The God Mars Book Two: Lost Worlds (18 page)

I send the update to Earthside, then head for the
Lancer.

“You really think you should get any closer to that
thing?” Matthew complains about my decision.

“I’m not looking to get closer to the drone,” I tell
him. “I need to speak to Paul, face-to-face without his handlers
listening in. I need to know what he’s not willing to say over the
air.”

I order no further action until I arrive.

“It’s still very dead,” Anton tries to assure when I
meet him at the crater rim an hour later. “Or mostly dead, since
there’s still some residual juice in its power plant. But I get no
readings from any of the systems. It’s fried.”

“Then it should have broken up,” I needlessly remind
him of what every other Disc drone we’ve ever tried to take intact
does automatically, “turned to dust on a nano-scale so we can’t get
a look at it like we are.”

“Possibility the nukes’ EMP knocked it down without
triggering whatever self-destruct it has,” Anton considers. “We’ve
shot them down, but we never had the tech on planet to hit them
with hard EM.”

We spend a few moments of air just looking at the
dig, neither of us eager to get close to such an efficient killing
machine.

“You ever read Arthur C. Clarke?” I ask him idly. He
looks at me dumbly through his goggles. “Wrote a famous old cult
sci-fi called ‘2001’. Started as a short story about aliens who
leave a device buried on the moon that emits enough of a signal to
get curious humans to dig it up. Digging it up lets the aliens know
that man has made it into space.”

“Like an alarm system,” Anton follows. Then I feel
him get even more tense than he is now. He starts to take a step
back away from the dig, but manages to hold his ground.

“There’s been no Disc activity in fifty years,” Horst
criticizes, “at least that we know of.”

“We speculated that the Discs act with at least some
independence from whoever created them, possibly coordinated by an
AI,” I remind them. We never found any sign of any on-planet human
operator, and the way the Discs move in combat is beyond human
reaction time. “Maybe they left this one to make sure they really
did finish what they started.”

“Placement is pretty neat, sir,” Horst expresses his
fear. “Too neat for an honest crash. So did we just step in a
trap?”

“The output hasn’t changed,” Anton defends quickly.
“No signals that would reach more than a klick.”

“Maybe because we haven’t moved it yet,” Horst
considers.

“We can’t just leave it,” Anton protests. “We’ve been
wanting a close look at one of these since they first showed up out
of nowhere and started shooting at us. And considering this is what
triggered the entire Apocalypse…”

“Which makes for excellent bait, Doctor Staley,”
Simon interrupts us. “I agree: we should carefully re-bury the
device.”

“I wouldn’t be saying that where Earthside might hear
you,” Horst cautions him. Then he checks himself and apologizes to
me.

“You’re right, Sergeant,” I allow him. “If the ETE
advise leaving the weapon untouched, it’s suspicious.”

“My brother would like a word with you, Colonel,”
Simon tells me casually. “He has his Sphere in place for protection
if you’d like a closer look.”

I take his lead and tell Anton and Horst to keep back
while I go take a look in the hole. I find Paul squatting on the
slope of our dig, Sphere in hand, helmet tilted down into the
shallow pit.

“Colonel…” he greets me softly as I settle down next
to him, careful not to send any debris rolling down onto our
potentially dangerous find.

The Disc drone is impressive in its simplicity—I’ve
never seen one so close, and never sitting still like this, only
flying at us like mad insects, their hub turrets spitting
penetrating rounds and shaped charges in all directions. The upper
turret I can see is smooth—no exposed gun parts, only sealed twin
ports, and barely big enough to hold a pair of PDWs. The upper hull
is a geometric cross-blossom, raised from the thin central disk
enough to make room for the four main lift fans on the underbelly.
There are four small jets atop each “petal,” and four more around
the rim of the disk—these provide amazing maneuverability capable
of defeating even AI lock-on. Hitting a Disc is harder than trying
to swat a fly in mid air.

Otherwise, the surface is plain and sealed. The
finish is dulled silver, barely marred by the wear of being buried
all this time—I can see no evidence of damage sustained in crashing
here. It
does
look carefully planted.

