me his own pistol when he retrieves it: a heavy stainless Smith and Wesson revolver he says was acquired by his father during a skirmish with the “wild people” who hold the Tranquility ruin. The pistol, in turn, was said to be a trophy taken by the locals from a group of “hunters” apparently brave enough to prey them. The gun, though more than half-a-century old, is still in almost-pristine condition.

  Abbas leads me to one of the larger shelter bubbles, his cloaked men keeping both silence and a respectful distance. Each shelter has a small antechamber airlock, all made of airtight fabric. There’s barely enough room for the two of us in the lock at a time. He seals the flaps behind us, re-pressurizes the lock manually with a portable compressor, then takes off his mask, gesturing for me to do the same. The air smells like plastic and sweat and rust, but it is breathable, and the pressure is comfortable.

  Inside the shelter’s main space are a number of bed rolls, and a small shelf cut from Martian stone that supports a prominently displayed Quran. There are a handful of rolled prayer rugs with it—the same number as the bedrolls, giving an idea of the size of Abbas’ family unit. An electric cooking stove that also serves as a space heater is in one corner, along with a small selection of cookware, cups, plates and utensils that look handmade. The shelter’s air processor is also busy recharging half-a-dozen spare O2 tanks, with maybe three times that many more stacked ready for use. There are a few five gallon water cans, and a portable “bag” shower and latrine that look like they date from the first astronauts. There are spare blankets and clothing, all neatly stored. Otherwise, personal possessions are few.

  His men have waited outside except for one, who comes in behind us and stands quietly by the entry flaps. There are two women already in the shelter, small and frail of build, wearing hooded cloaks with work-grays underneath. A scarf hides the lower half of their faces, but they have dark, long features. They sit quietly on the floor by the air processor, their eyes watching me like a caged predator’s.

  “Yes, Colonel,” Abbas explains, “we have returned to the old traditional practice of covering our women from non-family eyes to make them less tempting to raiders. But they defend the camps as well as any of us, and they carry their share of the weight. Would you like some tea?”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  The man who came in behind us has removed his cowl and goes to a kettle on the cook stove. I am admittedly surprised to see that he is pale and fair-haired, boyish—perhaps fifteen or sixteen.

  “My adopted son,” Abbas introduces, “who I call Ishmael who was spared by the mercy of God. His former name was Jonathan Drake, which he keeps in honor of his parents. They were driven out of Tranquility when he was a small boy. They came west and eventually settled with a group of Zodangan refugees. They were killed by the Air Pirates when he was twelve.”

  “’Air Pirates’?”

  “The descendants of the engineers from Zodanga. They turned their talents to building crafty flyers, some quite large and well armed. They use the sky as an advantage to raid vulnerable tribes. They moved up into the cliffs and built fortresses out of everyone else’s reach, leaving behind those that would not prey on other men to make do in the ruins of the old colony site. When those left behind prospered, their former brothers returned to prey on them, wiping them out. They now control the shadow of the Northeast Rim and most of the Candor Gap, but sometimes go further in search of Sky Drops or easy victims. The Air Pirates are our enemies, Colonel, so we could do nothing else but come to the aid of the Zodangan cast-offs when the pirates attacked them. Still, there was little we could do—the pirates are swift and merciless. I found my Ishmael fighting for his life, covered in his own blood and that of his parents, as well as the blood of quite a few pirates. I could not bring myself to leave him there—my own son had been killed by the pirates only the year before.”

  And I feel my stomach sink. When Paul mentioned the Zodanga survivors, he made them sound like an insignificant threat, a small band of raiders that his people had never seen and barely heard of. Are the ETE that oblivious? Or are they that unconcerned with the fate of “Naturals”?

  The youth brings us each a steaming cup, which smells earthy. His eyes are blue, but not as cold as I would have imagined, given the history Ab
bas has just told.

  “He has not become dead to life, like so many have,” Abbas affirms. “And he reminds me why we must live, because with every passing year, with every new generation, this once-dead planet offers us more. God is great.”

  Jon turns away, quietly embarrassed, to get his own tea.

  “The plant is from the east,” Abbas explains as I sip. Its mellow, grainy flavor reminds me of barley or brown-rice teas. “Spread from Tranquility. They say the desert becomes a jungle if you go far enough eastward.”

  “But you prefer the desert?” I ask him.

  “Easier to see your enemy coming, and less tempting for him to come looking for you,” he explains. “We know this valley, and keep it for our children, God willing. My men were keeping watch on the tap-well, defending it from our enemies, keeping it safe for the stray refugee.”

  “And men with airships and guns are easily taken for enemies?” I allow him.

  “It is more than that, Colonel,” he becomes deadly serious, “just as it was not the fear of Earthmen that made them fire on you. You see, there is only one tribe we know of that maintains their guns so well, and wear the same red uniforms and shell-armor that you do. But they never leave their Keeps.”

  “Other Unmakers?” I need to know.

  “Once, perhaps,” he considers. “But they have been like the rest of us since the Apocalypse.”

  “Where are these ‘Keeps’?”

