The God Mars Book Two: Lost Worlds (34 page)

“You know quite a bit about us,” I turn, still
hesitant to say his given name. “I’m eager to hear the history of
your people. Will you join me for lunch?”

We set up a mixed feast of our remaining rations and
the local fare in the conference room. I invite Tru, Rick, Anton
and Kastl to join us. Rios and Thomas are still coordinating our
overwhelmed triage and recovery operations, and I doubt anyone on
the medical team will see a break for days.

Kendricks spares one of his own to accompany him, a
Knight he introduces as Sir John Wayne Sutter, a short-haired
youth—maybe nineteen or twenty—who reminds me of many young
soldiers I’ve known.

“Coffee is a treasure, literally manna from heaven,”
Kendricks appreciates his cup of fifty-year-old irradiated dark
roast.

“An insufficient gesture of our gratitude, given your
sacrifices for us,” I return, raising my cup of the local tea
(which I’m getting quite fond of, and I need a break from the
reflux-inducing ration-grade java). “Though I still don’t
understand why you came to our aid, gave your lives for us.”

He fingers the MA suit under his plate armor. “Given
your experience with certain others who still wear this uniform, I
can understand your confusion. My Knights share similar origins
with the PK, but we like to believe we are cut from better cloth.
Or better steel.”

“The PK were UN Peacekeeper Troops,” I let him know
I’m following.

“Many of them were inexperienced recruits, trained
fast, loaded into transports and shipped from Earth at the height
of the Eco War,” Kendricks details long-before-his-time history
that I know from personal experience. “Their commanders threw them
into a hostile environment ill-prepared because no one had ever
fought a war like that. Then their objectives became muddled by
shifting politics.” I catch him locking eyes for a moment with Tru,
perhaps watching for a reaction. (Is he looking for lingering
hostility or remorse?) Tru stays impressively cool. “Apparently
betrayed by those commanders in the Apocalypse, they did what they
felt they had to in order to survive, to protect of their own.”

“A path you did not take,” I allow him easily.

“The founders of our Orders—my parents among
them—were members of the elite SOF operators who took point in
attempting to stabilize the colonial conflicts. Their missions were
counter-insurgency and recon, much different skill-sets, and they
had much more training and experience. And they were used to
operating in autonomy. After the bombardment, their first priority
was the relief of survivors—my Order was founded in the ruins of
Avalon Colony.”

“Are there other Orders?” I interrupt, trying not to
sound like I’m interrogating him.

“We coordinated our efforts with two other colonies:
Freedom in south-east Melas, and Liberty in far Coprates. However,
we lost contact with the New Knights of Liberty about a decade ago.
Missions to seek after their fate were either lost or encountered
heavy resistance from the local tribes, who have gone so native as
to be considered savage.”

“We clashed with one such tribe at Tranquility,” I
tell him.

“The Cast,” he names them. “They are the
least
of the threats in that region. They stay contained to their garden
ruin, and have begun to evolve a rudimentary trading culture. The
Pax, Katar and Silvermen control far more territory and resources,
and do not interact with outsiders except in violence.”

“The ETE mentioned the Pax,” I relay. “but the
others?”

“They avoid the ETE. Their habitats are well hidden.
The Katar hold the deep jungle in the Vajra, competing with the
Pax. The Silvermen have vast underground networks. We cannot even
begin to estimate their numbers or resources.”

I appreciate the intel, but none of it is
particularly good news.

“What happened to the colonies you supported?” I
return to the original subject, thinking about the images of
stripped foundations.

“We were initially successful in relocating the
survivors to more stable locations, using mining and construction
equipment to dig shelters into the nearby rim rock, tapping the ETE
feed lines for vital resources, scavenging the ruins for food
stocks, setting up rudimentary hydroponics gardens and recyclers.
We also first clashed with other groups during these years, their
desperation for resources making them resistant to any attempts at
cooperation we offered. We regretfully had to use our weapons to
defend ourselves and our dependents.” He trails off, sips his
coffee—it seems this is a less-than-proud era of the New Knights’
history.

