The God Mars Book One: CROATOAN (23 page)

Paul takes the controls from Smith (who seems to have
reluctantly come to accept his role as “figurehead” pilot) and aims
the Lancer toward one of the four landing platforms that project
from the base of the tower-cluster. He chooses one of the two which
connect directly to the massive block of the Operations
Complex.

“We haven’t used these in almost fifty years,” Paul
muses, as the Lancer’s jets blow dust and sand off the small-craft
landing pad.

“You don’t have aircraft?” I pry.

“A few,” he easily keeps it vague, “but we have no
reason to use them since we reduced our contacts with the survivor
factions. As I said, my interest in exploration is not something
that’s encouraged by our Elders. And using aircraft to travel would
unwanted attention.”

“Like we are?” I hit on the obvious concern.

“I assumed you
intend
to draw attention.”

“So how
do
you get around, when need or hobby
requires?” I pry again.

“I like walking,” he specifically avoids
universalizing. “I find it soothing.”

Touch-down ends our conversation. The ship’s engines
spin down smoothly, and then our dust begins to settle. But after a
few long, tense minutes, there is still no response from the
Station. It could be very convincingly deserted.

“No one to greet us?” Anton finally asks.

“Masks,” Paul only reminds us, and we unbuckle and
head for the forward lock, following his quiet lead.

“No pressure suits?” Lisa wonders. The gauges tell us
the atmospheric pressure is 0.18 of Earth Sea Level, which would be
like stepping out of an aircraft flying up over fifty or sixty
thousand feet. An oxygen mask would help, but the pressure would be
at least debilitating, even for a short exposure, and potentially
lethal if it goes longer.

“I can maintain a localized pressure field,” Paul
tells her. “It’s how we work outside the Stations and travel on the
surface—our Spheres make ‘shelter.’” He unhooks one of the metallic
balls from his belt. “Unless you’d prefer suiting up?”

“No weapons?” Lisa confirms one last time.

“They wouldn’t do any good anyway,” I admit, and seal
the lock behind us, leaving Wilson with the ship.

The lock pressure-balances quickly once Paul lets us
know he’s prepared a ‘transfer field’ for us with his Sphere. It’s
still a noticeable drop—my ears pop painfully—but it’s nowhere near
as bad as it should be. The lower hatch unseals, becoming a lift
platform to lower us down into the open air and onto the landing
deck beneath the ship. I can see some kind of energy field ripple
around us as wind blows grit into it.

Despite Paul’s efforts, I quickly feel light-headed
despite my mask. Paul notes our apparent discomfort: he squints,
seems to refocus his concentration, and the field stabilizes. My
ears pop again, but I start feeling better. I understand why the
Stations are out of reach of the surface people, even as the
atmosphere has thickened. Hiking up here in a heated pressure suit
lugging enough bottled oxygen for the trip would make climbing
Everest seem like an idle pastime.

It is very cold, despite being late morning. The icy
air is cutting through my LA’s, and the skin of my face feels like
it’s freeze-burning where it’s exposed around the edges of my mask
and goggles. My uniform gear tells me it’s thirty below, even
inside the energy field. But within seconds, the air feels warmer.
It’s now clear why Paul describes what his Spheres can do as making
shelter, even if there are no visible barriers.

I see a set of big bay doors just off the pad we’ve
landed on: likely hangars for the aircraft the ETE may have, or
receiving and cargo bays from pre-Apocalypse times. There is also a
telescoping airlock tunnel at each pad to meet arriving ships, but
they remain fully retracted. I hear nothing but the wind and the
steady rushing sounds as the Station pumps out gasses and water. It
could be running on automatic, abandoned.

We follow Paul as he steps up to a heavy airlock
hatch that looks like it was designed to let work crews in and out
of the Ops Complex. It unseals at his approach (by someone waiting
inside, automatically or by force of will I can’t tell), and he
leads us in. It cycles behind us, takes a few moments to raise the
pressure, and Paul puts his Sphere away. I immediately notice a
sterile plastic smell, mixed with ozone. The inner hatch opens, and
Paul brings us down a corridor that looks very much like we’re back
inside our own base. We seem to be heading past Ops and under the
towers. Then another hatch opens as we approach, and we step into a
much
larger space.

