I raise my hands up to look. My gloves are gone. So is my armor. I’m wearing…
I have to look down to make sense of it. That’s when I realize my head feels unusually heavy. So do my arms.
I’m wearing a kind of business dress suit, made of a charcoal metallic fabric. Underneath it is a dress shirt in black, and on my sternum rests the tongue of a steel gray necktie, as if dropped there by afterthought. On my feet are shiny black dress boots.
What the fuck?
“Yod?” I call out, immediately regretting it, like I’m playing into his latest practical joke at my expense. But this doesn’t feel like one of his illusions. It’s too mundane, too consistent, in that way that would tell me I’m awake, that I would never be aware of in dreaming.
I sit up. It takes a lot more effort than it should, and my butt sinks into the plush mattress.
The air is thick and rich and smells of perfumed cleaning chemicals .
I roll to the edge of the bed and get my boots on the floor, which is covered by an industrial-short carpet that matches the bed spread. I feel so heavy…
“Yod!”
I seem to be alone. And I have no weapons that I can see. Just the ridiculous formalwear.
It takes more effort than I expect to stand—I am heavier than I should be. I consider searching the room, trying one of the two solid doors in the short adjoining corridor (I expect one leads to a bathroom), as if this is all some kind of puzzle to solve, a challenge.
But I decide to go to the window. I find a simple pull that opens the blinds. The light gets brighter in my face like it’s trying to slap me backwards. Sunlight, and much brighter than I’m used to.
The first thing I see when I can see is the pale blue sky. Then the skyline. Buildings. Skyscrapers. As far as the eye can see.
Through the double-pane glass, I hear the familiar sounds of traffic, of people, like a ghost out of memory. Everything a ghost out of memory. Of before I came to Mars. Of…
No.
It can’t… He didn’t…
No no no no, you fucker. No!
But I’m here. I’m here. This is real.
I’m on Earth.
#####
Map of the Vajra
Author’s Afterward:
An amusing piece of trivia: The book you have just read is an updated (and hopefully much improved) rewrite of the very first novel set in this world that I ever wrote, way back in 1981.
I’d originally outlined the endless serial with a cast of thousands in the world of a partially-terraformed Valles Marineris that is now The God Mars way back when I was in high school. I committed a very few stories to paper (one prequel having won some encouraging awards), then decided shortly after graduation—adrift in my first year of college—to write a novel.
For a number of reasons that only made sense at the time, I decided to pull an extreme George Lucas and write a saga that was well at the end of the series, rather than the beginning. The questionable result was Valhalla I Am Coming (VIAC for short), banged out on an old-school electric typewriter (a treasure at the time—I think I paid $60 for it in 1970's money), and coincidentally finished at midnight on the day some then-semi-famous apocalypse predictor insisted would be the last day of the world.
Now here I am, 34 years later, having written that novel again, in its proper place, in harmony with the established canon.
Inspired in more ways than one by “Apocalypse Now” and other dark Vietnam flicks of that era, VIAC 1981 was a dark brooding (sulking, really) war Odyssey; hopeless, brutal and generally miserable. (And y’all though Grayman was dark.) I thought it was a masterpiece at the time, the best thing I’d ever written ever. What it really is, is a good lesson in why you should never attempt to write an entire novel tanked on tequila.
If you've seen “Apocalypse Now,” recall the “unscripted” scene toward the beginning where Martin Sheen is blasted out of his skull and losing his mind in his hotel room to the music of The Doors. That was basically my entire writing process from start to finish. Except I was listening to Led Zeppelin. (Hence the title.)
Thanks to trying to sum up at least several novels worth of backstory and mythology, it made absolutely no sense at all. The prose was beyond purple into ultraviolet. And for some reason I ended almost every sentence (and partial sentence) with an ellipsis... There were certainly good ideas... but... the execution was... a whole new level of horror... the horror...
And here we are again. Really wasn’t sure I’d get this far.
This was also the last planned God Mars story, all done, moving on. But fan requests and the inspiration of my creative team (also known as my daughter Katherine and son Christopher) have got me committed to a few more. We have more stories to tell in this world. (And that frustrating double cliffhanger to resolve ASAP—sorry about that. I am a bastard.) So:
To be continued in Book Seven: Earthside.
I’d also like to take the words to thank said creative team: Katherine is my artistic director. Christopher is my science and technology consultant. And both are brutal critics of plot and character motivation. Thanks to their input, for just one example, you didn’t have to suffer through another lame zombie battle there at the end. (The modular tentacle bot design was all Christopher’s, and they both whipped up truly macabre concept art for that scene.) Can’t wait to see what they help me spin next.
About the Author:
Michael Rizzo is an artist (yes, those god-awful covers are his), martial artist, collector (and frequent user) of fine weaponry, and a pretty good cook. He continues his long, varied and brutal career on the mental health and social services battlefield, trying to do good work while writing about very bad things.
He is also the author of the Grayman series, which features Mike Ram and other characters from this series in their much younger days.
He causes trouble in person mostly in the Pacific Northwest.
For updates and original art, visit Michael on Facebook.com, and see the Facebook page for “The God Mars Series”.
Discover other books by Michael Rizzo at smashwords.com
The God Mars Book Six: Valhalla I Am Coming Page 43