I get back to my quarters at 1800, without bothering to get myself dinner. I’m sweaty and sore and shaky after doing an extra spin-session in the centrifuge followed by a hard workout with my Shinkyo gift. (Everybody gave me a wide berth in the gym—I expect they could read how I was feeling with every cut I made at empty air.) The blade felt remarkably good in my hands, as if telling me where my path should lie. I drilled until my palms started to blister. Then all I wanted was a shower.
Sakina is in my tiny quarters (as she usually is when she’s not with me or drilling with Rios’ “study team”), sitting in one of her deep meditative exercises on her mat, her arms and hands moving with invisible energies. She only pauses momentarily when I come in, then she’s back to her exercises, as if she felt it was best to keep her distance from the issues at hand. I strip like my uniform hurts. Start the water cycling. Get my head and shoulders in the flow.
I don’t know how long I just stand in there with the water running over me, but then I feel her hands on my shoulders. I can’t help but flinch, but then I allow it, too tired to protest or even think about what’s about to happen. Then I feel her body up against mine in the water. She’s as naked as I am.
“What…?” I start to pull away, but her finger touches my lips.
“Shhhh…” Her hands go back to massaging my neck, my shoulders, my back. “You never allow anyone to care for you,” she says softly. “Even steel needs care.”
She reduces the shower to a conservative trickle and keeps working. Her hands are very strong, but smooth and skilled. She works down my back to my legs, not saying a word, taking her time. Then she stands up and turns me to face her, starting to work on my arms, my chest. She moves in very close to stay under the water with me.
“What am I to you, Sakina?” I finally ask her. She doesn’t meet my eyes.
“You know,” she whispers lightly, her hands running up and down my stomach.
“You aren’t my servant,” I try to tell her. “You are so much more to me than that…”
“I know,” she says, her mouth curling up into a bit of a grin. She presses herself closer up against me, her hands on my hips. I can’t help but look at her. But then I can smell her—the musk is unmistakable. It hits me like a drug, and my body responds despite my hesitation. She moves her hands down to take hold of me, and I jerk back. She has me up against the stall. Reflexively, I look up at the security cameras that monitor my room. The lenses have been turned away (not turned off—that would trigger an alarm—but tilted sideways as designed to allow for privacy in the bedroom). She puts her hands on the wall on either side of my head and begins to gyrate slowly against me.
“I know what to do,” she tells me, and then shushes me again when I try to say something. She turns her face toward mine, lips parted. I move to kiss her, but she pulls away a bit, looking confused, then her lips play tentatively with mine. I realize she may have had or at least seen sex, but kissing may not be in her cultural experience. What she does do is taste me, breathe in my scent. Then she drops to her knee and demonstrates very directly what she’s learned. I’m thinking I shouldn’t be letting her do this, thinking about what may happen, thinking about just how frustrated and cut off I’m feeling from the planet I came from, and then almost immediately musing that I’ve never been the type to even consider not doing what Sakina has so persistently begun.
I’m not that old.
I pull her up to her feet and put her back up against the wall. I’m surprised how easily she lets me manipulate her—she almost melts in my grip, her body vibrating as I touch her, breathing deep and hard, her dark eyes fluttering.
Then I show her a few of the things I know.
I’m not that old at all.
When I wake up sometime that night, I’m confused to find myself alone in my bed. Sakina is curled up on her roll as she usually is—I can see her in the dim glow of the readouts that tell me it’s 24:20. The security cameras are pointed as they usually are to watch over me.
I wonder if I’ve just been dreaming like a dirty old man, but then I smell her on me. In the near-dark, I watch her lay there, breathing softly. She doesn’t move but I think she’s awake, and though she’s got her back turned to me, I think she’s smiling.
And in that moment I’m absolutely certain I’ll never be going back to Earth.
