“Many of them were inexperienced recruits, trained fast, loaded into transports and shipped from Earth at the height of the Eco War,” Kendricks details long-before-his-time history that I know from personal experience. “Their commanders threw them into a hostile environment ill-prepared because no one had ever fought a war like that. Then their objectives became muddled by shifting politics.” I catch him locking eyes for a moment with Tru, perhaps watching for a reaction. (Is he looking for lingering hostility or remorse?) Tru stays impressively cool. “Apparently betrayed by those commanders in the Apocalypse, they did what they felt they had to in order to survive, to protect of their own.”
“A path you did not take,” I allow him easily.
“The founders of our Orders—my parents among them—were members of the elite SOF operators who took point in attempting to stabilize the colonial conflicts. Their missions were counter-insurgency and recon, much different skill-sets, and they had much more training and experience. And they were used to operating in autonomy. After the bombardment, their first priority was the relief of survivors—my Order was founded in the ruins of Avalon Colony.”
“Are there other Orders?” I interrupt, trying not to sound like I’m interrogating him.
“We coordinated our efforts with two other colonies: Freedom in south-east Melas, and Liberty in far Coprates. However, we lost contact with the New Knights of Liberty about a decade ago. Missions to seek after their fate were either lost or encountered heavy resistance from the local tribes, who have gone so native as to be considered savage.”
“We clashed with one such tribe at Tranquility,” I tell him.
“The Cast,” he names them. “They are the least of the threats in that region. They stay contained to their garden ruin, and have begun to evolve a rudimentary trading culture. The Pax, Katar and Silvermen control far more territory and resources, and do not interact with outsiders except in violence.”
“The ETE mentioned the Pax,” I relay. “but the others?”
“They avoid the ETE. Their habitats are well hidden. The Katar hold the deep jungle in the Vajra, competing with the Pax. The Silvermen have vast underground networks. We cannot even begin to estimate their numbers or resources.”
I appreciate the intel, but none of it is particularly good news.
“What happened to the colonies you supported?” I return to the original subject, thinking about the images of stripped foundations.
“We were initially successful in relocating the survivors to more stable locations, using mining and construction equipment to dig shelters into the nearby rim rock, tapping the ETE feed lines for vital resources, scavenging the ruins for food stocks, setting up rudimentary hydroponics gardens and recyclers. We also first clashed with other groups during these years, their desperation for resources making them resistant to any attempts at cooperation we offered. We regretfully had to use our weapons to defend ourselves and our dependents.” He trails off, sips his coffee—it seems this is a less-than-proud era of the New Knights’ history.
“We chose isolation to avoid further conflict,” he continues, “concealing our positions in the cliffs, using stealth, keeping our activities small. Our civilian charges continued to survive, even thrive, but the violence out in the valleys could not be ignored. We then set to our second priority: finding more of our own.
“The PK had already turned by the time we reached out to them. They had forsaken their command, their oaths to UNMAC, in favor of holding what they could for themselves. They declared martial law, turned their colonies into fortified fifes, coordinated with other garrisoned colonies to create a limited but powerful feudal system. Their civilians became their serfs, their vassals. I cannot say they are treated well. There is no chivalry, no bushido in the PK. They are little more than an organized rabble, fascist gangsters with guns.”
“Colonel Janeway appears at least competent,” I allow.
“Enough to be dangerous,” Kendricks counters. “They keep their skill sets alive from generation to generation, passed down to their own children in an exclusive caste system, ruling over the non-PK, controlling them as labor assets. They rule by force. They have no honor, no humanity.”
The room is silent when he pauses. Everyone’s face has the same hard look. Tru is shaking her head.
“What about the UNMAC bases?” I press him on.
“Melas One was lost,” he tells us heavily. “What few survivors there were all succumbed to their injuries within weeks: burns, radiation poisoning, crush wounds, decompression trauma. They’d been taken in by the survivors of Mariner Colony, who went to heroic lengths to try to save them, though the too-few Mariner refugees were little better off—they were all barely hanging on in survival shelters. We helped take care of their injured as best we could, took in those that survived, moved them into the cave habitats we were digging.
“Then we scavenged the ruins for whatever we could take, putting priority on food and survival gear. By the time we got around to securing the weapons caches, we were already in competition with other groups. We took what small arms and ammo we could, but lost significant resources to the other fledgling groups.”
“And Melas Three?” I ask the next logical question, remembering his use of the “code” CROATOAN that someone (the Knights themselves?) had left carved cryptically into the wall in Ops.
“Our brothers from Freedom were in closer proximity. So while we were doing what we could in Northwest Melas, they moved to find out what had happened to Melas Three. The bunkers had spared the remaining personnel, but they lacked any means to effectively call Earth, and had no remaining viable aircraft. They had dug in to await relief, but none was coming. The local tribes quickly found the facility despite what all the bombs and slides had done to hide it, and started making increasing attempts to take the base and its resources by force. Many lives were lost on both sides, all over a pit in the ground.
