“And he came from beyond your magical borders?” Elias asks the next question, as if looking for more reasons to debunk all the bullshit science he insists we’re being fed.
“Maybe,” Jane sort-of explains. “Or maybe not… The Modded—they can regenerate themselves completely from a few core nanites. It just takes time, depending on available resources. They even kept backup ‘seeds’ in case of something catastrophic. We just found Doc Long on the beach one day, sitting in the sand watching the Lake in a daze. Stark naked. He says his last memory was from before the Event. He could have just regenerated here, after all these years.”
“I thought immortals weren’t allowed in your Preserve,” I confront their conundrum. But not their hypocrisy: “How could an immortal’s seed have been here?”
“There was an old research station nearby,” she gives us. “From the nanotech boom of the Twenty-Sixties. This community was actually built on the abandoned hab-site of the workers who built and worked it. Our grandparents suspected that the Modded had secretly moved back into the old labs.”
“In the Barrow?” Erickson reflects on what Jed had told us. (Or vaguely semi-avoided telling us. It happened here. Don’t ever go there. What the hell is his game?)
Jane nods hesitantly.
“Ground Zero for the Splice, Event, whatever happened,” I state the obvious conclusion (or the one Jed seems to be nudging us toward).
“If we believe any of this,” Elias mutters behind his hand.
“It’s a short boat trip, but we don’t go there, not for any length of time,” Jane tells us. “The soil is toxic from unregulated industrial practices back in the Boom.”
“Jed also warned us to stay away from it,” Murphy tells her.
“So you’ve never been over there?” I interrogate.
“Sometimes our rebellious youth go exploring,” she admits like it’s another taboo (they seem to have a lot of them). Perhaps she’d done so herself in her reckless years. I guess her to be a little older than me. She’s certainly still bold enough to take point talking to us. “There was never any sign of activity. The labs were buried deep, sealed. But several years ago, we found ground that had been disturbed, like someone or something had been digging. The facility was still sealed—all entrances had been buried when it was originally vacated. We banned all travel, kept a watch from our shore for signs of activity. We saw nothing. But then they found Doc Long one morning.”
“When?” Erickson wants to know.
“A full Season ago,” she estimates. Assuming that’s a quarter of a Martian year, it would be about six Standard months.
“Which means he was somehow stalled regenerating for more than sixty-eight Earth years,” Elias grumbles out loud, shaking his head. I’m suddenly remembering that old story about the little girl who fell down a hole into a ridiculously fantastic world. Elias strikes me as that little girl, assuming she was a self-superior asshole with no sense of wonder. (It’s not that I fault him for his doubting, just his lack of social discretion in expressing it. But then, if he doesn’t think any of this is real…)
“Maybe he time-traveled across the magic Lake,” I let Elias know he’s not the only one who’s not buying this at face value.
“And I’m sure if Captain Jed were here, he’d be able to explain the perfectly logical quantum phenomena that stole his clothes,” Elias actually bonds with a little joke, however snarky.
We shut up. Cal is coming back, and not alone.
I see an odd visual effect: Cal is jogging urgently down the packed dirt road toward us. The figure with him is walking—casually, gracefully—but is somehow keeping up.
Assuming this is Doc Long, he’s not terribly impressive: he’s slim, average, with close-cropped black hair with random streaks of white-blonde that looks like he was splashed with a bleaching agent. He’s wearing a simple white tunic, pants and slipper-like shoes. His features are partly oriental, except… His eyes don’t match. One is black, almond-shaped; the other is blue, and almost looks like it belongs on someone else’s face. He flashes a nervous, shy grin as he approaches. But then I think I see apprehension as he locks eyes with me, like he recognizes me and it’s not a good thing, though I’ve never seen him before. Maybe he just knows the uniform. I expect there must have been some kind of UNMAC security force on-planet in this version of history. (Maybe he thinks we’ve come for him?)
“Cal tells me you have an injured man. Modded but not healing.” His voice is soft, gentle, almost melodic, but also uneasy, unconfident. He wants to help, but he doesn’t want to be here.
