The God Mars Book Three: The Devil You Are (22 page)

I realize I may have just enabled the ETE to “steal”
and potentially copy some of my technology, but I’m not
particularly concerned that they’d put it to any nefarious purpose.
In fact, I find I’m hoping they manage to put some of it to use
against Chang and Earthside’s more destructive agendas. So I give
them a small demonstration.

I shift my armor, expand and reshape the plates,
change the color of my surfaces, give them a glimpse of my
“cloaking” technology. Then I bend down, reach and touch the floor.
The metal deck around my fingers begins to reshape, and I “sculpt”
a raised geometric doodle into the material by force of will.

Paul stands his ground, but his cohorts raise their
Rods at me. I stand and turn to face them, give them what I hope is
a benign smile, and push their goodwill. I reach out, make one of
the Red Guardian’s Spheres fly into my hand. Hack it. Bring it to
life. Generate a simple protective field. Then toss it back. Let
them decide if I’m ally or nightmare.

Paul, to his credit, gestures for his companions to
lower their tools. I give him a smile and a nod to let him know I
appreciate whatever trust or faith he still has in me. He still
looks like he’s doing everything he can not to be terrified of me.
I turn back to face the Council.

“I am still the man you trusted enough to let into
your facilities, advise you, share your dreams for the future of
this planet, fight together with against those that would threaten
it.”

Silence.

Council Blue speaks again, but no longer as the cool
authority. His stoicism is cracking.

“Your intent is not what most concerns us. You do not
understand… It’s what you
imply
.”

I don’t understand—that’s clear enough on my face. So
he tries to explain it to me:

“Our original theory… It was one matter to speculate
that the Discs were future origin, a relatively simple and
small-scale incursion against the paradox. We had even begun to
simplify that theory, consider that it was only the
design
of the Discs that had been passed through some retrograde
communication link to some contemporary ally to manufacture. Even
Chang’s appearance could be explained this way, that he was simply
the recipient of advanced science and technology… But now, your
very existence here and now demonstrates that unbelievably complex
and dense time-splicing has indeed occurred. Even if your so-called
‘seed’ isn’t from our technological future, the science that made
you into what you are almost certainly is.”

“So sending basic drone tech back in time was almost
believable, but sending the makings for
me
is unthinkable,”
I try to follow their existential meltdown. I realize I haven’t
mentioned that it’s more than Chang and Star and I that have
supposedly made the sub-atomic trip. (And I’m not sure if it’s
comforting that folks a lot smarter than I am agree with how
unbelievable this all is.)

“You can’t begin to grasp density of what was sent
through that sub-atomic link to make you—just
you
.” I’m not
sure if they’re trying to scare me or insult me. “The level of
technology required, and the power…”

“And there’s no chance this technology is
contemporary?” I try to give him a more rational explanation.

“We have been extrapolating possibilities since our
first encounter with Chang,” Green denies heavily. “The technology
we’ve seen is beyond what could be developed from
any
of the
research extant at the time of the Apocalypse. And we’ve monitored
nothing incoming from Earth since then that even remotely indicates
that level of advancement. The only other explanation is that
Chang—or someone behind Chang—developed the technology in isolation
here on this planet, but that seems extremely unlikely.”

“
Less
likely than time travel?” I have to
criticize, however confident of their investigation they seem.
“Especially time-travel that violates the Temporal Paradox?”

“We have also accounted for the human elements,
Colonel,” Council Red interjects. “You have now heard the same tale
of an erased future from multiple supposed witnesses, including the
‘memories’ you’ve been given. You had speculated yourself that
Chang was only using the story to convince others of the
righteousness of his mission. Perhaps your memories
have
been falsified to support his claim. But why bother? The people of
Earth have long demonstrated even greater fervor in their fear of
an
imagined
future disaster, without ever needing to claim
it’s a certainty. In other terms, manufacturing this motive seems…
unnecessary, even if his intent is to use it to mask his own
origins and hidden supports. He would have no reason to make such
claims, or go to the suspected lengths to make you believe those
claims, if they were simple deception.”

