Mars Born (Shadows of the Void Space Opera Serial Book 8)

by J. J. Green

  “I can hear you,” Flux said.

  Carl smiled at Sayen, and she grinned back.

  Chapter Five

  Jas fastened her safety belt, breathed in and exhaled slowly as Carl piloted the shuttle away from the Bricoleur. Breathing deeply didn’t do much to slow her racing heart. Thinking rationally, it made sense for her to be the one to go planetside. She was the only one with Martian citizenship, which meant that she could enter and move around in Mars Territory freely, providing she passed the health check at immigration. Her coloring also meant that she would blend in easily with the local population and remain relatively incognito. She was the ideal person to assess the place for signs of Shadow infiltration.

  On the other hand, if the Shadows had arrived on Mars and were looking for her, she could quickly find herself in hot water. But with Mars’ much lower population, little deep space traffic, and far tighter controls on who entered and left, she didn’t think it likely that the Shadows had penetrated its defenses.

  Yet it wasn’t fear of Shadows that was making Jas’ stomach clench into knots as Carl flew her to Valles Marineris Spaceport. All her life she’d avoided dwelling on her childhood, which had begun on Mars. Her unknown parents’ death had been the first in a series of experiences that had marred her early years.

  After being forced to travel to Earth so her bones wouldn’t be permanently weakened by Mars’ low gravity, things had gone from bad to worse. Global Government policy at the time had mandated that Martian children were separated from their peers to better enable their integration into Earth society. The intention was good, but the effects were poor. Jas had been relentlessly bullied at her Earth institute for cared-for children. Then a traumatic experience while at training college in Antarctica had been the final straw.

  Jas’ past was a place she’d never wanted to return to, in word or deed, but here she was, traveling back in time as well as space.

  “Touchdown in five,” came Carl’s voice over the passenger cabin speakers. Jas jumped a little as she was jolted out of her musings, surprised that so much time had passed so quickly.

  She could have sat next to Carl in the co-pilot’s seat, but he hadn’t offered and she hadn’t asked. He’d been a little cold toward her since that time in the dining room when they’d nearly kissed. She didn’t blame him. He’d made his feelings clear and deep down, she reciprocated them. Yet she’d been acting like a nervous sixteen year old, moving ahead only to shy away as soon as anything at all serious began to happen.

  What’s wrong with me?

  Jas shook her head slightly. She knew exactly what was wrong. What she didn’t know was how to fix it.

  It was night time in Valles Marineris, and the spaceport was a triangle of brilliant lights at one end of the valley. Points of light ran out from the triangle, marking the overground tunnels of the Loop, which led to the colony settlements. Spreading patches of silver and red, they ran across the valley floor and up into the surrounding foothills.

  The lights burned brighter as the shuttle vibrated and descended vertically to the landing pad. It came to rest outside a utilitarian, gray building with the words Valles Marineris Immigration Control stenciled across it in red.

  The roar of the shuttle engines quietened, and the vibrations ceased. Jas undid her safety belt, but she hesitated, hoping for something before she disembarked. After a moment, her silent wish came true. The door to the cockpit opened and Carl’s lanky frame filled it, leaning against the edge.

  “All set?” he asked.

  “Yep. Ready as I’ll ever be.” She got up and retrieved her bag from the locker.

  “Remember,” Carl said, “if you need to leave earlier than we arranged, just send the word. The Bricoleur’s right above. I can be here in a couple of hours.”

  “I’ll remember. Hopefully, it won’t come to that.”

  “Yeah. Hopefully. Have you figured out where you’re gonna go yet?”

  “First, I’m going to find a place to stay. Then in the morning I thought I’d try to talk to the governor. See if there’s been any comms from the Council. Maybe the Territory officials know about the Shadows already. It’s a long shot, but it’s worth a try.”

  “Hmm, yeah. Got any plans to go anywhere else?”

