The God Mars Book One: CROATOAN (39 page)

I wonder if I could put up a fight, no longer in my
prime even without what fifty years of Hiber-sleep did to me. I
consider how I would go about it: with a skilled, strong, armed and
armored enemy in a tight space.

She doesn’t say a word. She just sits still as a
stone statue in my desk chair, which she’s turned to watch me as I
slept, becoming visible out of the darkness as the “environmental
lighting” simulates the coming of daylight inside a windowless
concrete bunker. The hatch to my quarters is closed and appears to
be locked normally behind her—she sits between me and the door.

As my eyes finally get focused through their
sleep-haze, I see my gun where I left it, sitting in its rig on the
shelf just over my head, in easy reach. She must be tracking my
gaze, because her hand comes up out of her red robes smoothly,
calmly, and she shows me she has the magazine. Then she tosses it
to me. I’m impressed that I catch it. It’s still loaded. I set it
up on the shelf next to the pistol.

“You could have killed me in my sleep,” I tell her
the obvious, hoping we have an understanding in stating that fact.
I can see her knives under her robes—she has at least four of them
strapped to the lacquered plate and underlying mail armor that
girds her lean body tightly from head to foot. All of her knives
are still sheathed. Her gloved hands rest passively on her
steel-plated thighs. “Unless you prefer to have me see it
coming.”

Her hands reach up then and unseal her mask. The
metal face-plate that covers the breathing gear reminds me of a
combination between a European knight’s visor and a Japanese
Samurai mempo. She peels it away and lets me see her: She is
young—maybe in her late twenties or early thirties. Her face is
lean, with somewhat oriental features. Her eyes are large and
black. I cannot see hair under her Nomad-style cowl, but she has
black, boyish eyebrows.

Her hands settle back on her thighs, and she just
continues to stare at me with what looks like idle curiosity.

“Is this a message from your master Farouk?” I try,
keeping my tone calm and level. But I really don’t feel any sense
of hostility from her.

She pulls a small black card from her robe and holds
it up so I can see. It’s a UNMAC-issue lock breaker—it looks like
the “covert” model issued to SOF units, which explains how she got
inside despite MAI being extra-vigilant for surprise visitors.

“A prize I took from a group of five men who
exchanged fire with my Sharif’s bodyguards,” she tells me, her
voice also calm and level. She speaks clearly, somewhat slowly,
with a subtle mixed accent. “They wore tribal cloaks and homemade
armor, but wore your uniforms underneath.”

“Where did this happen?” I keep focused on
business.

“One day’s walk from the Southeast Rim, near the
ruins of Freedom.” She puts the breaker card back where she got it,
pulls out a fairly standard flashcard, shows me a floorplan of this
base. “From the Shinkyo archives,” she explains more than one
mystery.

“Could they get in here as easily as you?” I wonder.
Her mouth grins just a bit in one corner, letting me know she’s at
least capable of feeling a little pride in her accomplishments. She
shakes her head.

“The Shinobi are slaves,” she tells me with a touch
of barely-veiled loathing. “They serve. They cannot adapt beyond
that.”

“And you?” I risk goading her a bit.

“I serve no one unless it serves me in what I seek,”
she tells me dully.

“And what do you seek?” I play. Her face goes dead
and doll-like again.

“I seek to be perfect.” She says it like a machine,
like I’m talking to MAI.

“An impossible quest,” I give her the obvious
again.

“It is the quest that is everything,” she tells me,
still mechanical, reciting a rote mantra. I smile and nod. Her eyes
regard me like they’re trying to decide something, but I still
don’t sense hostility.

“And how can I help you on that quest?”

“By being Mike Ram,” she answers, her eyebrows going
up just enough to soften her features slightly. “By not being
Farouk.”

“And what is Farouk to you?” I try.

“Not my master.” Her voice stays cool, but now she’s
not looking me in the eye. Her head rolls lazily to the side and I
can hear her breathe deep. She’s gone somewhere else. “No one is my
master. Farouk was convenient, useful for a time. He gave me
opportunities to perfect myself.”