I estimate we are in some kind of buffer layer
between the external shield walls and the mass of the deep-cutting
processors under the towers. I’m reminded of a power plant back
home: big space, big machinery, lots of noise. I smell a mixture of
stale and industrial, electricity and oil and metal. And it’s warm
and humid—either the ETE like things tropical, or the tower
processors are just radiating that much heat despite their
shielding (and some of the freed water must be leaking into the air
as steam).

Still, we don’t see another living soul.

Paul leads us to a lift-shaft, and we take a fast
drop down what seems like a few hundred feet—down into the slopes
of the Melas Northeast Rim. The lift stops smoothly and opens onto
another, larger chamber, this one dark and echoing like an aircraft
hangar. The noise of the processors is a dull drone that sounds far
away. I realize uncomfortably how far we must be from our ship. I
check my Link—the signal is almost non-existent. I doubt we could
get an intelligible call out.

“
Really
no one to meet us…” I hear Anton
grouse nervously, opening his jacket.

Light answers him—the white blaze of a spotlight-like
beam burning in a column in the center of the chamber. By the time
my eyes adjust, there are shimmering figures standing in the light.
ETE sealsuits. I count nine, each a different color: red, green,
yellow, orange, violet, indigo, turquoise, white, and gray. They
just stand in the light, faceless in their identical chrome
helmets. Then a tenth member—dressed in Paul’s blue—steps through
the center of the light, his passing causing the images of the
other nine to ripple.

“Avatars,” Anton whispers what’s apparent.
“Holograms.”

“Very theatrical,” I say to them evenly, stepping
forward toward the light. I can feel Paul tense behind me. The one
solid and nine holographic figures do not respond. “Though I do
appreciate your willingness to meet with me.”

The light shifts, spreads. The figures fan out,
sliding around us in a semi-circle like ghosts.

“I am Colonel Michael Ram, Acting Commander of the
UNMAC Installation Melas Two,” I try again. “This is Lieutenant
Colonel Lisa Ava, my Base Operations Commander; Doctor Anton
Staley, my Chief of Technical Sciences; and Truganini Greenlove,
representative of our civilian population.”

“We know who you are,” the blue suit says dully.

“And you know why I’ve come,” I conclude, matching
his lazy smugness.

Ten expressionless masks leave us stewing in silence
for several long moments. My team takes my lead in waiting them
out.

“Forgive us, Colonel,” White Suit finally says,
though his tone is just as flat as Blue’s was. “It has been almost
thirty years since we have seen…
age
…so close,” Then he nods
toward Tru. “Or disability.”

Tru shifts on her prosthesis, like she’s posturing
for a fight.

“We had forgotten their beauty,” Green quickly adds.
“The fragility and impermanence of life is what makes it so
precious.”

I still have no sense that this is any kind of
compliment.

(I’m also almost instantly struck by another
implication of their statement: According to Paul, they’ve
supposedly been keeping watch over the survivor tribes. They would
certainly see age, injury, illness. So either they’re lying to
politely cover their discomfort with our “natural” state, or they
haven’t actually been doing any observing for—as White
implied—thirty years.)

“What else have you forgotten?” I redirect
coolly.

“Specify,” Red plays in, sounding like he’s talking
to a child.

“Have you forgotten your mission?” I ask them, calm
accusation. I feel Paul shift uncomfortably as he stands just
behind me.

“Why do you say this?” Gray responds, defensiveness
leaking through his calm superior façade.

“Have you come to be insolent with us, Colonel Ram?”
Blue quickly interrupts, taking the lead in his home Station, all
irritated arrogance.

“You know why we’ve come,” I repeat. “And you knew we
would, as soon as we had the means to get here. So why the games?
Ignoring us, pretending our presence on-planet is
insignificant.”

“Keeping us sleeping for fifty years,” Tru blurts
out. I don’t move to censor her.

“This audience is a courtesy,” White answers coolly.
“We do not
need
to hear you out. We do not need to speak to
you at all.”

“No, you don’t,” I allow him. “But then you would be
forgetting your mission.”

“Why do you say this?” Gray repeats, his tone trying
to maintain.