“Not exactly,” I show him the way. Murphy and the Ghaddar make space for Long to approach Bly’s prone form. I notice he hasn’t brought any kind of visible equipment. “His tech is apparently a simpler version of yours, rigged by one of yours who came to our world, in order to make a super-soldier. When he tried to rebel, his master fused that armor to him—he can’t take it off. He can regenerate, heal, but not quite like your kind.”
“He was hit by lightning on the ship,” Erickson gives the more immediate history. “He seemed to be fine, but then he lost consciousness.”
Long looks at the armored body thoughtfully, almost anxiously. You’d think he would have seen things far more fantastic and terrible, given the descriptions of this world. (And Long is by far the plainest immortal I’ve seen, except perhaps for Colonel Ava, who still wears her duty uniform despite how she’s been changed.) He hesitates, apprehensive, then kneels over Bly. Hands touch helmet, facemask, chest plate. I see his eyes go metallic, then both black.
“Lightning does the most damage to nerve and muscle tissue, including the heart, perforating the cells…” He sounds like he’s diagnosing. “The worst of a direct strike often goes around the body rather than through it—least resistance—but it will super-heat any metal. His armor may have burned him. The dermal damage may have put him into shock, especially if he can’t re-grow it fast enough…”
I think he’s doing more than just touching Bly. I see his bare and normal-looking fingertips melt into Bly’s armor. He stays like that—his hands glued to Bly’s chest—for several minutes. Then he withdraws his hands, sits back on his feet, his eyes returning to “normal”. (I’m not sure, but I think the black and blue eyes are now on different sides.)
“Can I have some water, please?”
Jane brings him a cup and a pitcher. He pours and downs several cups-full in a row, like he’s dying of thirst. He looks tired, drained.
“He needs to rest. And nutrients.” He gets to his feet with some difficulty, speaks to Cal, giving him a long set of instructions. Cal nods and dashes off again. Then he asks Jane, “Is there someplace he can rest for the night?” Then he looks at us. “And his friends?”
Jane thinks about it. Looks uncomfortable.
“They won’t harm you,” Long assures—I have no idea how he came to that conclusion, unless he’s sure he’s capable of protecting these people from us himself.
“They can stay at my townhouse,” Jane impulsively agrees. “I’ll round up some extra beds.” Then to us: “It’s close, but it’s not much. A few rooms.”
“Any shelter is a precious gift,” The Ghaddar thanks her.
“Your hospitality is very much appreciated,” Murphy adds.
We go to move Bly, but Long stops us, holds up a hand. He reaches out cautiously, curiously, touches my shoulder. Jerks it away after barely a second, like whatever he felt was not good. But he doesn’t look like it was entirely unexpected—more like he’s confronting the inevitable. I see it in his mismatched eyes when he looks at me: Dread. And… regret? That sense he knows me… He does the same to Erickson and Elias, only with less of a start when he confirms whatever he suspects. He takes a deep breath. His eyes track down to our swords.
“You know what we carry?” Erickson confronts, needs to know.
Long chews his lip, looks lost inside himself.
“Take care of your friend,” he finally deflects.
“Cal will bring him something to help heal him—just put the hose in the teeth of his mask. I’ll stop by and check on him later.”
“You didn’t answer my question,” Erickson pushes. I realize I feel my sword stir, like it does when it’s anticipating a fight. The soothing feelings it had been feeding me since we set foot here have faded. I’ve just eaten, but I’m hungry.
“I’ll stop by and check on him later,” Long repeats more firmly. Then he turns and leaves, heading down the road the way he came.
I realize he never asked where we came from, who we are or how we got here.
