Then it gets worse.
“Sorry for the delay responding to you. We had a time confirming your authenticity. Quite a shock after all these years, you can understand. But we’re all very excited down here…”
The voice sounds too much like someone you’ve cornered who doesn’t want to talk to you but is too polite to tell you to go away. Matthew’s eyebrows go halfway up his forehead.
“I know those Earthside Ops Specialists practice at being cool even when things are exploding,” he complains incredulously, “but this is just wrong…”
“We received your flash status report,” the barely-cheery drone continues, talking to a long-lost but unwanted relative. “We haven’t finished reviewing it all yet, but we look forward to hearing from you directly. You may have detected our inbound probes. They were intended for surveillance, given what we’ve been monitoring on the surface, but they can serve to improve our communications once they’re in orbit. Command is wondering if you fired those warheads off as a signal, or if your situation is threatened. Please send updated situation reports and lists of needed supplies. Regret earliest material assistance will not arrive for at least seven months. Looking forward to further communications. The entire planet is celebrating your news. End message and out.”
I realize immediately: whatever elation I feel about finally making contact is mixed with a sickly foreboding.
“What the fuck was that?”
I look up at Matthew, but then realize it was Anton’s reaction over the Link. I can only shake my head.
“Sorry sir,” he tries, “it’s just…” But he doesn’t finish the thought.
“Can you confirm point of origin?” Matthew asks him heavily, his head apparently going into some of the dark places mine did.
“It’s Earth, no doubt,” Anton tells him.
“No sign of any kind of satellite any of our local friends could be using to screw with us?” Matthew presses. I remember what Hatsumi Sakura told me: Others are listening. Rick comes on and assures him the signal came from where it said it did. He sounds tired, frustrated, not at all like a year’s worth of efforts have just come to fruition.
“But it’s Earth,” Kastl tries to get the sense of success going again. “We did it.”
I take a deep breath and nod, feeling my face flush.
“We did it,” Tru agrees quietly. But relief isn’t the only thing I hear in her voice.
“You got a speech ready?” Matthew asks me, at least half seriously.
“What would you say?” I ask him back. I realize I’m shaking. Tru squeezes my hand.
I take a long breath. Then I have MAI record with video of the three of us:
“This is Colonel Michael Ram, acting commander of the UNMAC Mars Base Melas Two. With me is my second-in-command Colonel Matthew Burke, and our civilian liaison Truganini Greenlove. We are almost twelve hundred souls, having made it through extended Hiber Sleep, all healthy despite a few recent casualties and injuries. We have managed to restore this facility to functional status and have partially recovered the Melas Three site, which we found abandoned and gutted but structurally intact. We have sources of food, water and breathable atmosphere to sustain us for the foreseeable future.”
All of this would have been in the basic situation report Anton had been sending with our distress call for the last two months, but I think they should hear it again fresh and with faces attached. I get down to the difficult part.
“Our situation is stable but uncertain. We have detected no sign of nanotech or biological contamination, or any further Disc activity, but we are far from alone here: There are an unknown number of individuals who have managed to sustain themselves in various societal groups on the surface, descendants of the survivors of the Corporate Colonies. We roughly estimate their numbers to be in the thousands. We have made productive contacts with some, but others remain hostile due to fierce competition for resources—for their sake I would request an immediate renewal of humanitarian supply drops, including food, survival gear and medical supplies. We do not have anything like a completed census yet due to extremely limited resources and high risks—some of these groups are well armed and suspicious of us, and a number of our outreach attempts have been met with violence. I do not believe they are in any immediate peril, but material relief would likely be most welcome, and may go far in promoting peaceful contacts. They have gone to great lengths to conceal themselves, as many of them believe that the nuclear bombardment of the planet was intentionally triggered by Earthside, and not by Disc sabotage. It may take some time and quite a bit of goodwill to convince them otherwise.
“The surviving ETE personnel have maintained terraforming operations that provide oxygen, water and hydrogen fuel to support these groups. They have also erected an electrostatic net over Melas and Coprates that maintains an almost breathable atmosphere density and has moderated surface temperatures—we will forward you our latest environmental data. The ETE technicians’ efforts in this endeavor have been heroic, and all of us owe our continued survival to them.
“While none of the survivor groups we have met has expressed any desire for evacuation to Earth, I expect a number of our own personnel would greatly appreciate relief as soon as is practical. We would also greatly appreciate information from home—I expect a lot has happened while we were sleeping. I can imagine the last fifty years has been quite eventful.
“I will send along an updated personnel roster—if you could send updates about our families, it would be greatly appreciated.
“You have no idea how good it is to hear from you. Awaiting your reply. End message and out…”
I have to stop and breathe. I’m still shaking.
“Nice job,” Matthew grants with a nod and a smile.
“One for the history files,” Tru agrees.