  “You mean am I going to go back to the place where I grew up? Maybe. I haven’t made up my mind yet. It’s been so long, everyone I remember will have moved on.”

  “What about the colony?”

  “The disaster site? No, I don’t think I’ll bother. They must have rebuilt it decades ago. I don’t see any point in going there.”

  Carl looked doubtful, but he didn’t say anything else. The pause began to turn awkward, so Jas shouldered her bag. “I’ll be off.”

  “Okay.”

  Another pause. Jas wanted nothing more than to step over to Carl and hug him, but her feet wouldn’t take her where her heart wanted to go. Instead, they turned her around and carried her to the exit.

  “See you soon,” she said over her shoulder, unable to meet his gaze.

  “Yeah. See you soon. Good luck, Jas.”

  Chapter Six

  Dr. Sparks was a temperate man and rarely experienced extreme emotions, but after his long secondment investigating the Paths, he was nearing the end of his tether. The death of the administrator who had tried to cut them while they were aboard Polestar’s satellite quarantine station had intensified the company’s scrutiny of the creatures. Rather than releasing Sparks to his usual duty as medical officer aboard prospecting starships, Polestar had insisted that he accompany the Paths to their more specialized labs on Mars. Anything that could kill had potential to be a weapon, of course.

  What Sparks didn’t understand was why it had to be him doing the experimenting. Other Polestar scientific officers were better qualified and more experienced in research work. Three of them had been assigned to research the Paths alongside him: Graydon, Adrieux, and Rincker. Two women and one man with little to say outside of scientific discussions.

  Sparks assumed it was a security issue. They were keeping him on task to limit his ability to divulge secrets. He wished he could air his sense of grievance about his secondment, but there never seemed to be an appropriate opportunity. Maybe they had an NDA to sign. He’d gladly do it for the opportunity to escape the research facility and return to what he did best: practicing medicine. But he never felt comfortable enough under their withering stares to express his dissatisfaction nor broach the subject of moving on.

  When it came to the highly lucrative and explosive nature of weapons research, he also wasn’t sure what Polestar was capable of doing in order to keep a discovery under wraps. It wasn’t like he felt under threat day to day, but he knew the company was ruthless when it came to safeguarding its profits.

  Each morning Sparks felt unsure that he could endure one more day of research on the cryptic Paths. Nothing he nor his colleagues had done had yielded quantifiable, statistically significant results beyond those he’d observed and recorded on the quarantine station. The odd, periodic fading of the creatures, the weird euphoric trance of the research assistant, Rogers, and the administrator’s death remained unexplained.

  All the researchers had managed to do was to induce either a temporary coma or death in animals that threatened the Paths. However, because the animals they’d used were dumb creatures incapable of vocalizing their experiences, no one was any wiser as to exactly what the Paths were doing or how they were doing it.

  Sparks and his fellow scientists had recorded elevated heart rates, blood pressure, and brain activity of comatose animals, and the cessation of heart function in those that died. The simple difference between the Paths’ response lay in the degree to which they felt threatened.

  After yet another morning of boring, fruitless experimentation, Sparks was eating lunch with his colleagues. All four were intent on their interfaces as usual. The lack of meaningful conversation made alternative sources of entertainment necessary.


  Sparks was reading about the recent appointment of a new Martian Governor. The man in question was a natural, and he made no effort to hide it. In fact, he was known for championing naturals’ right to work and to freedom from discrimination. The politician had cited what Sparks believed to be flawed research. The studies supposedly demonstrated that natural selection was more likely to give rise to geniuses like Einstein, Hawking, and Casson, than gene modding for high intelligence. Researchers proposed that humankind’s understanding of the genetic foundation of intelligence was still incomplete, and that as yet poorly understood environmental factors could play a large role in the determination of intellectual ability.

  The notion that random gene selection and upbringing could produce anything superior to sophisticated modding was preposterous to Sparks, and he unconsciously snorted in derision as he read the article.

