The God Mars Book One: CROATOAN (41 page)

Kastl calls me in the middle of dinner—a meal that’s
gotten significantly more palatable with the “native” foods Abbas
has been trading for survival gear, including nutty breads made
from “grain-grass” and “sweet-root” and heirloom yeasts carefully
cultured from colony days—to tell me that Zauba’a has come back.
This time she’s just walked up to our perimeter like it’s home,
leapt the south battery wall with her usual ease, then waited for
entry approval at the nearest airlock.

I don’t go down to meet her. I just tell Kastl to let
her in, curious to see how she’ll respond if it appears I wasn’t
concerned with her absence. She heads straight to “our” room. I
take my time finishing my tea, then go back to my quarters.

What strikes me first when I let myself in is that
her armor is laid out very neatly on my bed. She’d spent the last
night with me (to the clearly communicated distress of my entire
command team) sleeping on her bedroll on my narrow floor (after
declining my offer of a contour-foam mattress). She kept her armor
on at all times. Then I hear my shower running—a low trickle.

She hasn’t bothered to close the stall. Nor does she
take particular notice of my coming in. She seems completely
enthralled by the water as it falls over her back and shoulders.
She dips her head under now and then, blowing water away from her
nose and mouth as she does. Long, straight, dark hair runs halfway
down her back.

Her body is lean like a runner’s, but well-toned like
she’s been weight-training as well—I remember what Halley said
about a gymnast’s body. But her proportions are unusual: her legs
are long as compared to her torso, her shoulders and ribcage
somewhat wider than normal. I’m imagining what growing up in thin
air, breathing through a mask, would do over a lifetime. Then I
find myself reminded of what and an old-style Barbie Doll looked
like, but the degree of muscle definition she has quickly pushes
that image back out of my head.

Now I’m looking her over for scars. I don’t see
anything apparent. Her skin is clear, an even light tan. Her arms
and legs lightly furred with black hair—it strikes me as obvious
that she wouldn’t concern herself with cosmetic grooming, even if
“Martian” women had access to shaving or depilating treatments.

She has a natural beauty that makes me forget modesty
and keeps me looking at her, even though I’m surprised to find that
I’m not automatically thinking of her sexually. (I idly wonder if
my drives have succumbed to age, or if her possible fixation on me
as a replacement father figure has awoken some innate but
long-suppressed parental instinct.)

She turns off the water, runs her hair back with her
hands to get it out of her face, and turns to face me, letting me
know that modesty doesn’t seem to be a concern.

“Bathing is a spiritual necessity for both the
Shinkyo and the Nomads,” she tells me casually, like she hasn’t
just disappeared for a day without explanation. “But a shower is
still a luxury. I did not mean to transgress.”

I realize she’d been running the water sparingly as a
habit of conservation. I give her an easy smile (trying not to look
like I’m gawking at her) and get her a towel from the cabinet. I
realize my hand is shaking very slightly as I do so. She smells
clean, but very natural, not masked by perfumes or chemicals. I
suddenly feel my drives coming back, and step away from her as
gracefully as I can.

She towels off roughly, then slides past me to start
putting her armor back on (I now realize that it’s been built with
a light environment suit as its under-layer, which she slips on
first).

“You are welcome here, Sakina,” I remind her as she
dresses.

“I know that you welcome me,” she tells me without
looking up from re-fastening her leg plates. “But I know that the
others are not so comfortable with my presence.” Her head nods in
the direction of the room’s sentry array—she’s certainly assumed
that Rios has his men monitoring her closely at all times,
especially so when she’s in my quarters. I wonder if she left the
shower stall open to unsettle them.

She gets her boots on, then shimmies into her
breast-plating. After a moment, she adds like it’s an unimportant
afterthought:

“You will not be having any more trouble with
Farouk.”

I wait for her to elaborate, but she only finishes
“dressing”—pulling her arm guards and gloves back on, and strapping
on her knives and torpedoes. She does not move to put on her cloak
or her cowl. She just stands, facing the wall, as if waiting for
something.