There’s no visible sign of any kind of sensors,
optics, antennae or access panels. It very much reminds me of an
old aluminum hub cap from a classic car. Or the UFOs of pop-culture
paranoia. I wonder if this latter impression was more intentional
than just functional design—I remember how popular the belief was
that these drones were actually extra-terrestrial in nature, only
they shot at us with fairly conventional (though nano-crafted)
bullets.

“Do you think we should leave it be?” I ask Paul.

“I doubt your masters would accept that,” he
dismisses. “I did take the risk of a small material sample from the
hull. I need to get back to my Station to analyze it.”

“What’s going on, Paul?” I confront him.

“I don’t know,” he admits heavily. “My father is
being as tight-lipped as the Council has ever been. But I suspect
he knew what we would find here, and I’m afraid he may know more
than that.”

“But your people didn’t make the Discs,” I allow him
that much trust.

“No. But there is something the Council is keeping
from us, from you.”

We sit together for a few moments, staring down at
the apparently dead weapon.

“We should get that sample where you can get a look
at it,” I decide.

“Orders or not, I don’t want to leave your people
without our protection.”

“Leave your ship and team,” I suggest. “I’ll fly you
back on the Lancer. I expect I should be having a talk with your
father myself.”

I put a hand on his shoulder, then get up carefully
to climb up out of the hole, away from the drone.

“Wait,” Paul stops me. He digs into his suit and
pulls out a small vial, hands it to me. It’s barely the size of my
pinky, and looks like it’s filled with metal dust in a liquid
suspension. “This is for Colonel Burke. Cancer Hunters. The strain
has already been programmed based on the medical report we
intercepted. They’re self-injecting. You just have to pop off the
end cap and press it to his skin.”

“And how much trouble are you going to be in for
this?”

“This is the same medical technology that Earth
eagerly accepted before the Apocalypse,” he assures me. “It won’t
make him young or strong or immortal. It will do its job and then
self-terminate. And maybe prove to your UNCORT that we are not
inhuman freaks because of our science.”

I take the vial with a nod, hide it away in my thigh
pocket.

I order Horst to rotate one aircraft for re-supply
and refueling, always leaving one team and ship to keep watch over
the site. And I tell him not to touch the Disc (and not to let
Anton play with it either) no matter what else happens. Except to
shoot it to pieces if it so much as changes its output.

Then I have Smith fly Paul and I to Blue Station.
Simon takes charge of the Guardian team, and doesn’t ask questions.
And I don’t explain to Matthew what I’m up to; he knows better than
to ask.

The reception at Blue Station is as cold as I expect.
Faceless suits escort me down to their garden level (a repeated
ploy at this point, likely calculated to try to improve my mood)
and leave me waiting, promising to relay my request to meet with
the Council.

Paul gets a similar blow-off when he insists on
seeing his father: He’s told that the Council is in a “closed
meeting” and will summon him in due time to “debrief” him regarding
his mission to the crater. The concept of “in due time” for someone
who lives forever does not promise promptness.

Paul takes the opportunity to slip back to his suite
“to meditate”, letting me know he’ll speak with me again “later”. I
remember that he’d taken a sample of the Disc’s structural
material, and didn’t turn it over to any of his fellows when we
arrived. Confirming his intention, he briefly and discreetly shows
me the small sample container before he disappears into the lift. I
remember he has his own lab in his suite.

Once I’m alone, I quickly notice to some small
distress that my Link isn’t receiving this deep inside the Station.
Either they’d made some accommodation when I’ve been here before
that they’ve simply overlooked this time, or they’re purposefully
interfering with my communications.

I test the more disturbing possibility, and find that
the ETE don’t do anything to restrict my coming and going,
apparently as long as I keep to “familiar” areas—they otherwise
simply ignore me, and the hatches still open as I approach
them.