  Graydon noticed his reaction. A phlegmatic woman with a horsey face and long, lank hair, she’d always held an antipathy toward Sparks.

  “Something funny?” she asked.

  “Er, no, not really,” Sparks replied.

  “Hmpf,” Graydon said and returned to her interface.

  Ordinarily, Sparks would have left it at that. He knew his views on modded individuals versus naturals weren’t politically correct, and over the years he’d become accustomed to being circumspect about to whom he aired them. He was sure that many others shared his opinion that genetic modification produced human beings who were superior in every way to their counterparts, but that few dared speak the truth about the matter. He’d learned to keep silent unless he was fairly sure he was speaking to a like-minded individual.

  Today was different. Weeks of boredom and frustration made him careless.

  “It’s this new governor,” he blurted, so loudly that all three of his colleagues took notice. “I mean, what were people thinking? Why has he been voted in? I don’t understand it.”

  “What don’t you understand?” asked Graydon. Her dark look should have warned Sparks to moderate his words, but he was intent on getting all his resentment and irritation off his chest.

  “What I don’t understand is, why would anyone elect a natural? I mean, what does this have to offer? Compared to someone whose parents actually cared about how their child turned out?”

  Graydon put down her interface and folded her arms over her chest. Her eyes were hooded. Rincker was gesturing with his hand for Sparks to cut it out, but he failed to notice.

  “You think someone who was modded would do a better job as governor?” Graydon asked.

  “Isn’t it obvious?” Sparks replied. “Do I need to spell it out? Genetic modification creates better human beings. That’s what it’s for,” he added, as if explaining to a child. “That’s the whole point, isn’t it?”

  Sparks finally began to notice the woman’s severe expression, and the weight of comprehension settled over his stomach. “Of course, not that all naturals are inferior. Only...only...” He swallowed. “Only some. I mean, it stands to reason, with the genetic variation involved in natural selection, that modification is required to avoid...” His words dried and a flush crept from his neck to his face.

  Rincker cleared his throat in the uncomfortable silence. Graydon carefully pushed back her chair and stood. Without a word, she left the table.

  “Need I tell you?” Rincker asked Sparks.

  “She’s a natural.” Sparks groaned and buried his face in his hands. After a moment he pressed his palms down on the table. “How was I to know? I mean, who could have guessed that someone in her position could have gotten where she is without modding?”

  Rincker raised his eyebrows. “Don’t you think you’ve said enough?”

  Sparks clenched his jaw and returned to scrutinizing his interface, though he didn’t register what was written on the screen. He was too preoccupied with his feeling of somehow being duped.

  ***

  Later, Sparks was sure that Graydon had something to do with the decision that came down from above to use one of 'their own’ to test the Paths’ threat response. It made no sense, of course. Scientists didn’t experiment on themselves. They used volunteers or occasionally prisoners. But the word came, apparently, that as none of the animal tests had yielded useful results, a scientist was required to move the experimentation to the next level.

  As the tests were top secret, the person had to be someone who was already involved in the study and understood the required observations. There was no drawing of straws. Sparks was told by the others that he would be the one to approach the Paths with a scalpel, as Rogers had on the quarantine station before falling into a coma.

  In vain he’d searched his colleagues faces for signs of sympathy or concern for his well-being. Sure that any attempt to avoid the task would result in his incarceration, or worse, he had no choice but to agree. He only hoped that the Paths would induce the euphoric coma Rogers had experienced, and not their other response when under threat.

  Brusquely, his colleagues attached electrodes to his chest, fingers and scalp. They would transmit data as the experiment took place. Sparks needed no readouts to tell him how his body was reacting. He was shaking and sweating so badly he could hardly hold the scalpel.

  They placed a safety helmet over the scalp electrodes and pads to his knees and elbows to help prevent injury if he should collapse. In Sparks’ opinion their efforts to help protect him were almost comical.