  “They were the American manufacturing and construction colonies: Industry and Pioneer and Frontier. No one approaches these places now and lives. The Keepers are ruthless, killing even the children of those that stray into their guns. Even the Air Pirates know to stay away.”

  Just as Paul said. But he didn’t have a name for them. Nor did he know—or bother to mention—that they wore our uniforms and armor.

  “We had garrisons in those colonies,” I remember. “UNMAC Peacekeepers. I knew them, served with them. I can’t easily believe they would become so predatory.”

  “Those men you knew, they are long dead. These men—these monsters—would be their children’s children. Life is indeed precious in this place, Colonel, but God has been lean in His bounty, especially to those who stray from His path. When survival is in question every day, it can bring out the basest evil in man—I have seen abominations in my life, horrible things, offenses to God. I expect that your Jinn has not told you of such things.”

  My not answering is answer enough. I can’t ignore that Abbas has told me more about this planet in five minutes than Paul had in a month, whatever his motive may be. Abbas shakes his head.

  “He may not be intentionally misleading you,” Abbas allows. “The Jinni, they foolishly think they have become gods. They live up high in their air-plants. Your Jinn: he always wears his suit, even his gloves, doesn’t he? It is said that they think we are unclean, that they cannot bear to be touched by such animals as we mortals are.”

  “Paul defied his own people in helping us,” I defend.

  “This only supports what I say about them, friend Ram. But even this friend of yours, he is still a product of the world he grew up in, just as my heart will never leave this desert, even if my journeys take me to places only God can imagine.”

  I sip my tea, let the topic go idle as I try to read this man who is so generous with hospitality and intelligence. And I try to get to the root of his reasons:

  “You spoke of a treaty,” I offer. “What would you ask of us?”

  “I am not foolish enough to ask you for your weapons,” he says with an easy grin. “Nor would I ask you to fight our battles for us. But some of our equipment is aging—we keep it up as best we can. If you have gear to spare, or the means to help us repair what we have, that would be quite valuable to us. Masks. Canister valves. Filters. Goggles. Boots—boots are always a precious commodity. You see how we must wrap ours to make them last against the abrasive grit.”

  “Practical needs,” I accept.

  “I am only concerned for my people,” Abbas sounds sincere. “But what do we have that is worth trading?” He says this like he knows the answer.

  “Mutual non-aggression is a good start,” I tell him, and he nods readily, our tragic battle still the driver of this meeting. “To avoid any further incidents like today. Beyond that, we need intelligence—you know the territory, the other tribes. We were asleep while this world formed. And perhaps you could mediate introducing us to other tribes.”

  “I fear friends are another rare commodity in this world, Colonel Ram,” Abbas deflects. “But I do value your friendship.”

  And the soldier in me wonders if this is sincere or simply tactical.

  “And this tea…” I add to the bargaining table. “You say the plant comes from Tranquility?”

  “Another Keep I would suggest you avoid if you truly do not want bloodshed,” Abbas warns. (As did Paul—so far Paul’s information, however vague, at least backs up what Abbas is telling me.)

  “Are there other plants with food value?” I stay on subject.

  “There is Graingrass, Honeyflower, Sweetroot, Hardshell Fruit, Bitter Apple, Rustbean, Bloodberry, Lifetree…” he begins to list. “Some grow wild in small quantities near the Feed-Lines, some we maintain in our own small mobile gardens. The rest we obtain from Coprates, either by trade or by daring—Coprates is a far more dangerous place than Melas, friend Ram, and that is saying something. And the journey is hundreds of miles over difficult terrain, with tap-sites few and far apart. But we all need to eat. The ruins in Melas—at least those not defended by many guns—were picked clean long ago, and the Sky-Drops come less often as the years pass.”

  “Could you provide us with live specimens, or at least viable seeds?” I ask him. “My scientists have constructed a facility to grow gardens, crops. It could be expanded to grow in quantity, and we would share the harvest with your people.”

  “You will become a farmer, Colonel Ram?” Abbas laughs out loud.

  “There are worse things to be.”

  “Then you will come back to God yet!”

  We talk for an hour, mostly about the history of his tribe (he also tells me there are two other sizeable Nomad tribes that compete for territory in Melas). Then I excuse myself, telling him I must check in with my people, but that he need not fear approaching our base or our ships in future—his raised-pistol gesture will serve as a signal of peaceful intent. We make our deep apologies to each other again for the day’s bloodletting. Then Abbas refills my tanks (all valves are still universal), embraces me like a brother, and tells his “son” to show me my way out of his camp.

  “It was good to meet you,” I tell the boy when I’m back in sight of the Lancer. “Thank you again for the tea.”

  “Did you really sleep all those years?” he asks me innocently. I nod, looking at the Lancer, then back at the Nomad camp.

  “Days like this, I realize how long it’s really been.”

  I give him a polite little bow and walk away.

  “You okay?” I hear Lisa come over my Link.

  “Fine,” I tell her. “Better than. I think we may have made ourselves another friend.”

  “Colonel,” her voice sounds shaky. “It’s Lieutenant Carver… She didn’t make it.”