The God Mars Book Five: Onryo

by Michael Rizzo

  So why is she here?

  “I need to eat,” I let it go.

  I do need to eat. My graphics are dipping into yellows and reds. And I feel tired, slow, thirsty and starving. But looking at the food right now, I remember eating that Keeper alive.

  I head for the shower in my family’s old quarters instead. The room is depressingly bare, their personal treasures either taken with them when they fled or long-since looted by the Keepers. I don’t even possess a spare change of clothing. (Conveniently, the insulated work jumper that forms the underlayer for my armor either cleans itself or my body absorbs any soil.)

  I haven’t done this very often since my conversion: take off everything. I even tend to sleep in my jumper if not my full armor. I have enough of a struggle dealing with my face not being quite my own, but my body is not mine at all. It’s not just all the new hard muscle and lack of scars. My bones are different: bigger, thicker. Peter insists this isn’t him taking over; the Seed immediately changed his physique as well.

  But the worst part—still—is knowing that just under my skin, or maybe even inside my skin, are billions upon billions of molecule-scale machines, always busy, slowly changing me into something else. My body is no longer my own. It’s theirs. And through them, it’s Peter’s.

  I tell myself it’s better, I’m a better thing than I was. Stronger. Faster. Tougher. So much better to fight this fight, to protect those who need it and fend off the monsters. When I was just Jonathan Drake, just Ishmael Abbas, I was fragile, vulnerable, weak. Insufficient. Inadequate. And I died, torn apart by bullets. Now I’m this. For as long as it lasts, for as long as I last. And after that, this body will continue. Maybe forever.

  I check my frag wounds. I can still feel the ache of them deep in the meat, but the skin barely shows discoloration. It’s not natural, not at all. But it’s necessary.

  The Ghaddar comes in behind me as I’m brooding over myself in the mirror. She stands in the open hatch—I’m not sure why I left it open—with no apparent concern for modesty. Her face is unreadable.

  “The living have purpose,” she says flatly. “The dead, no longer. As long as you have purpose, then you’re alive.”

  She turns and leaves me.

  After I’m done with my shower and back underneath the armor of the Onryō, I realize she’s nowhere in the ship. I take a brief look around outside.

  She’s gone.

  I spend the next three days doing my rituals emptily. I begin neglecting Salat again. When the drones catch something, I go out into the green, track down the source, and destroy it, but not expediently.

  I start toying with the Harvesters. I let them shoot at me with their sloppy control over their stolen bodies, finding it easy to stay ahead of their slow responses. Thankfully (if there can be anything to be grateful for in this horror), all of the drones so far have been inhabiting Chang’s former black-uniformed minions. After they waste their ammo trying to hit me, I move in and stab and whittle at the walking corpses, lazily shoot bits of them away, and surgically batter them, systematically breaking their bones. I make some of them last for minutes, then hours. I even dismember, gut and “de-fang” one just to see how long its module will keep trying to operate a useless mass of rotting meat and bone. I tell myself what I’m doing is studying them, informally cataloguing the kind of damage they can and can’t take; how much violence is required to disable their control modules, their eyes, their transmitters, or just to render them helpless and perhaps speed the decomposition of their barely-maintained bodies. But I know it’s just sick amusement, taking out my rage on flesh that’s too far gone to suffer.

  I even know Asmodeus is probably watching me through them, probably sending them my way on purpose. Do I amuse him? Or is he waiting for me to break down, to give up, to decide life (and preserving it) is just as pointless as he insists it is.

  So I put on a show, make messes out of human bodies that even Peter is starting to get shocked by, hoping I’ll draw him out; make the demon come to gloat, to seduce…

  On the fourth day, no Harvesters come. So I sit out in the green as the leaves close up and wait through the night.

  When nothing comes by morning, I rush back to Eureka, and look for sign of anything that may have gotten around me. The Civvies send out their gathering parties, vigilant but unmolested. So I go to the Keeper holdouts. They’re maintaining a thin perimeter of sniper sentries with their few remaining operational weapons, but they’re otherwise keeping chatter to a minimum since they know we’re listening in. I’m sure they’re probably hunkered down somewhere deep inside the slope, trying to get their weapons working again, planning their next move.

