But if I was controlling a show-stopping avatar, why would I show up dressed like a pseudo-Egyptian fantasy? Why would I show myself at all? Unless “Ra” is part of some other game.
“Start analyzing whatever you can on Chang’s ship, his tech,” I refocus them on the pressing priority. “We need to know how to fight him before he comes back for another round.”
Rick and Anton sign off, probably as eager as I need them to be to get to work. No one says the obvious: If there is another round, we have very little left to do anything about it.
I won this battle—in the terms that winning any battle is simply a matter of who loses least—but I know I was driven by my rage, my pride. And those things have served me well enough in the battles that I’m used to, when my orders were to go in and kill and then come home. But now I have to hold the field. I have to take care of over a thousand people. And I’m wondering if there was any other way, some option that never occurred to me because I wanted to hit back at the self-righteous piece of shit that so calmly admitted to murdering tens of thousands of people (and one very dear to me) and maybe actually believed I would just happily fall in behind him.
And I know a better leader would not have these doubts.
A better leader would not have acted as if he were acting alone.
I have to push these thoughts away now.
I’ve made the slippery climb up the north ridge, up to the ground where our unknown rescuers made their stand in our behalf. But getting there, I almost step on the body of someone I don’t know:
It’s one of our unidentified allies. There’s a lot of handcrafted plate armor, like a medieval knight. Or more like those renaissance-fair re-enactors who lovingly rivet and weld their own jousting gear. But under it all is the familiar red-camo of UNMAC Light Armor. Or rather the MA—the medium armor—suits of the Special Operations troops we’d sent to hold certain embattled colony sites, or to liberate others, striking ahead of the main force.
Under the cage-style visor is a standard set of mask and goggles. The eyes that stare dead at the sky are young, strong. His weapons are an issue PDW and a long stout straight sword—both have been adorned with decorative scrollwork. In fine calligraphy I can see the word “Avalon,” mixed with fragments of Latin I can’t understand. Latin. The scrollwork has a Celtic feel.
I don’t linger, despite this man who I don’t know coming to die to help me and mine. Because I can finally see what’s left of Chang’ ship with my own eyes. And Paul.
He’s taken his helmet off—like he came to us at Abbas’ camp—so I can easily tell him apart from his anonymous fellows. He’s poking about the wreckage with his Rod-weapon, as if looking for any new target. It’s not just “mopping up”. He looks very much—even from here—like he’s looking for something else to blast apart, someone to pay for his brother. His fellows still give him a wide berth, spread about the field, helping to tend to the wounded.
“Colonel Ram…” A green sealsuit glides over and settles in front of me. The tag on the breast says “Dodds,” which I assume is Rhiannon, leader of the “Green Team.” Apparently she wasn’t among those that had resigned, shocked by the cost of the conflict they’d entered. “The area appears secured. We are doing what we can to assist with your wounded, but we lack competence in first aid. We can assist with moving the injured, containing prisoners, repairing some of your passive defenses…”
She sounds shaky. Unsure. Uncomfortable.
“Thank you, Guardian,” I tell her, “but we may have another problem.” I use my flashcard to show her an image of “Ra.” I can’t read her reaction under her helmet. She appears to consider the image, then raises a finger tip to my flashcard. I see the image flicker, and I assume she’s used her technology to download our video file.
“We have never seen anything like this, or like the light-absorbing nano-construct that came from the wreckage,” she tells me, still quite unsettled. “I hope I can assure you, Colonel: We had no idea. Only rumors.”
“Rumors?” I press her, trying not to sound accusatory.
“The PK and the Zodanga had withdrawn into their habitats these last several weeks. But the Nomads had heard things passed along from the food traders: that the Zodanga had been bragging that they had acquired some kind of greater weapons technology, and that PK uniforms had been seen among the pirate crews. Some of the Nomads had feared that it was you—Earth—that had promised them an advantage to use against the weaker groups. Your friend Abbas passionately convinced them otherwise. But this is the first we’ve seen of anything substantive. We had no reason to believe it was anything more than posturing, bluffing.”
