The God Mars Book One: CROATOAN (54 page)

“And how will this
not
be a trap?” Matthew
criticizes over my Link.

I idly kick at the bare, flattened spot where our
relay had been.

“One way or another,” I tell him icily, “I will be
sending these people a message.”

17 November, 2115:

Look east sunrise…

We keep the Lancer set down at the missing relay
site. Rick sent us out a replacement unit by late yesterday
afternoon, but we have yet to anchor it.

Matthew’s been making a show of sending ASVs back and
forth to the relay site outside the net, first to change out the
ships damaged in the attack, then to get me what I’ve asked
for.

He also passed word that both Anton and Bailey will
be okay, but that Hanson is still listed as “critical” after
surgery while Doc Ryder tries to use the rebuilders we have to
stimulate healing his lung. He’ll also be short a few loops of
small intestine in the deal.

Morales has ASV 1 patched and ready to fly again by
nightfall, while ASV 2 really only needed a new bay module. I told
her to leave the wings battered for the time being and send the
ships back in the rotation—I want our attackers to see that they’ve
done no real harm to our air power.

I sit with Smith, Rios and Sakina in the Lancer’s
cockpit and watch the screens as the distant sun breaks over the
Melas rim, sipping the “tea” Tru has been lovingly cultivating in
our rebuilt and expanded greenhouse. Breakfast was a tasty if dense
bread made from our first successful crop of “Graingrass”, and
meaty “Red Olives”. I’m beginning to feel like I live here,
enjoying the sunrise and real native food. I wonder if that’s a bad
thing, because I won’t be able to maintain my objectivity for what
I expect is coming.

You’ll see the Dutch coming…

“Visual,” Smith tells me even though I’ve already
seen it: the cigar-like hull of the sailed zeppelin that attacked
us (or one just like it), a silhouette rising just enough above the
cliff-line to be seen. I wonder how the ETE could be unaware of
something that big flying around—maybe they are just too
isolationist to have seen one, despite the proximity to their Blue
Station. However, radar shows only what may be no more than a dust
cloud—they must be using stealth materials, which suggests advanced
manufacturing resources, maybe kept running since the Apocalypse. I
have to estimate its range at a dozen miles.

If you see men on the sand, come meet in good
faith…

Long range optics get me the best view I can hope
for: I can see rappelling lines hanging down from the “Dutch,” and
a small group of figures taking up a position on a hilltop well out
into the Gap.

“Spin her up,” I tell Smith. “Time to chat.”

The hilltop chosen for our meeting is like a long bar
of a dune. Footing is poor at best on the loose but coarse sand. I
suspect our “hosts” wanted this on purpose to give their light
frames an advantage over our relative bulk.

The “Dutch” has quietly sailed off about a half-klick
to watch from a reassuring but still intimidating distance, its
sails furled and its fans running slow, probably just enough to
maintain position in the morning winds. I wonder what the ranges of
its guns are.

Sakina, Rios and I debark with our remaining three
prisoners and send the Lancer gliding gracefully away. It makes a
long, low circle around the floor of the pass, Smith showing off
the graceful way the ship can move, before setting down about a
half-klick behind us.

Our hosts are waiting: four figures standing on the
crest. Two wear the same brightly painted working suits worn by
those that attacked us beyond the net, only these wear masks and
cowls like the Nomads instead of helmets, and their masks are
adorned with strings of bone beads that very well might have once
been human fingers. The other two are dressed in a mix of scavenged
gear. The female of this pair sports select pieces of UNMAC H-A
plate: chest and thighs and shoulders, all marked up with Zodangan
graffiti. She has part of another thigh plate cut into a cover for
her mask, and wears the heavy goggles favored by construction
techs. Her long, dark matted hair is full of bone-beads. Her male
counterpart wears a UNMAC LA jacket over colony security blacks,
his hands in heavy surface gloves like gauntlets. His hair is even
longer than hers, a tangle of dirty blonde dreads. He wears a plain
mask and light goggles. All four wear swords that look like someone
took time and pride in making them, but I don’t see any
firearms.

We prod our bound captives toward their fellows.
Their reunion looks tense but wordless, and then the prisoners are
sent jogging in the general direction of their ship—I note how
their comrades don’t bother to untie their hands.

In good faith, I draw my pistol and perform the Nomad
truce ritual, placing it down on a rock between our groups. Rios
does the same with this ICW. Then I remove my mask long enough for
them to see my face. They don’t show the same recognition that the
Nomads did.

