The God Mars Book Two: Lost Worlds (43 page)

In ten minutes, Richards comes in on an encrypted
flash.

“Doctor Stilson, I’d like to take my opportunity—any
doubts and questions aside—to simply thank you and your people
personally, not only for the intelligence you have provided, but
for your ongoing support of our people on planet. Beyond that, I’m
afraid I can’t speak to policy without specific direction from the
United Nations.

“Colonel Ram, if this intelligence is accurate, it
only further validates your recent command decisions. Please know
that I do respect you as a leader of men, with field experience
beyond what even I can imagine. I salute you and your brave people.
I expect you will be facing even more trying times—I hope I am
mistaken. God be with you. End transmission.”

In my head, I hear Matthew say something rude and
much needed.

I catch Tru rolling her eyes. The look I get from
Sutter is more telling: I read a flash of incredulity, only
suppressed by his discipline—I expect he’s questioning the quality
of our once-mutual leaders.

Thirty minutes later, we get Secretary General
Satrapi.

“Speaking on behalf of the people of Earth, I would
like to thank Dr. Stilson for his presentation, knowing that my
gratitude is poor payment for everything that he and his people
have apparently done and sacrificed on our behalf.

“Out of appreciation for that, Dr. Stilson, I will
forgo ritual diplomacy, and let you know that you have not judged
us completely unfairly. There is indeed a lot of doubt from many
directions about the veracity of what you have presented to us, so
please do not be offended if we ask that Colonel Ram sends
observers to confirm your reports. There is much about what has
happened on Mars during our regrettable absence that has caused us
confusion, doubt, sorrow and fear. I hope our future dealings with
you will serve to build trust. And be assured, no one in any
position of policy-making authority has accused you or your people
of mass murder…”

There is just too much to read into the words that
she—or her speech writer—has carefully chosen, as well as the words
she has carefully avoided. I expect Stilson’s fears were more than
accurate. I expect his people are being called all manner of
monsters in less diplomatic forums. And I expect the Earthside
leaders are too afraid of what the ETE might do if they were
directly challenged. (I’ve heard too many statements like this
tossed back and forth between the leaders of enemy nations that
would eagerly go to war but fear unacceptable losses; so they deny,
they smile, they play the polite rituals.)

(And I am yet again doubting I should sit in command
with such poor trust in my leadership. I remind myself I’ve been in
worse situations. Here, I only have vague doubt, however
persistent. And my fear of the worst. Sign I’m becoming unfit?
Slipping into paranoia? Senility?)

“Our best people are aggressively analyzing what
you’ve sent us. Rest assured that all of humanity is mobilizing to
provide you all with support, and—God willing—adequate defense. We
all pray that God watches over you and protects you until that help
can reach you. God bless you all.”

I get variations of the same uneasy look from Tru,
Anton, Halley and Rick. Exactly what kind of “support” and
“defense” the entire population is supposedly “mobilizing” to
provide us was too intentionally vague not to spur the imagination
into bad places. (But then again: Satrapi probably didn’t want to
risk giving details in a transmission that could potentially be
heard by the opposition.)

The Stilsons are still as statues (though Paul looks
like he wants to scream).

Sutter looks like a soldier who’s been given bad
orders. He looks shocked, dismayed, no matter how much he tries to
maintain his professional stoicism.

“Dr. Stilson, if you’d like to stretch, I’ll give you
a tour of our greenhouses,” Tru offers, breaking the tension, “let
your see how those plants samples you gave us are coming.”

“I would like that,” Stilson agrees, forcing a polite
smile over what I read as suppressed disappointment.

I notice Paul doesn’t get up as his father leaves
with Tru. Mark Stilson seems not to notice that his son fails to
follow them out.

“There is more that we need to discuss in a less
public forum,” Paul lets me know.

I look around the room: Rick, Anton and Halley have
not budged. Kastl looks uncomfortable, wondering if he should step
out. But Paul seems content to speak in front of them.

“We didn’t find Brimstone while we were digging
through the Zodangan cave network, but we did find Sakura’s
men.”

