The God Mars Book Three: The Devil You Are

by Michael Rizzo

  I go looking for history: colony manifests, personnel rosters, records of what happened after the bombs fell. What I get first is an “Outcast” versus “Residency” tree.

  It looks like it starts within a few years of the Apocalypse. Once the surviving colony population stabilized, the machine—Gardener—began calculating resources, what the colony could support. Then it looks like hard decisions were made.

  The first ones made “Outcast” actually had high scores, especially in terms of skill sets that included survival skills, construction, surface-greening, even military. Maybe these were volunteers, or personnel deemed able to make do in the harsher environment of external shelters (this would have been well before the atmosphere thickened and the temperatures moderated—even sheltering in the broken dome wouldn’t have been much better than original surface conditions, and there certainly wouldn’t have been such a green bounty).

  As the years pass, the Outcast assignments shifted to low-scoring individuals: Old, sick, injured, unskilled (or at least lacking colony-valued skills). First it seemed to be calculated to maintain a population that the colony could support. But over the years, the “Residency” population has been getting smaller.

  Colony resource production has also been declining. Things are breaking down. The colony is slowly dying. I wonder if they know.

  Meanwhile, the Outcast population has been increasing, especially in the last decade. They’re thriving.

  I realize I’ve got a “visitor”. The H-K Murphy is on the other side of the transparency.

  “What is he?”

  “We haven’t determined, sir, I’m sorry,” one of the medics answers him quickly (and does seem to need to apologize for whatever failure). “Gardener confirms the DNA record, but obviously the body doesn’t match this Colonel Ram. Ram was in his early seventies when the bombs fell.”

  “Is it a Hybrid?”

  “We’re not reading active nanotech. But somehow his blood is staying oxygenated.”

  “He’s not dead?” Murphy doesn’t sound as nervous about that as the medics.

  “No heartbeat. No respiration. But scans won’t penetrate…”

  “Get out of there.”

  “But Gardener, sir…”

  “Out. Now. My expense.” It sounds like Murphy values his civilians even if his AI doesn’t. (I wonder what “expense” he’s risking.) And they move, leaving me, sealing me in.

  “No more games,” he directs at me. “I know you can hear me.”

  “Thank you,” I tell him. “I was getting stiff.”

  Alarms go off as I sit up, swing my legs over the side of the table so I can face him. I finally let my face and forehead wounds heal. Murphy manages to keep remarkably calm as my “fatal” wounds close and vanish. The three security suits that come rushing in don’t look nearly so composed. Matching pistols point at me through the transparency.

  “Will those even shoot through the polycarb?” I ask idly. I recognize one of the responders as Palmer. They don’t budge.

  “Where are his weapons?” Palmer wants to know, urgently.

  I raise my hands like I’m surrendering, show them a trick: My sword and gun fly from a clean box in the cell with me. I put the sword back in my belt, the gun back in its holster. I retrieve my knife as an afterthought, put it away too. Then sit watching them like they’re no threat, barely interesting.

  “Guns down,” Murphy orders. They comply when Gardener agrees with him enough to silence the alarms. I see the wide-eyed medics watching through a portal in the exit hatchway.

  Murphy’s never bothered to draw his weapon. He still doesn’t, as he steps up to the transparency.

  “Why play dead?”

  “It got me in here,” I admit. “Sorry if that’s at your expense.” I mean that—he seems like a descent sort. Palmer on the other hand looks like he wants to hurt someone.

  “What are you?” Murphy keeps leading the questioning.

  “Long story.”

  “I have time.”

  “Do you?” I reverse. “Gardener tells me your systems have been steadily failing. You’ve been Outcasting more and more of your people. How long until it’s just you H-K? And too many Outcasts to cull?”

  Palmer’s gun comes back up. I probably shouldn’t have admitted hacking their precious AI.

  “That won’t hurt me.”

  “Don’t bet,” he threatens. “I loaded with molecular explosive penetrators. We’ve dealt with you ETE before.”

