The worst part about that is I did it to test the character of people I really had no faith possessed any. I wanted to see if they would pursue the damning evidence, to investigate and punish the conspiracy and atrocity, or bury their crimes in denial and secrecy. And I don’t know for certain, but I expect it was more of the latter. So I gave her to these people for nothing, other than I felt like I had to try, had to give them the benefit of the doubt, just once.
Having no time for apologies, excuses or reunions, I see Rios waiting for me at a heavy hatch in the direction of the bow, his helmet off.
“This way, sir. Please.”
And so I’m excused from another piece of peripheral drama I’d rather not face right now.
The hatch opens onto the vehicle’s command bridge, which is more like a cockpit, but there’s enough seating to make it a cramped briefing room. They’ve even set up a small screen-table in the middle of it.
Waiting for me are two familiar faces and one readily recognizable one:
General Richards is standing in formal greeting, despite having very little headroom to do so. He still reminds me of his grandfather, mostly in the good ways. He gives me a nod, and seems reasonably grateful that I took the risk of calling this meeting. But I know there’s a lot weighing on him, pressure from Earthside, and their loyal agents in his own command chain. (I’m sure none of them had any regrets that Richards was at zero with the rest of Chang’s hostages when Jackson tried to nuke us.)
In what I assume is the pilot’s chair is Erasmus Jane. Dee told me he’d been grounded from flying due to his prosthetic arm, and then exiled to Long Range Recon like Rios because he mouthed off to the wrong people in my defense, making himself inconvenient and expendable. (Like Lyra—I’m sure the real reason she’s here isn’t her extensive knowledge of biological nanotechnology.)
The third figure I know is Jackson, and not just because of the updated Aircom uniform and the colonel’s insignia. Most of the right half of his face is a featureless black patch, probably carbon fiber, covering whatever damage he suffered when he crashed his ship—and a T-88 tactical warhead—into the first Stormcloud. Everyone was sure he was dead until they found the wreck of his ejected cockpit days later. The fact that they still let him fly without an eye but won’t let Jane without an arm—even though he’s proven he can—is especially galling. (At least he’s not wearing one of those creepy doll-like prosthetic faces I’ve seen, but I assume the patch is designed to be intimidating.)
What’s left of his face is all hard lines and righteousness. I’d guess him to be pushing fifty Standard, dark skin, and shaved-short black hair frosted gray. His one coffee-colored eye glares at me like he’s wishing he knew a way to kill me. (I’m certainly happy to annoy him with my continued existence.)
Lisa and Rios come in behind me. We’re almost packed in shoulder-to-shoulder. I’m the glaring odd-man: everybody else is in a UNMAC uniform or UNMAC gear, and I’m wearing a long black surcoat over heavy black plate (not to mention the definitely non-reg rockstar mop of hair that won’t stay put and grows back in hours if I cut it off).
Rios moves to stand between me and Richards, but Richards gestures him back, and extends his hand to shake.
“Colonel,” he greets, showing for the second time that he isn’t afraid I’m infectious.
“And I thought I was taking a risk,” I barely joke.
“I’d say we all are. Hopefully for a good cause.”
I can feel Jackson bristle at his nominal CO’s tolerance. Richards gestures me to take a seat. Rios stays standing like a guard at the hatch, though the only weapon I see on him is his sidearm. Maybe his orders are to shoot the mortals if I do prove infectious. Maybe I should test the theory by pretending to infect Jackson. But then I see Jackson has his left fist around a small deadman, probably wired to the nukes under our feet.
“Begin recording,” Jackson orders whatever systems are still online. “Debriefing of the entity that identifies itself as Colonel Michael Ram, former Ground Forces Commander, UNMAC Planetary Peacekeeping Force.”
He still doesn’t believe I am who I say I am, and that’s one thing I can’t fault him for. I’m really not sure myself. But still:
“That probably won’t kill me,” I feel the need to let him know, nodding to the switch he’s barely trying to hide. “Or her,” I nod to Lisa. “It will be inconvenient. The delay will certainly be taken advantage of by our mutual enemy. The rest of you, however…” But I realize as I say it, he’s probably counting on that, that I won’t risk the lives of Rios, Jane, Lyra and even Richards. They’re here as hostages, more so than Lisa is.
