The God Mars Book Two: Lost Worlds (11 page)

“That’s not a good sign,” Matthew tries to make light
of it, but looks like he’s in pain.

“No, it’s not,” I agree, but still trying to keep the
mood from pitch-dark.

“I just saw Park down in Medical. He’s looking
better,” he offers something brighter. “Lost a kidney, but his
vitals are strong. Ryder’s a good cutter. Couldn’t do much for his
missing fingers, though.”

“Did you see Jenovic?” I ask him, avoiding the
question about why he was in medical himself.

“Pissed and hurting. Choice between a permanent limp
or finding a new knee, which we don’t happen to have in stock.
How’s Lieutenant Thomas taking it?”

“Pissed and hurting,” I give him back. “I think worse
because she didn’t get a scratch.”

He shakes his head. Coughs. Sips more water. Clenches
his teeth like he’s in pain.

“We can’t keep walking into shit like that if the ROE
is to avoid killing what has no such rule about us,” he complains,
more weary than his usual rage. “We’re either going to lose more
good soldiers or up our defensive fire. If Earthside chooses option
one, they can have my commission.”

“Or we sit tight and make them do it themselves when
they get here, hopefully with a lot more support.”

“Assuming this little clusterfuck doesn’t put them
off coming,” he bites. “They sure seem easily discouraged for being
so excited to find out we’re still alive.”

I meet Rios down in the launch bay as soon as his ASV
engines spin down. He clumps down the ramp heavier than his armor
would account for, and promptly hands me the busted PA speaker.

“One round, near dead center,” he points out what I
can clearly see tore through the projection cone. “The bullet is
still in there. Scan says it’s a regular nine, and I’ll bet my
Shinkyo sword that the rifling marks tell us it came from a
revolver…”

I’d given Rios the questionable duty of leading what
I didn’t officially call an “appeasement mission” back to
Tranquility: One ASV, landing behind a ridge overlooking the colony
dome, then setting up a PA speaker to boom out a repeating message
of peace and forgiveness; offering supplies and asking for our dead
to be returned. The message repeated for almost fifteen minutes
before someone shot out the speaker horn. One shot, which MAI
calculated came from over a hundred and fifty meters away.

“Sweet shot,” Rios fills the silence when I don’t say
anything. “But who made it? Men in Black, or Planet of the
Apes?”

I replay the video in my head: A dirty gunslinger
that drew two pistols almost faster than the camera could see,
fired in two different directions and hit two targets
simultaneously, each less than an inch wide. And a brace of
pristine black security suits—like the last fifty years had never
happened—with UNMAC-grade optics.

“I’m not sending anybody else in to find out,” I
assure him.

And I hope our little follow-up effort, combined with
the souvenir Rios brought me, is enough to convince Earthside to
agree with that decision.

1 April, 2116:

“We are sorry for your losses,” Mark Stilson offers
in a way that makes General Richards sound like a warm human being.
“But we
did
warn you what to expect at Tranquility.”

He doesn’t even slow his pace as he and his faceless
blue suits walk us down through the tomblike darkness of the
Station toward the relative warmth and serenity of their
underground garden complex.

“You’ve been monitoring our transmissions,” I remind
him, trying to keep the accusation in my tone to a polite minimum.
“And you knew your vague intelligence wouldn’t satisfy Earthside. I
understand your lack of candor because of the likelihood anything
you tell us will go off-world, but details could have prevented
this.”

“No disrespect to you, Colonel Ram,” he says like he
mostly means it. “You have been a good friend to us, despite your
duty to the new Earthside Command. But even if we had given you
extensive data on the situation in Tranquility, would your leaders
have just taken us at our word?”

My lack of an answer agrees with him. We don’t say
anything else until the elevators take us down to where the
artificial sun shines in the green.

With me this trip—our first since the ETE declared
their intention to “keep the peace”—are Rios, Tru and Sakina.
Matthew—on his feet again and without a “relapse” in a few weeks—I
left in command.

