The God Mars Book One: CROATOAN (25 page)

The cloaks stop running one by one, begin to turn
back and stare up at the ship as if I’ve said something especially
shocking. I can see now that they wear a variety of masks, some
looking like they’ve been patched together out of assorted colony
and military gear. Their cloaks are in layers of different
materials, probably a mix to protect them from the cold and the
solar radiation, but also likely helping to mask them from our
imaging systems until they started running. The outermost layer is
a rust-red terrain camouflage pattern that could easily hide them
from the naked eye. Under their cloaks they do look like they’re
laden with scrap: metal plates arranged as primitive armor,
multiple packs and canisters and tools and other gear. Their
weapons look like they were manufactured from salvage: bows,
crossbows, javelins, short swords, axes, and even guns that look
like they were made from old plumbing parts.

“You seem to have gotten their attention,” Anton
assesses, sounding shaken

“At least you didn’t say ‘Resistance is futile,’” Tru
tries to joke.

“Uh, Colonel,” Smith calls back. Out on the horizon,
it looks like the hills themselves have come alive. A hundred or
more cloaked and armored shapes have appeared on the ridgeline,
maybe half a klick away. “You got
somebody’s
attention…”

Locking in on the center of them, the image shows one
figure standing tall, holding a pistol up over his head. He sets
the weapon down at his feet, then holds his open palm high.

“Now what?” Lisa wants to know.

“Is this even remotely wise?” Matthew presses me over
the Link as the Lancer does a lazy turn overhead and leaves me
standing alone in the middle of the open plain. Rusty cloaks
partially circle me at roughly two hundred meters away.

“I’ll let you know,” I tell him.

One solitary figure is walking towards me. His gait
betrays some age—he moves more heavily than the cloaks that ran
from us, all nimble and quick despite what must be forty or fifty
pounds of gear (and that much under Martian gravity, likely
doubling their body weight). Behind me, the Lancer touches down on
a rise some five hundred yards back. Paul is still standing on top
of the hull, but he’s put his Sphere back in its belt carrier.

The figure stops when it’s thirty yards from me,
repeats the gesture of raising and then setting down its pistol,
holds its open hands out, then slowly opens its over-cloak. It’s
wearing a kind of scale armor fashioned from what’s likely salvage
metal, but it’s well polished and cut, laced together artfully like
Samurai armor with some kind of synthetic cable. I can see that the
plate is dented and cut in several places, scars of old battles. He
turns to show me he has no visible weapons, only a set of pressure
canisters and a few canteens. Under the armor is what looks like an
old colony work suit in a sandy tan. His boots are wrapped in
layers of fabric, like bandages. His cloak is comprised of several
different layers of material that all appear selected for different
functions, different protections. He wears a thick knitted scarf
around his neck, and his headgear is a cowl and headband that looks
almost Bedouin, except it’s heavier and has a sort of face-flap.
There are metal plates in the headband. Underneath the cowl is a
well-worn pair of goggles and a breather mask. Around the seams I
can see he has long, graying hair and a full beard.

I turn around smoothly and show him I have brought
nothing but my LA uniform and my breathing gear. My holster is
empty. He comes closer.

“You invoke a powerful name, Unmaker,” he says almost
cheerfully, his voice gravelly but deep and harmonic, his English
only slightly stilted. “But you tell me a camp-tale.”

I take a deep breath, then pull off my cap, goggles
and mask, letting him see my face. Then I put them back on before I
need to breathe again. He seems stunned, confused. Then he pulls
off his own mask between breaths to show me his own face: he’s an
older man, olive skinned, broad features, strong nose, deep eyes,
thick brows. His skin looks like old leather. His eyes are dark
gray.

“My name is Abu Abbas,” he introduces himself.
“Sharif and Imam of my humble tribe. I was born in the ruins of
Baraka, raised by my father to live in the open desert. But I know
the name of Mike Ram. I have seen his face in the old video
records.
Your
face. Are you a ghost, then, Peacemaker? Or
has your Jinn made you a demon like he is?”

