The God Mars Book Three: The Devil You Are (33 page)

Paul doesn’t seem to need so many edible resources,
and eats not much more than his usual sparse diet. I suspect this
is because his “tools”—run on replenishing fusion cores—do for him
a lot of what our bodily mods do for us, except healing, so he
doesn’t burn as much as we do. (He also doesn’t have armor and
weapons to restore, just his blue sealsuit and mask.) And he’s back
to work before we are: the Lower Dome is already almost
half-repaired, and the colony processors are back up to about
eighty percent efficiency. (The “Domers” are still wary of him, but
willing enough to send a nervous representative when they need
something fixed.)

Kali comes regularly to spend time with Bel, caring
for him like a dutiful sister, impressively out of character. The
two have grown quite close, though the relationship appears to have
remained platonic (also impressively out of character for her—it’s
not just that Bel really doesn’t have any attraction to women—she
hasn’t even tried). Otherwise, she remains surly and impulsive, and
particularly frustrated that Paul appears to completely ignore her
blatant advances. After each such failure, she will usually turn
her attention to me, perhaps to validate herself. I sometimes
oblige her, telling myself it’s to give Paul some reprieve. She
seems to have backed off on pursuing any of the un-modified males,
except for some lazy flirting and innuendo. When I ask, she tells
me she doesn’t want to break them. Still, Murphy and Two Gun (and
Mak—I think there’s some jealousy there) continue to look nervous
in her presence.

Kali also continues to vent her spleen at Star in
absentia, taking even random opportunities to call her creatively
vile names and criticize her role and motivation in this game of
immortals, or just slandering her character in general. The problem
is, Kali’s prosecutorial evidence (and my lack of defensive
evidence) is increasing with every day we continue not to hear
anything from her. Star hasn’t attempted contact since before I
arrived here, and the issue of Chang’s whereabouts and plans
remains critical, especially if Chang now has Fohat and
who-knows-who-else supporting him. As for me, I can’t help but
worry that something has happened to her, a fear I’ve suffered
dozens of times when she was still mortal, when she’d disappear for
months on some shady “mission”. It was that habit that forced me to
stop caring for her, not that I was ever entirely successful. But
after she was indestructible, I had no reason to worry. I find
that’s changed, given the circumstances.

Lacking Star’s first-hand intel, I have to press my
only other source. Bel still insists he has no idea how many of our
kind Chang may have brought back with him, but seems confident it
can’t be more than a few. Yet, he didn’t seem terribly shocked when
he heard Fohat was here. And he’s remained evasive about listing
Chang’s other allies, at least those he knew about in the other
timeline. When he’s feeling better, I feel less hesitant in
grilling him.

“How many could he have brought with him?” I start
with speculation. When Bel only shrugs, I challenge with the
existing data: “We know he brought you and Star and Fohat. And
somehow Star was carrying me. And I had three more. We’re talking
code for entire entities, not to mention assorted bots, gear. What
were the limits of his technology?”

“It’s really not as much as you’d think,” he
discounts, sounding lazy and more than a bit dazed. “I mean, you’re
still mostly you because you got your own seed. Same with Parvati.
It’s not just the DNA match—it’s only a small fraction of the chain
that makes you who you are. The memory files that tell you who you
are are the biggest load, so we kept them basic, just the
essentials. I’m actually more Abdullah Rashid than I’m comfortable
admitting, DNA and otherwise. The only reason I don’t have his full
memories is because Chang killed off a lot of his brain before my
seed finished taking. Fohat was probably remade the same way. And
Kali has almost all of Fera in her—that’s the part that probably
gets her fucking you even when she’s otherwise hating you.”

“I was wondering about that,” I try to lighten, and
fail, stewing on the implications (for both of them).

“Over time, I’ll become more me, as I keep repairing
and regenerating this body, reasserting my original physiognomy.
Rashid will fade to a few choice memories. Same thing will happen
to the other resource bodies.”

“But not me,” I know.

“No,” he confirms. “That’s because besides the
compatible DNA, you have a full set of compatible memories—the old
and new fit together, minimal conflict, no overwriting. So you get
to keep it all, whether you want it or not. Just younger and
prettier. You used to have a scar, didn’t you? When you were
pre-mod?” He draws a diagonal line down across his own eye.