  “I’m not ETE. But yes, that might hurt. Best not to get off to a bad start between us. I am here to help.”

  “ETE only help Cast and Siders,” Palmer almost spits. “No-Values that swarm our gardens, eat our food, siphon our air and water and fuel when they’re not cutting our lines and trying to strip our home.”

  “Life will out,” I let him know it’s inevitable. “The planet is greening, terraforming. I’m sure you’ve noticed. And not long until you’re all outside, unless you get some repairs done, and it doesn’t look like you have the parts. But I’m here because you have more pressing problems.”

  “You’ve come to threaten us?” Murphy starts to lose his diplomacy.

  “I’ve come to help. Though I’ve been reconsidering since I’ve been reading your records. Do you really kick your own people outside, then hunt them?”

  I realize what I must sound like: smug, superior. Probably worse than an ETE.

  “You don’t know us,” Murphy defends.

  “You said ‘hello’ by shooting me in the head. Twice.” I can’t seem to stop being a prick.

  “You look fine to me,” Palmer digs me back.

  “What are you?” Murphy gets us back on track.

  “I heard you talking, about things you’ve seen in the sky,” I change the subject. “Maybe UNMAC aircraft, back after all these years? And something a lot bigger? Or unexplained storms?”

  The H-Ks look nervous. I’ve assumed correctly.

  “Unmakers, yes,” Murphy confirms. “Three weeks now. And twice several months before that: the Cast chewed up a scout team, chased them off with losses. We collected two bodies.”

  The needless tragedy I was forced to order flashes back whether I want to see it or not. But right now I need to let that go. I’m trying to prevent a repeat, or something much worse.

  “And the DNA matched your system’s records for men who should have been dead fifty years ago. Like me.”

  This seems to unsettle them, probably has been disturbing them since they identified our fallen troopers.

  “But they were dead,” Palmer throws back. “Unlike you.”

  “Like I said: Long story. You might want to get comfortable. And I would like to get to know you, if you’ll let me.”

  They don’t reply. Instead, they all turn and look into the lenses of the chamber’s sentry array. Wait.

  “CONFIRM,” a soft drone of a voice comes out of everywhere. “ESCORT PRISONER. STANDARD TEAM. H-E LOAD. DESTINATION: TOWN HALL. H-K OPERATIONAL ASSESSMENT: NO PENALTY: M-7. NO PENALTY: P-6.”

  Whatever the last bit was, it seems to raise a weight off of Murphy and Palmer.

  The sealed door to the Iso unlocks.

  I get led by Murphy, Palmer and another intimidating H-K suit. Murphy and the other man took the time to switch the ammo in their revolvers for another loading, probably the high explosive rounds Palmer prepped himself with. I wonder what’s happened over the years between them and the ETE—or someone more dangerous—to require such a load as standard carry. (The ETE never mentioned trouble with the H-K, instead excusing their avoidance of the colony as a desire to avoid unnecessary violence with the “wild people”—the Cast—who control the Lower Dome. Either they’ve been hiding a darker chapter in their custodianship of the planet, or it happened too long ago to be deemed worth mentioning. But the H-K still carry penetrating explosives.)

  We don’t go back the way we came. Instead, I get escorted deeper into the facility, down a long corridor that
—according to Gardener’s droning announcements—has been cleared for my passage. Then we take a cargo-sized elevator up several levels.

  We’re going to the Upper Dome.

  The Upper Dome was and still is primarily housing: bright, efficient little apartments stacked in balconied terraces all around the inside of the stadium-sized space. The roof arching over us has been similarly patched and reinforced. The light here is warmer, more sun-like. There are gardens and small groves of trees—Earth species, not just hybrids, all well cared for—and what I can only describe as a park-like space down in the center: flowers, grass and shrubs landscaped into a tea garden aesthetic. The far side of the dome, like the one we just came from, is dominated by an operations ziggurat, all clean steel and white ceramic. There is a large pavilion in front of it, in the middle of the park. It looks like it’s actually made out of hardwood, walled by sliding screens, all very neo-Japanese, moated by neat-kept Zen sand and rock gardens. (I wonder what the Shinkyo would think of it.)

