The God Mars Book One: CROATOAN (43 page)

“Excellent,” I give him. “What else?”

“It doesn’t show us what’s
off
the map,” Paul
answers when his fellows don’t. “If they were expecting attack, it
would be likely that they would move significant fall-back
resources to other locations.”

“They know that we know where they are. Their main
force, or their command structure, may already be elsewhere,” I
confirm. “What’s left may be no more than bait in a trap.”

“That seems like an unacceptable sacrifice,” the
Yellow suit that spoke before chimes in again.

“They may believe their colony is already lost,” I
assess.

One benefit of spending more than a brief
“diplomatic” visit at an ETE Station is that they feed us, and they
process or synthesize a wide variety of foods that, while not a
substitute for real fresh food, is definitely an improvement over
what we’ve been eating at Melas Two (the fresh bounty of our
greenhouse is still too limited to be a mainstay of our diet, so we
continue to suffer with recycle). Still, it reminds me of the
highly processed convenience foods that were the bane of Earth
diets—I’m not sure if that’s a matter of taste or some fear of
eating anything that hasn’t been thoroughly processed. (And while I
haven’t actually broached the subject of their apparent ritual
germaphobia, I still haven’t seen an ETE—even at “home”—wearing
less than a zipped sealsuit and gloves.)

Another benefit of staying days with the ETE is that
we get to learn a lot more about how they live than they would
reveal in short contacts. They have a whole world underground, but
they keep it lit with a convincing simulation of daylight. Once
past the industrial sections below the generators, the spaces cut
out of cliff rock become like ancient temples and palaces of stone
(though plain and clean). And there is life:

Despite their reliance on their impressive food
synthesizers, they maintain vast underground greenhouses of plant
specimens, some brought from Earth for experiments, others still in
the various stages of engineering that the colonial agricultural
researchers were developing. The ETE got these samples because
“greening” the planet was an integral part of their terraforming
schedule (only not expected to be implemented for at least a full
century), so they worked intimately with the bio-engineering colony
labs even before the Stations started being used to shelter
projects from the Ecos and Discs.

One facility is specifically dedicated to plant life
that apparently can be found growing wild on the surface. The
selection of species is overwhelming—I have to pause, try to take
it in. They have far more than Abbas has been able to show us. I
see various fruits, pods, grains, edible leaves and stalks and
roots. One of their horticulturists volunteers that they’re working
to develop some of the “prototype” species to be able to thrive in
surface conditions, adding even more variety to the evolving
biosphere.

The horticulturist—whose nameplate says “E.
Adair”—let us know that Council Blue has given permission to share
some of these species with our greenhouse project—this is probably
why I was even allowed to see their greenhouses.

I wonder if all of the Stations have facilities like
this one, but don’t push my welcome with too many questions too
soon.

The combination of synthesized and fresh
ingredients—despite the heavy processing—does make for the
heartiest and most varied eating I’ve had since coming to this
planet (though Abbas’ wives’ cooking, I would have to say, is the
tastiest). The ETE must have impressive metabolisms, considering
how well they eat (and all look equally fit—perhaps it’s just a
benefit of their nanites).

Zauba’a at least takes her mask off to try the food.
She seems impressed by the volume and variety of it, at least
(though she is still hard to read, especially when more eyes than
mine are watching her). I expect she’s used to much simpler fare,
though may have enjoyed the benefit of being a Sharif’s champion
(Farouk did look very well fed). Since she’s been with us at Melas
Two, she’s eaten whatever she’s been presented, without request or
complaint, and seemed quietly grateful to have it.

“Don’t worry about waste,” Paul comments, perhaps
sensing our astonishment at the excess of the feast. “The leftovers
are easily recycled.”

“I’m just thinking some of the survivor factions
might appreciate having your dietary resources.”

“Those resources are more limited than they may
appear,” Simon insists with a bit of discomfort in his tone. “We
have what we have because we recycle so efficiently. We can’t
afford to feed all the Naturals any more than you can. But we do
give gifts of food for those we find in need, if they are willing
to accept it from us.”

