The God Mars Book Five: Onryo

by Michael Rizzo

  “Ambassador Murphy of Tranquility,” Sagrev Khan, War King of Katar, commands, his deep voice now sounding vaguely annoyed, as if my father’s tale was neither interesting nor useful. “Tell your life.”

  Murphy steps up to the Podium, giving my father a reassuring nod as they exchange places. It’s actually warm enough in here—even with the hole in the roof—that he doesn’t need his cloaks, so he’s just wearing his travel and battle worn black and gray Hammond-Keller uniform, his revolver slung in its shoulder holster, his Forge-gifted sword hung from his ammo belt.

  “My name is Jon Murphy,” he addresses them with confidence, as if trying to impress Khan. “Designation: Hammond-Keller M-7. This means I am the seventh of my family to take up the Gun and the Duty of protection. I am from Tranquility Colony, which until recently was divided and dying. Two of the original domes were intact, buried, while the third—the main garden dome—was breached in the bombardment.” Eyes close. Heads lower. “With the colony unable to support the entire population, some elected to try to live outside, restore the ruptured dome, or at least tend the gardens to provide a food supply beyond what we could grow and recycle in the sealed Hab domes. As our systems slowly degraded, we were forced to eject more, or give them the choice of suicide. Thus went our slow dying, and darkened my Duty. It became our burden to cast out or kill the least-essential. And then when those Cast began to thrive in the gardens, and sometimes tried to tap from our precious resources or resist our foraging parties, it was my Duty—I and my fellows—to cull them. So I became a hunter. Of men. And women and even children. But despite the sacrifice of all those lives, our colony continued to die as our systems aged.

  “Then last year, Colonel Ram came to us, told us of the world outside and its new horrors, and offered to help us if we would stop killing each other out of need. I joined with him in this, even though many of my fellows rejected his offer. He and his friends saved us. Restored our systems. Restored the breached dome. Brokered peace with the Cast. Brokered trade with Abbas’ people. Even opened talks with the Unmakers.

  “I travel with Abu Abbas now as an ambassador for my people, to offer peace, alliance, and trade. Colonel Ram gave us a dream: That if we could unite, all the peoples of Mars, then we could meet the Unmakers in strength, and help defend each other against our mutual enemies. My people—Domers and Cast together—fought alongside the Terraformers and Nomads and Knights and Shinkyo and immortals against Chang, and we did defeat him in battle. We can do that again here. We ask nothing in return but friendship.”

  He also gets silence for his offer.

  “Lieutenant Straker of The City of Industry,” Khan calls out next, with all the enthusiasm of a man reading aloud an inventory list. “Tell your life.”

  Murphy steps down off the Podium, giving Straker a reassuring nod and a quick smile. Straker hesitates a moment before ascending the few steps, breathing, as if preparing herself for war. I see her left hand start to move toward the living blade on her hip, but she stops herself from touching it, keeping her hands at her side.

  “I am First Lieutenant Jak Straker, Third Generation City of Industry Peace Keepers. When our colony was devastated by the bombing…” Eyes close—this is almost getting silly. I have to suppress an urge to snicker. (If I was to face their warriors in combat, if I suddenly said “Apocalypse” would they close their eyes?) “…we chose to leave the blasted surface structures as they were, to preserve the illusion that we had been properly ‘sterilized’. From the appearance of your city, I believe you understand the value of that…” She’s the first of us to reflect back on our hosts while talking about herself, but it gets no more response than my father or Murphy did. “Instead, we used our digging machines to expand our shelters underground, spreading them out so that they would be hard for future bombardments to target. We maintained recyclers, tapped the ETE Feeds, started hydroponic gardens, and raised families. Lived.

  “Our colony was home to a garrison of UN Peace Keepers, stationed there during the Eco conflict. Our neighboring colonies—Pioneer and Frontier—also had garrisons, and survivors, so we kept in contact, coordinated our efforts, assisted each other, helped defend each other when raiders came. And we also enforced order within our civilian populations.”

