The God Mars Book Five: Onryo

by Michael Rizzo

  “Can these people take care of themselves?” I ask Straker.

  She shrugs.

  “The Civvies run the functioning of the Colony,” she admits. “Air. Water. Food. Power. Structural integrity. The Garrison only provided security and governance.”

  “Their biggest threat is from their former overlords,” the Ghaddar assesses. I notice Straker doesn’t seem to take offense at her choice of descriptor. “And Asmodeus, if he decides he wants the remaining resources of the colony, including these people.”

  “The Katar aren’t interested in taking any further action against the site,” Straker eliminates one potential danger. “It’s too far, too high. No Value.”

  “Which means they won’t offer to defend it, either,” I assume. But then a possibility strikes me. “What about my father? Our people still need a home.”

  “He’s thrown his guns and swords in with the Katar,” Straker lets me know. “This entire territory presents too great a risk until Asmodeus and the Harvester threat can be dealt with. He won’t send for the rest of your people in Melas. Not now. Not yet.”

  But that gives me hope for a future for them, assuming Asmodeus can be defeated, or at least driven away. I could convince the Civvies to accept the Nomads as friends, and together, they could rebuild this place, keep it safe from attack. It might even prove too remote for the Unmakers to bother with.

  “Eureka is a lot smaller than Industry or the other Melas colonies I Served at, but they do have sufficient operational reactors and recyclers for a population twice this size, assuming they can keep them maintained,” she tells me, apparently picking up on my thoughts.

  I’m distracted by movement. Above us on the upper catwalk, at the lock I came in through, I see a boy skittishly peeking through the hatchway, edging into the dome, cowering and flinching like he expects to be shot at for his daring. He’s thin, pale, dirty, maybe a young teen. An adult grabs him from behind and drags him out.

  “They’re still conditioned to stay out of the Keeper sections,” I channel Peter, “even with their masters gone.”

  I think I see a flush of shame cross Straker’s face. I expect she lived her life believing that her kind were better than those they “protected”. I expect she was taught to since birth. Apparently she’s learned better, from the cost of deals made with Chang, or her travels in the larger world. Or maybe she always understood what monsters her fellows were, but knew no other order. I can feel Peter still hold her accountable for the acts of her people, for whatever she did during her “Service”, but I can’t imagine her being like them. She’s changed, grown, evolved (nanotechnology aside). Unfortunately the cost was the destruction of her home, the deaths of hundreds of her own.

  Adding to that: She came here to warn the last bastion of her old order about making deals with demons, only to become part of destroying them.

  We drag the bodies to a still-functioning freight elevator that opens out into the labyrinth, and stack them with care. We’ll take them to a non-critical section of tunnel out on the perimeter of the colony to bury them.

  I find I’m grateful that I didn’t have to dispose of all of those I’d killed. If so, I expect I’d be moving them in pieces, scooping gore back into bodies. But the worst would be having to see it up close, get a good look at what I can do to flesh and bone with very little effort, and even a modicum of glee. (Would seeing it—for once having to clean up the blood and gore and take care of the bodies of those he’d massacred—teach Peter the ugliness of his “mission”? I doubt it. I remember he made displays out of body parts to terrify the others. I can see those memories now, in horrible flashes; and more damning: I can feel the emotions attached to those memories. He was almost giddy as he did it, like a child playing a game.)

  Peter, for his part, is conspicuously silent during this whole process. For the first time I feel like I have full control, that he’s the passenger, letting me do something—however small—to atone for his sins. (I felt him resist while I buried the Keepers back at the ship, making it intentionally harder for me than it needed to be, like he was hoping I would give up and just dump them like garbage.)

  But this sin isn’t just his to atone for. I know I brought this down on them. In control of my body or not, I certainly didn’t resist very much, and eagerly cooperated with a lot of it (enemy of my enemy). I broke their defenses and decimated their numbers, leaving them vulnerable to my father’s and the Katar’s blood vengeance. (But if I hadn’t, what would have happened when my father came for rescue and revenge? Would I be carrying away his body? Rashid’s? The Ghaddar’s? Murphy’s?)

