21 August, 2115:
“You think they know we’re out here, Colonel?” Rios asks me over the Link, his 2nd Platoon prone across the low ridge line in Heavy Armor, ICWs and sniper rifles aimed downrange at the apparently desolate ruin of The City of Industry, 500 meters away. The only thing moving is sand in the thin shifting winds, kicking up intermittently into swirling dust devils by a combination of thermals and the landscape.
“Very likely,” I tell him from where I’m sitting on the slope just down from the ridge, keeping watch over the H-A feed on my goggle HUD.
The City of Industry sits on the Melas Chasma floor near the eastern tip of the massive Candor-Melas Range, a hundred-mile-long chain of peaks—some of them three miles high—that partially divides Melas Chasma from Candor Chasma, stretching east from the Planum-level Northwest Melas Rim. More critically, it also sits in the shadow of the ancient mega-slide that pushed through the fifty mile wide gap between the Candor-Melas Range and the terraced Northeast Rim, when Candor catastrophically collapsed and flowed down into Melas, forming a slide-plain that’s eight-hundred square miles and thousands of feet high. An earlier slide-plain stretches further south into Melas, just to the east of the Industry site, placing the colony in a V-shaped lowland.
Below these two overlapping county-sized slides, Industry looks like it’s in an extremely high-risk location, but the corporate geologists insisted that the mega-slides had been stable for millions of years, since most of the surface water was lost to space, and the cooling of the planet’s core precluded any further seismic activity. Further overruling caution, the site appealed to researchers because of its proximity to the mountains, the slide-slopes and the deeper parts of Melas. (And giving the colony a cutting edge science facility that provided the backing corporations a public-friendly face to help offset some of the fears of what they were working on in their labs.)
The corporate geologists were proven right when the new colony was spared by the slides that wrecked Mariner and Melas One in ’57 (both of those colonies had been built atop the ancient slides, ground that proved lethally unstable when one of the Northeast Rim terraces broke loose). The edges of the ancient slides mostly stayed put, and the sections that didn’t did not reach the colony.
Now it looks like those geologists failed to take into account the effects of nuclear bombardment. Industry was spared a direct hit, but there are bomb craters in proximity: One in the valley floor to the southwest, close enough that Anton’s reconstructions predict structural damage to the main domes and fabs from the blast wave; and another just up on the slide plain to the north that sent the thousand-foot wall down and at them.
(Though the radiation bloom of the slide crater made Anton suspicious: It’s slightly hotter than the other blast craters, suggesting the nuke was set off some time after the main bombardment, and did not airburst as the Ares’ Shield warheads were designed to. Anton suspects the warhead was carefully planted and detonated to create a controlled slide that partially buried the colony to make it look more ravaged than it actually was. I’m reminded of the apparently fake crater that may be hiding Shinkyo Colony.)
In its heyday, the City of Industry was comprised of three large domes, four industrial fabs, and two shuttle facilities (one on the dome side to the south and one on the fab side to the north). Today, all three domes are broken open, ragged skeletons, partially buried. The fabs have been almost completely covered—only the one on the far west side of the complex is visible, broken open and gaping like a cavern. (Rick points out this fab was for bio-nanotech culturing—it may have been “staged” like it is to scare away the curious: the structure looks like it’s been eaten through, not crushed by blast or slide.)
I check in with the ASV crew, still standing uneventful watch where we set the craft down and hid it in a depression a klick back. We flew in low, using the lower slide-ridge to hide our approach. Unfortunately, this didn’t give us a good line-of-sight to the colony either, not until we approached on foot. And, I expect, our VTOL jets kicked up enough telltale dust to announce us anyway. But so far, the colony has done a convincing job of playing dead: no heat, no gas emissions, no noise even on our best parabolics.
I turn to our “guide”: Abbas’ adopted son Jonathan Drake, AKA Ishmael, who sits on his haunches on the loose slope next to me, looking half-boy and half-armadillo in his heavy scrap-metal scale armor and bulky rust-red cloaks. (He tells me his people wear all that mass not just for protection but also as a traditional mandate from their tribal forefathers to keep strong and stave off bone degeneration). He’s engrossed by the images on his own loaner Link-gear HUD, tech he’s easily admitted to coveting, thinking it would go far to aid him and his tribesmen on their raiding sorties, or to defend them from competitors. I’m tempted to let him keep the toys for his trouble. Abbas said he chose the boy as our guide because of his intelligence and curiosity for other peoples, but I suspect Abbas offered family to reinforce our budding relations. (It’s also quite a gesture of trust that we’ll keep his son safe going where many others have failed to return from.) Quiet and polite but inquisitive and eager to serve, Jon—Ishmael—makes a good emissary. I am reminded of the Zen adage of someone who comes with an “empty cup”, open-minded to the company and ways of the demonized “Unmakers”.