I shake my head, chew my lip under my mask, feeling suddenly very stupid for making the very same assumption.
“Both Hatsumi Sakura and Colonel Janeway had hinted that there was something happening, that there was another significant power on the planet,” I tell her what she’s probably already heard. “I thought they were just posturing, too. That’s how Janeway sounded. But Sakura… She sounded as if she was trying to reach out, to warn us. Unfortunately, I’ve had little reason to trust anything they say.” It’s a poor excuse.
“If either had intended candor, they would have told you more,” Rhiannon tries to reassure me. She honestly seems to want to be comforting, despite being so obviously at a loss for reason or understanding surrounded by all this death.
Paul has stopped probing at the wreckage. He’s levitating, getting altitude for a good look in the direction that Chang’s nanites blew away to. He begins to glide that way, then holds himself back. Hangs frozen for while we watch for several breaths. Then he turns back and goes to help with the wounded. But he doesn’t put his weapon away.
“What about Paul Stilson?” I change the focus, worried about someone I do consider a friend, hoping Rhiannon might be able to tell me how he’s been, how he’s been dealing (or not dealing), assuming she’ll share. She doesn’t answer me, seems even more uncomfortable. “He lost his brother,” I remind her needlessly. “Chang—the ‘light-absorbing nano-construct’—claimed responsibility for it. For all of it: The Apocalypse and all the violence before it. And he brought Discs with him to prove it.”
“We must be better than revenge, Colonel,” she tells me after taking a few strained breaths in her expressionless mask. “We must be.”
“He doesn’t need things to be any more difficult for him,” I suggest, considering what his Council—his own father—might have to say about his actions (especially since his own fellow Guardians seem to be so uncomfortable with what he’s become).
“He will make his choices, Colonel,” she tells me heavily. “I expect we all will.”
I nod my understanding.
“Colonel Ram!” Thomas interrupts us. She’s climbing the ridge towards us, with three more of the strange handcrafted armor suits trailing her at a respectful distance. “Someone you should meet, sir…”
The lead suit takes his PDW and his sword and lays them to either side of himself as he kneels on one knee, bowing his helmet. His companions follow suit.
“We come to you in friendship and brotherhood,” a voice almost sings, with a deep, mature tone that I recognize from the voice that came over our channels. “You are who they say. You are the tales and the legends. We are honored to give you our swords and our guns.”
“I’m very grateful for your assistance,” I return, hopefully not after staring at them dumbfounded for too many seconds. “And no one should kneel to me. Certainly not a friend.” I step forward, offer my hand. The lead suit looks up—I see his eyes smile behind his goggles—and he clasps my glove firmly in his. I help him stand, which he seems to do with some slight difficulty, but less than I would have if I had taken his posture wearing all that metal. “What do I call you?”
“I am Sir Obiwan Kendricks, Grandmaster of the Order of the New Knights of Avalon.”
“’Obiwan’…” I blurt out involuntarily, hoping it didn’t sound condescending
.
“My father chose the name from a famous tale from old Earth. When we were children, we would watch the Great Stories on salvaged video files.”
“I know the story,” I assure him politely. “But I haven’t heard of your ‘Order’, your ‘New Knights’.”
“We have kept our Holds and operations covert, even from you, and for that I do apologize,” Kendricks explains. “But this new threat required confronting. And you are, in many ways, our brothers. We could not let you stand alone against it.”
“You wear the gear of my former comrades-in-arms,” I let him know what I’ve noticed. I can see his eyes smile again under his mask.
“I have been waiting to give you—or someone like you—this recognition code for my entire life,” he tells me eagerly. Then he draws his sword and begins to make letters in the sand between us.
CROATOAN.
“The codeword was passed from our fathers and forefathers, my father to me,” Kendricks explains.