“We all agreed that our best course was to strip the facility of anything the hostiles could use offensively. We didn’t want to make the same mistake we had at Melas One, which had helped arm the groups you now know as the Nomads, the PK and the Zodanga. We moved everything we could carry into our hidden enclaves. Then the Melas Three commander ordered the gutted facility sealed and buried, so that it could not be turned into a fortification for a hostile faction. The recognition code was left so that any relief that came would know the descendants of UNMAC—it was chosen from an obscure event during the European colonization of what they then called the New World; the analogy seemed appropriate. We carved it into the concrete to be sure it would last.”
He pulls a worn-looking UNMAC-issue flashcard out of his armor, and brings up a video of a work-suited tech cutting the letters into the wall of the Melas Three command deck. Then there’s a shot of what I recognize as the Melas Three officers and chief techs standing in front of the finished “CROATOAN”. They look weary, defeated, angry, but still professional. I’m sad to say I’m having trouble remembering their names.
“What about this base?” I keep him going. Everyone at the table appears fully enthralled by his narrative, and he’s eager to continue:
“We came here as well, Colonel, though your location made it a difficult trip, even with our long-range surface gear. We found you sleeping. Waking you would have put a great deal of strain on our already limited resources. You were all healthy. Your facility was secure. We chose to keep it so: we watched over you passively, over the generations, discouraging any curious raiders who came too close to discovering you.”
“Explains why we didn’t get raided over all those years,” Kastl speaks up. And it’s a better explanation than Paul’s guess that we were just too remote to reach.
“Our own commander stayed awake while we went into Hiber Sleep,” I bring up one of our unsolved mysteries, one of particularly personal concern. “Colonel Copeland. We don’t know what became of him.”
Kendricks shakes his head. “Your base was run
ning on automatic. The Melas Three personnel gave us access. But this was almost eleven months after the Apocalypse, given the more pressing priorities I’ve described. There was no sign of anyone out of hibernation.”
I take a long, deep breath. Some mysteries keep escaping resolution (assuming I believe the stories I’ve been told, which Kendricks has done a fair job of selling).
“How many colonists do you currently protect?” Tru asks, changing the subject.
Kendricks looks deeply sad, looks down into his cup.
“None,” he says, finally. His knight Sir John Wayne gives a hard look that speaks of old pain and anger. “Not directly.”
“What happened?” I ask.
“Once the daily struggle for survival stabilized, our civilian charges began to lose whatever sense of gratitude they had toward us. They began to see us as UNMAC, and UNMAC was the enemy. Some feared we would eventually find a way to contact Earth out of duty, and that would bring down more bombs. We had heard that there was even an uprising in Liberty—the operators there chose to move out of the city, digging themselves a new facility higher in the cliffs to avoid further conflicts while staying close enough to keep watch over the Liberty survivors.
“Those were ugly times. The civilians began an exodus from our enclaves, preferring to take their chances in the open deserts, to make new homes rather than associate with anything military. Many were killed, preyed upon by the Zodanga and the Nomads, or stumbling into the merciless PK and Shinkyo. A very few managed to get absorbed into more established groups, most as slave workers.”
“None tried to return?” Tru wants to know.
There’s an uncomfortable silence. I realize Kendricks is speaking for his parents, for the decisions that they made.
“We unfortunately closed the door to them,” he admits heavily. “For security reasons, we relocated ourselves after the civilians left—we didn’t want the Nomads or the Zodanga coming after our weapons caches. And they did: forcing our former charges to reveal our enclaves under torture. When the raiders found nothing, entire families were tortured to death.
“We struck back, trying for some modicum of justice, but it only made the raiders more dangerous as they learned from our tactics. We retreated into our new enclaves, became invisible, let them think they had chased us off. Then we re-invented ourselves.”
“As knights?” I show Kendricks I’m following him.
“Like the PK, within one generation we realized we were no longer a part of any Earthside military command structure. But we did not want to become the PK, corrupting their military structure into something oppressive. There were historians among us, as well as many professional warriors who hung on to antiquated but still valid codes of honor. We modeled ourselves after the ideal civilized warriors of history, the European Knights, the Japanese Samurai, the Chinese and Korean scholar-warriors. Scholars and gentlemen. Professionals. You may have heard the stories of the ancient Crusades on Earth—atrocities all, carried out by misguided heroes. But during those Crusades, certain independent orders formed: The Templars, the Hospitalers. They pledged themselves to protect the innocent, the defenseless…”
“I’ve heard of them,” I let him know. I don’t bother to dwell on how those historic orders were eventually persecuted out of existence.
“For my entire forty-seven years, I have been what my father and mother and their brothers-in-arms dreamed of: scholar, healer, historian, warrior. We train our children to follow in our new traditions. We revived the old arts, as we know our bullets and rockets will eventually run out, perhaps for the best. I see that you carry a sword yourself, Colonel.”
“A gift from the Shinkyo,” I tell him, “though I’m still not sure of the spirit in which it was given.”
Kendricks chuckles darkly. “The industrial ninja,” he identifies them. “Another example of the corruption of finer traditions for greed and hunger for power.”