“What do you think, Mr. Drake?” I ask him.
“If they’ve optics like these, they’ve seen us,” he confirms with only the slightest edge in his voice—he sounds like a seasoned squad leader. “I’m sure they’ve sentries dug in up in the rocks, away from the visible Keep—same thing we would do. They won’t move until their main force has you where they want you.”
“Your people have exchanged fire with these men before?” I want him to clarify—Abbas had only admitted to anecdotal contacts.
“Not in my time,” he tells me. “But there’s reason we walk far around this place: we keep the old stories fresh. Now, Farouk’s tribe—he’s a hungrier Sharif—we heard his scouts got pinned in a crossfire when they tried creeping in from the east, over the Lower Slide and down the deep gorges that run from the cut where the big floes overlap. Farouk was probably sure he was invisible, and he picked a smart path, but they still knew he was coming. He didn’t go on the raid himself, of course, but he lost six good fighters out of twelve before they could get away. It would have been all of them if it wasn’t for his Zauba’a.”
“’Zowbah’?” I try to pronounce.
“Old Muslim legend. Means ‘whirlwind demon.’ Farouk’s personal bodyguard and killer. Very fast, very quiet, moves like she can fly.”
“She?”
He nods with a little grin. “They call her Zauba’a Ghaddar. A Ghaddar is a girl demon that ambushes men in the desert, bites off their… well…” He discreetly points to his groin.
“Is she a Jinn?”
“Maybe. No energy-magic, though. Not like the Eternals. But many believe she can’t be human, at least from the stories. Not many close looks at her in action—most don’t live to tell.”
“But the men who hold this place—you called them ‘Keepers’—they wear suits like ours?” I get back to the subject more at hand.
“Farouk wears the shell of one that his Zauba’a brought back for him. I saw it at a tribal meeting. Just like your big plastic suits, only no helmet because he likes people to see who he is.”
“Matthew?” I call into my Link.
“Listening,” he admits, sitting back in Command Ops. “I don’t know—we’re still not picking up any ID tags from UNMAC gear. From Junior’s description, you’d think the place would be lit with tags.”
“They’re easy enough to disable, especially if you don’t want to be found,” I consider. “Have MAI do another signal sweep. Go outside the normal Link bands this time. They may still be using interface gear to keep in touch, just not where we’d hear them.”
“I’ve got it, Colonel,” I hear Kastl come on a moment later. “Live channel, but no chatter. If they’re on, they
’re keeping quiet.”
“Patch me in,” I tell him.
“You’re going to do something stupid again, aren’t you?” Matthew complains.
“It’s either that or waste air sitting out here.”
I crawl up to the ridgeline, poke my head up over the top. Dunes have shifted up onto the broken domes, obscuring the original foundations and the ground-level airlocks. The domes themselves look like convincing victims of a nuclear-grade blast-wave. I expect the jagged ruins give them lots of excellent cover. There is no sign that anyone has been active on the surface.
“This is Colonel Ram of UNMAC Base Melas Two calling the City of Industry,” I call into the Link. “I repeat: this is Colonel Ram of UNMAC Melas Two calling the City of Industry.” I give them a few seconds to digest my greeting before I continue. “No doubt you have seen us out here, been watching us since we arrived. We only wish to make contact with you, and I would very much like to avoid bloodshed.”
Answering me, a high-vel round bursts off a rock three feet from me—I feel frag hit my armor. MAI’s graphic display tracks its trajectory back all the way to a hole in one of the domes. The shooter isn’t visible, not even to MAI’s enhancements. He knows how to hide from us.
“I’m going to assume that you intended to miss me,” I return. As if confirming this, another round hits the same rock. And then a third. Only MAI says they came from different locations in the ruin.
“You have remarkable resolve, Colonel Ram, even for a dead man,” a voice comes over the Link: strong, older, arrogantly authoritarian.
“Long story there,” I say back. “Love to share it with you. I’ll even bring the bourbon.”
“And if I decline your generous offer?” the voice comes back after a moment.
“I’d at least like to know who’s turning me down.”
More silence.
“Janeway, Samuel. Colonel. Second Generation PK.”
“Which means what, Colonel Janeway?” I pry.
“As far as you know, it means I’m just an eccentric hermit with a lot of guns.”
“I’ve heard otherwise, Colonel.”
“Been talking to the wildlife, Colonel Ghost?” his voice goes even more sarcastic. “Not advised. Just saying.”