“They were from Melas Three?” I ask him, as soon as my shock settles enough to figure out where to start.
“I will tell you the tale of my ancestors, Colonel Ram, Peacemaker,” he assures, carefully wiping and sheathing his blade. “But first I must attend to mine. Valiant wounded. Honored dead.”
“’He today who sheds his blood with me is my brother’,” I steal someone else’s words. “You’re welcome to our facilities, though I’m afraid we’ve over-burdened them.”
“My knights are all skilled in dealing with battle trauma,” he gives me back. “There are some very skilled surgeons in our Order. We can make due out here in the thin, but if you could provide us a pressurized and heated working space, we can do much more.”
I call Kastl, knowing Halley will be too busy to respond, and tell him to put a crew on preparing whatever space we can spare—barracks, storage bay, mess hall—to creating a hospital. Then I have Lieutenant Horst escort the first of Sir Kendricks’ band—a group of two dozen carrying or assisting another fifteen wounded between them—down to the base.
The “New Knights” move with impressive discipline, despite their rather odd names and titles: I hear Kendricks give orders to a Jean-Luc, a Logan, a Sirius, and a Sherlock, as well as a number of others that are obscure or vague enough to keep my brain struggling to consider which of the “Great Stories” they might have come from.
I don’t need to tell Horst to keep an eye on them, though they appear to be completely devoted to helping us—they carry as many of our wounded as their own, and express gratitude when our troopers return the courtesy. The ETE also assist, using their technology to gently carry the wounded to care, using pressure carefully generated from their tools to reduce bleeding.
Still, it takes more than two hours to clear the field of the living. (The Nomads were lucky—Abbas insists his people on site suffered only minor injuries and do not need to burden our facilities. I plan on visiting the camp to confirm that with my own eyes as soon as I can.)
The surviving enemy combatants—numbering twenty-six in various degrees of stability after two die waiting to be tended to—are moved into portable shelters quickly set up on the surface. At least four of them look like they won’t survive the night, but I’ve got at least four times that many of my own—and Kendricks’ Knights—that are in worse shape.
Kendricks stays with me long enough to establish a plan for treating the wounded and securing our combined dead, then takes his leave to coordinate his own people, which now number over one-hundred-and-fifty.
He had two-hundred-and-twelve when he came to our defense. He lost almost as many as we did in helping us.
Once the wounded are out of the open air and being triaged, the ETE set to helping Morales and Thomasen in clearing wreckage, recovering our damaged ships, repairing bunker walls and breached sections. They have little success with the aircraft: The Lancer is likely beyond salvage, and out of the four ASVs I had flying this morning, only one—McKay’s—is still able to get up off the deck. Soto’s ship is a total loss.
Smith and Jane managed to come through their crash with minor injuries, though Jane is especially upset at having broken his remaining hand. Smith is nursing a ragged penetration wound to his right calf—either a bullet or chunk of shrapnel having punched into his cockpit. He’s also got broken ribs from the hard landing.
Lieutenant Soto and his gunner Lieutenant Jeffers weren’t nearly so lucky. We found them dead in the battered and crushed remains of their cockpit module.
In the next few hours, three more of my people die in surgery. Our enemies lose two waiting for care.
The Knights prove themselves to be very good field surgeons—they’ve lost no more since the fight, and have been helping take care of our wounded as well as those among our captured enemy combatants.
We get our first reply from Earth within an hour of the battle: a brief condolence for our losses and praise for our bravery in the face of a terrible enemy, delivered by Secretary Satrapi on behalf of the entire population of Earth.
The communications delay is getting worse as Earth and Mars get farther apart. In a little over a month the sun will be in the way and we won’t be able to get through at all unless they get the replacement relay satellites positioned. And I was hoping Earthside would send us something more than their heartfelt regrets.
I don’t get any useful communication until Richards calls us almost four hours later, having been prematurely revived from shuttle Hiber-Sleep. He looks like a B-movie zombie.
