Then a small group of us—myself, my father, the Ghaddar, Ambassador Murphy, Yusuf and Jibril—move carefully back to where we saw the heat. It all spends precious daylight hours. And worse, we seem to have lost track of our twin followers. They should have rounded the end of the Lesser Divide range long ago, but cannot be seen. The Ghaddar suggests they may have seen us, and have moved into a position to observe us discreetly. She assures us she’ll find them later.
The heat bleed remains as it was when we return. There’s still no sign of human activity.
We creep up on the site, climbing slowly, keeping low to the ground, using the rocks and the clinging brush, sure we may be observed from multiple sides. When we get within closer view, less than two hundred meters, we realize there is a narrow cave opening. The jagged slopes also show signs of smaller vents, but the ground at the cave mouth looks compressed by foot traffic despite attempts to conceal prints, the rocks bearing the telltale polish of humans climbing over them as they come and go.
Then I discover why my father agreed to my request to join this adventure.
“Ishmael, I need you and Jibril to hold position here, to cover our retreat. I don’t want to be hemmed in from behind.”
The look in his eyes tells me there’s no point arguing. I nod my agreement, hold my tongue, and find a position in the rocks and scrub to settle into. Jibril finds his own perch a handful of meters downslope, and hunkers under his cloak. Then we watch my father and the others cautiously but smoothly move up to the cave, and—one-by-one—vanish from sight.
We hear nothing for several minutes. Then Jibril signals me, pointing urgently up into the rocks above and slightly ahead of us.
I see a single figure: He wears a Nomad cloak, but underneath he has what looks like Knight armor, only the camo paint is worn to bare metal in places, leaving him visible against the terrain. Under that, he looks like he’s wearing the sealsuit and mask of a Jinn. But he carries a sword and a pistol instead of their magical objects. And he fumbles clumsily as he climbs over the rocks.
Is this one of the two who were following us? He doesn’t appear to have seen us down here among the boulders. We stay still, watch him awkwardly climb down into what must be a narrow heat vent, down into the slope above the main cave. I consider signaling my father, but our short-range Links won’t work with them underground. I would have to make noise, and that would reveal us all.
“He really is an idiot.”
A voice comes from behind me: smooth, calm, almost melodious. Jibril and I spin and find another figure standing a few meters behind us, looking up at where the other disappeared. This one is dressed like a Nomad—his color pattern says he’s Northwest Melas, Hassim’s people. He carries a bow and arrows, knives, and a short sword. He doesn’t seem concerned about us, doesn’t even look at us, even though we point firearms at him.
“You are Ishmael Abbas, formerly Jonathan Drake, adopted son of Abu Abbas,” he lets me know that he knows me. Then he introduces himself, still watching the rocks above us, and still standing out in open view like there’s no danger whatsoever. “I serve your uncle Hassim. He calls me Azrael. He’s very worried about you. All of you.”
“You came looking for us?” I ask the obvious.
“Actually, he came looking for you…” He points to where the other disappeared. “…as a kind of favor to Hassim, for saving his life. I came because I knew he wouldn’t get fifty kilometers without getting himself chopped to pieces and then sent in said pieces to Hatsumi Sakura’s nano-labs. Or worse.” After a pause, he answers my next question before I can ask. “He’s Jinn. Terraformer. A child, by their standards. Fancies himself a hero. Useless, really. No talent for personal combat. And he carries none of their Tools to defend himself with. I had to make him take that pistol…”
We hear a gunshot, echoing like it’s somewhere in the caves. Then shouting. Screaming. Followed by several more shots.
“Oh dear,” the stranger sighs, sounding mildly exasperated. “Perhaps I shouldn’t have given him that pistol.”
He looks at the slope like he’s looking through it, like he can see into the rock. Then, as if mesmerized, he begins moving for the cave mouth, drawing his bow casually.
I tell Jibril to stay put, and run uphill for the vent. Jibril, of course, is scrambling right behind me.