“You smoothed the ETE issue nicely,” Matthew adds. “You really are getting good at this.” I give him a nod, then get to my feet.
“Attach that personnel roster, along with our survey images of some of the colony sites—Shinkyo, Industry...” I tell Anton. “No mission logs yet. I want to see how they respond to this much. Send it ASAP.”
“Two minutes,” he promises eagerly.
I don’t feel like celebrating. Not yet.
“I’m going to need some coffee…”
The next communication comes at 02:05. We get video this time: a low-rez and pixelly talking head. He’s tanned, with a longish face and high cheekbones, military cropped hair behind a high hairline, and the familiar lines of a crisp drab uniform. Behind him like a halo is the familiar United Nations’ globe and laurels on blue. I’m thinking he looks familiar, and I know why as soon as he introduces himself:
“Melas Base, this is Brigadier General Jonathan Richards, United Nations Global Peacekeeping Force. Colonel Ram, Colonel Burke, Colonel Ava, Dr. Mann, I believe you knew my grandfather, General Thomas Richards.” The voice that comes through with him is not the same as the one that spoke previously: it’s warmer, making the attempt at being at least professionally personable. But he does look like our old UNACT SO, only younger and less worn down by decades spent dealing with the likes of us. “I requested this honor because of that connection, and I hope I can provide you some personal reassurance that we are aggressively working toward providing you material relief.
“We have received the files you sent and are reviewing them now—what I have seen so far is truly incredible, so expect to be bombarded with questions. I can pass you some initial requests that you send along as much information you can about the other survivor groups you have encountered, as well as whatever you know about what progress the ETE technicians have been making, especially in terms of any technological advancements. Your report was also unclear about the circumstances surrounding the nuclear detonations we detected.”
“So much for happy to hear from us,” Matthew mutters.
“I didn’t think they’d just let me get away with being vague,” I admit.
“We will transmit the information you requested as soon as it can be formatted for your receiver: The disposition of your loved ones, recent news, and at least some kind of condensed history of the last half century…
“I am very much looking forward to meeting you all in person one day. I’m sorry to tell you that my grandfather passed back in ’79, but he spoke of you often and with great respect. Be assured that help is on the way. End message. Out.”
“So, why did he get the job of talking head again?” Matthew cuts, shaking his head incredulously. “Did he actually tell us anything?”
“Only that we’ve scared them maybe as much as we’ve made them happy,” I consider. Then I chime to Anton: “Did we get any attached files with that incoming?”
“Nothing sir,” he tells me with an edge of weary disappointment. “Just the video clip.”
“Are we sure it’s authentic?” Matthew repeats his earlier concerns, but this time with wry skepticism. “Thomas Richards speaking well of us?”
“People always seem to say nice things even about people they hated after they die, Colonel,” Rick answers him with his best smartass grin. “Remember what a great president Dubya Bush was at his funeral…”
I key up MAI for a reply video, this time just a shot of my head.
“Melas Base to Earthside. This is Colonel Ram. Looking forward to whatever you can send. Please keep us updated. Will send our reports as soon as they can be compiled. Curious as to why it took so long to receive a reply—we have been transmitting for sixty days. Is there a problem receiving? Please advise.
“To General Richards: Hopefully we will indeed get to meet in the flesh soon. End message. Melas Out.”
“And I’m going to assume you want it sent sans attachments?” Anton asks conspiratorially.
“Transmit as is. I think it may take me some time to get what they want composed,” I excuse dryly.
“This is just too weird,” Matthew sighs. “Exciting—at least we got through. But still: Very weird.”
I look at Tru, who looks haunted, not excited at all anymore.
“Something is really wrong,” she says shakily.
Carrying on a conversation that has indefinite pauses (guaranteed to be at least nine minutes) between talking and listening gets maddening almost immediately. I realize I can’t even ask them to tell me when I should expect the next message because I’d have to wait who-knows-how-long for an actual answer. Matthew tries to make me feel better by telling me how much the delays would drive him nuts if it was him trying to do the talking.
I doze off in my chair before the next message comes through. Kastl has to wake me. Matthew has gone. Tru is asleep in her own seat, and doesn’t stir despite the sudden activity. I can barely see that it’s 05:30.
The face on the screens this time is not General Richards. It’s a well-groomed and maternal-looking woman with a warm smile, round olive features, big dark eyes, and black hair pulled tight into some kind of bun. She wears what looks like a gray business suit. The UN symbol is behind her.
“Greetings from Earth,” she begins like she’s making a heartfelt but highly scripted speech. Tru stirs and opens her eyes, sits up. “I am Bennezir Satrapi, Secretary General of the United Nations. I cannot begin to express the elation the people of this planet are feeling. All of our hopes and prayers are with you, and I assure you that assistance will be arriving as soon as all of our resources can make it happen.