I don’t press the issue, but Paul apparently feels
the need to.

“Charity on this world, even from us, is often
greeted with suspicion, as is anything left to be conveniently
found. There have been incidents of rivals poisoning or
booby-trapping food and other supplies, then giving it as ‘peace
offerings’ or leaving it to be taken by raiding parties. We have
had to cultivate discreet contacts with individual tribal members
who can deliver the unused produce of our gardens to their peoples.
These contacts usually have to convince their fellows that the food
came from some source other than us, such as trading or raiding,
because of camp-tales that we infect Naturals, turn them into a
kind of zombie thrall, taking them as slaves or for experiments.”
He gets more pressured and irritated as he goes. I’m not sure if
I’m hearing defensiveness of the ETE’s perceived elitism or
frustration with the survivors’ pervasive xenophobia. I honestly
didn’t intend to start a fight over lunch, but I seem to have
stepped into a tender area.

“He speaks truly,” Zauba’a speaks up, perhaps hoping
to win some faith with our hosts (though they’ve given her an even
more chilly reception than I got on my first visit—perhaps they
share Matthew’s fear that she may be a Shinkyo agent). “I have
heard many such tales, and anything of value found or given is
treated as trap or poison until proven otherwise. Enemies have even
gone so far as to use the radioactive material from bomb craters to
sicken rivals. And the Eternals
are
feared.”

“Nice that we have something in common,” I joke
darkly between bites of something like a vegetarian chili slathered
over a grainy cake. (The Martian equivalent of cornbread?)

Paul manages a sad chuckle. Simon shakes his head.
The other ETE at the table with us—“team leaders” from each
Stations’ five-person “Guardian” unit—look like I’ve just said
something nonsensical, like the sky is made of cookies.

“Something else is bothering you, Colonel?” Council
Blue—Mark Stilson—makes an attempt to read my mood, or change the
subject, from his seat at the opposite end of the table from me.
(Until now he looked like he’d been ignoring our
conversations.)

“Occupational hazard, Council,” I deflect. “Something
is always bothering me.”

“Tell me,” he presses gently. I glance at Paul and
Simon. I see the same look in Paul’s eyes that I saw when he called
to tell us about the plan to form this Guardian force. Simon avoids
my gaze, as do the other team leaders.

“The road to hell is paved with good intentions,” I
give him vaguely. I’m almost surprised that he simply nods instead
of challenging the sentiment.

“We have considered how many ways this can go badly,”
he tries to assure. “We have no illusions that our actions will
proceed smoothly. I expect we will make tragic mistakes. But you
have managed to impress me in the very short time since we have
met, Colonel. Please believe that I value you as a friend of the
ETE. I hope we do nothing to change that.”

“I’ve committed my share of atrocities in the name of
a greater good, Council,” I forgive in advance. “Don’t expect me to
be quick to mete out judgment.”

“Which is why I value you as an advisor,” he smiles.
“We ourselves are very new at ‘saving the world’. You have much
experience in this area. And some measure of success, at least
according to history.”

“History tends to rewrite itself as it evolves,” I
counter. “And I’ve missed the last fifty years of it.”

“I expect we’ll be finding out how things have gone
back ‘home’ soon enough,” he says, and I can hear the weight of his
words under his social lightness. His use of the word “home”
especially strikes me. Then I remember: He’s older than I am, but
from a similar generation. He wasn’t born here. He grew up, went to
school, had a career, married and had his children on Earth. Then
Earth stranded him here, and tried to incinerate everything he’d
worked toward. At least he had his family with him, safe (though I
still haven’t met his wife).

“That’s one of the things bothering me,” I allow him.
“Re-establishing contact. We’re still two or three months away from
getting a call out. But odds are the nuke that the Shinkyo threw at
your sons was detected from Earth.”

“And we may be setting off more warheads when we
confront them,” he gives back. “How do you think Earth will
interpret that?”

“Assuming that they believe no one is alive down
here, what are their options?” I turn the question back on him. He
turns to look at his sons, like this is some kind of test.