So the proof is that Chang has no good reason to lie.
And I have no good reason
not
to believe my second set of
memories. If only because it makes an impractical strategy.

My headache is back. But I also start to feel sick,
flushed. Part of me has been hanging on to the reality I knew—now
the ETE themselves are chipping away at it.

“One day, we may discover a more comforting
explanation,” Council Gold hopes without faith. “Until then, we are
faced with something devastating beyond imagining.”

I realize I haven’t told them there’s likely several
more like me and Chang that squeaked through during this impossible
jump. But I don’t think that’s what has them so disturbed.

I get more silent faceless brooding. Paul shifts
uncomfortably behind me. I remember: He’d presented the whole
time-travel theory of the Discs to me himself. Now I’m here
offering him proof of something he really didn’t want to
believe.

Then I get something unexpected. Mark Stilson’s
avatar steps up to me and takes off his helmet, shows me his face.
I’ve never seen him so disturbed.

“Can you even imagine the implication we’re all
facing, Colonel? The technology and resources required to do this
aside… What it means for an event of reverse-causality to actually
succeed
in changing the chain of causation? Time is
fundamentally a measure of change in matter.
Linear
change,
at least as far as we can perceive. And that means the event we’re
speaking of has instantly unraveled
everything
between its
arrival and its source on a sub-atomic level. This isn’t a cheap
science fiction plot device—this is
real
. Dismissing any
unproven fantasy theories of multiple parallel dimensions,
alternate timelines somehow existing together… Physical reality
itself has been
undone
. The scale of it is unimaginable,
even if it was contained to Mars and Earth, only affected two
insignificant planets in the universe... that’s still
two
planets
, unraveled and re-woven. Decades of cause-and-effect…
the scale… the amount of sheer energy required to re-structure
every single atomic… to…”

I watch his eyes as his words trail off. He’s gone
from protest to… realization?

He freezes like there’s a glitch in his projection,
but his eyes move. Scan. Put something together.

When he comes back, he’s gone stoic again. I’m
getting a steely stare. Like I’ve suddenly become his enemy.

“You will leave here immediately,” he orders.

“What…?” I get taken by surprise. His fellows look
equally stunned. I try another hack—he doesn’t seem to be
communicating with anyone else. Whatever he’s thinking, he doesn’t
dare share it, at least not where I might hear.

“You will leave our facilities and never return,” he
repeats, sounding like I’ve done something unforgivable.

Paul gives me a stunned look. But his fellows follow
their leader, point their tools at me, parting to give me passage
to the big hatch that’s already opening. When I look back, the
Council avatars are gone.

Paul gives in, jerks his head for the exit. But he
follows me out not like an escort, but like a companion.

“What was that?” I whisper to him as I hurry toward
the lifts, weapons pointed at my back.

“Really no idea,” he sounds shaken up. “I’ll see what
I can find out.”

“And Tranquility?” I consider my most pressing
priority as he steps into the lift with me.

“I’ll petition a Guardian operation, see what I can
do about the supplies you requested.”

“I appreciate it. Whoever I am.”

That gives him an uncomfortable chuckle. Then gets
quickly serious as we rise.

“You’d always been good at warning us about what we
need to be afraid of,” he allows me. “Now it’s upon us. You were
right.”

“No, Paul,” I grimly correct him. “This is
worse.”

A long silent march around the Generator cores,
another short lift ride, a set of heavy airlocks, and I’m back out
in the Cold Thin. And get another surprise:

My ride has changed color: Turned from a patchwork of
metal and Zodangan markings to uniform black. The seams we cobbled
in the dark look cleaner. For Paul’s sake, I try not to look
freaked out by the implication: I can manipulate technology—at
least metal and plastic and carbon weave—even when I’m not present.
Or intending to. (Unless this is a Bel surprise.)

“I’ll be in touch,” Paul assures me as I get back in
my harness and spin up my thrusters.

“Thank you.”