“And how are you so certain it won’t destroy you?” Jackson interrogates coolly, with a flash of a smirk like I’ve just stepped into his trap.
“Because I have it from a reliable source that it didn’t kill Chang,” I go ahead and admit, hoping that will let him know how helpless he is. But he barely blinks.
“We know that, Colonel,” Richards tells me before Jackson can gloat. “But we appreciate your candor.”
He calls up video files. It takes me a moment to recognize the ruins of the City of Industry, ruined further—and now honestly rather than cosmetically—by what looks like a sustained bombardment. But in the blasted wreckage I can see a single figure. Or more accurately not see him, as he’s a perfectly black silhouette, just standing there, as if staring up at the satellites filming him.
So that’s where he’s got to. I wonder what his play is, but I can make a decent guess, assuming he is looking for some kind of redemption.
“He’s not the threat,” I insist, “not anymore.”
“Maybe not the number-one top of the priority target list, at least for the moment. This ‘Asmodeus’ has taken that distinction,” Jackson allows, but barely. “We’ve all seen the videos he uploaded.”
“Then you have a sense of how dangerous he is. If you want a better sense, look him up in the old UNACT files. Ange Apollyon. Codename: Asmodeus.”
“Assassin. Trained by the SENTAR-McCain SIT Project Beta Phase. Suspected of numerous homicides, many of them ordered by the so-called Triad Conspiracy,” Jackson lets me know the homework has been done. “Known for torturing and mutilating his victims, sometimes sexually. Terminated by General—then Colonel—Marcus Powell in 2026.”
“And re-created using a combination of DNA manipulation and simulated memories,” I complete the story.
“Similar to the technology that’s made you into… whatever you are,” Jackson barely pads his accusation. Then he tilts his head at Lisa. “And her.”
“I can’t prove that I’m not just a convincing facsimile, if that’s what you mean.”
“To what purpose?” he gets to the root of his fear. “Who made you? Who controls you? Or do you really expect us to believe that you’re somehow from the future?”
I give him a lazy shrug.
“We’re here. We’re certainly real enough. Feel free to come up with whatever explanation for that that makes sense to you.”
Apparently he already has one, or his masters do:
“We have good reason to believe a rogue group with access to advanced nanotechnology research engineered the original Disc drone attacks that resulted in the devastation and isolation of Mars fifty-three years ago. These elements anticipated and survived the nuclear bombardment, taking shelter with the ETE personnel, influencing them to continue their agenda as well as their illegal research in isolation, free of oversight or restriction; research beyond all reason and responsibility. And you are the ultimate result: a weapon designed to wipe out the human race.”
He recites it like he believes it completely. I’m sure he’s far from alone in that.
“And what’s the point of wiping out the human race?” I have to ask, just to see how far the madness goes.
“You are, Colonel, or whatever you are. You think you’re alive. You think you’re better than we are. Evolved. Superior. Whoever made you thinks they can mak
e themselves into something they think is better than human, to replace us. With things like you. They want to play God. Maybe be God. To live forever, if you can call whatever you are really alive.”
Amazingly, he’s got a lot of that almost right. Except it already happened. And it was the whole fucking human race that decided to try to be more than human, minus a very few. And we did play gods. Even made ourselves a God, or a very convincing substitute. Because we could. There was no more sinister reason than that. We did it because we had the technology.
“Minor flaw in your fantasy,” I point out. “You’ve had a taste of what we are, what we can do. If we’re here to wipe you out and replace you, why haven’t we done it already? Or do you really think we’re just lulling you into some false sense of security by helping and protecting you from the one monster who actually would do exactly what you’re afraid of? And he wouldn’t do it to replace you. He’d just wipe you out for the sake of doing it.”