  She pauses then. I see her chew on her scarred lower lip. I’ve heard stories of how the Keepers “enforced order”. I expect she has as many regrets as Murphy does.

  “Colonel Ram came to us as well, told us that Earth would be returning, and offered us the opportunity to rejoin our former UN command structure. My commanders rejected his offer, distrusting the leadership that had tried to kill us all, unwilling to surrender our way of life, our homes. Unfortunately, this opened the door for the Shadow, for Chang. He came to us, showed us his power, told us that we could resist Earth if we joined him, that we could keep our homes secured. But… The cost was far too high. First, Chang stripped our homes to make his first flying fortress, larger than the one you’ve seen at Lucifer’s Grave, and ordered us to kill those that were ‘non-essential’: the aged, the sick, the disabled. Then, being a poor general, he threw us into battles with the UN forces and their allies with no concern for our survival—we were little more than ornamentation, soon replaced by his preferred machines. Many hundreds of my fellows died stupid, useless deaths. Others, not so lucky, were carved up to provide organic brain components for his battle drones.

  “So some of us rebelled, tried to separate from him, tried to take back our homes. He set his machines on us. Colonel Ram came again, this time in his immortal form, and brought his fellows to defend us. Because of him, because of them, I was able to save three hundred of my people, but we had to abandon our home. Because we needed shelter and medical care, we surrendered to the new UN command, and were housed at Melas Two. There, we were endlessly debriefed and tested for non-existent contamination, and eventually some of us were allowed to serve in their planetary forces, though of course in non-key positions.

  “I came to be here because I took an assignment on a Long Range Recon vehicle, sent into Coprates to look for the descendants of survivors. We investigated the ruins of Tyr, Nike, Gagarin and Concordia. We began to encounter Silvermen—what you call ‘Steel’ and who call themselves ‘The Children of the Forge’—spread throughout the highlands from Nike to Concordia. We’d managed to get as far as the ruins of Pax when we detected sign of Chang’s new flying fortress, his Stormcloud. We then detected an attempt to hack the Terraforming Stations, which we assumed was Chang. I volunteered for recon, hoping to paint the target for a surgical bombardment that would have spared you and your lands. But I encountered something else, and then became something else.”

  She makes her bright metallic green eyes glow even more unnaturally—finally, I hear some noise from our audience: Muffled gasps and nervous shuffling. I see Khan’s eyes shift to her sword, then back to watching her face like he’s monitoring the movements of an enemy force. I know he’s encountered a Companion Blade himself—Erickson Carter’s—and on the wrong end of it. I also expect he knows that it was only the character and incredible effort of the man wielding it that kept it from killing and consuming him.

  Straker takes a breath, measures out her words with care, but also with conviction:

  “It was—is—a piece of technology from Chang’s world, the world of the immortals. It’s changed me. I’m not like them, not fully, but it has made me stronger and faster and more resilient, and given me some power over the enemy’s technology. It’s a dangerous thing, of its own mind, and I’m only alive because it’s decided to join with me rather than consume me. But I’ve gotten control over it. And I am still myself. But I can never go back to the UN force. Earth remains terrified of this technology, even if it can serve them in their war against Chang’s forces—now Asmodeus’ forces. So now I travel with these good people, serve them, and serve Colonel Ram’s dream to unite Mars against our mutual enemies. Like my fellows, I offer to serve you as well. I don�
��t expect you to take my word on that. I only ask for the opportunity to prove myself an asset, a friend.”

  Miracle: I see Khan subtly nod his head. Some of his fellow “Kings” let themselves smile briefly.

  Perhaps this is the secret of this ritual: They have us tell our tales, supposedly as a measure of our character, but the true measure will be our actions, not our words.

  I consider that it was our prior actions that have allowed us this far into their world: Rescuing Khan’s eldest daughter from the “Black Clothes” who killed her diplomatic party and abused her, then escorting her safely back here. Well, not safely, but intact. We did battle Asmodeus’ bot army, and at dear cost. And then there was that business across The Lake, which none of us—including Terina—are speaking of.