One more unexpected gesture as I lift off: The Red
and Green Guardians take off their helmets, let me see their faces.
Jaden Fox and Rhiannon Dodds. I trained them. Fought alongside
them. I give them a nod of recognition, spread my wings and kick in
my mains.

Fly away.

5 April, 2017:

Three days have passed. The relative good news is
there’s been no attempt at mass-murder by the Domers, no activity
at all. Nor has there been any sign of Chang or UNMAC.

The bad news: No contact from Paul.

I wander the Cast’s world like a phantom as they go
about their lives. They seem to have thoroughly adopted Murphy as
one of their own, and he’s started to go native, forgoing his
military grooming and decorating his battered uniform with “gifts”
from the Cast: bead jewelry, a pair of knives, a handmade armor
plate to cover his damaged shoulder, a cowl and a scarf.

They also seem to have accepted Bel, fascinated by
his ability to work with metal and technology as he repairs their
gear when he’s not tinkering with the salvaged Kites. (He still
denies responsibility for the ongoing morphing of my personal
flyer, though it does seem to amuse him. The nose has become almost
beak-like as the hull has streamlined, and there are patterns that
look very much like large feathers on the wings.)

Bel and I share Fera’s shelter like old friends,
spending our down-time merrily arguing morality, history and the
nature of mankind (both post and pre mod). Murphy has found his own
space somewhere. It’s not because he’s disturbed by us—I feel like
I’ve disappointed him.

He makes it a point to let Gardener’s cameras see him
every day, proving something or daring them. (Or maybe he just
hopes his family will see that he’s still alive.) He gets no
response.

I’ve already stopped visiting Fera’s grave.

I get woken up in the middle of the night by a blast
of cold and sudden depressurization. I expect this is just Bel, out
working on his projects, but

“I can’t believe you buried me. In shit.”

Female voice. I know it and I don’t, my dual memories
teasing me.

“In.
Shit
.”

There’s a slim figure in the hatchway, wasp-wasted, a
thick mop of almost shoulder length hair. Her forearms bristle with
saw-like blades.

My armor instinctively begins to form around me as I
sit up, try to see in the dark.

“Fera?”

“No,” she corrects me. “Yes.” She gestures with a
clawed hand, and one of the lanterns responds. “I haven’t figured
it out yet.”

It is and isn’t Fera.

Similar red hair, similar girlish face. Body sheathed
in what looks like red leather. Shining fantasy armor on her shins,
forearms, shoulders and collar. Her forearms sprout rows of
flame-like blades (the right hook forward, the left backward). Her
black-gloved fingers are tipped with steel claws. Her collar and
belt are decorated with skulls. Her irises glimmer silver.

In the light, she holds up her bladed forearms,
appraises them.

“This was her idea, her fantasy… I think I like
it…”

I get to my feet but don’t approach her. She’s still
being fascinated by what she’s wearing, like it’s the first time
she’s gotten a good look at it.

“Kali,” the name comes to me unbidden. She locks my
eyes, glares at me wildly, grins like a predator.

“Hi, honey. I’m home.”

“Ohhh…” Bel is in the hatchway behind her. She whirls
on him, her claws ready. “This is awkward.”

“
You
…” she hisses at him. “You piece of shit…”
Advances. He holds up his hands, backs up.

“I’m on your side!” he tries to call her off. “Inside
man! Or at least I was until I blew it. Still: I’m the only reason
you all knew when Chang was going.”

“He’s telling the truth,” I defend him. She turns
back on me.

“You’re kidding,” she doesn’t believe, apparently
having no faith in him whatsoever.

“I just watched him blow a tactical nuke in Chang’s
face.”

She raises her eyebrows, looks like she doesn’t know
whether to doubt or be impressed. But what strikes me is this
really
isn’t
Fera. She’s sharper, older, angrier.

“I really should let you two be alone…” Bel tries to
exit.

“You really should explain what’s happened here,” I
insist.

“What’s happened is you buried me in shit,” she
returns. “I suppose I should be grateful for the rich regen media.
And that your meat friends didn’t chop me up first. But still:
Shit. And rotting corpse meat.”