  What there isn’t: people. Still hacked into Gardener, I can hear a silent alarm—a signal patched into every room, into every personal Link. It’s a curfew warning, an order to stay locked down and indoors. Away from me, whatever threat I may pose.

  We cross a well-traveled stone path and step up into the pavilion. I almost expect them to gesture me to take off my boots before entering, but apparently that’s not a requirement (or maybe this is just special circumstance).

  There are long tables and benches inside, enough for a few hundred people, at least all of the adult residents on Gardener’s roster. At the far wall is a long bar of a table, behind which are rows of tall-backed seats, like a tribunal or a parliament. I count fifty of these chairs, each one marked with a Tranquility Colony logo.

  “Council Gallery,” Murphy tells me. “The ten H-K families serve as representatives of the population, each one of us serving armed, and assigned a share of Protecteds from the current roles. We advocate for them, judge infractions and performance values, make final decisions on Casting.”

  No civilian government, just gunmen.

  “I thought Gardener decided such things,” I try not to sound as judgmental as I can’t help being.

  “Gardener does,” Palmer pipes in icily. “The numbers are absolute. If an H-K argues to save a Protected, another must be chosen, or the whole suffers.”

  Murphy nods heavily. It feels like the duty weighs on him.

  “Sit.” Palmer brings a chair and almost slams it down facing the H-K seating.

  “What happened to the original colony administrators?” I try to sound innocent as I ask. “I remember meeting them. Scientists. Idealists.”

  “Their descendents still serve,” Murphy explains with some hesitation, like he’s trying to be delicate. Palmer looks on edge, like he’s nervous about what his partner will say, as if it will cost his “score” as well.

  “Scientists were not up to protecting the colony, making the necessary decisions,” Palmer takes over, sounding like he’s inherited no love for the colony founders (or he’s defending some current dogma). “Gardener agreed: Only the serving H-K can protect the colony.”

  “But Gardener makes the necessary decisions,” I distill.

  “The numbers are absolute,” Palmer repeats the mantra. “Only Gardener can process all factors. Only Gardener can calculate the full needs of the colony.”

  “So the H-K mostly just enforce Gardener’s decisions,” I extrapolate.

  I’m beginning to get a sense of what happened here.

  “The scientists—the administrators—couldn’t make the difficult decisions necessary for the survival of the largest number,” I process out loud, to see if I’m corrected. “They let the AI do it for them, then entrusted the H-K security force to carry out its will. The responsibility is passed down in your clans, each individual’s performance continuously reviewed. When the colony can’t support everyone, the low scores have to go.”

  Murphy and Palmer have taken seats in front of me. The third H-K is back at the entrance, behind me.

  “You know nothing,” Palmer insists, trying to intimidate. “You’re Sider.”

  “Your machine speaks to me,” I tell him, casually gesturing all around us. “It seems to have no issue sharing its secrets.”

  “Your story,” Murphy cuts off before Palmer can melt down on me. “What are you?”

  “I was Colonel Ram. I lived through the Apocalypse, survived in Hiber-Sleep buried with over a thousand of my fellows. We woke up just over a year ago, started exploring. Made contact with Earth…”

  They both go rigid, like I’ve given them—all of them—a death sentence.

  “For good or ill, Earth is coming back,” I confirm. “For good: We’ve received shipments of supplies. We can help you, restore your colony systems, maybe completely eliminate the need for Casting. Those aircraft you saw are the first of many to come.”

  “And for ill?” Murphy keeps the lead so Palmer doesn’t.

  “They still believe Mars may be contaminated by something deadly. They want to relocate everyone, examine and quarantine them. They’re frightened enough to do this by force. So far, they only expect this place is home to the Cast. They don’t know you’re here, but they’ll figure it out soon enough.”

  “And what are you to them? Diplomat? Spy?”