“I’ve been briefed on your situation, Colonel. Know that you absolutely made the right call, despite the cost. Earthside intelligence is picking apart this Chang’s story, analyzing his weaponry. I won’t make any guess at this point as to whether he was telling the truth or some ridiculous fantasy to manipulate you. I only wish I could get relief to you faster. Hopefully you hurt him and his forces badly enough to buy us a few months for our first flights to make orbit.
“I don’t plan on going back to sleep—I’ll set up a com-center on my shuttle. I’ll get Colonel Burns awake as well.
“Find out what you can about our new friends and enemies. Keep the intel flowing. Dig in deep. Fix what you can. First relief is still on schedule for January, but now I’m not optimistic it will be enough. Hopefully Earthside can figure out some better countermeasures to deal with this Chang character if he comes back.
“Pass along my gratitude to Ms. Greenlove’s citizen soldiers, as well as to the Nomads and our mysterious allies. You all did an impressive job—you have an outstanding group of people down there. Take care of them. Richards out. Message ends.”
It’s better news than I’d expected. And I don’t envy Richards or Burns for condemning themselves to staying awake for the tedious months interplanetary, just to avoid any further unpleasant awakenings. I hope their ships are sizable.
I go down to our makeshift hospital to check on our wounded and to take care of another pressing duty, bringing Sakina with me for a number of reasons. I find “Grandmaster Obiwan”—or rather, he seeks me out—as soon as Lieutenant Horst announces “Commander on Deck!”
“Colonel Ram,” he greets formally but warmly. Without his helmet he’s surprisingly thick-built, fit and muscular like an Earth athlete, despite gray hair and lines that tell me he’s probably pushing fifty. His long hair is tied back and he wears his beard trimmed short. His eyes are ice blue, hard with experience, but somehow serene.
“Grandmaster Kendricks,” I offer my hand, which he grips enthusiastically again.
“Obiwan,” he prompts me. “We honor our parents but use our given names with friends.” I don’t tell him I avoided calling him Obiwan because I wasn’t sure I could say it with a straight face.
“For a parent to name their child after a hero honors both the child and the values the parents hold dear,” Sakina offers with unexpected spontaneity, perhaps sensing my awkwardness.
“We have been passively monitoring your relations with the North
ern Nomads, Colonel,” Kendricks responds with a warm grin, “but to have earned the loyalty of The Ghaddar is quite a testament to your character. The Nomads say it is to have an angel of God on your side if she is with you.”
Or a demon from hell against you if she is not—Abbas had mentioned this to me during one of our long talks, but I don’t finish the proverb aloud. I also don’t indicate that I have a lot more than Sakina’s loyalty.
“You know quite a bit about us,” I turn, still hesitant to say his given name. “I’m eager to hear the history of your people. Will you join me for lunch?”
We set up a mixed feast of our remaining rations and the local fare in the conference room. I invite Tru, Rick, Anton and Kastl to join us. Rios and Thomas are still coordinating our overwhelmed triage and recovery operations, and I doubt anyone on the medical team will see a break for days.
Kendricks spares one of his own to accompany him, a Knight he introduces as Sir John Wayne Sutter, a short-haired youth—maybe nineteen or twenty—who reminds me of many young soldiers I’ve known.
“Coffee is a treasure, literally manna from heaven,” Kendricks appreciates his cup of fifty-year-old irradiated dark roast.
“An insufficient gesture of our gratitude, given your sacrifices for us,” I return, raising my cup of the local tea (which I’m getting quite fond of, and I need a break from the reflux-inducing ration-grade java). “Though I still don’t understand why you came to our aid, gave your lives for us.”
He fingers the MA suit under his plate armor. “Given your experience with certain others who still wear this uniform, I can understand your confusion. My Knights share similar origins with the PK, but we like to believe we are cut from better cloth. Or better steel.”
“The PK were UN Peacekeeper Troops,” I let him know I’m following.
The God Mars Book Two: Lost Worlds Page 25