  “How is Ambassador Murphy?” I finally remember to ask after my friend. Straker stops what she’s doing, looks at me like she doesn’t want to say.

  “The bullet tore through his pelvis and into his bowel. The Katar have good surgeons, but Colonel Ram sent Dee to assist. He… They had to do a procedure called a ‘colon-ostomy’, remove part of intestine. His… He has to eliminate through a hole in his…” She points to a spot in her lower abdomen. Just talking about it makes her uncomfortable—she’s come to like Murphy in the short time they’ve known each other, respect him. “…at least for awhile, until he heals internally. He’s still weak—there was a bad infection. And his hip was shattered. Azazel made him a new joint and Dee put it in. He should be able to walk again soon.”

  I should feel worse about it than she does, since I’ve known him longer and it was arguably my stupidity that night (Peter or no Peter) that may have gotten him shot. But somehow I feel distanced, detached, like it happened a long time ago, a lifetime ago. Is this what Asmodeus was talking about, when he said I’d stop caring about the Normals? Is it because I’m starting to forget what it felt like to be mortal; because if I can’t be hurt like that, I have no more empathy for it?

  I don’t know what to feel. I’m glad I have my mask on, so she can’t see.

  I nod, hoping it looked sympathetic, then get back to hauling the dead as respectfully as I can.

  As the physical task begins to fatigue me, my technology tries to automatically tap the decaying flesh for resources. I have to willfully stop it from doing so, but it gets harder and harder not to see these human bodies as treasure sacks of useful nutrients.

  I catch Straker looking like she’s having similar struggles. She occasionally releases her grip on whoever she’s carrying, steps back, breathes, looks at her gloved hands.

  The Ghaddar watches us both like she’s expecting us to lose control. I’ve seen that look from time-to-time as we worked to restore the DQ, to bury the dead from that skirmish (especially when she found the remains of those I’d consumed during my transformation). I remember hearing that she’d actually witnessed Ram’s conversion, sat vigil while Astarte brought the bodies of fallen enemy soldiers to be consumed, finally fleeing when she could bear to watch no longer. I expect she sees that memory when she looks at me. But she hasn’t left. And I haven’t questioned her choices.

  But now I can’t help but question myself: Could I scavenge the body of a friend, if my need was desperate enough? Could I scavenge a living body, even accidentally, like Peter did to me, if I was that badly hurt?

  I realize this isn’t the first time I’ve considered this, I just haven’t taken this much time to process it through. I realize I’ve let the Ghaddar stay around me because I trust she can defend herself, even from me, at least enough to get away from me. But I honestly don’t think I can risk the company of humans anymore. I’m a constant danger, a ghoul, a machine that will eat them for its own survival. And like Peter (or Ram or Bel or any of the others) I may not be able to stop myself.

  I have to stay in the moment. I have to finish this job. And as I do, I practice handling corpses without eating them.

  Before we collapse the tunnel, Straker speaks with the Civvies to make sure the burial won’t impact their homes, infrastructure, or limited quality of life. She then encourages them to occupy the Keeper sections, use their skil
ls for their own benefit, to repair the damage done in the battle; and to begin gathering from the surrounding forest, being careful to avoid anyone coming from the east that looks sick, and to keep well away from them, keep them shut out of the colony.

  They listen to her intently, but it’s clear her biggest challenge is convincing them that someone who wears the uniform is encouraging them to be self-ruling. Her second-biggest challenge is that the Civvies have no leadership of their own. She encourages them to elect a colony manager, and awkwardly tries to explain the concept of democracy, something she apparently learned about only recently herself, from the civilian contingent at Melas Two.

  All the while, I stay well back, the Ghaddar at my side. Their eyes keep straying to me throughout Straker’s motivational speech. I can’t be sure if I’m just seeing general fear or if they feel they need my permission to take her advice.