“Ya don’ impress like yeh think, ‘Maker,” the blonde
throws back at me with much more pride in his tone than the one we
set free to summon him. “Not plus wi’ threat o’ nukes.”

“Zodanga is the sky,” I give him a calmer reading of
his comrade’s mantra. I see his face twist up just short of
laughter under his mask.

“Ya say like yeh know, ‘Maker. Ya
will
know,
if ya try us. An’ yeh bombs only burn sand-bugs, while we fly
free.” He makes a nod in Sakina’s direction when he says “sand
bugs.”

“The bombs you saw were not ours,” I tell him. “You
know of the Shinkyo?”

“Darty li’l slants,” he confirms that racism is not a
dead tradition. “Play scary but run n’ hide from a hot fight,” he
insults haughtily.

“The bombs were theirs. They used them to attack the
ETE—the Eternals, the Jinn, whatever you know them as—to try to
steal their technology.”

The blonde begins to laugh heartily and is soon
joined by his fellows. I’m beginning to think they’ve been raised
watching old pirate movies.

“I speak the truth,” I assure him. “We have video
records if you doubt me.”

“I
do
believe,” the blonde gives me back as he
catches his breath. “I know ‘em good enough: Da slants’d slice off
deh own heads just ta bleed in yeh eye.”

“Those bombs weren’t sent from Earth, from UNMAC,” I
reiterate. “But Earth will very likely send more—a lot more—if you
interfere with us.”

“Ya’d not be standin’ ‘ere if Apoc’lypse was comin’
again,” he challenges.

“You’ve mistaken us,” I correct him. “We did not just
come from Earth. We’ve been asleep under the sand since the
Apocalypse. Earth doesn’t know we’re here, they think we all died
in the bombing. But thanks to the Shinkyo lighting up the surface,
they’ve likely seen things that will frighten them. And if they’re
frightened enough to send bombs, they’ll be sure to send more this
time than they did in the Apocalypse. Many times more. Unless we
can contact them first.”

“An’ tell ‘em best where ta aim?” he criticizes.

“Earth believed everyone here was dead, that a plague
had taken the planet. We have to tell them they were wrong. You’re
interfering with that.”

He chuckles, puts his fists on his thin hips
theatrically.

“Ya tell a tale, ‘Maker.”

“If you like tales, then you will have heard some old
ones about an Unmaker called Mike Ram. That would be me.”

He hesitates for a moment, his eyes deciding what he
should believe and what it means to him.

“I heard yeh name, in meh schoolin’ stretch,” he
admits cautiously. “Ya be spry for an eldest—more so ta be from deh
pre-burn-time, Cap’n Colonel.”

“And what do I call you?”

“Cap’n Thompson Gun Bly. The Dutchmun be mine…” He
gestures at the floating fortress behind him. “Flagship o’ Zodanga,
twenty-two big bore guns ta scour deh bugs from deh sand…” He
clasps the hand of the female. “Dis is her Gunner Chief, meh
lovemate Nina Harper, but she’s called
Brimstone
for the
sandies.”

“Your guns were impressive, Chief Harper,” I try to
flatter. “Your own manufacture?”

“Zodanga makes,” Bly brags. “All engineers, our
eldest. Crafty. Gave us deh sky,
made
us deh sky. Set us
upon deh sand bugs. Now upon
you
.”

“What do you use for powder?” I ignore his idle
threat, turning to his gunner.

“No powder,” she eagerly tells me. “Hydrox gas, or
solid rocket fuel we make.”

“Very impressive,” I give him. But he only
laughs.

“More than… Means we need nuthin’ we can’t take.”

“Food? Gear? Medical supplies?” I offer. “The supply
drops are getting rare—how much is left to take? And stealing from
us didn’t go so well for you.”

“An’ what? Ya willin’ ta
give
if yeh get what
yeh want, is dat yeh deal?” He says “give” like I’ve offered
something offensive. “Trade fer a cease-fire?”

“We won’t need to trade if I can get Earth to send
relief—it’ll come to you freely. But first, you need to let us
complete our uplink without further interference.”

“We
need
nuthin’,” he repeats defiantly. “An’
first
be followed by
second
, mos’ times.”