5 February, 2116:
“I do want to assure you that we have faith in your command, Colonel Ram,” Secretary Satrapi soothes professionally in her latest message. “I can understand your caution. I hope you understand ours. I any case, I feel we may have started poorly. This is a joyful but very difficult reunion for all off us.
“In the spirit of building a bridge to our mutual future, I can give you an update on our relief efforts. We had to take some old equipment out of storage, re-tool our manufacturing… The first shipments we send you will be very familiar to you, because they will be mostly the same design with some updated technology. Contracts for new shuttles, landing craft and facilities are in the works as we speak. I am sorry to say we are long out of practice at interplanetary travel, and we have a lot of foundation to restore.
“In practical terms, expect material re-supply in terms of unmanned drops to begin arriving in twelve months. Our current plans have you receiving at least one significant relief mission, including volunteer personnel, within eighteen months. Any practical restoration of the pre-disaster shuttle system is at least three years away, and it will at best resemble the early colonial flow that predates even your arrival on Mars.
“I know that’s a long time to wait. Know that our thoughts and prayers are with you in the interim. And please continue to send us updated intelligence regarding the survivor groups you encounter, including their locations and needs…”
I key the message off, but keep the flashcard balanced in my hands as I sit on the reasonably comfortable flat rock I found overlooking our growing greenhouse.
“One Earth calendar year,” Abbas digests thoughtfully, sitting beside me in his bulky gear and armor filled robes.
“A long time to wait for more coffee,” I joke, then pop another of the almond-like seeds he’s brought (a delicacy from the Coprates food trade routes) under my mask and savor it.
“Are none of your people eager to go home?” he asks.
“A few,” I tell him with a shrug. “But the more we hear of home, the less calls us back. I think this may be a bigger shock than waking up and seeing what Mars has become in fifty years.”
Sakina squats in her cloak a few yards away behind my left shoulder, watching over me as she always does, still showing no public sign of the boundaries we’ve crossed when we’re alone at night in my quarters—when she is Sakina Rashid and not the Zauba’a Ghaddar.
Abbas’ son Jon sits next to his father; I watch his gaze keep drifting to Sakina. There’s a mixture of awe and curiosity in his blue eyes, but I don’t see real fear. His eyes turn quickly away when she glares at him, only to drift back like a wayward compass needle. I stifle a grin at the thought of what Sakina would do to him if she decided to give him the same “care” as she has been giving me. Youth may have an advantage in endurance, but experience has been a much greater asset given what she enjoys—and is capable of—doing.
“Why do they not trust you?” Abbas brings me back. “They say they do, but only after telling you that they do not want to.”
“History, my friend,” I tell him, raising my face into the brisk breeze, staring up into the wispy pink sky. “The same reason they haven’t relieved me in favor of one of my senior officers. I’m doing the same thing I did before.”
“Standing with your enemy against your own masters?” Abbas sums up the “legend.” Jon is now looking at me like a rapt pupil.
“There are clearer ways of putting it,” I explain with a sad chuckle. “What I did before was discover that a number of the key players behind the United Nations Counter-Terror Committee that coordinated us had been complacent in manip
ulating terrorist attacks to further their own political agendas. This included some powerful government and corporate figures. It was one of the most wanted terrorist masterminds of the time that had brought me this intelligence, and I found myself working with him—despite what atrocities he himself had committed—to expose and destroy this conspiracy. Needless to say, a number of my former ‘masters’ tried to kill me to protect themselves—and tried to eliminate the other members of my team who may have supported me. Colonel Burke himself suffered a great loss: the woman he’d loved was killed by a sniper’s bullet meant for him.”
“But you did what was right,” Abbas half-praises and half-reassures.
“I hurt them back because they had used me,” I rephrase bitterly, “used me to kill. And they’d killed many others—many innocents—in their bloody games. I was beyond rage. What was ‘right’ was incidental. I only cared about what was wrong.”
Abbas digests it. Smiles a little under his mask. Nods. Chews a few seeds. Sips from his water bottle. Jon is looking at me like I just told him God is an asshole.