He flashes us images of two recovered bodies, covered
in dirt, shinobi sealsuits shredded by explosive force. Both have
limbs missing.

“The good news is that we found no sign of nanotech
implantation in these two, but their uniforms and weapons show
significant materials advancements as compared to the previous
ninjas we’ve encountered. The outer fabric has integrated optical
camouflage, similar to FOLED technology, that projects images onto
opposite sides of the skin with matching visible light output,
creating an impressive functional invisibility illusion. Their
swords and projectile weapons were capable of cutting at a
molecular
level—a less-armored body would have been easily
penetrated and cleaved through. The materials also have an organic
component, likely designed to defeat our selective disintegration
fields.”

“Their new toys aren’t just for fighting Chang,” I
follow.

“I’m sure they still see us as an enemy, or at least
a competitor to steal from,” he lets me know what his people have
been considering. “I expect their intent will be proven by action
soon enough.”

Then he shows us new images. I recognize the twisted
metal “statue”, headless and almost torn in half, freshly dug out
of the caves.

“This is the most disturbing thing, what we really
didn’t want to show everyone back on Earth. Sakura’s ‘Tetsu’. He
has
been spliced with nanotech—probably something urgently
reverse-engineered from what they may have stolen from us in
previous encounters. The nanites were apparently programmed to
replace his dermis and skeleton with metal alloy. His ‘skin’ was
almost completely replaced by multiple layers of nano-scale
‘tiles’—that’s the only reason he could still flex his limbs. His
muscles and tendons had been reinforced by aggressive rebuilders to
produce the strength and tolerate the strain required to move his
increased mass.”

“How did he
survive
?” Halley doesn’t
believe.

“He wouldn’t have,” Paul lets us know, his voice
edged with contempt. “The process was killing him, and it was
irreversible once a critical percentage of his skin had been
converted. And it was probably unimaginably painful.”

“Another sacrifice for the good of the Shinkyo,” I
grumble.

“You think they’re infecting more of their people?”
Anton wants to know.

“This may have been something they rushed before they
were ready,” Paul almost hopes.

“Chang’s attacks may have driven them to take a risk
with a test subject,” Sutter agrees.

“Maybe they didn’t intend for it to go this bad,”
Halley tries.

“We know they’ll sacrifice their own readily enough,”
Rick condemns. “Turning someone’s skin and bones into metal… They
had to know the outcome would be lethal.”

“Still, this could just have been an early
‘prototype’,” Anton considers. “I’d certainly want to do better
than making a single-use super-soldier.”

Sutter nods thoughtfully. Halley looks ill.

“They’ll certainly be trying to refine the
technology,” I sum. “I expect we’ll see other ‘test subjects’ soon
enough.”

“I’m feeding you our analysis,” Paul gives. “We’ll
provide you the body if you need it. Send the data to your
Earthside resources.”

“We appreciate the intel, but are you sure you want
to give them something else to be scared of?” I offer him the out.
“You could have kept this to yourselves, tried to deal with it
discreetly.”

“We could have. But I think it’s more important that
they know what they’re facing,” he insists.

And who. It may shift Earthside’s fear—however
partially—from the ETE to the Shinkyo.

We catch up with Tru and Paul’s father out in the
greenhouse. It’s become a verdant place, with over a dozen thriving
species, some aggressively climbing the internal structures to
compete for sunlight. I am unfortunately reminded of the
Tranquility dome: my imagination flashes wild people—ragged
children with homemade knives and spears—bounding through the
green.

It’s warm and humid in here, and the light is like
perpetual sunset (or sunrise?) on Earth, somewhere tropical.

Mark Stilson still has his helmet off but has put his
gloves back on. He accepts a plump hybrid strawberry from one of
Tru’s almost star-struck young gardeners, and tentatively tastes
it. He reminds me of a visiting dignitary, graciously but warily
accepting the local hospitality, not wanting to be seen as rude,
hoping what he’s been given will not be unbearable to his foreign
tastes (despite having these very plants in his own gardens). He
chews, swallows, smiles, tells her it’s very good, thank you, and
sounds like he means it.