It takes Erickson, Elias and I to pick up and carry Bly. He’s limp like a massive metal doll. Thankfully, Jane’s home isn’t far: We pass out through the rear of what she calls the Founders’ Hall—apparently their seat of government, colony ops. There’s a large open-air amphitheater that the building wraps around. Jane gives us a quick verbal briefing as if to distract us from our burden as we go. The building is mostly offices for elected representatives and civilian officers—she labels herself “a town manager”, as if there are several. It also houses their archives, though there’s also a library and what she calls a “museum” in the colony center. The amphitheater—which looks like it could seat thousands—is used for “town meetings” as well as artistic performances; music and theater.
We exit across another packed-dirt path, pass between another row of two-deck clay-composite buildings, a few of her fellows following us nervously, helplessly.
I’m struck by how old and handmade the colony seems; how much green there is, like one of the overgrown ruins, but not. It’s maintained. There’s a balance between wild grown and functional occupation. It’s… nice. A beautiful place. Alive…
Jane leads us one more row of buildings back, then left around one structure, across a perpendicular path, and then thankfully to one of several doors in a long, two-deck building. She ushers us inside, makes way for us by clearing our path of… Toys?
“Ma?” I hear her call. An older woman comes down a flight of stairs from the upper level, freezes when she sees us. “It’s okay. I need you to take the kids to John and Carol’s…”
I see two children appear behind the older woman, a boy and a girl a few years apart in age, barely school age, curious, startled, amazed—I can only imagine how we look to them. The older women pushes them back, quietly but urgently tells them to go to their rooms.
“This is my mother, Anna Jeffries,” Jane introduces. We take turns introducing ourselves, as if our names would clarify anything. Jane doesn’t take the time to explain, showing us to a small room with a plush-looking bed and cabinets with drawers. We lay Bly down—the bed creaks like it’s in pain. He’s still unresponsive.
I take a moment to look around. The room’s decorated with personal items, keepsakes, some of which look very old. Erickson is drawn to a row of what I realize are ancient paper books. I also see hardcopy pictures: The children. Her and a male I think I recognized from the group of representatives. Her mother and another male, looking younger. Others. Including Colonel Burke and Tru Greenlove. They look happy…
Hardcopy photos and an electric lamp tell me they have power generation, maintain some technology.
“You have electricity?” Elias asks what I’m thinking.
“We have solar,” she admits. “Hydrogen fuel separators. Limited. But it gives us lights, keeps a few old personal devices running.”
“Heat?” Murphy asks.
“We burn local wood.”
I think of the Pax cooking fires. Get hungrier.
“Excuse me…” Jane dashes out into the main room. Her mother and children have come down stairs. I realize the male from the photo is at the door—the children seem happy to see him, excitedly tell him to look at their strange visitors. I meet his eyes, hopefully convey that I’m grateful for the hospitality, whatever inconvenience we’re causing. He forces a smile back. Then he and Jane have a brief conversation outside. He takes the children with him when he leaves.
Ma—Anna—stays.
Murphy apologizes to her for the disruption. Jane steps in and quickly explains the inexplicable. Erickson repeats his assurances that we mean no harm. Ma eyes our weapons nervously.
“You have beautiful children,” Terina gives.
We’ve managed to crowd her home. Jane invites us to sit, relax, asks if we need anything. Cal comes running, he and another female carrying canisters and tubing, a stand that looks like it’s from a med-bay. They set up what looks like a manual IV, feed the tube into Bly’s “mouth” from one of the canisters suspended from the stand.
“It’s a nutritive blend,” Cal explains. “High protein. Carbohydrates. Vitamin-rich. Doc said it should help.” He shows us that he’s brought extra, refills. “He also said to make sure to give him water in between.”
“So what does Doc do for you?” Murphy asks, trying not to sound like he’s as suspicious as the rest of us.
“He helps,” Jane defends. “He was some kind of physicist, but he knows engineering, chemistry. He’s fixed some of our generators and equipment, helped our pharmos better synthesize medicines. He even works the farms, does general repairs. He’s a good man.”
I thank Cal and his companion for bringing Bly’s supplements, and he offers to make more up if we need it before he leaves, offers his regrets that he can’t do more.
“Cal’s a medico,” Jane explains after he’s gone. “He probably feels helpless with your friend in there. I’ll get you some bedding, see about some cots. We can move whatever to make you some space.”