Stilson leads us down to their “model” of the
valleys. Perhaps counting on the odds that our Link video will be
piped back to Earth, he wanted to show something that might inspire
hope instead of fear. (I slowly realize this may also be why he’s
kept his mask on: Earthside would surely recognize his face from
their files, and probably react badly to the absolute lack of
visible aging.)

The first actual face we see is Paul’s, and he greets
us with his usual civil warmth. But I notice the telltale pink
streaks under his right eye that I’ve come to recognize as the
after-blemish of a serious nano-healed wound, and he seems to be
favoring his left arm. And his eyes look older than the last time I
saw him.

“In all candor,” Mark Stilson begins as if he’s
making a speech, “there really wasn’t a lot of intelligence we
could have given you regarding the Tranquility site. While it does
tap our feed lines for water and fuel, it is far away from the
nearest Station, and hostile welcomes in the past have discouraged
us from approaching.”

“’Hostile welcome’ means we get consistently shot
at,” Paul clarifies, “and with impressive accuracy.”

“We do estimate from the resource use that the colony
does maintain significant environmental systems,” his father
continues, ignoring the interruption like it’s insignificant
information. “Given that the one visible dome is clearly breached,
this implies extensive intact facilities remain sub-surface.”

“Reviewing your mission video,” Paul takes over, as
his father steps back as if to defer to some possibly rehearsed
presentation. “there is indication of
parallel
societies:
one surviving adequately within the open dome, and another likely
managing a separate existence within a sealed environment.”

“Like the Nomads and the Shinkyo,” Tru offers.

“Only more dichotomous,” Paul theorizes, “possibly
because of their proximity juxtaposed with their apparent enmity.
Two cultures. Two extremes. Two sides of the same coin. Occupying
adjacent and relatively confined spaces.”

“And what can we do about this?” Tru pushes the
point.

“
We
will likely do nothing,” Mark tells her
coolly and clearly. “It has been our policy to provide for the
survival of the surface peoples in terms of primary resources, and
nothing more.” I realize he is making this statement for the
benefit of Earthside. “We have only chosen to act to prevent
conflicts that might jeopardize the security of life on this
planet.”

“Despite the apparent violence, both societies appear
to be thriving,” Paul defends. “And they serve to provide
significant foodstuffs to many other societal groups.”

“Who trade them weapons to keep fighting each other,”
I say it before Tru can.

“Actually, Colonel,” Mark corrects almost haughtily,
“our indicators suggest that the conflict has actually come to what
may be a mutually beneficial balance since the increased influx of
weapons.”

“The dome people were likely at a disadvantage to
their better-armed predators,” Paul clarifies. “But in the last few
years, both systems seem to be thriving in a kind of enforced
homeostasis, and crop production has increased dramatically. The
dome people are evolving into farmers, even though their economy is
still driven by conflict.”

“And how do their hunters benefit from this
arrangement?” Tru wants to know.

“Perhaps they used to take food from the dome by
raiding only,” Paul speculates. “Now they may be forced to
trade.”

“Both cultures evolve,” Tru digests, but doesn’t
sound completely reassured.

“What we saw on our video didn’t look like the
hunters were on any kind of defensive,” I criticize.

“You may have destabilized the situation
inadvertently,” Mark says clinically, “by introducing a critical
threat to both cultures. Both sides may have reacted out of their
fear of
you
—consider how many times humans have violated
other nation’s borders when such a threat presents itself. But a
mutual enemy usually supports increased cooperation.”

“Unless they start competing to make that enemy an
ally against the other,” I counter.

“I doubt that will happen in this situation,
Colonel,” Mark argues in such a way that I think he must be smiling
under his mask. “Earthside is the devil of these cultures, the
ultimate mythical threat, the ender of worlds.”

“Satan come to consume their souls, offering
treasures to tempt them,” Tru realizes.

“A fair analogy,” Mark agrees. “And so given, it is
incredibly impressive that you, Colonel Ram, have managed what good
faith you have.”

He’s defending me to Earthside—I know he’s been
monitoring every transmission.

“This isn’t the first planet where I’ve had to
convince my critics that I’m not the Antichrist,” I joke dryly.
Then shift the subject: “What else are we likely to encounter,
Doctor?” I specifically use his scholarly title instead of calling
him “Council.”