“We chose isolation to avoid further conflict,” he
continues, “concealing our positions in the cliffs, using stealth,
keeping our activities small. Our civilian charges continued to
survive, even thrive, but the violence out in the valleys could not
be ignored. We then set to our second priority: finding more of our
own.

“The PK had already turned by the time we reached out
to them. They had forsaken their command, their oaths to UNMAC, in
favor of holding what they could for themselves. They declared
martial law, turned their colonies into fortified fifes,
coordinated with other garrisoned colonies to create a limited but
powerful feudal system. Their civilians became their serfs, their
vassals. I cannot say they are treated well. There is no chivalry,
no bushido in the PK. They are little more than an organized
rabble, fascist gangsters with guns.”

“Colonel Janeway appears at least competent,” I
allow.

“Enough to be dangerous,” Kendricks counters. “They
keep their skill sets alive from generation to generation, passed
down to their own children in an exclusive caste system, ruling
over the non-PK, controlling them as labor assets. They rule by
force. They have no honor, no humanity.”

The room is silent when he pauses. Everyone’s face
has the same hard look. Tru is shaking her head.

“What about the UNMAC bases?” I press him on.

“Melas One was lost,” he tells us heavily. “What few
survivors there were all succumbed to their injuries within weeks:
burns, radiation poisoning, crush wounds, decompression trauma.
They’d been taken in by the survivors of Mariner Colony, who went
to heroic lengths to try to save them, though the too-few Mariner
refugees were little better off—they were all barely hanging on in
survival shelters. We helped take care of their injured as best we
could, took in those that survived, moved them into the cave
habitats we were digging.

“Then we scavenged the ruins for whatever we could
take, putting priority on food and survival gear. By the time we
got around to securing the weapons caches, we were already in
competition with other groups. We took what small arms and ammo we
could, but lost significant resources to the other fledgling
groups.”

“And Melas Three?” I ask the next logical question,
remembering his use of the “code” CROATOAN that someone (the
Knights themselves?) had left carved cryptically into the wall in
Ops.

“Our brothers from Freedom were in closer proximity.
So while we were doing what we could in Northwest Melas, they moved
to find out what had happened to Melas Three. The bunkers had
spared the remaining personnel, but they lacked any means to
effectively call Earth, and had no remaining viable aircraft. They
had dug in to await relief, but none was coming. The local tribes
quickly found the facility despite what all the bombs and slides
had done to hide it, and started making increasing attempts to take
the base and its resources by force. Many lives were lost on both
sides, all over a pit in the ground.

“We all agreed that our best course was to strip the
facility of anything the hostiles could use offensively. We didn’t
want to make the same mistake we had at Melas One, which had helped
arm the groups you now know as the Nomads, the PK and the Zodanga.
We moved everything we could carry into our hidden enclaves. Then
the Melas Three commander ordered the gutted facility sealed and
buried, so that it could not be turned into a fortification for a
hostile faction. The recognition code was left so that any relief
that came would know the descendants of UNMAC—it was chosen from an
obscure event during the European colonization of what they then
called the New World; the analogy seemed appropriate. We carved it
into the concrete to be sure it would last.”

He pulls a worn-looking UNMAC-issue flashcard out of
his armor, and brings up a video of a work-suited tech cutting the
letters into the wall of the Melas Three command deck. Then there’s
a shot of what I recognize as the Melas Three officers and chief
techs standing in front of the finished “CROATOAN”. They look
weary, defeated, angry, but still professional. I’m sad to say I’m
having trouble remembering their names.

“What about this base?” I keep him going. Everyone at
the table appears fully enthralled by his narrative, and he’s eager
to continue:

“We came here as well, Colonel, though your location
made it a difficult trip, even with our long-range surface gear. We
found you sleeping. Waking you would have put a great deal of
strain on our already limited resources. You were all healthy. Your
facility was secure. We chose to keep it so: we watched over you
passively, over the generations, discouraging any curious raiders
who came too close to discovering you.”