  “Worse. That’s why I asked about storms, something big in the sky. You’ve heard tales of the Discs?”

  “We preserve our history, our schools,” Murphy actually sounds defensive, like I’m assuming I’m talking to primitives. “So yes: We know what Discs are.”

  “What you may not know is that the Discs brought down the Apocalypse, simulated catastrophic breaches and triggered the nuclear sterilization. Then they destroyed everything in orbit. Now they’re back, because Earth is coming back. And their master has shown himself. He’s a nanotech hybrid, more impressive than any ETE you’ve seen. He’s rallied the Zodanga and the Keepers behind him, armed them, built ships, including a giant flying fortress that moves cloaked in a manufactured dust and EM storm. He’s sworn himself to preventing Earth from returning and resuming the corporate research. He claims to be from a future destroyed by that research.”

  Palmer relaxes, starts to chuckle. Murphy isn’t laughing.

  “It was a good story, Sider… All the way up until the end,” Palmer condescends. “I give credit: You actually sound like you believe it.”

  “I’m not sure that I do,” I tell him intently. “It would make more sense that this man—Syan Chang—is just some mad tech genius, afraid of the colony research enough to slaughter thousands. But then, there’s me.”

  “And ‘me’ is what?” Palmer prosecutes. “Colonel Ram’s file says he was seventy at the Bang. Old man. Yet you have his DNA. But you heal from head shots. And you say you can talk direct to Gardener.”

  “Chang started using his tech to hybridize his followers, mostly to fight the ETE since he sees them as another tech-source to destroy. One of them functionally killed me, gutted me with a sword. But someone saved me, implanted me with nanotech that healed me and made me this, technology supposedly from the same future Chang claims to be from. I remember that future, but that doesn’t mean I’m convinced it’s real. But apparently, I’m here to help fight him.”

  At least I’ve managed to amuse Palmer further.

  “What does any of this have to do with us?” Murphy needs to know, believing or not.

  “As I said, Earthside Command—UNMAC—will be coming here, with orders to take you all into refugee camps. I don’t want that to happen. I may have been UNMAC, but let’s just say we’ve had a mutual Casting. I also have reason to believe Chang is headed here too, either to recruit you into his cannon fodder army or to take your resources to feed that army. His big ship has a railgun capable of leveling this place—this whole colony—in one shot if you resist. I really don’t want that to happen.”

  “And we’re supposed to take you at yo
ur word?” Palmer doesn’t remotely buy.

  “You don’t have to,” I tell him. “They’ll just show up at your doorstep. Any day now, I expect.”

  Both of them get quiet, their eyes looking up at Gardener’s cameras, waiting for a proclamation, a calculation. I read Gardener spinning colony resources—especially weapons and ammo—against projections based on what it knows of the old UNMAC, the ETE. Then it tries to calculate what I am, what a similar threat would be. It takes all of seconds.

  “ESCORT PRISONER: SECURE IN QUARTERS H-8.”

  Chapter 5: The Price of Utopia

  Apparently H-8, actual name Dory Hammond, won’t be needing her quarters for awhile, so Gardener decides to let me borrow them as a more accommodating cell than putting me back in Iso. I expect it’s a tactic to win my cooperation, in whatever the machine may calculate as a solution to the dual threat I’ve presented.

  Unfortunately, the sub-let requires some eviction.

  Dory’s suite—and by comparing Gardener’s floorplans, most H-K suites—are the largest accommodations in the domes: Bedroom big enough for a queen mattress, separate living space with a kitchen nook, and a private bathroom large enough for an actual tub.

  But there’s a campsite in her living room, with bedrolls and pads wedged into a corner for a frail pale young woman, an infant and a girl of about nine, all with matching straw colored hair. The woman grabs her apparent children and hustles them out of the room as the H-K “clear” it for me. They don’t give her any excuse or option, and she seems far too scared of them to question or protest. She just goes.

  “Protecteds?” I ask Murphy (who’s the only one that looks uncomfortable with the displacement).