  Whatever it is, I find I barely care.

  I go back to the DQ, and fall asleep watching the screens.

  To give me something productive to do, Peter teaches me how to reload our empty cases. The task becomes especially bizarre when I find out how we get the raw materials we need. What we’ve absorbed from getting shot get’s extruded from our breast plate as raw workable alloy that a handy lab-torch liquefies for the bullet molds in my kit. My nanites also distill the propellant powder from raw chemicals in my system. All I have to do is grip the powder horn, and my scavengers work in reverse, transporting the chemicals into the reservoir. Holding the struck primers in my grip for several minutes restores and recharges them. Then it’s just a matter of assembly, using the dies and hand-press. The powder horn is self-measuring with presets for different charges.

  After a few hours, I’ve made myself forty rounds, one at a time. Holding one in my fingers, appreciating the hand-polished copper and brass, I have to chuckle at the thought that I basically shit what made these out of my pores. Then I consider that, given my artificially-enhanced skills, every cartridge I’ve made could become a life taken.

  I never thought about that before, when I was mortal. Carrying and maintaining a gun, refining my marksmanship, I treasured every precious round for its ability to defend my life and the lives of my people. Life-saving treasure. Now I look at them and just see planned murder, something I know I’ll do just because I’m too angry to care about better possibilities.

  (Is that why Ram shot those three Keepers? Did he know he had better options, but just didn’t care to use them because he was too angry to value their lives?)

  I slide the shells back into their slots in my gun belt.

  I go outside, perform Salat, and Peter prays at his family’s graves.

  I’m gathering for a late lunch when I get the call: Straker this time, her voice in my head.

  “Ishmael. Jonathan. We could use you. Katar is under attack. Bots this time. He hasn’t sent bots before.”

  The Katar have no weapons against bots.

  I have handfuls of fruits and nuts. I crush them in my hands, absorb them directly. Then I start running.

  It takes me the better part of an hour to run to the point of the south rim of the Katar canyon. The time it takes is unbearable, but I’m grateful that the Trident is indeed a relatively small place. Only the mountains and divides are significant obstacles to getting from south to north, since my new abilities allow me to move through even the thick green swiftly and surely, and I can always hack myself a path if I run into a thick barrier of growth.

  As I approach the crest-end, I can hear intermittent gunfire, and see plumes of smoke rising up into the hazy sky from inside the Katar canyon. It reminds me too much of another day, when I ran to defend my people against a bot attack, only to arrive too late to save too many, including my stepmother Fatima. It seems like a lifetime ago, but it’s only been a few weeks.

  I know what I’m hearing is bot guns, interspersed with conservative rifle fire. As I get closer, weaving through the thick green at the mouth of the canyon, I think I can also hear the sharp sounds of metal on metal, metal cleaving metal, the distinctive scream of Companion Blades. As I run, I come across the familiar tracks of Boxes and Bugs. If I concentrate, I can hear the coded chatter of t
heir command signals. I try to hack, jam, but the frequencies shift, slip away from me. Asmodeus is being smart. He knows there are Moddeds at Katar.

  I try calling out to Straker, and get no reply. I have no idea if I’m doing it right, or even how exactly to do it other than concentrating. I try again, calling Ram. I still hear nothing back. Then Peter tries for me.

  “You’ve missed a bit,” Straker tells me in my head, her words hurried, pressured. “But the fun is still in full swing. They’ve been trickling in steadily.”

  “I’m coming in from the east,” I tell her.

  “Then watch your back—there may be others rolling in behind you.”

  “Who’s with you?”

  “I’ve got the Carter Brothers and Paul Stilson, and Dee was here to check Murphy’s wounds. He’s currently playing a game of command signals with Fohat, but Fohat’s getting better. The rest are in a similar fight at the Pax Hold. He’s hitting us in two places at once.”