“Against the PK?” I try. She gives a slight nod, her
eyes still idly elsewhere.

“Against the other tribes. Against their best.” The
little smile comes back for an instant, but then looks like she’s
been disappointed.

“Against the Shinkyo?” I press.

“Not to my satisfaction,” her head snaps back and her
eyes lock mine again, her voice betraying an edge of some deep
frustration, perhaps even pain.

“I will not go out of my way to make war with the
Shinkyo,” I tell her.

“I know,” she softens again, her eyes probing mine
again. “But they will make war with you. And you will meet them in
kind. You will meet them all in kind. You will have no other
choice. They will come against you. You will not back down.”

“A fair assessment,” I allow, “especially given that
we’ve only just met.”

“You serve something greater,” she tells me as easily
as she might tell me my eye color.

“Do I?” I raise my eyebrows at her.

“It is what you are.” Again, she does not make this
sound like any kind of praise, just like she’s stating simple,
obvious fact.

I shake my head. “I’m just an old man.”

“And you have been on the same path as I am now. I
have studied you for many years, learned from you without meeting
you.” Her flashcard spins through clips of mission files, public
appearances, even training videos from my UNACT days (and at least
one now-embarrassing clip of my impulsive use of a sword in
public).

I catch earnestness in her eyes, reaching out. She
has made herself both fan and student.

“And now you’ve laid eyes on the legend. I assume I
did not fully disappoint?”

She doesn’t answer. She tries to stay inside her
stoic, disciplined shell, but I can feel her discomfort:
confronting the fantasy.

“I have seen you both old and young,” she defends.
“You are still Mike Ram. You are still what you are.”

“I’m a tired old man on a bed, too rusted to notice
an assassin breaking into his bedroom,” I tell her levelly, even
though I’m probably taking my life in my hands.

She shakes her head, smiles with what may be genuine
warmth.

“You deny what you have
become
. Your body is
no longer young, you feel it is failing you, but it has taken you
where it has. My body will do the same in its time. But what you
are now is greater than what you were when your body was at its
prime. What you are now, you can master this world. You can make it
what it should be.”

I look in her eyes now and see age beyond her
physical years, and serenity—she isn’t flattering me: she
believes
in what she’s saying. (And she’s managed to touch
the issue at the core of my pervasive dread—that I need to somehow
fix this world before I dare bring Earth back to it—despite never
really meeting me before this.)

“I’m not even a part of this world,” I deny.

“Farouk’s words,” she tosses back at me. “You know
better. You are here when you are here. You are what you are. That
is all that matters.”

“And why are you here?” I confront her coolly.

“I am here because I believe we can serve each
other’s purpose. Because we each have a path. Not the same path,
but they travel together, at least for a time.” She measures out
each word like she’s rehearsed her lines.

“And how far will that be?”

She smiles. “We will both know when the time
comes.”

I give her a few moments of silence. She doesn’t move
to leave.

“What do I call you?” I ask her finally.

Her body settles back in the chair. Her eyes look far
away again.

“My grandfather was an engineer, from Baraka,” she
begins as if she’s remembering something uncomfortable. “The
Shinkyo Corporation had contracted him to help them establish their
colony’s resource-mining operations. He was still there when the
Apocalypse came, and he could not return home. So he stayed with
them, helped them rebuild what had been damaged in the bombing,
then helped them bury themselves and build their new
fortress-city.

“He was also a soldier, a warrior, and their warriors
initially embraced him. Their warriors taught him their sciences.
He even married one of them, and had a child. He made a life with
the Shinkyo, and he was happy. But when Hatsumi took Nawa’s seat as
Daimyo, the Shinkyo became intolerant, racist, trying to breed
purity. My grandmother was murdered by Hatsumi’s ‘police’ for
breeding with a ‘sand-dog.’ My grandfather took his daughter—my
mother—out into the desert, back to Baraka, but Baraka was gone. So
he used his skills and they made their lives in the desert, hiding
from the Shinkyo and the other human predators, and he raised my
mother to survive. He taught her what he knew, and then he taught
me in turn. But he also taught me I would have to teach myself, to
become greater, to walk the path. He wanted me to be greater than
the Shinkyo Shinobi, so that I would fear no other man, so that I
would survive. But I learned that the path is more important than
survival, more important than power. The path is what you
become
.”