Chapter 4: A Princess of Mars
Erickson Carter:
After four more mostly (and frustratingly) uneventful weeks of walking (except for that unfortunate business at Tranquility, which is barely worth remembering), I finally come within sight of completing my errand of honor, only to be drawn into what may prove to be an even greater adventure.
I have put nearly seven hundred kilometers behind me since I left Hassim’s unexpected hospitality. I have had to wrap my boots in strips cut from my cloaks, Nomad-style, to keep them from wearing away as I trudge through the abrasive regolith. (I don’t have ready access to the necessary building blocks to regenerate the soles.) My armor has suffered as well: What I thought was a durable polycoat finish has been steadily sandblasted by the silicate grit in the wind, exposing bare metal in too many places. The silver stands out glaringly against the ruddy terrain, though no one seems to have noticed.
Still, I expect it has helped my “shadow” to keep sight of me all this way.
Persistent, enigmatic Azrael. He makes no real attempt to conceal his pursuit from me, just chooses rudely to avoid my company through distance. In four weeks, he’s only chosen to sneak up on me in my sleep, and that to leave me “presents” to further express his opinion of my competence.
The first time, it was the pistol again, the same one he took from the Shinkyo Shinobi, left within my easy reach and so I would see it as soon as I woke. I left it where it was, only to have it reappear a few nights later. And again. Each time, I did not accept the “gift”.
It was the second night past Tyr that he apparently decided I needed more convincing encouragement, so he left another dead body at my feet, his signature arrow sticking out of the eye socket of a most unusual suit of armor covering a most unusual corpse: The physiognomy was shockingly squat and thick-built, as if compressed by heavy gravity, or perhaps great weight, which I could attribute to the copious (even excessive) thick plating covering it in layers. That Azrael managed to hit such a small gap in this protection is another testament to his unnatural skill, though why he needed to kill the man—other than to show off for his audience of one—was unexplained. The holstered pistol and its full ammunition magazines were set neatly on the creature’s steel chest.
I did take the time to examine the victim, and not just to appreciate the sturdiness and craftsmanship of his armor. The figure carried water canteens and several stout tools that could be suited for digging and scavenging, and weapons: a heavy short sword, an ax, knives, and a kind of lance that gave me a start when I accidentally launched the long thin head high into the air while examining the grip, leaving me in a small cloud of dust and chemical smoke. (I fully expected Azrael was off hiding in the rocks, and having a good laugh at my expense.) There was a very large rectangular shield that also served as a quiver of sorts for six arrow-like replacement spearheads, each loaded with a solid fuel charge. There were also packets of what I assumed were prepared and preserved foods, though they smelled foul and seemed comprised primarily of what I suspect were varieties of mushroom. What there wasn’t was any kind of oxygen feed system.
I risked prying the faceplate up. The face underneath was ruddy and swollen with severe capillary rupture, the “rose” that Normals acquire in low atmospheric pressure, but this was the worst case I’d ever seen, thickening the features. The skin was otherwise sickly pale, and there were several scars. The nostrils were wide, and the eyes partially masked by thick, fatty lids. Under the chest plate, the ribcage seemed almost double the girth of my own, possibly attesting to enlarged lungs and heart, but I didn’t feel like performing a complete post-mortem in the sand. Nor did I spend time
and effort on a funeral, simply arranging the body and its weapons with dignity in the hope that his fellows would recover him. This is when I noticed that all the crevices and gaps in his otherwise finely polished armor were deeply encrusted with soil, as if he’d recently been buried and dug up. It made me think that Azrael had done some grave robbing in his latest attempt to either intimidate me or dissuade me from my errand, but the fatal eye wound was still fresh.
Other than the needless killing, what unsettled me most about the whole affair was that my people had never documented such a being (at least that I’d been told of), even though I was within a day’s walk of Turquoise Station.
Hoping to discourage more bodies, I took the pistol, strapping it uncomfortably over my sword-belt, and realizing it was sitting where much more constructive tools should be.