“Asmodeus,” Richards lets me know he’s following me.
“And I thought that was Chang,” Jackson shifts to ridicule. “Or can’t you ‘people’ keep your own con straight?”
“Chang thought he was stopping a world full of monsters,” I defend my former enemy, “stopping the very thing you’re so terrified of from happening. You’d probably be allies if you weren’t afraid of what he is and he could trust you not to go down that path.”
“He wants to make sure there won’t be nanotech monsters in the world, but he brings one—an especially dangerous one—with him?” Jackson throws back. “That’s even less believable than the time travel story.”
“So what is our ‘con,’ Colonel?” I push, knowing I’ll probably regret wading in.
“I think that’s pretty obvious: You convince us you’re our friends, that you’re no threat to us, that you’re the only hope we have, while your allies scare us into accepting whatever you offer us. Submission? Conversion? Extermination of the human race?”
“And that gets us back to my earlier point: Why haven’t we just done that by force?”
“Because maybe you’re not as powerful as you say. Because we’ve kept you at a distance, isolated here on this planet. You could convert or kill the people who live here, but you pretend to protect them so you can get to us, to all of us, to Earth.”
I meet his unshakable faith with a chuckle.
“Whether that’s paranoia or propaganda, I have to give it to you: It’s very well thought out. It makes sense. But it if it’s true, it means you’re stuck and you know it. You came all the way back here to save these people you left behind, or that’s what everyone back home believes, so you’re reluctant to just nuke us and hope that ends it. Or isolate us here, because you’d be isolating them. And you know you don’t have a good way to deal with us surgically.”
I look at Lisa, see the atrocities she’s let herself suffer for their edification flash behind her eyes. And again, I have to suppress the urge to rip Jackson apart; to pummel his smug, self-righteous extremist half-face into jelly. The thought of doing it brings on a grin that makes him hesitate, as if he could read my mind.
“Maybe that isn’t really Chang at Industry,” he tries, showing his desperation “Maybe nukes can kill you.”
“But you’ve already told me you think I’m just some manufactured weapon. That means I’m easy to replace. What if you can’t kill what made me?” Now I’m edging into danger, tempted to actually tell him about Yod, just to send him screaming back… Where? To Earth? Yod’s there, too. Yod’s probably inside Jackson’s skin right now. Anywhere and everywhere… So I switch tactics, turn to Richards: “Is this the official line? That this is all some mad scientist’s plot to consume and replace the human race?”
“It is a popular theory, Colonel,” he admits like he isn’t bought in himself. “One I’d rather not believe. But only time will prove.”
“Well, honest gesture or sinister ploy, this is my next move…”
I risk Jackson’s trigger-finger by initiating a local hack, and project a three-dimensional model of a common Harvester module onto the table.
“This is what you’re facing, and I think you’ll find it terrifying enough for UNCORT.”
“This is what you gave us samples of?” Richards confirms.
“They’re damaged, but should be useful to study. Beware the injector array…” I indicate the mechanism on the model. “...it contains a magazine which can hold up to six individual seed groups. Each seed group is a set of pre-programmed nano-machines that are designed to enter the bloodstream and seek the brain stem. Once they get there, they begin to scavenge the body for raw materials to build with.”
“To build another one of these?” Richards follows.
“Their cases are a kind of cellulose polymer and ceramic made from what the seeds scavenge from the host body—the brain and skull,” I stay clinical for the moment. “That makes them hard to detect with conventional scanners. Even the injector tips are nano-carbon. What iron, copper, zinc and other metals the seeds can sift from the host are used sparingly for the processing core, neuro-interfaces and other control hardware.”
“So it’s hard to see them coming,” Rios interjects himself into our conversation.
“They’re good at hiding, and they don’t need to broadcast or receive command signals to operate. Even when they do, those signals are hard to detect, and the modules emit very little EMR. But their bodies are warm—not as warm as a living human’s, but enough to detect if they’re moving at night. And when they’re moving, they’re not very stealthy. Otherwise, it’s pretty easy to identify them by how the look, how they move, how they smell.”