We thank her again, offer whatever help we can give.
“If there is a danger… We have children… Nowhere to go…” she admits her fears.
“We’ll deal with it,” Erickson assures her. He actually sounds like he believes it.
“We should go to the Barrow,” the Ghaddar decides as we settle in. Rashid and Murphy are helping Jane and Anna in the kitchen.
“The one place Jed told us not to,” I point out the easy irony, not disagreeing.
“I can get you a boat,” Jane tells us, apparently keeping an ear on our conversation.
“That facility they told us about,” Erickson tries to speak more quietly, “if it does have something to do with the Splice, it might also have something to do with the Yod Project.” He looks at his brother, shrugs to let him know he has to take the unlikely tale at just enough face value to give us some kind of direction. I see his hand absently go to the hilt of his sword. I feel mine “singing” to me, flooding me with that vaguely blissful sensation, like a reward, confirmation that we’re on the “right” path. (But why not just tell us to go there? Or is this part of some larger manipulation, setting us up so that some of our fellows will “need” the swords at just the right time?)
“We need to talk to Long again,” I insist.
“And not let him off so easily,” Erickson agrees.
“I’m going to check on Bly,” I hint, getting up. Erickson gets it and joins me.
Checking on Bly is mostly checking on his feeding. He’s already gone through his first canister of nutrients, so we set him up a liter of water. He’s still completely out of it.
“I like these people,” I tell Erickson when we’re hopefully not being overheard (except for the Ghaddar—I can see her listening from out in the main room). “I’d rather not start a brawl with their pet immortal.”
“That would be ideal,” he agrees. “But if there’s an imminent threat to all of them…”
“He knows a lot more than he’s telling.”
What I don’t point out: If these people are in danger, we’re a big part of that danger.
We go back and be social.
Jane opens up over a dinner of savory soft-cooked grains, beans and vegetables. She tells us some of the history of her home, how the early Founders eventually stripped away all that remained of the original work colony, replacing it with natural materials as the planet greened. She s
ays the ideal was to keep to a simpler life, clean and healthy, sustained by the environment, without relying on any of the nanotech or engineered biotech that had become the scourge of so much of their world. The hardest part, as I’d imagine, was in facing illness or death. The forbidden tech could save a loved one—a parent, sibling, lover, child. They had to embrace mortality, celebrate the temporary beauty of life.
I find I can’t imagine a world where that could happen without struggle, without fighting to survive. But these people haven’t had any enemies since the Event took away all outside threats. And they seem to have plenty of resources: food, water, air, fuel, a comfortable climate. They look strong, healthy—Jane says it’s not unusual for her people to live to fifty (which is nearly a hundred in Standard years). I catch myself imagining staying here, never going “home” (or back to our world, since I remember I don’t have any home there anymore thanks to what’s in me).
I look at Rashid, and think about Abbas, hoping he and his son are alive somewhere. And I think about what they came so far looking for: A place for their people to live in peace, away from the Unmakers, away from Chang. (How would they do in a place like this?)
(Assuming this place is real—I still can’t be sure of that. But the food is good, the water is clean. And I expect if my sword was making a dream world, a VR, there would be fighting, violence.)
Repaying the hostess, we help clean up, then tell our stories over tea by dim light and fire heat. Cal and his female friend come back to check on Bly, and get talked into joining us for awhile. Our stories must be unimaginable, and not just because we’re telling a history that never happened for these people. What they must think of us…
Rashid has to push through some tears as he tells us tales of Abu Abbas, and of his brave son Ishmael—a foundling, apparently, rescued as a child from a raid by Air Pirates, even though he didn’t need rescuing: he had already killed his parents’ killers. (I see Jane react with a flash of personal dread behind her eyes, perhaps imagining what her own children would do in such circumstances, if our worlds should ever meet.) There’s a long silence after he finishes his tales—respect for our lost friends.
The God Mars Book Four: Live Blades Page 34