My signal returns as soon as I open the airlock out
to the pad where the Lancer waits. The environmental field is also
still in place, letting me cross to the ship unprotected. I let
Smith know my situation, and tell him to expect hourly check-ins
until I get a proper response from the Council. Then I take myself
back down to where they apparently want me waiting. Amusingly,
someone has thought to leave me a pot of hot tea and a tray of
assorted fresh produce.

After sitting for an hour sipping tea, snacking and
staring at the pretty plants, I go back topside to do my first
check-in with Smith and Link to Matthew for updates.

The news isn’t good: Richards has passed along a
direct order from the Security Council to excavate and secure the
Disc immediately, and bring it back to the base for study. They
apparently weren’t happy to hear that I had ordered it left alone
and flew off to chat with the ETE, but Matthew replied that I had
gone to “interrogate” them about the Disc because I felt they might
be hiding something, which is not a lie. He also tried to stall the
order by insisting whatever the intel the ETE might have would be
essential to know before attempting to move the Disc.

Richards called back within twenty minutes, not
commenting on my visit to the ETE, only repeating the order to
secure the Disc. Watching the recording, Richards is stone. It’s
clear he’s got pressure to get this done, and suddenly any concern
for our safety has lost priority.

Matthew sent back a stonewall, letting them know I
was “temporarily out of Link signal”. It’s been fifteen minutes
since he did so. No reply yet.

I told Matthew I’d check in again within the hour.
The tone of his voice let me know he had worries he didn’t want to
talk about over the Link, likely sharing my suspicion that
Earthside did know what we’d find in that crater before they sent
us digging.

I check in with Horst—nothing’s changed with the
Disc, it’s still mostly dead and no one’s gone near it, not even
Anton—and then I go back inside to wait out the ETE.

Another hour passes and I’m about to go up for
another check-in when Paul comes back, gestures for me to follow
him, and we go to the Council Avatar “meeting” chamber. He doesn’t
say a word to me, but has some hasty helmet-to-helmet words with
the sealsuit that’s been left minding the doors. Less than a minute
later, they let him go in. I get to sit and wait.

Forty five minutes.

I don’t want to go up to call out because I’m hoping
Paul will lever me in any moment now. But it drags.

I’m just about to give up and go make my call when
the doors do finally open, and Paul waves me in.

The hologram Avatars of the other Councils are
glowing in their respective colors in the cavernous blackness. (I
still wonder if they just like it that way or they turn down the
lights when I come in to look more intimidating, glowing in an
illusion of endless dark.) Mark Stilson in his blue stands solemnly
in the center of their light.

“Tell the Colonel what you have learned,” he tells
Paul like he’s talking to some school kid who’s just finished a
class project.

“The sample from the Disc hull is nano-grown,” Paul
tells me, and he would sound as officious as his dad but there’s a
burning frustration just under the surface. Apparently their chat
was not entirely civil. “It’s made of native elements. Matching the
sample with the larger scans I took of the machine’s structure, it
is very likely a seed-grown unit.”

“Which means what?” I ask the obvious question, but I
think I already understand.

“Each Disc starts out as a small ‘seed’ of
nano-machines that assemble the entire craft,” Paul explains. “The
nanites are not fully self-replicating, in that one nanite cannot
manufacture an entire Disc, no more than any cell of your own body
could re-grow you. But just as your body grew from a single embryo,
these machines grew from a single nano-cluster. That is why you
never found a factory or a manufacturer. There may be a small
‘mother’ system buried somewhere, mining the strata for the
necessary materials and then ‘conceiving’ the seeds of new units,
which then finish assembling on their own. This is likely how they
repair themselves and replenish their ammunition as well.”

“So there could be an indefinite number of these
things, growing somewhere underground?” I ask, not wanting to
consider the answer.

“The technology used has its own limits, Colonel,”
Council Green offers, though if it was meant as a comfort it
failed. “A new Disc won’t grow in a day. Given what we have
calculated based on time between attacks during the height of Disc
activity compared with how many you were able to destroy, it would
likely take months for each machine to complete itself. The mother
system may be equally limited.”