  I clear the green and race out onto the defensive plain. I immediately see six active bots—four Boxes and two gun-armed Bugs—and the wrecks of six more. The camouflage coloring of the Gate Wall has been pocked and pitted by heavy weapons’ fire. Fire is coming back from the wall in the form of the occasional sniper shot, from several positions along the top of the wall, and from the cleft of the main “gate”, where I see Paul Stilson’s distinctive blue sealsuit hunkered behind stone with his heavy rifle. The bots answer back in kind, chewing up the rock battlements, forcing Stilson to duck and cover.

  Then I see something confusing: First one, then two of the wrecked Box bots starts to move, only to have their intact fellows start shooting at them. A third wreckage heaves up and advances at one of the Boxes. I wonder if this is Dee, or one of the Companion-Bound, taking control, but then I see the wrecks aren’t moving under their own motor systems. They’re being pushed, lifted and dragged from within.

  A Bug runs at one of the moving wrecks, and starts hacking at it with its blade limbs. It tries to tear open the destroyed Box, only to suddenly jerk and spasm. I see the tip of a Companion Blade come through its torso, then hack off its upper head and one of its limbs.

  They’re using the dead bots as shields. Smart, because if any of the Companion-Bound takes a head shot, they won’t come back from it.

  Two of the Boxes turn and concentrate fire, not caring if they’re hitting their own. I understand what they’re doing, what Fohat (or Asmodeus) is doing: They know the Blades can redirect and absorb incoming fire, but maybe there’s a limit. If they can overwhelm what the Blades can stop…

  They haven’t seen me yet. I draw my pistol and announce myself. My rounds probably won’t penetrate the bots’ armor, so I go for the sensor heads. I blind three before they figure out where the attack is coming from. But when they turn, a sniper on the wall takes out another head.

  Taking advantage of the confusion, Elias Carter comes dashing out from behind his bot-shield and drives his blade deep into one of the Boxes. It tries to spin, to rotate a gun on him, but he chops the barrel-cluster away. Then it just tries to roll over him. He drives his Blade back in between the cube-like sections, twists and wrenches, but the Box has him partially pinned. The remaining Bug heads for him.

  I run to intercept, and one of the Boxes hammers me with chain fire. My armor hardens, but I still get hit hard, knocked sideways. I get my feet back under me and keep running, make the Box chase me as I close on the Bug, and get it between me and the Box as I start hacking. But even as I do, I try reaching out, blocking the bot’s command signal and connecting with its organic core—the remains of the human inside.

  The signals keep shifting frequencies, slipping away from me. I chop away two of the six limbs and damage a third, getting hit hard in the left side for my trouble. I feel my armor dent inward and then spring back, my ribs crack and re-knit, the air knocked out of me. I stab the bot through the torso and shove, lifting it. And then I run with it impaled on my Nagamaki, the remaining legs trying to batter me as I charge at the nearest Box. The Box turns a chain-gun on me, shredding the Bug’s torso and pinging off my armor. I slam into it, pinning the Bug to the Box with my blade, twisting it in both their guts. I reach up with my left hand, grabbing the Bug by the “neck” of its remaining sensor head, and I start draining it—power, fluids, proteins. I use the renewed strength to drive my blade deeper into the Box. The Box tries to get its gun back on me but can’t with the Bug blocking it. So it tries to shake us off.

  I finish the Bug by ripping its head off, then ripping it in half with the damage done my my sword through it. Now I can concentrate on the Box. I push my blade until it rips out the side of the machine, through the sections, leaving it cleaved it halfway through. Then I bring my blade down between other sections, and push down to the ground, shearing and snapping the innards of the machine as I go. Finally, I use my gloved hands to wedge between the sections and rip it apart, rip it open, then put a fist through the shell containing the organic aspects. I ignore the exposed mutilated brain and spinal nerves, and reach further into the machine, find the breech of the still-intact main cannon, and get my hands on it.