“Is that what you did when you came here?” Abbas challenges gently. I think about that for a few seconds, shake my head.
“Same man, just older,” I answer. “They use me because I’m good at what they want me to do, but they also know I never fully trust, not unless I’m sure, not until I see for myself.”
“Would they not have anticipated that, sending you to fight more of their ‘villains’?”
I shrug. “Maybe some did,” I allow. “Maybe I was their way of undoing something ugly. Or maybe they just figured I would get killed and they’d have a martyr in the deal. But they certainly never meant me to be placed in command of their entire planetary operation. Colonel Burke and I were only assigned as ground force commanders, guns in the fight.”
I see him smile under his mask.
“But you did a great right in your rage against the wrong, friend Ram,” he soothes paternally. “You are an instrument of something larger than yourself, larger than them. I believe this. And not only because I am a Muslim.”
“And what am I doing now?” I ask wearily.
“Those who would be your masters now are the children’s children of men you did not trust in their own time,” he shrugs. “Do you have good reason not to trust these people?”
“I don’t fully believe what they’re telling us,” I admit, realizing I’m doing something my new handlers would deeply disapprove of. “It isn’t about trust—some may just be doing their duty, following orders whether they agree or not. I don’t know them well enough to trust or not trust, but I have doubts, questions. What they say about the delay in responding to us—I don’t believe it was innocent ignorance or confusion. There’s more fear driving their decisions than they’ll admit. And I admit I am very hesitant to tell them anything about this world that might feed that fear.”
“About us?” he asks offhandedly. I shake my head.
“I worry more that they’ll be eager to study you like some kind of new species,” I consider. “You’re safest as long as they think you’re harmless.”
“They are afraid of the Jinn,” he assesses directly.
“They are terrified of the Jinn,” I clarify. “And not just because they’re afraid of the ETE’s nanotech. They know the ETE control this world. Any claims of benevolence don’t matter.”
“And the Jinn have not been so benevolent lately,” Abbas adds, his voice weighted with something beyond idle assessment.
“What have you heard?” I ask him.
“Do you want to hear when it is your duty to report what you hear to Earth?” he offers me an out.
“My duty is my own burden,” I commit. “And I have a more pressing duty to ensure the survival of those under my command and care. So yes, I do want to hear.”
He digests that, nods thoughtfully, then gives:
“We see their silent airships more and more. They go to Shinkyo. They go toward Zodanga. They go toward the PK Keeps. Sometimes they come back damaged. Sometimes we hear gunfire and bombs in the distance, see smoke, or dust storms where the wind isn’t. It feels like war—war we have seen only in our history recordings…”
Jon is nodding heavily.
It’s only a little more than we’ve seen ourselves, but enough to indicate that there has been violence. Whatever the ETE are doing to keep their peace, the survivor factions are resisting.
I check my canisters. It’s getting to be time to go back inside. I point to my gauges and stand, brushing the dust off of me. Sakina is already up and at my side.
“Stay and eat,” I invite them. “Sleep here before you travel back.”
“I would like that,” Abbas agrees. “I will meet with my people in your greenhouse and join you later?”
I nod. Then I look over the greenhouse. “We have done some good things together.”
Abbas smiles, but then gets serious again: “When they send their own men from Earth, they will replace you?”
I give him a shrug, look around tracking the horizon, the visible boundaries of the life-sustaining valley.
“This is my home now,” I tell him.
Abbas smiles and clasps his hand on my shoulder.
“You would be most welcome among my people, should the need or desire arise.”
Then he goes down to see what we have grown.
Chapter 3: Here There Be Monsters
6 March, 2116:
I keep delaying more distant and riskier contact attempts as long as I can.