“Several.”

“I miss scars. Real scars. You could fake one, of
course, using the basic cosmetic mod. But it’s not the same.”

I let him wallow in his existential melancholy for a
while, sharing the silence. He brings himself back to my question
eventually.

“The base tech is pretty universal. He could rebuild
a lot with the right selection of key pieces. Like DNA: over 99% is
what we have in common. Your friend Bly, for example: His tech is
made of core bits of our mods, tinkered into a simplified version
of us. Easily replicated.”

“But there has to be a limit,” I try reason. “Chang
couldn’t send a whole world through on a sub-atomic connection…” I
feel doubt as I say it.

Bel stews on that, seems to zone out for a moment,
then gives me a lopsided smile.

“The good news is that if anyone could, it’s Yod.
Which means there might be a lot more on our side than Chang’s. But
what’s sent is sent. Done. Door closed. And what was on the other
side is all gone.”

“Unless some other future pulls the same trick,” I
give him one of my scary thoughts.

“Trying to give me that headache of yours?” he tries
to joke it away, but he’s probably thought of that himself.

“So what would you send through?” I play into his
hopes. “If you had one tiny window to remake your world?”

“Or make it the way you want it to be?” he reflects.
But I’m not sure he’s talking about Chang.

He goes inside himself then, considering something,
maybe something he needs to tell me. He looks at his healing hand,
makes the still-scarred and almost-skeletal fingers work.

“Something I need you to see,” he says after some
hesitation. “It’s about time. Don’t worry—you’ll like it. Well, I
think you’ll like it.”

He calls for Kali, and we walk out beyond the dome,
down by where the old spaceport used to be before it got wiped away
and buried. The site is thoroughly overgrown, mostly in the
tenacious Graingrass (which looks like a hybrid of bamboo and a
giant version of crabgrass), with some of the tuber-producing
Sweetroot and climbing Rustbean woven in.

He won’t explain where we’re going or why, even when
Kali threatens to hurt him (to which he playfully tries to convince
her that he’d enjoy it). But there’s a barely-detectible path
through the growth. Soon, we’re so deep in we’re out of daylight,
and we come to a partially buried hatchway (that, on close
examination, looks like it
was
until recently fully
buried).

He makes light for us as we go inside. It’s musty,
dusty, much worse than the sealed base I’d woken up to after fifty
years in Hiber. And then we start smelling life. Or death. Rot.
Moisture. Compost.

“I’m surprised you never got suspicious enough to
follow me on one of my idle nature walks,” he says over his
shoulder.

We drop down a level on creaky stairs. There are
conduits, tanks, valves. We must be under the dock, in what’s left
of shuttle refueling. He takes us through another hatch—this one
smooth and quiet like it’s been maintained—and into what looks like
a pilot or passenger lounge. There are couches, lockers, chairs and
tables, all well-dusted, unused for half a century since the Big
Bang. I see daylight again, just a sliver. An observation port has
been smashed through, but beyond it, it looks like the place is
indeed well-buried, inaccessible (at least to anything human
sized—the fissure bringing us light probably looks like an
innocuous gap in the rock from the surface).

There are drag-marks on the deck, boot prints in the
dust. Bel’s.

It looks like he’s planted a garden in the room:
Piles of soil, living plants. The source of the smells. I realize
the dirt mounds look like someone tried to make graves on top of
the deck. And the graves are open. I remember the rut I woke up in
as we climb up, following Bel, for a better look.

“Are you awake yet?” he says gently to the open
graves. He reaches into one. I hear a gasp, like a drowning man
making the surface. Limbs thrash. Armored limbs.

“It’s okay. You’re okay. It’s me. Long story. Just
breathe…”

He moves over to the other open hole, repeats.
Something—someone—screams. It sounds like a combination of pain,
shock and thrill. Kali and I move in close to look:

In the first “grave” is an impossible vision, like
something out of Arthurian legend. Or a Tolkien pseudo-legend.
Laying in the rut is a beautiful young man—or maybe woman—with long
golden hair, wearing a suit of highly-polished silver armor,
similar to Bel’s, and a pure white surcoat (despite being
half-buried in compost). Unnaturally deep blue eyes blink and look
up at us like she’s (he’s?) no more than mildly confused by his
predicament. But he (she?) stays put, like the situation is
reasonably normal, and gives us a charming little smile.