“Neither,” I let him know. “We have slept, buried,
under a slide. Our systems woke us when they could no longer keep
us in hibernation. This man…” I point back to Paul, “…came to us
and offered his help. He told us some of what had happened while we
slept. He told us we would meet you. I’m sorry it had to be like
this.”

“As am I,” he says with what sounds like honest
regret. “But I would warn you not to trust the Jinn, or what he has
told you.”

“The ETE provide you air, water, fuel,” I try.

“They do God’s will because even demons fear God,” he
tells me seriously. “But they are still demons, abominations fallen
from God’s path.”

“And I’m an Unmaker.”

“You are Mike Ram,” he corrects me like I’ve
forgotten something basic. “I know the tales: You defied the
Unmakers before they rained nuclear fire on us all. You tried to
make peace between all God’s peoples on this world, just as you
tried to make peace on the warm, wet world of our ancestors. You
stand for right even when your masters do not. And this is why I am
standing here. That, and you did not shoot us down with your
aircraft when you could, even though we attacked you—and that is
more proof than your name or your face.”

“Life is too precious on this planet,” I tell him.
“’To murder one man is to murder all men.’”

He smiles at the quote. “You know The Quran. I have
heard this about Mike Ram as well: He fights in the Terror War on
the side of the Crusader, but he respects Islam. He dares to stand
for his enemy even against his own leaders when his leaders do
evil. He is truly the Prodigal Son, lost for a time to the
unbelievers and their sins, but he will certainly return to God.”
He steps forward and clamps a hand on my shoulder like an old
friend, long parted. “And now, here you are.”

“I need your help,” I give him. “Even if we did not
wake up, Earth—the Unmakers—will be returning soon. Paul—the ETE
with us—has told me of the fear of Earth and of what they may do
when they come, and I agree with him. We need to be united when
they come, not fighting like animals, not afraid of each
other.”

“And then you will stand again to defend your enemies
against your leaders,” Abbas is grinning under his mask. “I would
not believe such a thing out of the mouth of any other man, but you
appear to live up to your tales. Unfortunately, I can only discuss
the terms of a treaty with my own small tribe. There are
others.”

“And what terms would you ask?”

“We should discuss this in a more comfortable place,
if you are willing to trust me enough to accept my
hospitality.”

“I trust your hospitality because I trust you are a
man of faith,” I let him know I expect Muslim values to be the same
on this planet as on Earth. He smiles warmly, gestures for me to
walk with him.

“Not remotely wise at all…” Matthew is grousing in my
ear.

It takes us half-an-hour to walk overland. Abbas asks
me if I need to recharge my oxygen cylinders, and offers me spares.
I order the Lancer to stay back. The first ASV made it back to
base, offloaded our wounded, refueled and reloaded, and is
returning to the tap-site. There’s no word yet on the condition of
Carver and the other wounded troopers.

“A more comfortable place” is a large camp of
portable shelters—inflatable squat cylinders each as big as a
four-man tent—all painted and covered up by camouflage netting to
make them fade into the Martian terrain. I can only see the
sentries when we pass within a few meters of them.

Most of Abbas’ visible soldiers carry a wide variety
of improvised weapons, including ingenious multi-shot crossbows and
what look like gas-fired spear guns, but a few have light assault
weapons likely left over from colony security. Abbas himself is
proud to show me his own pistol when he retrieves it: a heavy
stainless Smith and Wesson revolver he says was acquired by his
father during a skirmish with the “wild people” who hold the
Tranquility ruin. The pistol, in turn, was said to be a trophy
taken by the locals from a group of “hunters” apparently brave
enough to prey them. The gun, though more than half-a-century old,
is still in almost-pristine condition.

Abbas leads me to one of the larger shelter bubbles,
his cloaked men keeping both silence and a respectful distance.
Each shelter has a small antechamber airlock, all made of airtight
fabric. There’s barely enough room for the two of us in the lock at
a time. He seals the flaps behind us, re-pressurizes the lock
manually with a portable compressor, then takes off his mask,
gesturing for me to do the same. The air smells like plastic and
sweat and rust, but it is breathable, and the pressure is
comfortable.