I wandered generally east, keeping to open terrain in hopes of best seeing or being seen by Abbas and his exploratory band, trying to make good time in catching up to them and their six-month head start. I expected they’d spent their time in more detailed explorations, camping in encouraging terrain, thoroughly exploring the ruins of the Coprates colonies, resting at the accessible Tapsites. And enjoying—like I have been—the thickening air (that reduces the burden on my own systems) and the increasing bounty of wild plants, most all of them edible by design.
I fancied myself one of them in my solitude: A Nomad of the open desert, living off the land, eating what I could find, unprocessed, still tasting of the soil it grew from. Making my nightly mattress out of sand, and then layering it over the snug shelter of my cloaks for added insulation and camouflage. Replenishing the necessities of life from Tap to Tap. And dancing like a fool after I awoke one morning in a mist of condensation from our Station output, almost like a fine Earth rain—I even stripped off my mask to feel it on my face, wet and chilly and making me feel more alive than I think I ever have.
Over the weeks, I find I’ve actually become accustomed to sleeping semi-upright, limbs curled in to conserve heat, wrapped in my womb-like “shelter”. What I’m having greater (and unexpected) challenge with is the diet: despite trying to condition myself before my journey to eating more from our gardens and less of our prepared fare, my spoiled digestive tract still complains daily about the lack of familiar processed foodstuffs, causing my nanites to assist in the breakdown of the fresh organic matter, and causing me no small abdominal discomfort along with new bowel sounds that I worry can be heard over great distances. Still, my telemetric systems insist that I’m keeping well-nourished and remarkably healthy in my hardship. (If I accomplish nothing else, at least I’m a living argument for making a radical change in my people’s diets.)
In my eagerness to cover ground, I regret I didn’t take time at Tyr or Nike or Gagarin, just taking cursory looks for sign that someone had recently passed. I saw a few traces of foot traffic that hadn’t been completely erased by the winds, stumbled by luck on what may have been campsites, and spent urgent days following strange deep tracks, made by something very large and heavy that appeared to be propelled on multiple caterpillar-style treads (but never catching the monster).
Now, just before noon as I come within sight of Concordia, rounding a point in the Divide where it widens out to the south, I do see a camp. (And I only see it because I approach from higher ground—I could well have walked right past it otherwise. It’s hidden by both terrain and the pervasive waist-high scrub of this region.) And by benefit of the enhancements to my vision, I see people, wearing the patterns of the Northeast Melas Nomads.
This would be Abbas—I have found him! But their camp seems smaller than I would have expected, given the numbers I was told they set out with. The implication gives me pause, one more thing to twist in my gut. How many have I been too late to aid?
But before I can decide how best to approach without startling them, I see a small band split off from the camp and begin to make their way south, toward the colony ruin. Just six figures, creeping low, as if they expect someone may be watching.
I trace what I assume is their course to the ruin, into the small side canyon that it sits protected just inside of, and see nothing of interest besides more stripped and blasted and buried foundations: signs that people had been here long ago, took whatever they could that was useful, and moved on, hopefully to better ground. (From where I am, I can also make out the old blast crater that took the colony, partially erased by winds and growth as the planet heals the injury done to it by stupid, fearful men. The Nomads’ camp is at the edge of it.)
I frustrate myself for several minutes attempting to understand why they so cautiously approach an abandoned nothing, when I decide to look back after my shadow, for Azrael. When I don’t see him, I scan up the slopes, then consider he may have gotten ahead of me, and look wider.
This is when I finally see what the six “scouts” may be approaching. There’s heat just beyond the colony site, in the slopes of the Divide. I immediately know what I’m seeing: It’s a bleed from the nearby Gray Station’s sub-strata mining. The Station lies behind me on the Divide Rim, roughly halfway between Concordia and Nike, but after all these decades, the deep Tap Cores would have probed the rim rock this far, and likely carelessly enough that a common freeze-thaw slide exposed the resulting tunnels to the surface. Perhaps the scouts are foolishly looking to the unstable caves for shelter. Or perhaps they expect some opponents have camped there, given their reduced numbers.