“Given the existence of illegal missions like the one
that brought the Lancer here, one conclusion is that a covert
harvesting operation went wrong,” Simon answers after a moment.

“And if they still believe that the only thing
‘alive’ down here is a raging nanotech infection?” I qualify. I
watch Paul go pale. Simon gives a brief head-shake, like he’s
denying what he’s thinking. The other Team Leaders show varying
degrees of confusion or distress. The Council just frowns.

“There is a theoretical scenario, Colonel,” the
Council admits cautiously. “Even rogue nanotech might likely evolve
itself, and that in manipulating matter for more efficient power
sources, it might even take a course that could lead to nuclear
fission. This was, of course, a barely-conceivable nightmare
possibility, but it was popularized by Eco Movement
propaganda.”

“Their ultimate fear was that the nanotech would
convert the entire planet—or part of it—into some kind of huge
bomb,” Simon elaborates, his tone cutting with disgust. “Ridiculous
pseudo-science.”

“The resulting blast would propel invasive nanotech
toward other planets,” Green Leader—Rhiannon Dodds, a redhead who
looks like a spunky college girl even though she must be
sixty—adds, sounding almost amused by the idea, “including Earth,
of course.”

I try to imagine an Earth fearing that the nanotech
of Mars would intelligently move toward infecting the entire solar
system. Making the call home has become even more urgent,
effectively suppressing my previous doubts. (Should I thank the
Shinkyo for restoring my resolve?)

“In any case, we’ll have Earth’s attention, assuming
we don’t already,” I focus them, “and not in a way that I’d hoped.”
I look to Council Blue. He shakes his head, sitting back away from
his meal.

“We have not changed our position, Colonel,” he tells
me heavily. “We will not turn our technology to contacting Earth.
Ours is the sin of omission. We were complacent in the isolation of
Mars. The call
must
come from you. Any attempt we make will
be suspect in the extreme. We have been confident that you would
awaken, and that it would not take you long to find your own way.
In that time, I hope you have been able to see enough of this world
to give it a fair reporting.” He stands, giving a slight bow of his
head. “If you will forgive me, I am due in Council.”

He turns and walks away. Paul, Simon and the other
team leaders look like they’ve been struck dumb. Only Zauba’a has
maintained her stoic façade, continuing to systematically sample
her meal. (She’s probably sat through much uglier inter-tribal
talks.)

A disturbing realization flashes through my mind,
sending a chill down my spine: The ETE kept us asleep longer than
our systems could otherwise manage. Our wake-up time was likely
calculated
. Convenient that it should be precisely when the
planets were
farthest
apart—on opposite sides of the sun—and
any makeshift attempt at communication would be delayed for the
better part of a year. And
now
the ETE Council appears all
too comfortable that we’ll finally be ready to make the call on our
own—though with some assistance from their “rebellious”
children—just in time for the next alignment.

And I wonder: Have I seen what they wanted me to see
in the interim? Or will they do something to delay us another two
years if they don’t trust that I’ll be giving the report they want
me to?

After lunch, Zauba’a proves her earlier point by
demonstrating how fast she can strike and stun the various
Guardians before they can use their tools to defend themselves. In
many cases, they drop their tools altogether, and prove how
helpless they are in the time it takes to draw replacement tools
from their belts.

Zauba’a wonders aloud what would happen if one of
them were decapitated, or cleaved in half. Then I demonstrate what
a Shinkyo sword can do, just with what my aging body still holds
onto from my idle youth as romantic martial artist—a naïve idealist
with a sword, nerd samurai. The Shinkyo blade feels good in my
hands, makes me long for a time when I could retreat into the
fantasy of when people used to just hack and stab each other
instead of using guns and bombs and poisons and viruses.

The sword is very light—almost too light to get any
real “feel” for—but it cuts into solid steel like it’s soft wood.
My hands are aching from the impacts by the time I’m done
“playing.” Zauba’a then takes up a similar length and weight of
plain tubing to use as a practice weapon, and shows how fast she
can be at landing devastating “cuts” with it. I give the ETE
“Guardians” credit for not simply abandoning their new cause on the
spot.