Inside the shelter’s main space are a number of bed
rolls, and a small shelf cut from Martian stone that supports a
prominently displayed Quran. There are a handful of rolled prayer
rugs with it—the same number as the bedrolls, giving an idea of the
size of Abbas’ family unit. An electric cooking stove that also
serves as a space heater is in one corner, along with a small
selection of cookware, cups, plates and utensils that look
handmade. The shelter’s air processor is also busy recharging
half-a-dozen spare O2 tanks, with maybe three times that many more
stacked ready for use. There are a few five gallon water cans, and
a portable “bag” shower and latrine that look like they date from
the first astronauts. There are spare blankets and clothing, all
neatly stored. Otherwise, personal possessions are few.

His men have waited outside except for one, who comes
in behind us and stands quietly by the entry flaps. There are two
women already in the shelter, small and frail of build, wearing
hooded cloaks with work-grays underneath. A scarf hides the lower
half of their faces, but they have dark, long features. They sit
quietly on the floor by the air processor, their eyes watching me
like a caged predator’s.

“Yes, Colonel,” Abbas explains, “we have returned to
the old traditional practice of covering our women from non-family
eyes to make them less tempting to raiders. But they defend the
camps as well as any of us, and they carry their share of the
weight. Would you like some tea?”

“Yes, thank you.”

The man who came in behind us has removed his cowl
and goes to a kettle on the cook stove. I am admittedly surprised
to see that he is pale and fair-haired, boyish—perhaps fifteen or
sixteen.

“My adopted son,” Abbas introduces, “who I call
Ishmael who was spared by the mercy of God. His former name was
Jonathan Drake, which he keeps in honor of his parents. They were
driven out of Tranquility when he was a small boy. They came west
and eventually settled with a group of Zodangan refugees. They were
killed by the Air Pirates when he was twelve.”

“’Air Pirates’?”

“The descendants of the engineers from Zodanga. They
turned their talents to building crafty flyers, some quite large
and well armed. They use the sky as an advantage to raid vulnerable
tribes. They moved up into the cliffs and built fortresses out of
everyone else’s reach, leaving behind those that would not prey on
other men to make do in the ruins of the old colony site. When
those left behind prospered, their former brothers returned to prey
on them, wiping them out. They now control the shadow of the
Northeast Rim and most of the Candor Gap, but sometimes go further
in search of Sky Drops or easy victims. The Air Pirates are our
enemies, Colonel, so we could do nothing else but come to the aid
of the Zodangan cast-offs when the pirates attacked them. Still,
there was little we could do—the pirates are swift and merciless. I
found my Ishmael fighting for his life, covered in his own blood
and that of his parents, as well as the blood of quite a few
pirates. I could not bring myself to leave him there—my own son had
been killed by the pirates only the year before.”

And I feel my stomach sink. When Paul mentioned the
Zodanga survivors, he made them sound like an insignificant threat,
a small band of raiders that his people had never seen and barely
heard of. Are the ETE that oblivious? Or are they that unconcerned
with the fate of “Naturals”?

The youth brings us each a steaming cup, which smells
earthy. His eyes are blue, but not as cold as I would have
imagined, given the history Abbas has just told.

“He has not become dead to life, like so many have,”
Abbas affirms. “And he reminds me why we must live, because with
every passing year, with every new generation, this once-dead
planet offers us more. God is great.”

Jon turns away, quietly embarrassed, to get his own
tea.

“The plant is from the east,” Abbas explains as I
sip. Its mellow, grainy flavor reminds me of barley or brown-rice
teas. “Spread from Tranquility. They say the desert becomes a
jungle if you go far enough eastward.”

“But you prefer the desert?” I ask him.

“Easier to see your enemy coming, and less tempting
for him to come looking for you,” he explains. “We know this
valley, and keep it for our children, God willing. My men were
keeping watch on the tap-well, defending it from our enemies,
keeping it safe for the stray refugee.”

“And men with airships and guns are easily taken for
enemies?” I allow him.

“It is more than that, Colonel,” he becomes deadly
serious, “just as it was not the fear of Earthmen that made them
fire on you. You see, there is only
one
tribe we know of
that maintains their guns so well, and wear the same red uniforms
and shell-armor that you do. But
they
never leave their
Keeps.”