Kastl chimes in on my personal Link.

“I’ve got Abbas on the line, sir.”

“Put it through to my desk,” I tell him.

“You may want to take this in… in private, sir,” he
tries to warn. I tell him to put it on my desk screen anyway.
Sakina sidesteps so that she won’t be seen by the desk camera.

“Strange news from the south,” Abbas tells me when he
comes on. “Word is spreading: Farouk was found dead in his shelter
this afternoon. In the version that reached me, it is said that his
genitals had been removed from his body, either before or after he
had been gutted and almost decapitated.”

I glance at Sakina, but she’s still staring at the
wall, not making eye contact.

“Not unexpected,” I say levelly as a way of
addressing them both. “But a mixed blessing. While I’m sure there
are many that will celebrate his demise, I can only wonder who will
take his place, and what that struggle will cost.”

“Whoever takes power will have to prove himself,”
Abbas agrees. “I expect they will exceed Farouk’s distain for life
as much as they fall short of his intelligence.”

I nod in solemn agreement. “Keep me informed. Let me
know if you need anything.”

“I thought we had agreed that you would not get
involved in our tribal conflicts?” he questions with some
surprise.

“Farouk was a mutual enemy,” I tell him, knowing I
may be making a very dangerous policy decision. “In this, we stand
together.”

“Thank you, my friend,” he says with honest warmth.
“I know what lines you dare cross by saying that. I will send you
news as it comes.”

I turn to Sakina after Abbas signs off. She’s still
unwilling to look at me.

“The Nomad males are obsessed with their
masculinity,” she tells me after a few moments, her voice quiet,
small. “Some are not above mutilating enemy dead as psychological
warfare. I adopted the technique for the same purpose. It is
effective. It is expected.”

“Ghaddar…” I say her other name softly.

“The Castrating Bitch,” she hisses after another
moment, visibly trying to contain herself. “It serves me.”

I take a calculated risk, put my hand on her
shoulder, turn her to face me. I’m surprised she allows me to do
so. But she won’t look at me.

“I’ve done worse things,” I tell her heavily, “for
similar reasons. But part of me has lived to regret not doing
better things instead. I’m not one to advocate giving foolhardy
mercy to a deadly foe, just to say I’m somehow better for it than
they are. But I have also killed when a modicum of mercy may have
served better, just because the killing was easy and, I admit,
satisfying. That is one of the places my path has led me.”

I can see her jaw clenching, hear her breathing
shudder as it comes in and out of her. I take my hand off of her,
but stand close facing her. She doesn’t back away.

“If you know my history, you may know that I studied
the old martial arts long before I became a soldier,” I keep
talking. “That taught me strategy, helped me train the first
generation of UNACT Tacticals—the armored soldiers coordinated by
the new AI. But in becoming a Tactical myself, I forgot certain
lessons I had learned from my teachers.

“I was once told a story—I can’t say if it’s
authentic, but it’s true in essence: It’s about the warrior monks
who cultivated the fighting arts. A student asks his teacher why,
if the monks revere all life, do they practice violence. The
teacher answers: First you must learn to protect yourself, because
if you simply throw your own life away refusing to resist violence,
then you cannot revere life. Second, reverence of life will drive
you to protect others from violence, and you cannot do that unless
you excel at defending yourself. But third, if you can cultivate a
level of skill so that you can easily defend yourself and others
from attack, then you may also be able to spare the life of your
attacker. If you can reach that point, then you can truly revere
all life, because you will never have to take it or allow it to be
taken. Taking life is easy. Perfect yourself so that you will never
need to.”

I put my hands on her armored shoulders again. Her
body feels coiled to the point of shaking, even through her plate
and mail.

“Look at me, Sakina,” I gently but firmly insist. She
takes several deep breaths before she can do so. I know this:
Coming down from rage, from killing—especially when it’s personal
and up-close brutal. (When Matthew said she reminded him of me, he
may have been more right than he realized.)