“
Assuming
intelligence will avoid further
tragedy…” he plays wryly, letting some of his humanity through the
mask. He highlights the locations of the remaining colony sites in
Coprates Chasma. There are nine blips on the model, spread in a
rough zig-zag reaching two hundred miles east past Tranquility down
the long canyon. There are also four ETE Stations on that
stretch.

“The news isn’t good, Colonel,” Paul takes it. “Every
site in this part of Marineris took catastrophic damage, if not
from the bombs, then from their proximity to destabilized ridges.
Melas’ open valley offered less shielding from blast shockwaves,
but also less opportunity for miles of cliff to fall on you. Only
two sites…” He points out two of the furthest east blips. “…Eureka
and Liberty… still draw enough feed from our local lines to
indicate survivor enclaves, but both sites are under a lot more
rock than any of the self-buried ones like Shinkyo. And observation
has shown even less sign of activity than any of the other hidden
colonies. If they are thriving, they are certainly worse off than
Tranquility or the PK.”

“The promising factor is that this part of Coprates
is the deepest, and therefore the greenest,” Mark offers, making a
small veining of deep canyons glow green. Four colony sites—Eureka,
Liberty, Pax and Iving—sit in this region, as well as the east-most
ETE Station (and the only one that sits
within
the valleys
instead of on the periphery cliffs). “One of our technicians named
this area the Vajra—the double-headed trident—because of the way it
roughly forks at both ends.”

“This is our treasure, Colonel,” Paul tells me
earnestly. “This is our Garden of Eden. We have set up a second
layer of atmosphere nets. The conditions are very similar to the
Andes Mountains. The agricultural hybrids from the colonies, as
well as a few of our own specimens, have thrived there in the last
few decades. The Vajra is a
forest
.”

“Perhaps a Forbidden Forest,” Mark says with pained
seriousness. “Your Earthside would likely fear this place above all
other regions, because the flora and fauna have been DNA-engineered
and then allowed to evolve competitively.”

“
Fauna
?” Tru questions incredulously.

“Most ecosystems require a symbiotic relationship
with animal life for plants to truly thrive,” Paul explains. “To
this end, Pax had been working with insect life, mammals, birds,
reptiles. Most specimens died during the harsh times that followed
the Apocalypse. Others failed to adapt.”

“And those that did?” I have to ask.

“You have seen how your fellow man has adapted,
Colonel,” Mark says, gesturing toward Sakina.

“We haven’t the expertise to manage zoological
projects,” Paul excuses quickly, “so we have had nothing to do with
anything beyond the atmosphere and the plant life. You would have
to address this issue with the Pax, but I doubt they would be
forthcoming.”

“You would likely be greeted worse than you were at
Tranquility,” Mark warns evenly.

“The Pax?” Tru needs clarification.

“The Pax Colony survivors sought shelter in the heat
shadow of our Station,” Paul tells us. “They tapped into our feeds,
set up shelters, preserved their precious work. As the region
greened, they were among the first to move away from our sites, to
find a life in the new world. The Pax now maintain what resembles a
medieval society, a system of feudal groups that live off the land,
and band together for trade, marriage and mutual defense.”

“Defense?” it’s my turn to ask.

“The other colony sites were totally compromised,”
Paul reminds us. “While Iving was totally devastated, the other
sites—Tyr, Alchera, Nike, Concordia and Gagarin—managed similar
survival protocols to the Pax, later splitting off into their own
groups. We have lost touch with these groups, as they go to greater
lengths to avoid even us, but they do skirmish for territory from
time to time, and violently resist explorers from the West. They
are not unlike history’s Native Americans.”

“And we’re the invading Europeans,” Tru muses
darkly.

“As they do not draw resources from our feed lines,
we have no way to monitor their activity,” Mark tells us.

“But here lies the critical issue, Colonel,” Paul
presses. “These groups have adapted to the planet for three
generations, more so than any group that still clings to colony, or
even the Nomads who are forced to maintain technology for
survival.”