“Explains why we didn’t get raided over all those
years,” Kastl speaks up. And it’s a better explanation than Paul’s
guess that we were just too remote to reach.

“Our own commander stayed awake while we went into
Hiber Sleep,” I bring up one of our unsolved mysteries, one of
particularly personal concern. “Colonel Copeland. We don’t know
what became of him.”

Kendricks shakes his head. “Your base was running on
automatic. The Melas Three personnel gave us access. But this was
almost eleven months after the Apocalypse, given the more pressing
priorities I’ve described. There was no sign of anyone out of
hibernation.”

I take a long, deep breath. Some mysteries keep
escaping resolution (assuming I believe the stories I’ve been told,
which Kendricks has done a fair job of selling).

“How many colonists do you currently protect?” Tru
asks, changing the subject.

Kendricks looks deeply sad, looks down into his
cup.

“None,” he says, finally. His knight Sir John Wayne
gives a hard look that speaks of old pain and anger. “Not
directly.”

“What happened?” I ask.

“Once the daily struggle for survival stabilized, our
civilian charges began to lose whatever sense of gratitude they had
toward us. They began to see us as UNMAC, and UNMAC was the enemy.
Some feared we would eventually find a way to contact Earth out of
duty, and that would bring down more bombs. We had heard that there
was even an uprising in Liberty—the operators there chose to move
out of the city, digging themselves a new facility higher in the
cliffs to avoid further conflicts while staying close enough to
keep watch over the Liberty survivors.

“Those were ugly times. The civilians began an exodus
from our enclaves, preferring to take their chances in the open
deserts, to make new homes rather than associate with anything
military. Many were killed, preyed upon by the Zodanga and the
Nomads, or stumbling into the merciless PK and Shinkyo. A very few
managed to get absorbed into more established groups, most as slave
workers.”

“None tried to return?” Tru wants to know.

There’s an uncomfortable silence. I realize Kendricks
is speaking for his parents, for the decisions that they made.

“We unfortunately closed the door to them,” he admits
heavily. “For security reasons, we relocated ourselves after the
civilians left—we didn’t want the Nomads or the Zodanga coming
after our weapons caches. And they did: forcing our former charges
to reveal our enclaves under torture. When the raiders found
nothing, entire
families
were tortured to death.

“We struck back, trying for some modicum of justice,
but it only made the raiders more dangerous as they learned from
our tactics. We retreated into our new enclaves, became invisible,
let them think they had chased us off. Then we re-invented
ourselves.”

“As knights?” I show Kendricks I’m following him.

“Like the PK, within one generation we realized we
were no longer a part of any Earthside military command structure.
But we did not want to become the PK, corrupting their military
structure into something oppressive. There were historians among
us, as well as many professional warriors who hung on to antiquated
but still valid codes of honor. We modeled ourselves after the
ideal civilized warriors of history, the European Knights, the
Japanese Samurai, the Chinese and Korean scholar-warriors. Scholars
and gentlemen. Professionals. You may have heard the stories of the
ancient Crusades on Earth—atrocities all, carried out by misguided
heroes. But during those Crusades, certain independent orders
formed: The Templars, the Hospitalers. They pledged themselves to
protect the innocent, the defenseless…”

“I’ve heard of them,” I let him know. I don’t bother
to dwell on how those historic orders were eventually persecuted
out of existence.

“For my entire forty-seven years, I have been what my
father and mother and their brothers-in-arms dreamed of: scholar,
healer, historian, warrior. We train our children to follow in our
new traditions. We revived the old arts, as we know our bullets and
rockets will eventually run out, perhaps for the best. I see that
you carry a sword yourself, Colonel.”

“A gift from the Shinkyo,” I tell him, “though I’m
still not sure of the spirit in which it was given.”

Kendricks chuckles darkly. “The industrial ninja,” he
identifies them. “Another example of the corruption of finer
traditions for greed and hunger for power.”