I consider that Chang had once made a base for himself just beyond Tyr. He may have come further east (or perhaps his successors and/or surviving minions have).
The scouting party could be moving into significant danger. And if that danger has the high-ground vantage I do, it’s seen them coming.
I decide to put my fortuitous arrival to best use. I keep to the foothill slopes for best concealment, and I move toward the heat.
That I have failed to spend my walking time improving my climbing skills becomes quickly problematic. The slopes are loose and rugged, and I take several embarrassing and potentially revealing slips. It seems miraculous that I don’t appear to have been seen (but I do take precious seconds repeatedly looking behind me to reassure myself that Azrael isn’t amusing himself at my expense).
I manage to almost keep up with the scout team by not descending, by keeping to the high ground, moving well above them. This hopefully also keeps me out of the sight of anyone watching them.
My course brings me up on a sizable vent in the rocks, several dozen meters up above the main opening. They have left two of their number to watch their retreat as the other four move into the caves. I get a shock when I suddenly see Azrael, standing just behind the sentries as if he’d just materialized there. I worry he may intend to kill them, mistaking them for enemies, but he certainly must recognize the allies of his master better than I, especially from so close. As if to confirm this, he gives me a casual wave.
I’ve lost too much time. The four have already been inside the caves for several high-risk minutes by the time I find a gap in the vent to wedge myself down through that has enough warm rising air flow to be encouraging. A hypersonic sonar ping lets me know that the vent does indeed access the main cavern below me. At least I don’t hear sounds of violence. Yet.
I batter myself performing a variation of a chimney climb, wedging my back into the rocks while I ease down using my arms and legs, trying not to get tangled in my cloak or sword, trying not to clatter. It’s painfully slow going, but I finally see the dim glow of some kind of artificial lighting below me, feel the open air of the larger cavern. I find a perch to sit myself in that gives me a view down into the main void. Sitting still and silent, I begin to hear human sounds. Voices. Anger. Laughter.
There’s light: the dim glow of rechargeable survival lighting. I use my modified eyes as well as my goggles to light the space better, and make the heat of bodies glow as their own torches.
There’s a cistern down through the middle of the cavern, an abyss where a d
eep-mining unit cut downwards, mined, moved on, but created a sink. The pit is maybe five or six meters in diameter. It may go dozens or hundreds of meters deep, depending on what resources were removed from the lower strata. The collapse left a few narrow terrace-like ridges around the mouth of it, but it otherwise forms a death-trap in the course of the lateral main tunnel, with only narrow crossings left on either side, and those are likely crumbling. The majority of the lights and heat ghosts foolishly cluster around the fragile rim like it’s some kind of amphitheater.
I consider linking back in to the Station data systems to look for mapping, but I’d surely be detected, and if the Council wants me badly enough to send a Guardian team, they could be here within minutes, not knowing what they’re running into.
My eyes are already adjusting enough that I don’t need to rely so much on the goggles. I begin to make out the cave dwellers as more than just blobs of heat, actually see them. They are not squat armored creatures like the one Azrael dropped at my campsite. They’re of normal proportion and appearance, most wearing black suits that look like light surface gear—Chang uniforms—though some are adorned with colorful paint that looks Zodangan, and pieces of armor. I count twenty-two shapes just from my vantage. It looks like a camp, possibly for refugees, deserters from Chang’s doomed army. But why camp so close to a death trap?
I expect the reasons for the risk may be several: There may be running water from condensation or an underground spring created from melted permafrost. There’s somewhat more heat rising from the pit than is flowing through the lateral tunnel. And the narrow passes on either side may prove defensible, the terraces around the pit mouth serving as trenches to fire from.
The God Mars Book Four: Live Blades Page 7