“I have not let any man touch me since my father
left,” she lets me know, but it doesn’t sound like a threat.

“Stay,” I tell her.

She takes my hand from her armor, presses it to the
side of her face, closing her eyes. She holds the contact between
us for several moments before she lets go. She gives me a silent
nod.

She keeps her armor on, but she sleeps soundly that
night on her roll next to my bed.

22 September, 2115:

After breakfast, we finally hear from Paul.

“Sorry to leave you all in suspense, Colonel,” he
tells me, the feed coming from his home Station Blue. “But as you
can see, I have recovered. I just needed some time. I have never
been so close to death before, never known so much pain.”

He looks his normal self again, totally healed from
the ravages of the crash, but he seems to be having trouble finding
words. I don’t press him with questions about his recovery.

“Have you had any further contacts with the Shinkyo?”
I ask him, settling back into my chair in Ops.

“We have detected what may be scouting parties,” he
says with gravity. “Including radiation signatures that may
indicate more nuclear devices. They approach, circle, and then
withdraw when we respond.”

“They may be probing you,” I consider. “Testing your
defenses, finding their best approaches.”

“That was the assessment of our Council,” he agrees.
“Which brings me to the other reason for my call—my father
suggested this news would be best if the information came from me,
as we have what he calls a more reciprocal relationship. The
Council has come to a difficult decision, Colonel, but I am hoping
you will appreciate it. Given recent events, we have chosen to
break our traditional passivity. We can no longer ignore the
severity of the risks. We have chosen to act.”

He seems to be purposely vague, almost like a
politician spouting sound-bites to stir up enthusiasm for what’s
actually bad news.

“What does that entail, Paul?” I press him
diplomatically.

“We…” He’s having trouble choosing words again—he
seems to have his own doubts, but may be unwilling to voice them in
an open communication. “We are forming ‘action teams’ to go out and
seek non-lethal resolutions to the crises with the more aggressive
groups. We have chosen to intercede in your behalf as well as in
our own interests, in hopes of avoiding further bloodshed.”

This should be good news, but I’m immediately wary.
His speech sounds very carefully scripted. It doesn’t sound like
Paul talking at all. And I can see his conviction wavering in his
eyes.

“And what does that entail?” I press again.

“We will begin by approaching the Shinkyo directly,
presenting them with the full extent of our abilities, and letting
them know that further aggression will not be allowed. If they
choose to ignore this warning, we will take steps to ensure that
they cannot effectively do further harm.”

Despite what the ETE have professed about their
commitment to non-violence, I find I’m deeply disturbed by where
this may be going.

“When will you act?” I ask the urgent question.

“We wanted to communicate with you first, to let you
know what we are going to do. And we are still in the process of
training our Guardians—those who will go out into the field. We
must be sure that they are confident with their tools, that they
understand what they may face in terms of resistance. The Council
has asked that I invite you to observe our operations, and they
would be grateful of any tactical advisement you could
provide.”

I glance across the chamber and lock eyes with Lisa,
who’s been listening passively out of camera view. She shakes her
head, though I’m not sure if she doubts Paul or is worried about
where this may be going. Matthew comes in then—it’s obvious he’s
been monitoring the conversation by the look on his face: He’s
definitely disturbed by what he’s heard, his eyes wide when they
lock on mine. He also makes a point to stay out of camera so Paul
doesn’t see it.

“So your first priority will be the Shinkyo?” I say
this knowing that the Shinkyo are likely able to monitor our
transmissions, and I expect that the ETE have assumed this as well.
I wonder how much of Paul’s call is for their benefit.

Paul nods. “I think that would be most practical,
given recent events.”

I look at Matthew, who’s shaking his head in warning,
knowing what I’m likely to say next. Lisa is just giving me a look
of concern.

“Tell your Council that I would be happy to observe
and advise,” I finally answer, Matthew glaring at me all the while.
“And I have a new friend who may be able to offer further
insight.”