The God Mars Book Three: The Devil You Are

by Michael Rizzo

  I reach out for Fera, take one of her carved bone hair-beads between my fingers (she seems to appreciate my willingness to touch her—she almost purrs).

  “Makes good jewelry, too,” Two Gun admits.

  Murphy does look surprised by what he’s seeing and hearing. I expect this may be the most words the Cast have exchanged with the H-K in generations.

  “We eat what grows for us,” Fera tells me with unexpected gentleness. She goes to the cooking stove, lifts the lid on a large battered pot. I smell herbs, something hearty. She gets out a small metal bowl. Ladles it full. Gives it to me. It’s a kind of lentil or bean stew with vegetables. It’s simple, but tasty. She seems overjoyed that I appreciate it—I start seeing her as a young girl (and a young girl in love, or at least seriously crushing).

  “Why are you here, Pretty-Pretty?” Two Gun gets to it.

  “You’ve seen the UNMAC—the Unmakers. You fought with a Heavy Armor team several months ago, killed two.”

  “The Domers took the bodies,” Fera grumbles at Murphy. “Everything.”

  “Nice guns and armor,” Mak catalogues the loss. “Breathing gear. Boots.”

  “Ammo,” Two Gun lists. “Grenades.”

  “There’s a lot more coming. You’ve seen the aircraft. Earth is back. And they still think this place may be contaminated, no matter how much we’ve tried to convince them it isn’t. They want to relocate you by force until they’re sure it’s safe. They’re scared enough to crush whatever resistance you put up. I’m talking missiles, aircraft turrets, bombs. They’ll hit hard from out of your reach once they realize how dangerous you are.”

  “Domers too?” Two Gun wants to know, looking at Murphy.

  “Domers too. Everyone. But that’s not even half your problem. Have you seen strange storms? Or something really big in the sky, even a shadow in the dust blows?”

  They look at each other—they have seen something.

  “That would be Syan Chang. He’s got a flying fortress with a railgun—a giant cannon that hits like a meteor strike. One shot could blow apart the domes. He’s building an army, so he needs conscripts, and especially food. And materials. He’ll strip this place, kill you all if you resist.”

  “Does he fight the Unmakers?” Mak asks, trying for hope.

  “He does. And the ETE. Anyone who could potentially use nanotech or biotech. He sent the Discs, caused the Apocalypse. But if you’re thinking about joining him, he’s already stripped two colonies, killed whoever he had no use for, and he sacrifices his soldiers without a care. Oh, and I don’t think he can be killed. I’ve watched him get blasted to dust and come back.”

  “You give us no choices,” Two Gun confronts, fingering his guns.

  “I’m here to help. And there are others. Even the ETE have become warriors in this fight.”

  This makes him chuckle again.

  “I know: They’re assholes,” I give him. “Self-righteous and insufferable. But they’ve chosen to fight. And they can help you in other ways—they’re willing now. They can seal this dome so you don’t need masks and shelters, increase your resources.”

  “Domers too?” Two Gun repeats, this time with even more contempt.

  “I’m afraid this is a package deal. You won’t get help—and I’m hoping to get UNMAC to help instead of uproot you—unless you manage some kind of peace between you.”

  “You’ve told this to the Domers?” Two Gun asks after a brooding pause. I nod. “Explains why you’re out here and on the run.”

  “They liked the terms exactly as well as you do,” I allow him. “But that’s why this man came with me—some of them know you’ll live or die together.”

  “Some of us are willing to let you all die,” Murphy makes a daring admission, “even burn the gardens, hoping our enemies will be convinced nothing is left here.”

  “They’ll die, too,” I add before they decide how much “fun” Murphy might be. “They can’t sustain themselves much longer. Burning the gardens will just doom them sooner.”

  “And if the Unmakers drive us out, or this Chang strips it all for himself, we will be just as done,” Two Gun reasons.

  “I can deal with the Unmakers,” I try to reassure him. “And with a little help, Chang too. That’s why I’m here.”

  “And you expect us to become Domers again?” Mak criticizes. (And I think I see doubt in Fera’s eyes about this crush of hers.) “You expect them to let us?”

  “I don’t care if you maintain separate societies,” I tell them outright. “But I won’t condone needless brutality and slaughter. From either of you.”

  “We defend our homes, our food,” Two Gun throws back at me. “And our home is the home we made when we got thrown out of our home into the Cold Thin. By Hunter-Killers like him. Did you know: they shoot down anyone who resists or stands up to them? Then if the ones they kill had children that can’t be taken care of, they kill them, too. Babies. Or they throw them outside.”

  Murphy won’t look at me right now.

  “And you don’t torture and kill those tossed your way?” I confront.

  Fera glares daggers at me like I’ve struck her, but then turns her venom on Murphy, accusing.