“Like corpses,” Richards remembers from the video Asmodeus uploaded. “Zombies.”
I give him a nod, accepting the comparison. I’ve certainly thought it myself, even though these are really a kind of horrible robot.
“And how hard is it to detect infection?” Jackson risks asking me for intel.
“The seed nanites are equally difficult to track once injected, but the mechanical injector leaves a telltale wound, the newer dart delivery system less-so. But it becomes pretty obvious within twenty-four hours.”
I take a breath. It smells stale in here, tight, lived-in.
“You’ve seen the video. The host dies, though slowly and horribly, over a period of about three days, as their brain and parts of their skull are consumed. When the module comes online, it takes control over voluntary and involuntary muscles, commandeering the body and keeping it alive. It even excretes a cellular preservative to slow decomposition if the body is damaged too badly to maintain itself. Even with catastrophic organ damage, it can keep a body moving as long as the module is intact and the muscle tissue is viable enough to respond to electrical stimulation. Sensor stalks penetrate into the eyes from behind, allowing the drone to gather intel as well as seek new prey. From our own studies of these modules, we believe they target by heat and motion. They also have sets of pre-programmed algorithms, which is how they can carry out missions without signals from their command.”
“But they’re just flesh and bone and plastic,” Jackson focuses on the obvious defense. “A well-placed bullet will disable them.”
“’Well-placed’ is the key word,” I warn. “Shooting the body will only slow them down.”
“We have smart weapons, Colonel,” Jackson dismisses. “Or have you forgotten?”
“The drones are very effective at ambushes using hide-and-wait tactics,” I decide to give my advice directly to Richards, though Rios, Jane and Lisa are listening intently. “They can bury themselves for extended periods.”
“He’s already loaded the seeds into projectiles,” Lisa recalls what we learned at Katar, what Asmodeus merrily showed everyone. “He could start loading them into shrapnel. Or some other delivery device. The drones may not be necessary to spread the infection.”
They see the look on my face, see that I’m holding back.
“It�
��s already worse than that,” I admit with a long, heavy exhalation. “Asmodeus has recently used a much simpler implant that can manipulate a host’s emotions without other symptoms. Vector unknown—we couldn’t find an obvious entry wound in the victim. And he’s also working on upgrades, bringing them closer to what we are, what I am.” I look at Jackson. “You want something to be afraid of? He can selectively alter a host’s DNA, and download a copy of his memories into the modules.”
“Making copies of himself,” Rios concludes, not caring if he’s speaking out of turn.
“Of variable quality, but they’re all networked together,” I make it even worse. “He’s already used them to decoy us, and in suicide attacks.”
“At Katar,” Lisa specifies from what she already knows. “On the second Stormcloud.”
“And the Pax Keep yesterday,” I add my latest defeat. But then I give them what little good news I have: “They’re not perfect, and not complete. Right now he’s making them to be disposable. He probably has the know-how to do better, but even if he could, knowing his ego, I doubt he’d make a copy as strong and indestructible as his primary body.”
I shift the image to a map of the Western Vajra, the Green Trident, and brief them:
“He just attacked the Pax Hold Keep, their subterranean stronghold.” I indicate the mountain. “We had to evacuate, but an unknown number of Pax fled into the thick forest before they could be checked. If any were infected, they’ll turn, into corpse drones or something else. The rest were moved clear of the area. Asmodeus may be using the abandoned Keep to hide in, to stage, at least temporarily, since he lost his base at Lucifer’s Grave and his flying fortress. The location is ideal: the caves go deep into the mountain, and it’s highly defensible. But this could also be another distraction, to keep our attention and resources on trying to clear the site while he hits elsewhere. So far, Katar is clear, and so is Eureka. But I’ve heard stories of even more people, survivor groups further east, that might make easy prey.”
“Have you managed any kind of defense, a countermeasure?” Richards asks. Jackson rolls his eye.
The God Mars Book Six: Valhalla I Am Coming Page 4