“Second would be your help, if you’re willing to give
it. Zodanga is the sky. We haven’t seen much of this world yet, but
you seem to have the run of it. We need to be able to tell Earth
how many people live here, what they need, and maybe even what they
don’t. You could help us seek them out.”

He laughs again.

“What
we
seek is teh feed us an’ our kidlins,
Cap’n Colonel, not teh be helpin’ out our enemies.”

“An alliance could benefit us both, Captain. And we
can compensate you,” I offer. “Food, gear, tools…”

“Guns an’ bullets?” he counters, knowing I’ll
hesitate.

“That depends on the situation,” I allow. “And the
strength of our alliance.”

“Yah think I’m dull like a sand bug, Colonel Cap’n?”
he sneers. “Bad error.”

“I’d prefer to avoid killing the people I’m trying to
help.”

“Secon’ bad error, Cap’n Colonel.” He looks to his
fellows. They lock eyes with him but otherwise show nothing. Then
he faces me again. “So yeh’d like teh see over mah Dutchmun?”

“I would like that very much, Captain Bly.”

“Makes no matter what yeh’d like,” he says with a
grin under his mask. “I really wa’n’t askin’.”

The soil erupts in a semi-circle around us, sprouting
four more men in full pressure suits, carrying old colony PDWs
wrapped to keep the sand out. Bly and his companions draw their
swords.

“Bes’ if Colonel Cap’n come as our
guest
,” Bly
declares, pointing his blade at me. “
Then
we see what yeh
give
.” He puts his foot on my pistol.

I slowly draw my sword as if to offer it to him,
making the gesture broad enough not to be mistaken even from five
hundred meters away. Then, instead of giving him my sword, I turn
it on him.

There are four sudden pops almost simultaneously as
his gunmen’s visors explode. (Smith’s lazy circle with the Lancer
dropped two teams of our best snipers—hidden from our prisoners’
view in the rear section—to nest and wait.)

Rios draws his own sword, but the pirate facing him
suddenly jerks and collapses, one of Sakina’s torpedoes through his
skull. She’s already done the same to the other pirate. Rios looks
like he’s about to pout. Now only Bly and Harper are left
standing.

Bly settles into a guard position, grinning defiantly
under his mask, his free hand gesturing me to deal with him
personally. I have no intention of playing his game of honor, but I
am irritated enough to express myself in my own way. While he
poses, I chop down hard and fast on his extended blade, cutting the
weapon mostly through and ripping it from his gloved hand. He
freezes with rage burning in his eyes.

Harper suddenly steps forward and draws what looks
like a short pistol from under her breastplate, bringing it up at
my face. I dodge and take her hand off at the wrist a fraction of a
second before Sakina sends her sprawling with a kick that I’m
surprised doesn’t shatter her armor (the popping I hear is likely
Harper’s bones breaking).

Bly leaps back off the rise in retreat, but his eyes
grin at me again. I look up in time to see flashes and smoke from
the gun deck of his airship.

“
We’re zeroed!
” I shout, throwing myself off
the hilltop in a tackle that takes Rios with me. I fully expect
Sakina will be more than fast enough to do the same, but what I see
as I look up is shocking. She’s jerked Harper up to her feet and
leaves her teetering on the spot where we stood, then is gone just
before whatever Bly’s cannons launched impacts. I see Harper’s legs
ripped away from under her just as the hillside shatters. Then a
shower of dirt and rock masks my view. I don’t remember hearing the
actual boom of the cannon.

“I’m assuming we’re on,” Matthew comes over my
Link.

More cannon fire slams the hillside.

“We are,” I tell him, still sprawled on my back and
covered with dirt, head downhill. Then the hill—destabilized by
another round of cannon fire—comes at me in a wave of gravel and
sand.

I roll as the hill slides down with me, getting as
much of Mars between me and the big pirate ship as I can. Rios is
still with me, tumbling and flailing and bouncing. I have no idea
where Sakina went.

Looking back out through the Gap, I see four of our
ASVs coming in hot.

“Fire for effect,” I order. “Make ‘em limp home.”

A pair of rockets flies from the lead ASV and burns
straight for the Dutchman. I risk poking my head up enough to
watch. Maybe two dozen assorted light flyers are breaking away from
their anchors on the big airship like bats releasing from their
perches. I see one of our rockets hit the gun deck. One of the
under-hanging masts falls away, to hang by its rigging. The second
rocket blows away one of the big fans.