Which is when the other grave erupts.
Something—someone—big sits up like a sleeper out of a nightmare. I
can see the tendrils of resource “roots” retracting back into the
bulky dark armor it wears, including a heavy sallet-style visored
helmet. I remember the trauma and confusion of my own awakening.
Gauntleted hands reach up and pull off the helmet like it’s
suffocating. The head underneath is maned in shaggy black hair and
a thick beard, with matching thick eyebrows. The face is tanned,
strongly boned, angular.

Bel is still repeating assurances as dark eyes look
around. See us.

The other—the graceful androgyny—sits up casually. A
silver hand reaches over and pats the bigger one on the forearm.
Chuckles and shakes her (his?) head like he’s (she’s?) trying to
digest either bad or unbelievable news.

“The little fuck did it…” She (he?) says absently.
The voice is even more androgynous than Bel’s. I still can’t tell
if I’m looking at a very pretty boy or a slightly boyish young
woman.

The bearded one just looks dazed, numb. I see him
begin to process his situation behind his eyes.

“Michael… Ragnarok…” Bel begins introductions,
starting with the blonde, “this is Samael Lucif…”

“
Lux
,” the blonde quickly corrects him. Then
to me, smiling seductively: “Call me Lux.”

“Kali,” she introduces herself like she needs to
defend me.

“Beautiful…” the blonde purrs back at her, now
sounding somewhat more male. Looks around curiously. “Why am I
sleeping in compost in a post-apocalyptic cliché?”

“Been there,” Kali bites back. “Been worse.
Deal.”

Lux show-pouts. Reaches an armored hand to me for
assistance. I pull him (her?) to her (his?) feet.

“A handsome knight to rescue me?” Lux flirts.

“I saw him first,” Bel claims.

“I
married
him first,” Kali corrects,
testily.

“Azazel Armeros,” Bel diffuses by introducing the
other one.

I know both names, at least by reputation.

“Where are we?” Azazel skips the social rituals. His
voice is deep, authoritative. He climbs up out of his rut like he
weighs a ton.

“Tranquility Colony. Mars. Pretty much the same as
the one we knew, except this is 2117, and it’s seen better days,”
Bel explains.

“Chang?” Lux assumes, getting serious.

“Triggered a nuclear sterilization,” I take it.
“Fifty years ago. Cut the planet off from Earth, kept it that way
by convincing them the place was contaminated.” This seems to
disturb.

“Survivors?” Lux seems to care.

“Quite a few,” Bel reports cheerfully. “Made their
own little civilizations.”

“But now Earth is back, and Chang is fighting them
for the planet,” I summarize. (I find I‘m getting tired of trying
to retell this story.)

“And neither seems to care what happens to anyone
living here,” Kali condemns.

They digest the news. Lux finally chuckles under her
(his?) breath again.

“The little fuck really did it, didn’t he?”

“What about Yod?” Azazel wants to know.

“No sign,” Bel laments. “Maybe gone with our world
when the timeline unraveled.”

“I wouldn’t count Him out,” Lux considers, maybe
hopefully. Then looks at Bel. “Is there any place nicer to be on
this planet?”

Bel smiles, satisfied. I’m really not sure if I
should kiss him or shoot him.

15 June, 2117:

She keeps me waiting for a full three hours this
time, a test of my patience or surface endurance.

“You can’t sneak up on me like you used to,” I tell
her and her soldiers, not bothering to move from where I’m sitting
on the scoured and scarred concrete topside of one of the unburied
colony structures. The winds have been shifting the sands to try to
take Shinkyo back, but the job could take years. I watch the sand
blow across the now-abandoned micro-civilization, remembering how
the ETE dug it all up in a matter of minutes.

“Indeed impressive, Colonel Ram,” I recognize Hatsumi
Sakura’s voice through her mask, regal, self-assured. Polite
discipline with a pervasive undertone of menace. And seduction. “Or
should I be calling you by another name, now?”