The God Mars Book One: CROATOAN

by Michael Rizzo

1 October, 2115:

  The morning after Zauba’a’s “demonstration”, we discover that the fledgling “Guardians” have been recalled from training, with no explanation from Mark Stilson other than his coolly polite invitation to stay. Not wanting to injure our budding relations, we diplomatically accept.

  To keep us busy (or further influence what we’ll tell Earth) we’re offered a tour of the sciences section I passed through when I came to interrogate the Shinkyo prisoners. One of the “apprentice” technicians—a thin, pale twenty-something youth with awkward body language—gives us a graphic presentation on what the ETE hope to achieve in their efforts to continue terraforming Mars. It comes off as a bad sales presentation: simulations of Marineris turning green, of ETE Feed Lines spider-webbing across the surface of the planet, of energy fields eventually holding in a planet-wide atmosphere while nuclear furnaces maintain a temperate climate.

  I’m torn between an almost childlike sense of wonder and an overshadowing discomfort. It’s not that I doubt the ETE’s intent or ability in pursuing this dream, but Mark Stilson admitted it himself: Earth will doubt any intentions the ETE might profess because they conspired to maintain the isolation of Mars. Their reasons for doing so will be of no consequence. By the end of the presentation I’m sure of its intent: The ETE do want to win over the one who’ll be shaping their future relationship with Earth, because they know Earth will stop them by any means necessary unless someone Earth trusts can sell this dream of a thriving Mars.

  They want me to see. They want me to believe.

  My automatic reaction is to do the opposite, to resist this propaganda absolutely. But then I look at Zauba’a and I see the child’s wonder in her eyes as she sees the great dream of the ETE, the greening of the desert she grew up in.

  I cannot fault them for using me to further it.

  After dinner, I take Zauba’a back to the empty “training chamber.” Using only my empty hands, I mimic the movements I’ve seen the ETE use in handling their Rods and Spheres, and I ask Zauba’a to help me consider how they can develop a system of close-quarters defense to fend off a variety of threats while using (and keeping control over) their tools.

  By 02:00, we’ve come up with a number of tactics that seem teachable as well as effective, though Zauba’a criticizes that the ETE should at least consider reshaping their tools into actual weapons, even if only batons or staves. I assure her I’ll push the idea. She hands me a length of pipe and we go at it again. This time I surprise her (and myself) with what I’ve retained from my youth: I know she’s holding back, but I can hold my own, hold her off, even get in a few good hits. We both agree that if my baton also had the force-capabilities of a Rod, it could be devastating.

  I’m well-winded (and fairly well bruised) by four in the morning. Zauba’a has worked up a sweat and I can hear her breathing heavily under her faceplate, but her eyes are bright like a young girl’s—she could go all night. She smiles at me, and I have to remind myself: I’m old enough to be her father, if not her grandfather.

  We eat breakfast alone again, served by anonymous apprentice-aged technicians. But this time Council Blue joins us just as we’re finishing.

  “I’m sorry to have kept you shut out of things, Colonel,” he begins. “But we all have been deeply affected by what you have shown us—we owe you a great deal. Zauba’a as well.”

  I think this is the first time she’s been acknowledged by name, much less thanked. Her eyes catch on the compliment, but she doesn’t respond verbally.

  “And what have you done with your ‘Guardians?’” I ask when he stalls, fully anticipating that he’ll tell me they’ve scrapped the whole idea in favor of maintaining their isolation. His lips purse like he’s not sure how to continue (though I’m sure he’s been rehearsing what to say for hours).

  “We’ve… made some modifications, Colonel… based on your threat assessments. First, we engineered upgrades to our sealsuits—they should now offer greater resistance to nano-edged weapons.”

  “Excellent,” I allow him, then press: “But a new wardrobe doesn’t explain the absence of all of my ‘trainees.’”

  “You have to understand the sacrifice involved, Colonel…” He sounds like he’s hoping I’ll take bad news as good if he words it just right. “We have never even considered advancing our research in this direction. We had no intention… We abhor violence…”

  “Council,” I pause him, then with a blend of reassurance and assertion: “You can just tell me what you’ve done.”

  He sighs. It looks like this is more than a show—he’s deeply bothered about something he doesn’t trust telling me (and I immediately remember that I’m also being groomed as their intermediary with Earth).

  “They all volunteered, Colonel. Even my own sons. None of them hesitated.”

  Before I can start feeling real apprehension, he pulls what looks like a standard flashcard out of a pocket and sets it on the table. A holoscreen forms in the air above it, and shows us a pan of bodies suspended in tubes of clear acrylic and chrome. I see Paul and Simon among them. They are still, unconscious, but I can see their chests move with the slow rhythm of sleep-breathing.

  “We are modifying their nanites, Colonel,” the Council explains. “Strengthening their bones and connective tissues. Making them more resilient to injury. Upgrading the trauma-response of their self-repair systems.”

  I see Zauba’a shake her head as if disappointed, though I was expecting far more extreme news given the trouble he had telling it. I understand the Council’s discomfort: Not only do they feel they’ve broken a profound taboo, but they fully expect that using their technology to make their people more capable as combat weapons will garner even more distrust when Earth hears about it. And he knows it will be my duty to tell them.

  I take a few moments to digests the implications, watching the fifty Guardians sleep through having their bodies “hardened” quite literally down to the bone.

  “While we’re talking about modifications,” I take my opportunity to simultaneously reassure and lever, “we have some ideas.”