I nod, letting her know I understand.

“What happened to your family?”

“My grandfather left us,” she says after a pause,
like she’s having trouble putting her story in words. “He said
there was a great evil in the land—something old and more dangerous
than even the Shinkyo, something that had been sleeping since the
Apocalypse, but was waking up again. He disguised my mother and I
as Uqba refugees, left us with Hassim’s father’s tribe. He said he
would return for us, but his path did not let him. Years later, my
mother was killed in the fighting against Farouk. I had no reason
to remain. My path took me back into the desert, to train, to test
myself. But alone, I was only scavenging, pitting myself against
scouts, not champions.”

“You joined Farouk’s band?” I ask her as
non-judgmentally as I can.

“The Nomads fight, compete for what little there
is—it is not important that my mother was killed by Farouk’s
warriors. It is simply the way it is, and I will not be possessed
by their endless blood-debt feuds. My mother died as a warrior
does.

“But Farouk is foolish, impulsive. And he was eager
to employ me, once I showed him how far my path had taken me. It
was easy to use him, since I do not care if he succeeds or fails,
lives or dies. In his service, I could train properly.”

“By fighting meaningless battles?” I criticize
objectively.

“Training needs experience. I have heard you speak of
Musashi, who wandered his country and fought sixty duels on his own
path to perfection. How many died for no other reason than to test
his skills?”

“He quit that path,” I remind her.

“When he was done with it,” she completes my
point.

“Are
you
done with it?” I ask her, locking her
eyes.

“I expect we both have more killing to do,” she
returns easily.

I nod solemnly.

“You still haven’t told me your name,” I remind
her.

“Do you accept me into your service?” she gets to
what she wants.

“Yes,” I answer impulsively, surprising myself.

She gives me a small, brief smile, almost looking
like a shy young girl, but just for an instant. Her hero has
accepted her.

“What do I call you?”

“To all others I am the Zauba’a Ghaddar. I will give
you my name, but it is only for you. No one else,” she says with
the nervous earnestness of a girl in love. I nod my agreement. She
looks down for a moment, as if deciding if she can trust me with
something precious. Then she smiles again, but there is pain behind
her smile. “My mother named me Sakina.”

“I’m glad to have met you, Sakina, even under such
odd circumstances,” I tell her gently. Then I smoothly shift myself
until my feet are under me, give her back her grin, which I realize
is
actually the nervous smile of a bizarre kind of
courtship. “Can I get you something? Coffee?”

“I would like that very much,” the lost little girl
inside the desert demon tells me.

“Holy shit…”

It’s about all Matthew can say as she hits us
again.

On the Link, I can hear Rios’ squad shouting,
cursing. ICWs bark, but they only spray rock. She’s gone like she
was never there. And two more of Rios’ men are “dead.”

Three seconds later, before Rios’ remaining soldiers
can even get their bearings, she’s on them again, and they never
saw her coming. On the Link feed I can just make out the blur of
her red cloak as I hear metal slam H-A laminate plating. Two armor
video feeds go static. Another is tumbling. There’s more ICW fire.
More shouting. Optical arrays scan the rocky terrain, and MAI tries
to lock them any kind of target. Fails.

“
Nobody’s
that fast…” Matthew grumbles to
himself as he watches the feed, refusing to believe what he’s
seeing. But he knows Rios—the Lieutenant is more than competent in
the field. Only she’s been eating him alive like he’s academy
green.

Dust from their own fire is reducing visibility, more
with every desperate spray they take at her. Rios shouts at them
again to discipline their fire, then tries to get what’s left of
his team regrouped, tries to get a clear field of fire around them
so she can’t jump them again. MAI is trying to give him tactical
solutions, trying to model how she may be using the terrain for
cover, trying to anticipate her next move. But MAI can’t find her
on sound, motion, heat or Terahertz scans, nor can the AI
extrapolate her attack pattern. She’s invisible. And she’s
unpredictable.