I can’t deny the need for intel regarding the survivor tribes, but I have to tell my new command chain it’s a matter of needing to protect the people I’m responsible for, and that our resources are just too limited and fragile. Unofficially, I feel like I could be handing un-contacted factions—pristine and vulnerable cultures—over to a foreign superpower whose motives, however benign they insist they are, will likely prove devastating.
My reluctance to carry out priority orders is likely threatening my continued command. In truth, I am probably unfit to be their commander on the ground, but I don’t think Matthew or Lisa would be more dutiful to them. I’m sure my passive-aggressive tactics have been duly noted by whatever leadership is behind the new UNMAC.
But now Earthside, using Richards as its primary voice (no more warm fuzzy greetings from Secretary Satrapi), is hinting that they might actually delay relief on the launchpad without a better census. They do seem less concerned with the numbers and conditions of survivors than what technology they might be in possession of. So given what they’re likely to do next if I continue to be obstinate, I need to throw them something.
My concerns for our resources aren’t exaggerated: After the battering we took from the Shinkyo, Aziz’ Nomads and then the Zodangan “pirates”, Morales has managed to keep only four ASVs and our one AAV even remotely air-worthy.
The Lancer flies fine, but the once-pristine black hull has been dented and stripped of its nano-skin in patches where it took grapeshot hits from Bly’s Dutchman. Smaller cuts betray where his “boarders” tried to pry in—apparently they had trouble finding the well-concealed hatches in the dark and chaos while we tried to shake them off our hull. The only fixes Morales could offer would be cosmetic at best, painting it the same red-camo as our ASVs. I opted to leave it black for now, painting over the scars so it at least looks none the worse for our self-declared enemies’ efforts.
Given my options, I decide to send two of our better ASVs, loaded with four squads of H-A troops. I give the ground mission to Third Platoon, and Lieutenant Thomas and Staff Sergeant Jones fly out as field command, with Acaveda and Jane doing the flying. Morales makes sure they have full belts in their turrets and a brace of missiles.
Tru lobbies hard to ride along on this one, but given where we’re going hunting, I remind her of Paul’s and Abbas’ vehement warnings, and keep it guns-only, at least on this trip. I add myself to that ban, which makes Matthew breathe somewhat easier t
hat I’m not making a target of myself for once. We set up in Command Ops to watch over the mission on live feed.
Metzger calls liftoff at 07:00. The ships rise smoothly and glide off to the East (the first time we’ve flown in that direction). Toward Tranquility.
We get our first big payoff within the hour.
Tranquility is about a hundred miles east-southeast of us, with no tapsites in between, so we have our pilots take it easy on fuel. If they get into trouble, Melas Three is closer at seventy-five miles southwest of the colony ruin. (The only reason we opted to launch from Melas Two was the possibility that Aziz’ Nomads might be watching Three, and a flight along their precious forbidden food route might raise more ire, or at least give them another excuse to stir more propaganda against us).
The long wide sheer-walled trench that is Coprates Chasma gets steadily deeper as it “flows” eastward away from Melas, and with depth comes higher atmosphere density and warmth. Acaveda sends us back readings pushing .35 atmospheres and a balmy sixty degrees. And an impressive 15% humidity.
“Summertime in the Alps,” Tru assesses, almost breathless.
There is ice frosting the cliff faces and ridge crests to either side. Below, we start seeing the red desert valley floor begin to dot with olive-colored scrub—patches of the fruit and grain bearing shrubs we’ve been cultivating in our greenhouse, clinging to the deeper ravines and washes that look like they may have been recently flooded.
(I wish I had Paul here to give us commentary, but I’m sure Earthside would frown on his observing one of our missions as much as he’d try to discourage us from going this way.)
Then here and there we start seeing what look like cisterns in some of the sheerer cuts, sinkholes in the rock full of standing water. The Bitter Apple and Red Olive plants that grow only a meter or two tall in our greenhouse are fully tree-sized down by these sheltered water sources. Honeyflower and Rustbean cling to the rocks.
The God Mars Book Two: Lost Worlds Page 6