“I’ve got a Captain Maxwell Janeway listed as CO of the Industry UNMAC Peacekeeper garrison,” Lisa chimes in discreetly on the main channel to tell me. I vaguely remember him as MAI flashes his dossier on my heads-up: Multigenerational military family, top of his class at the Academy and through Ranger School—the kind of eager, squared-away unquestioning patriot that Matthew and I always hated.
“Son? Grandson?” I wonder idly. He described himself as “second generation.”
“Apparently they got a little generous with the field promotions,” Matthew jabs.
I switch back to the locals’ channel, give Janeway a few seconds of dead air, then: “Colonel Janeway, I’m only here because this is closer than Pioneer or Frontier. Maybe I should try them next?”
“Strongly not advised,” the voice comes back sternly.
“We came all this way,” I tell him. “Hate to just turn around and go home.”
Answering me, another round hits the rocks, this one several inches closer.
“Thinking you should’ve brought Blueboy?” I hear Matthew back on the main channel, where Janeway can’t hear.
“Haven’t changed my mind yet,” I assure him—I’d specifically requested that Paul stay behind so that we wouldn’t be seen coming with an ETE vanguard.
“Planning on shooting your way in, then?” Matthew presses the obvious point.
“Ram to Janeway,” I call on the local channel. “Neutral ground. You pick it. I just want to talk.”
“I’m quite comfy where I am, Colonel Ghost,” he replies. “Born here, in fact. And I’m not feeling social. No offense, but I’ve heard stories about you lot, and the planet has the scars to prove ‘em. You call yourself UNMAC—based on last contact, that means you come to kill and burn, sterilize. As far as I know, you’re still under those orders. Look northwest of what’s left of our domes, you’ll see where the colony labs were. It all broke open in the big boom. I admit we made it look scary to keep off the idle curious—you’d figure that out on your own soon enough. But if there was actual danger cooking in there, I wouldn’t be talking to you. This site is clean. So send your report up your chain and move along. Don’t come back this way.”
I don’t feel like taking the time to try to convince him that UNMAC didn’t pull the trigger on the Shield.
“Listen, Colonel Janeway, my team just crawled out of fifty years of Hiber,” I try. “I have no orders, being that I have no way of calling for any. I’m as downed here as you are. I just came hoping to find a little support, or at least some intel. Apparently a lot happened while we were sleeping.”
“You are a piece of work, Colonel Ghost,” I hear him laugh. “And the only reason I haven’t holed you is that your voiceprint says you’re actually who you say, so you may actually be telling me straight. But that doesn’t mean I have any use for you and yours with or without orders, and I got precious little to be in a sharing mood. Best get back to your own hole and stay there—that’s all the intel you’ll get today.”
“Our uplinks are scrap—if they weren’t, I’m sure you’d have been listening in. So you know Earthside doesn’t know we’re here, not yet,” I lay it out for him in a way I hope he’ll be willing to hear. “Still, I expect they’ll stumble back here sooner or later, whether we get a call out or not, maybe in our lifetime. My team, I expect we’d like to go home. If you don’t want that kind of attention, I could omit certain things from my report, but I’m sure they’ll have their own look, having come all this way. Do what you want, but I think it would be better to be standing together when they show up so we can convince them you’re fine with staying put.”
“Quite comfy where I am,” he repeats. “And, trust me, you’d all do best not to come again. Last warning.”
I hear a sharp crack, and one of the H-A troops on the ridgeline next to me snaps his helmet back. I realize it’s Rios’ Platoon Sergeant. There’s a blast of frosty air from his faceplate, and he rolls back down the slope, hands flailing at his visor.
“Hendricks!” Rios shouts out, running over to his downed NCO as best he can in the loose gravel. I hear coughing on the Link. One of the other troopers is helping get the shattered helmet off while Rios digs out a backup mask. Once the big helmet is off I can see a pale face, bloodied but otherwise intact, gratefully gasping air out of the mask. “He’s okay,” Rios confirms. “Shell just broke his visor.”
I hear more shouting, more shooting. MAI automatically switches me to the squad left with the ASV. One of the troopers is down, clutching his left leg. I see another suit get hit in the arm.
“Where’s that fire coming from?” Rios demands.
“They’re everywhere, sir!” someone is shouting. MAI traces back at least five separate trajectories, though the shooters remain well hidden in the rocks. ICWs spray at the hills.
“Hold fire!” I order.
No more rounds are incoming.
“Time to turn around and go home, Colonel Ghost,” Janeway comes on. “I hope I’ve made that point clear, ‘cause you’re wasting my air.”
“Pull out!” I order. But before I go, I stand up over the top of the ridgeline, let them see me from the colony, let them know they’ll see me again.
The God Mars Book One: CROATOAN Page 19