  The Paths were in their sealed chamber. Weeks after their removal from the mysteriously buried starship on the hostile aliens’ planet, they had survived miraculously with no food or water. As the scientists had discovered, they were apparently also unfazed by prolonged exposure to extreme temperatures and a vacuum.

  Sparks gazed with hatred at the innocuous-looking, inverted, fungus-like bags. The creatures had caused him so much suffering, he would have gladly shoved the scalpel into them and cut them to shreds if it weren’t for the fact that such an action would inevitably result in his death.

  On Sparks’ right, his colleagues were watching him through a thickened glass panel. Their faces were impassive. Sparks’ rage rose up against his treatment as a test subject. He should be on the other side of the glass, patiently observing what was going on.

  Graydon gestured at him. He scowled and took a step closer to the Paths. They remained predictably still, but Sparks began to experience heightened sensations of panic and fear. Though he knew the feelings originated with the aliens, they felt very real to him.

  What wouldn’t he give to swap places with Graydon? It should be her in here, not him. He was modded. He was better. His life was worth more.

  She was frowning at him and gesturing for him to move closer. She spoke, and Sparks lip-read, Get on with it. It was as much as Sparks could do not to lift the scalpel and shake it at her—threaten her with it rather than the Paths.

  If he got out of the chamber alive, he’d get his revenge. He’d make her pay. Flames of anger coursed through his veins. He would get the experiment over with. Turning back to the Paths, he strode toward them, almost running in his haste.

  He didn’t even feel his head hit the floor. He was in nirvana, and he never wanted to leave.

  Chapter Seven

  Jas put down her bag and went to look out the window of the viewing platform in her hotel room. The rocky Martian landscape spread out to the left beyond the distant spaceport. A shuttle was taking off, the brilliant glow of its rockets slowly fading as it forced its way up through the thin Martian atmosphere. On the right were the snaking lines of the hyperloop tunnels linking domes that marked the entrances to underground towns, factories, and farms. The small, bright sun was setting on the far side of the thinly spaced domes, and the sky was rapidly changing from pink to black as hard, white stars came out.

  Mars hadn’t changed much, from what Jas could remember. She wasn’t surprised. A couple of decades wasn’t long in the terraforming process. The modded soil bacteria that scientists had seeded the plan
et with were doing their job, but enriching Mars’ atmosphere with sufficient oxygen to make it breathable would take centuries, if it were actually possible. Many doubted the planet could ever sustain an atmosphere anywhere near equivalent to Earth’s.

  Colonization had begun prior to the invention of interstellar flight, but it really took off when global warming had reached its peak and millions of refugees were fleeing famine, natural disasters, and ruined local environments. Richer countries closed their borders, and for many, Mars was the only escape.

  Jas recalled what her dead Martian friend, Ozment, had told her: the planet had also provided a haven for those escaping increasing division in societies. Genetic modification had become the new privilege, but not all parents could afford the high cost of altering their offsprings’ genes just after conception, or they had a philosophical objection to the process. Unmodded children tended to grow up poorer and more disadvantaged. Though the newly formed Global Government hadn’t been slow to outlaw the requirement to reveal one’s genetic status when applying for jobs or educational courses, modding generally produced smarter, more creative and sociable, physically enhanced individuals. Their advantages were clear, and natural became a slur.

  Those who rejected the new social order, or who were rejected by it—underworlders—had come to Mars in droves.

  In recent decades, however, galactic colonization had taken off. Beyond the Solar System were planets far more favorable to life than Mars. The flood of new Martians had dried to a trickle, and then reversed, as they abandoned their cold, dry, barren world for friendlier planets. Jas wondered if Mars would eventually be entirely deserted, and the underground settlements would one day be as empty of life as the surface; if Valles Marineris and the rest of the municipalities dotted over the planet would become no more than ghost towns, inhabited by the memories of long-dead Martians who had eeked out pitiful lifespans in harsh conditions.