  “Maybe you should take off your helmet,” the Ghaddar suggests quietly. “Let them see that you’re human.”

  “I’m not,” I growl through my skull mask. She doesn’t push it.

  Once the Civvies are clear, Straker uses her Blade to collapse the tunnel over the bodies. Then she uses it to carve a simple memorial on a steel girder that had been used as a tunnel support, planting it before the rockfall. I step forward, clasp my hands over my breastplate (right over left) and say the Salat al Janazah like my adoptive father taught me, returning these warriors to the dust and asking for their forgiveness even though I know they are likely not of the Faithful.

  Your parents were atheists, Peter suddenly seems to feel the need to bring up right now, choosing to break his silence in this most solemn moment. Not a popular choice on our world, not since the Tragedy.

  I don’t bother to defend my faith to him, or the implication that I’ve somehow dishonored my birth parents with it. (I’ve also noticed he doesn’t criticize when we’re praying for his own loved ones.)

  “He’s talking to you, isn’t he?” Straker confronts with reasonable tact. “The… The one the Seed is programmed to.”

  “You can hear him?” I remember Asmodeus could.

  “He doesn’t know how to block me,” Straker explains. “Neither do you. You’re broadcasting to any Modded in close enough range. It’s something the Mods are designed to do by default, so the Modded can communicate with each other like networked machines.”

  “I don’t hear you,” I realize.

  “There are safeties, firewalls, for privacy and security. I’m learning… Ram, Bel and the others—I can’t hear them unless they want me to. The trick seems to be throwing up some white noise; a layer of calm, not thinking, putting up an imaginary wall of static, if that makes any sense.”

  I nod, but I’m not sure it does. This is something I’m going to need to master before I get my next opportunity to engage Asmodeus and the Toymaker. (I suddenly wonder if Thel learned this trick, and how. If he hadn’t, why couldn’t Asmodeus see his lies in his head?)

  “How do you communicate with them over distance?” I want to know, thinking maybe I could lure Asmodeus to me.

  “I use my Blade,” she says with a shrug. “I’m not sure how the Seed-Modded do it. Maybe you’ll get the chance to ask them.”

  I’m not sure I want to. I remember Asmodeus damning me, because I enjoyed the slaughter too much.

  “Thank you, Lieutenant. For everything.” I look past her, down the tunnel, to where the Civvies still watch us intently. “The Colony needs a new Governor,” I suggest lightly. She shakes her head.

  “It shouldn’t be a former PK, not after what these people have been through. Besides, I’m needed back at Katar. This isn’t like fighting the bots. The Harvesters emit much weaker signals. Beyond about ten meters, we can’t hear them enough to target. And that’s just when they’re sending. They can perform basic seek-and-destroy or hide-and-wait without connecting to their master. In the thick green, they can slip past us, or be buried right under our feet. We’ve had to… We’ve had to kill the people we’re trying to protect, to keep them from becoming those things.”

  The rage that hisses through my mask now is all mine.

  “The Katar learn quick,” she continues, her own anger simmering behind her metallic eyes, “but then the drones hit us with new tricks, and it costs us. Asmodeus is smart. I’m sure he watches how we respond each time, then has Fohat upgrade the tactical algorithms. The scary part is that Ram is sure this is just the beginning, that Asmodeus is still just playing with the weapon, figuring out how to use it, before he does something really big. And the only ones that the Harvesters can’t infect are people like us. Modded.”

  Now I expect her to ask me to come back to Katar with her, to help her defend their colony, but that’s not what’s going to end this.

  We have to kill Asmodeus. We have to find him and burn him to ashes and bury him deep. And Fohat. And then we need to find Thel and smash his brains to jelly.

  I’m in full agreement with Peter on this. I want to go now, find them. But then I see the eyes of those watching us, their fear for their future, for their families.

  Don’t, lad…

  “What about these people?” I want to know. “Who protects them now?”

  She doesn’t say the obvious, doesn’t let me hear it in her thoughts, but the look in her metallic eyes…

  We’re the only ones the Harvesters can’t infect. We’re the only real defense.