  Left standing at the Podium with no further reply from our hosts, Straker eventually decides the proper thing is to give a little bow and step down, joining the rest of our ragged group as we stand as if on display on the stone floor of the center of the Oculus. And so we stand and wait.

  I see my Second Mother Sarai discreetly squeeze my Father’s hand from where she stands just behind him as if he’s her shield, our shield. This gets me looking again across our remaining numbers. Only thirty-one of our original seventy-five are still with us, the rest buried with honor along our long path from Melas. Add two: Ambassador Murphy, who joined us when we left Tranquility; and Jak Straker, who chose to join us at the end of our bloody journey after fighting alongside us, for us, unable to go “home” because of what she’s got inside of her, and certainly welcome in our company.

  But how welcome are we in this place? Since the expressions of the “Kings” of Katar are so unreadable, I keep scanning the hundreds looking down all around us. I’m not surprised to see fear in their large, thick-lidded eyes. But I think I also see a little hope.

  These people are under threat, attacked by machines, and maybe soon by weapons even more devastating. We, at least, still have guns, and a preciously small cache of armor-piercing ammunition and explosives. And we tell them we know these enemies, that we’ve fought them and beat them back.

  What we haven’t told them is how many of us, and our allies, have died doing so. And worse: the monsters ultimately behind this cannot be destroyed by mortal weapons. Chang even managed to survive a nuclear blast, and…

  “We thank you for your stories,” Gempei Akinaga, the Katar “Science King”, finally breaks the silence. “We will discuss your petition for treaty. You will hear our decision by noon-sun tomorrow. We have arranged for more comfortable lodging until then. You will be safe here among us as long as you act as you claim.”

  While my father offers the Council his thanks, I lock eyes with Terina. She’s sitting in the gallery directly behind the Council table, likely in a section reserved for families and associates of the Kings. This is the first I’ve seen of her since we were escorted through their defensive wall, and she actually looks like the First Daughter of a King now: Her plain abused tunic and trousers have been replaced by a fine sleeveless dress, with sections of ornate armor and a diadem of high-polished stones. She also wears the matched daggers that the Forge gave her as a token of renewed peace (or at least the hope of a renewed peace). She gives me a reasonably reassuring smile and nod, then rises with the rest of the audience, and they begin to file out of the great chamber in an orderly fashion. She walks with regal grace. Beautiful.

  Once this apparent social elite has made it to the main entrance and out into the morning daylight, everyone else in the terraced seating stands as one and exits through whichever portal is closest in what seems like practiced order. Only the five Kings stay where they are, still looking vaguely bored, as if preoccupied by a hundred matters more important than us, despite the news we bring.

  As our audience files out, our guards file in: Four dozen armored warriors, armed with their characteristic sword-spears, Shinobi-style swords and longbows. They march past the Kings’ table on either side and neatly surround us.

  “If there is anything else you need, you may request it of the Unit Captain,” Khan tells us as he finally stands, his laced-scale armor rustling. Then, as if eager to be done with this business, he and his fellow Kings turn and exit without farewell or a single look back.

  I hear Straker grunt her frustration under her breath.

  Small consolation: They haven’t killed us.

  “I am Hanzo Negev, Bannerman of Katar,” the apparent Unit Captain steps forward and formally introduces himself. His armor looks somewhat finer crafted than his rank warriors, but the only detail that obviously sets him above them is a kind of emblem on the forehead of his helmet: A bright red flower with many fine petals. “I am at your service, and you are free to move about the common areas of the City-Valley, but you are not to leave our company. Fresh quarters have been prepared for you. Please…”

  With the hand not holding his pole weapon, he gestures for us to move toward the main entrance, the same one we entered through, and up a short flight of stone steps well-polished by years of use. When we get back outside under the mid-morning sky, our hosts have all vanished like Shinobi. The colony we can see looks deserted. It’s only us, our guards, and a perimeter of several dozen more warriors on the wide stone-paved “Plaza” outside the Oculus, which overlooks much of the colony from its more up-valley western end, giving us an impressive view.