“What about the force that attacked us today?” I want to know what he knows. So I give first: “We were approached by some kind of nano-construct—very impressive—that called himself Chang, claimed to be master of the Discs, even claimed to be from the future. He was quite the talker. He identified his army as being a mix of PK and Zodanga. Said he’d won them over by giving them advanced weaponry.”
“We have contacts in the PK and Zodangan camps,” he gives me, “quiet dissidents that do not agree with their masters. You see, we have not forgotten the value of cultivating human intelligence assets. From their information, it seems this Chang told them just what he told you, and showed them his Discs to impress them into collaboration.
“No one has seen Chang except as that walking shadow. They have been working to build these new weapons for months, forsaking all other priorities; you have seen the fruits of their labors to date. They are busily working on more of the same: The Zodangan airship factory is hidden somewhere high in the Northeast Rim, difficult to reach, with all approaches highly fortified. But despite their attempts at secrecy, word has come to us that their shops have been producing day and night; their hangars are filling with new and deadlier craft. The PK provide troops, and are compensated with weapons and armor. Chang has also given them better artillery to defend their settlements. This black shadow does not appear to be a talented tactician, but he is a prolific weapons manufacturer. And he appears to be as immortal as he claims: early attempts to assassinate him and take his resources were completely ineffective. Chang made the faction leaders execute their own people in retaliation. He shows little care for human life, despite what he preaches.”
“He made that quite clear today,” I agree. I realize I’m starting to feel better about my decisions. The doubts that came in the shock of the battle’s aftermath begin to fade.
“His soldiers are cannon fodder, a means to his ends,” Kendricks almost growls.
“Let’s hope for their sakes they figure that out before there’s none of them left,” I hope without faith.
“Why didn’t you contact us before this?” Tru challenges.
“We know the benefit of patience,” Kendricks does not take offense. “We have thrived in secret. We have watched you, as we have watched over you—we have established an outpost in the rim foothills to the north to maintain a close but innocuous presence. We would likely have remained invisible, but we could not ignore Chang’s threat. When our observers saw his fleet moving toward your position, we knew we could no longer watch.”
“You came overland?” I try to get some sense of the Knights’ operations.
“We ran,” Hendricks says like this is not at all impressive. “Used the cover of night. Set up a staging area out-of-sight beyond the ridgeline. Waited. Watched. At least until the battle was engaged.”
“How do you operate so freely on the surface?” I ask a practical question.
Hendricks hesitates, like he’s not completely sure if he’s ready to be completely candid. Then he smiles, reaches under his cloaks, and pulls his rigged cluster of air canisters around where we can see it. They’re capped by a red plastic boxy device that looks worn and battered to the point of falling apart. Explains:
“Some of our long-range recycling scrubbers still function. The rest…” And Sutter shows us his own unit on cue: a stripped-down arrangement of motors and filters, held together with metal tape and sealant. “Our technicians scavenged to make these: they filter and condense the new atmosphere to a breathable density.”
Rick and Anton lean in, enraptured by the home-shop tech. Sutter looks to his commander for permission, and Kendricks gives him a nod. Sutter unhooks his breathing gear and hands it to Anton for a closer look-over.
“We’re certainly glad you came when you did,” I thank him again. “I’m not sure we would have come through that without you.”
“You are welcome, Colonel Ram,” he accepts warmly, but then turns serious: “I am only concerned with what we will be facing the next time.”
“As am I.”
&n
bsp; Tru offers the Knights a tour of our greenhouse, to which they politely agree. I uplink a transcript and video of our conference with the New Knight Grandmaster, then I take on the next phase of my intelligence-gathering task.
I have to mask up to take the walk across the compound to the temporary shelters that we have again turned into a POW camp. A ring of H-A troopers (with ICWs and chain guns and a tractor-mounted electric cannon) surrounds the cluster of pressurized tents, which look like a bunch of giant white marshmallows arranged in the courtyard of our bunker complex. MAI catalogues twenty four prisoners inside, all of them wounded, half of them bedridden, and at least three who may not survive the extensive burns they suffered. Despite their condition, all are still in restraints.
Just outside are piles of their assorted gear: disarmed weapons, masks, goggles, and their new sealsuit uniforms, which look like black LA gear, but are plain and functional and apparently (according to Anton’s analysis) recently mass-produced on some kind of nano-fabric loom.
Rios is waiting for me inside the first airlock. The smell that hits me as I step through the second lock is a mix of blood and sweat and burned hair and flesh, but it lacks the particular reek of beyond-poor hygiene that our last pirate prison had—it does seem Chang demands a certain level of grooming from his cannon fodder.
“I found at least one familiar face,” Rios tells me, leading me into what functions as a ward for some of the less-critically wounded. There are six prisoners in this chamber, all stripped to whatever passes for underwear, all bandaged to various extremes. I assume I can accurately tell the PK from the pirates by the presence or lack of tattoos.
On one of the shelter cots is a fit twenty-something female with a military-style bob of strawberry hair. Her right leg and left wrist are in casts, and she has bandage patches on her forehead and the side of her neck. There’s a distinctive old burn-scar on the corner of her mouth. Her green eyes show recognition when she sees me come in, but then she pretends to see nothing.
The God Mars Book Two: Lost Worlds Page 26