“Because you know what’s going to happen,” I tell
them coldly. “Earth will come back to Mars, regardless of whether
or not we manage to call them. And they will come afraid. Afraid of
contamination. Afraid of the Discs. And—I’m sure this is no
shock—afraid of you.” I pause for a breath to let that sink in
before I take it further, but they remain expressionless statues in
the light. “Because of those fears, they’ll very probably try to
destroy what you’ve worked so hard to create here. No matter your
motives or ideals, you know they will immediately seek to control
your technology; take it away from you, maybe even stop your work
entirely. You also know they will certainly resort to violence if
you resist. And despite your superior technology—your defensive
‘tools’—lives will be lost, precious resources destroyed.”

“Then why should we have
anything
to do with
you?” Blue asks directly, trying to keep his temper. “You represent
those that will bring death and destruction to this planet.
Again.”

“
I
do not wish to bring death or destruction,”
I tell him. “But I won’t be able to prevent it. Not without your
help.”

“You expect us to simply turn our technology over to
you?” Red assumes incredulously.

“No, I don’t,” I tell him directly. “I understand
your reasons for not trusting others with your technology,
especially those who would likely apply it to military purposes.
But Earthside Command will certainly make this demand as soon as
they learn what you have. In the interim, I expect you understand
my duty to do my best to acquire resources and intelligence, even
from an ally.”

“You are unexpectedly candid for a soldier, Colonel,”
Green praises cautiously.

“How long have we avoided this conversation?” I
counter.

“Decades, if you are assuming we kept you in
hibernation for that reason,” Blue is surprisingly candid
himself.

“Did you?” Tru confronts again.

Blue actually seems to soften, steps closer.

“If you do manage to get to know us better, you will
find that we are scientists, not tacticians,” he tries to explain.
“Please do not be offended if I simplify the issue by saying we did
not adequately prioritize you. But we did not know how to best
address the situation, and had many more pressing issues in the
interim.”

“You didn’t know what to do with us?” Lisa translates
testily. “So you left us stuck in our couches until you could get
around to making a decision?”

“It was more a matter of timing,” Green tries to
soothe. “Please understand: The potential for
catastrophe—atrocity—if you spurred contact with Earth in those
early years, was just too frightening to risk. Once we had the
luxury of longevity, we hoped that we would see a time when Earth
evolved to be more…
approachable
.”

“We simply chose to give you a similar longevity to
await that time as well,” White tries.

“
You
chose?” Tru begins to lose composure.
“How could you believe you had the right?”

“The alternative was to let you awake and
de-stabilize the delicate and evolving dynamics of the survivors,
survivors who still wish to avoid Earth’s eyes at all cost,” Red is
more direct. “And if you failed to contact Earth, or if Earth—at
the height of their Quarantine fervor—refused to risk rescue, you
would have found yourselves marooned here indefinitely. You would
either have fallen into violent competition with the survivor
tribes as they coveted your resources, or—as those resources began
to fail—you would be absorbed into their numbers, assuming any of
you survived. In any case, the risk was unacceptable. The sudden
influx of your weapons alone… Many would have died.”

“And that won’t happen now?” Lisa doubts.

“It may well still happen, but we no longer have the
option,” Green admits. “Your sleep could not be extended further
without endangering your lives. At least now the survivor tribes
have evolved into stability, and terraforming has improved their
environmental resources, reducing their vulnerability as well as
the need for violent competition.”

“But there will still be unnecessary violence,” Paul
speaks up. “The tribes will fear them. Or attempt to take what they
have.”

“Very likely,” Blue admits like this is
unimportant.

“You are part of the dynamic of this world now,” Red
insists. “You will have to assimilate, find your balance.”

“And Earth will return eventually, even if we fail to
call out,” I go back to my point. “What will
they
do to your
precious dynamic? They’ll bring guns, aircraft, missiles, orbital
weapons. They’ll try to ‘save’ the survivors, contain and relocate
them. Examine them. Study them. If the tribes resist, they’ll be
‘helped’ by force. So will you actively resist them? How do you
expect that will go? And how do you think the survivors will fare
if there’s a fight between you and Earth?”