  I glance around at the rest of our party. The effect of this disappearing act isn’t lost on any of us. Our hosts had their required ritual and then scattered and hid themselves away. Are they afraid of us? Or does our presence offend them?

  As our guards don’t seem to be in any hurry to take us to wherever it is that’s been “prepared” for us, I wander to the edge of slab of the Plaza and finally take a good look over Katar. I can see most of it from here, nestled in its long, high-walled dead-end canyon, descending down to the massive defensive Gate Wall across the canyon mouth to the east.

  Most impressively though, from up here I can see how the stone, cast and rammed-earth structures artfully conform to the natural terrain, explaining all the seemingly random shapes and angles, as well as the pervasive patterns of paint decorating every exterior surface. It all made little sense as we passed through it at ground-level, but from above, it becomes beautifully obvious: Like their armor and attire, camouflage is the rule.

  Of course, I haven’t had the opportunity to really see it before now. We arrived yesterday evening, and were quickly and directly escorted through the narrow zigzagging gap that allows passage through their Gate Wall, across what I assume is a defensible (though rocky) field about a hundred meters across, and into the seemingly randomly-built colony that fills the canyon floor and spreads up the side-slopes.

  We were taken together to a large room built of rammed earth that appeared to be some kind of community eating space, and we were held there through the night with little communication from our hosts. Their warriors—our guards—brought us water and simple food, and sent runners to refill our oxygen canisters from the nearest Tap. (No structure we’ve seen so far appears to be pressurized, though the thresholds of our “cell” bore old scars that may have once been seals.) They also brought us fresh bandages and ointments for our wounded.

  In the center of our group quarters was a small shallow pit ringed in stone blocks that had been stained black by burning. Inside this, they made a pyramid of dried cut plant matter, and set fire to it, letting it burn to embers to produce heat for the night (which was chilly, but didn’t get below freezing). The smoke from the burning was neatly channeled through a kind of vent cut in the rammed earth roof.

  And so we barely slept, in our rolls on the stone floor, still in our masks rather than setting up our shelters.

  More food was brought in the morning: flat bread, fruit and a thick grainy porridge. Canisters were refilled, and heated water was poured into large basins for us to wash. Our guards waited patiently while my father led morning Salat, and then we we
re summoned here.

  It was a long walk up the canyon, along a strangely winding path of well-packed ground that wove between the oddly staggered and angled structures. Between the dim light, the dust haze of the morning wind and the low-ground of our course, we still couldn’t see much of our new surroundings. And except for our escort, we didn’t see a living soul, but it made sense that they would clear our course. In fact, we’d seen no sign of anyone other than their warriors until we were brought into the Oculus, where our overwhelming but silent audience was already waiting.

  They arranged us as if for inspection, and our life-telling obligation was explained to us by Pers Almquist, the “Engineer King”. For a “king” he had very little ornamentation—just a few intricate pieces of “jewelry” made of old circuits and wires—and he spoke to us like a wise old teacher. I got the impression that he hoped we would do well.

  Now, with the sun higher, the haze cleared and a proper vantage, I can see the marvel of art and engineering that the people of Katar have accomplished:

  What I thought were oddly random shapes are very intentional. Combined with the paint scheme, every structure and path—even the terraced Gate Wall—blends neatly into the rocky terrain. The illusion isn’t obvious when seen from the ground, but from above—from orbit, from space—the entire colony becomes effectively invisible.

  “Trompe L’Oeil,” I remember from my studies of Earth art.

  “To fool the eye,” Negev translates appreciatively.

  The patterns on their clothing and armor probably have a similar effect, especially if whoever they’re camouflaging themselves from is looking from a great distance.

  That makes me reconsider the population’s lack of visible presence, their quick vanishing after their ritual. Maybe the colonists aren’t hiding from us. Maybe their habit is to stay under cover unless they absolutely need to be moving out under the sky.