“This should be a hopeful moment,” I tell Paul
quietly, “one more step to a better future. But all I can think
about is how fragile that plexi ceiling is, and how many more
monsters we keep finding out there on the other side of it.”

He looks sad, and I regret saying it. I feel like
I’ve told him his people have failed, that their simple ideal—that
everyone should have air and water and fuel and be allowed to
develop as they please—has created those monsters. But then he
takes a hard breath and admits:

“I was thinking the same thing… We could still move
your people into the protection of our Stations. Or establish a
presence here, protect you until you can get relief or
evacuation.”

“I doubt Earthside would accept either offer.”

“I think my father hoped coming here would make a
start at changing that.”

I don’t say anything further to discourage his faith,
but the look in his eyes is less than hopeful.

They stay for lunch—all fresh and carefully prepared
from our gardens—and demonstrate that they are not averse to eating
with us, to eating our food, however sparsely and selectively they
nibble at it. (I still have so many questions about their dietary
habits, even after staying with them:
Are
they vulnerable to
what they might accidentally ingest? Do they simply process food
differently? Or do they sustain themselves in some other way?
Perhaps food and drink are simply aesthetic enjoyments, no longer
necessary for survival. Or maybe their longevity has made them slow
down and enjoy the subtlety of the experience.)

We say our goodbyes, express our mutual respect and
gratitude, and the Stilsons head back to their waiting ship.

Which is when we get a message from UNCORT.

“Colonel Ram, please pass along our gratitude to Dr.
Stilson for the valuable data he has provided,” Chandry oozes—as
usual sounding very much the creepy serial villain. “However, in
light of these increased threats, we must repeat our insistence
that the ETE immediately turn over to us
all
of their
research and technology. I am afraid this is not negotiable. The
danger to the people on the surface, to the incoming relief
efforts, potentially even to
this
planet in turn, is just
too great for them to continue to withhold vital information and
resources. Their cooperation in this will be the truest test of
their faith and intent. We eagerly await their response. May God
protect you all.”

The Stilsons’ ship is hovering up off the pad, but
has not otherwise moved. I have no doubt that the ETE intercepted
and decrypted the message as it came in, but I send it to the ETE’s
channel myself, unedited and without comment.

I get no reply. Their ship turns slowly and flies
away.

I hope my next piece of pressing business will yield
more promising results.

I mask up and head outside, cross the compound to our
“POW camp”, and cycle through one of the shelter airlocks. Rios is
waiting for me, a team of his H-A suits serving as “crowd control”
just in case the little piece of educational television I had
flashed live to each of the holding areas resulted in violence.

So Rios doesn’t have to give me a recap in front of
our audience, I took the time to review the video feed from the
shelters as our prisoners watched what the Stilsons had shown us. I
looked again for pain, grief, shock, rage, horror, regret. Maybe
recognition, especially when the video zooms in close enough to
identify some of the bodies.

But they sat quiet. Mostly quiet. There were some
rumblings, a gasp or two, and some heads turned away from the
screens, one or two harsh looks to maintain discipline from the
apparent leaders (or at least enforcers) of each faction. So I
replayed and zoomed and searched their eyes, sampling their faces,
looking for humanity. Empathy. Anything.

Straker. I think I saw her shudder once or twice at
the mass graves at Frontier. I think I felt her get angry, stuff it
down. She chewed her lip, made herself go stony. Stared at nothing
for the rest of the play.

On purpose, it’s her shelter I visit first. She’s
trying to sit nondescript with her fellows—we’ve intentionally
separated the PK from the Zodangans since the last of them have
been discharged from Doc Halley’s care. They look healthier,
rested, better fed and hydrated, but they still keep to seething
silence except when they’re sleeping.

I’ve stopped in to try to talk to Straker a few times
in the last two months, but it’s been all me talking at her,
offering non-critical news, bits of small talk. She barely gives
more than a formal greeting. Good soldier.