“We have reviewed the files you sent us, and are sending along some of the information that you have requested about your families. More will be sent as it can be compiled. As for the history since the Great Tragedy, there is a lot to explain, and I expect it will be difficult.
“To begin, I expect you will not be surprised that the United Nations Martian Affairs Council was disbanded back in 2072, seven years after the tragedy. The General Assembly is having an emergency meeting later today to vote on its re-inception, though I expect a new UNMAC will have quite a different focus than the original.”
She takes a deep breath as if to gather herself before continuing.
“I have seen your reports on what you have gathered from your end about the Disc Drones’ role in the disaster. The intelligence we were able to acquire—what is in the official file—has only recently been declassified. However, while our information corroborates your report that the Discs were indeed responsible for firing the Ares’ Shield weapons platform, from our perspective it did appear that the enemy had critically breached several high-threat labs. What we failed to see was how effectively colonial ground resistance had been in deflecting some of the inbound nuclear devices. Once direct contact with our orbital facilities and satellites was severed, all we had was long-range telescopes, and analysis at the time indicated the devastation to be as thorough as it was designed to be. When the initial signals from a painfully few survivors went silent, and years of attempts at contact met with no response, our hopes died.”
She pauses again, looks down at her hands.
“What you do not know is how complete the devastation was beyond the surface of Mars. Not only were Ares Station and Phobos Dock totally lost, but no fewer than twelve ships in dock and entering orbit were destroyed with all hands. We estimated orbital casualties at over thirty-two hundred souls. This does not include personnel sent into orbit from your bases in rescue attempts—we intercepted communications indicating that several of those craft were destroyed or damaged by enemy fire, but we cannot give you an accurate accounting due to interference from the nuclear detonations.
“Only six transport shuttles managed to slingshot back homeward, a maneuver they had to calculate and initiate under fire and without refuel or resupply. Two of these failed to course-correct accurately, and were lost to deep space—we could only communicate with them helplessly while their life support ran out. A third ship expired before reaching home. Five hundred and forty nine people died of suffocation in the cold of the void. But that is not the worst of it.
“We celebrated the miracle that three shuttles had made it back to us against all odds. What we didn’t know was that two of those ships had Discs attached to their hulls, waiting to strike. They used our survivor ships as gun platforms, giving us the horrible choice of firing on those who had beaten the odds—the only apparent survivors of the Martian tragedy… The first volley from the lead ship home destroyed the orbital docks as well as the rescue shuttles sent to meet it. The Disc attached then crippled its host vessel before engaging our defensive satellites, likely a strategy to keep us occupied while the next ship moved into range. We had hoped that there was only one compromised ship, so we gave the pilots the go-ahead to approach. Our hope cost us critical damage to the International Space Station, before the brave pilots expended the fuel they had saved for docking to steer away. The attached Disc destroyed itself and the ship when it realized it could no longer effectively strike other targets. The final ship—it’s pilots assuming it was also compromised—changed course into a higher orbit to keep any Disc attached out of firing range of critical targets, expending the last of its fuel. Upon satellite examination, no Disc was detected—the ship was clean. But our orbital resources had all been crippled or destroyed, and we had nothing left that could reach that ship before their very limited life support ran out. We listened to them die alone in space as well.”
It takes her some moments to collect herself again. I find I am impressed with her apparent candor and strength, but even more by her ability to be s
o moved by events that probably happened when she was too young to understand or remember.
“We sent probes almost immediately, but lost contact with them as soon as they made orbit around Mars. We could only assume that the Discs had met them. After that, there were heated debates about whether we should send a military force, but we had lost so many lives already, and there seemed to be no hope of finding survivors—especially by the time we could reach you—that public pressure came down against a military mission.
“I regret I cannot speak to the specific decisions made; I was far too young to be truly aware of what was happening, as were all of my generation that subsequently grew up in the difficult aftermath of the disaster. The lessons of my childhood were that we as a species had failed, had committed an unforgivable sin, and that because of it, fifty-three thousand human beings did not return—no one made it home, and hundreds more died in the hope that someone would. We cannot even imagine what those times were really like for our parents and grandparents, but they did shape the world we live in now. I can only hope that, when you hear of what we have done here in the last half century, that you will not simply think us all cowards and economists for not returning to Mars aggressively.
“As for the delay in replying to your signals, I can only partially speak to that issue. You will have to wait for explanations from our technical and military advisors. I can tell you that part of our delay was that we did not hear you, or in hearing you we did not understand your signals. Technology has changed. If you were to see smoke signals, it would take you time to realize you were not looking at some odd natural phenomenon, longer to recognize the patterns, and even longer to translate the message. I know that is a poor excuse, but understand it was compounded by our ingrained belief that no one was alive on Mars to send any kind of signal. We had stopped listening when I was still in grade school, and the encoding you are using has not been in any machine’s language in forty-five years.”
The God Mars Book Two: Lost Worlds Page 3