  No. I can’t. I can’t stay here. I have Thel to hunt. And Asmodeus…

  “This is a war,” she reminds me—apparently I’m still not masking my thoughts. “This isn’t personal. It can’t be. We have to coordinate. We have to do this smart. Which is why I have to get back to Katar. Otherwise I’d run off and hunt Asmodeus myself. But I can’t afford to. Unless you want to take a shift on the Gate Wall. With your father, your family.”

  I try to put up white noise, but I’m sure she can hear me anyway.

  Still, I think she needs to understand why I can’t go back. I unseal my helmet, take it off. I see her eyes process, try not to register her shock.

  I’ve been watching it happen in the mirror, very slowly. I’d even tried convincing myself it’s my imagination, but I’ve seen it in the Ghaddar’s eyes, and now Straker’s especially. She hasn’t seen me in nearly a week—the changes will look more profound to her.

  My jaw line is changing, as is the bridge of my nose, my cheekbones, and the shape of my eyes. My beard is thinning, getting darker.

  She looks crushed, sick. Tries not to show it.

  Peter changes the subject for me, gets back to his own agenda, and I let him:

  “I can’t protect these people against two enemies. Unless you’re willing to help me ensure the remaining Keepers will never be a threat to them again.” And all that implies.

  “We made need their guns, their skillsets,” she argues logically. “We may still be able to turn them to our cause. If they’re anything like the Melas PK, they’d give anything to fight a proper enemy, a true threat to their homeland. We just need to convince them who the true threat is. Unfortunately, right now they’re probably focused on it being you.”

  I know she’s right. It’s not just her reluctance to exterminate (or let me exterminate) distant cousins-in-arms. She’s a trained tactician, her entire education has been the arts of war. Just like Colonel Ram.

  Peter’s a biologist. He’s no soldier. He’s only managed what he’s managed because of his accidental power. And real soldiers managed to defeat him once, despite his advantages. I’m the one in this collision of a relationship with the battle experience.

  I’m struck by a sickening idea: Maybe that’s why he’s keeping me “alive”—to make him a better warrior. I quickly distract myself by focusing on the immediate threat, a technique that seems to keep Peter from “hearing” things I don’t want him to (but then I can’t think them either).

  We can use the ship, Peter offers. We can set up a series of listening posts across the mouth of the
canyon with the drones, catch those things as they cross into the Blade.

  I was actually starting to think the same thing, but immediately see a problem with the idea:

  “And if they climb over the Divide, like we did?”

  Asmodeus is smart. He’ll see what we’ve done through his drones and work out a way around it.

  Peter doesn’t have an answer.

  “You could partially restore the colony security grid,” Straker considers. “Slave it to alert you directly. That would also let you know if the PK try to retake the site, give you eyes on whatever’s happening.” She seems to have gotten used to the benefits of her Mods enough to make creative use of them. I have to remind myself she was only “infected” a few days before I was.

  It’s a sound idea.

  I nod my agreement. Now I just need to figure out how to do that. Or maybe my nanites will just do it for me, like they fixed the ship’s chipware or crashed the colony’s grid to begin with.

  “It will take time for you to respond. It would be more effective if we could train these people to defend themselves,” the Ghaddar reasons. Straker shakes her head.

  “The PK took all the weapons and remaining ammo. And even if we could get them or make them weapons, Civvies are conditioned to be afraid of fighting, to be dependent on their warfighters.”

  “And not resist them.” I’m not sure if that was me or Peter or both. Straker doesn’t deny it. I see her shame again.

  “So they wouldn’t put up a fight if their masters came back,” the Ghaddar grimly decides. Straker suddenly looks ill.

  “What?” I press.

  “The surviving Garrison lacks the numbers to manage the facility and the current population,” she reminds us. “That means—if they do come back—they’ll probably do a culling, then demo the tunnels until they’ve cut the colony down to a size they can secure.”