  The destroyed bot becomes my personal gun turret. I wrench it around, point it at one of its fellows, and fire. I punch three 20mm explosive shells into one of the other Boxes. Its partner turns and starts firing at me. My Box-shield takes one big round for me, then a second, before I realize it’s done. Battered by the shockwaves of the first two hits, I jump clear as a third round blasts through it, and go tumbling in the dirt. I get my feet under me as fast as I can, ready to dodge another shot.

  But the remaining Box jerks and wavers, as if fighting with itself.

  “Got it,” I hear Dee in my head.

  Whatever he means, Straker comes running out from behind her own shield and chops away the bot’s guns, then takes its heads. The machine spins and rolls around, blind and helpless. Straker backs away from it. I realize she’s staggering, clutching her side. I can also see a ragged wound in her right thigh.

  Erickson and Elias come to join her. They’re also wounded, bloodied, exhausted. Straker drags herself over to the Box I’d ripped open, reaches around inside the blasted wreckage, and grabs hold of what’s left of the brain. It shrivels in her grip. She looks like she’s going to be sick, but after a few moments, she can stand up a little straighter.

  “Dee?” she calls out. “Any more?”

  “Three contacts,” he answers. “Seventy five meters east-northeast, advancing.”

  We turn to look into the green, see and hear it rustle, moved by something big. Three more Bugs come walking out of it, almost casually. They turn their gun arms on us, but don’t fire.

  “Impressive, Skeletor,” I hear Asmodeus now. His voice is transmitting from the lead bot. “You’re shaping up into quite the badass. But what did I tell you about wasting your time hanging out with the wrong crowd?”

  “If you really want my company, why don’t you tell me where to find you?” I dare him.

  “I don’t think you’re ready for that yet. You may have finally gotten bored with hacking up Gandalf’s former minions, but you still think you can care about the meat. Save them. Protect them from bad men like me. Maybe I should ask the Eureka PK: who protects them from you? And don’t give me that shit about only killing the killers. Ram’s been spouting that lame-ass excuse since before he killed me.”

  “Ram didn’t kill you, Ange,” I hear Dee interrupt with his usual calm. I look back at the Gate Wall, see a lone figure in Nomad cloaks standing atop it. “I did.”

  Before Asmodeus can answer, the bots jerk and stagger like they’re fighting something, or having some kind of seizure. Then they start thrashing at the empty air. I hear screams as their human minds begin to reassert themselves. Then I hear Dee, on their channels, soothing them, carefully exerting just enough control to calm them and keep them from hurting themselves or anyone else. I don’t hear Asmodeus anymore. Or Fohat’s command signals.

/>   Now Straker and the Carters are looking back at him.

  “I told you I had it.”

  Dee comes out to join us on the field, along with Stilson, Sagrev Khan, and my father. I don’t react to his presence, try to act like I don’t know him, but Straker’s eyes are on me, concerned. My father stares at me as well, with a mix of shock and unexpected rage. I’m sure he recognizes the armor from the DQ, knows I must be that immortal regenerated, but why the anger?

  Khan is followed closely by a squad of his warriors, led by Cousteau. They’re definitely wary of the bots, including the smashed and chopped and blasted ones. I wonder if they took casualties before I arrived.

  But before we can assess our losses and our next steps, we’re all confronted with an odd problem: We have four still-active but disconnected bots on our hands—the three Bugs and the Box with the missing guns and heads. Dee steps up to the helpless Box and puts a hand on its battered sections.

  “We may be able to scavenge enough parts from the others to get this one at least partially operational,” he suggests. The others look at him like he’s gone mad, but I think I understand.

  “If these bots are separated from the network , Asmodeus has no control over them,” I speak with Peter’s voice. “They may choose to serve you, if for no other reason than to avenge what’s been done to them and their fellows.”

  “Who are you?” Khan asks directly.

  “My name is Peter Nagasawa,” I tell a partial truth. “I served on that ship your people found. Until the crew was killed, and I became this.”