  “We hurt the Siders and Hunters and Domers so they scream,” Two Gun defends, his rage also rising, enough that his voice gets shaky. “Screams travel. Screams make stories. Stories last after the screams. The Siders need to know to stay away. The Hunters need to know not to try us. The Domers need to know we don’t want their trash.”

  “Is that what the evicted are to you?” I need to know.

  “Wastes of skin, most. Less than babies—babies grow and learn. Some are worth feeding and airing—they take their place, do their part. Some do better here than in their domes. They learn life and death, learn to be Cast.”

  “But the Domers see what we do, and they still send more,” Mak adds in, putting a gentle hand on Two Gun’s shoulder. “Not strong ones who can make it. They give us what they think is their trash. They should just kill them if they don’t want them.”

  I’m seeing fifty years of violence and desperation and deep-seated hatred. But I’m not seeing monsters.

  “Since my grandfather’s day, they throw us to the Cold Thin,” Two Gun distills their ugly history. “To live? No. They want us to die. They just don’t want to do it themselves. Cowards.” He’s looking at Murphy again. “And when we don’t die, when we try to live, they send their Killers—the ones that like killing—out to cut us down. Things like him. They don’t come to fight. They shoot and run away. Take their trophies. Take the easiest. Children. Mothers with their babies. They shoot us in the back. Then they cut off our noses as proof. We find our brothers and sisters and lovers and babies with their faces cut away. Sometimes they’re still alive.”

  Now I’m looking at Murphy. He turns away, faces the wall. I remember how high his scores were. I didn’t inventory how he earned his standing, how many Cast he’s killed, or how many of his own people he executed for resisting.

  But I felt his doubt, his humanity. That’s why I sought him, why I’m protecting him. And now he’s facing his enemies as people.

  Fera is… crying. She takes me by the hands, pulls me toward one of the hatches.

  “Come. Come.”

  I look back to Murphy, who starts to follow.

  “Not him,” Fera insists.

  “Go. He has my protection,” Two Gun reassures poorly. “No one harms him if he doesn’t try first.”

  Murphy nods to let me know he’s as fine as he can be with my leaving him in the care of blood enemies.

  I have one power that is not an installed mod. I’ve always had it.

  For some unexplainable reason, people talk to me, open up. Trust me, even though we barely know each other—sometimes complete strangers. Sometimes whether I want them to or not. I really have no idea why.

  Before I started on the path of the soldier, before I got dragged by pain and rage into the Terror War all those y
ears ago (almost a century now, counting the fifty years I was asleep), I even trained to be a therapist, a social worker. It seemed like the thing to do (at least until killing seemed like a more appropriate thing to do). Even as a warrior, it helped me build trust in my teams, bring out the potential in my fellows, earn the loyalty of my warfighters. And it helped me broker peace with my enemies, play diplomat (even when that wasn’t my mission).

  It earned me the nickname “Peacemaker”. It helped me prevent slaughter in the Eco Conflict, then helped me earn allies in this mad world we woke up to.

  I’m thinking about that as Fera leads me on a tour of her secret world.

  She shows me their gardens, their rich a varied bounty, all carefully tended. Then down into the bowels of the structure, to the ingenious handmade machinery her ancestors rigged to process their waste into fertilizer, recycle their water, concentrate air for their breathers, even use solar power to split water into oxygen and hydrogen fuel to supplement what they leach from the ETE feed lines. (These machines still run today with skilled maintenance—probably more efficiently than the sealed domes’ systems. This seems proof that some of the colony’s best and brightest did Cast themselves in the beginning, maybe confident that they could ensure the survival of those that came after them.)

  Then she takes me to a nursery where a dozen newborns and infants are being cared for, protected behind multiple heavy blast doors. And something very much like a preschool, with twenty young boys and girls learning language, basic math and reading, how to use tools, mend clothing. On one concrete wall are several hundred small hand prints around big letters spelling out “IT TAKES A VILLAGE”.

  Then she takes me out to a grove deep in the green where young people spar with blunt weapons, and learn to use live ones. This seems to amuse her the most, but she doesn’t linger here. She shows me what look very much like master-apprentice teams working on everything from welding to gear repair to gardening and food preparation to system maintenance. The Cast have a complete society.

  I notice they move everywhere covertly—staying under cover when not inside the existing recovered facilities, avoiding the Domers’ cameras, always alert for intrusion (and always hyperactively moving, likely to discourage “cowardly” snipers).

  It’s getting cold and dark out in the green when she finally takes me “home”.

  It’s a climb: Fera has her space up high in the terraces, away from the denser housing sections, where she has a view over the dome garden. (Is it for the view, or to keep watch?) Behind a hatch that looks battered and neglected (but opens smoothly and silently on well-oiled hinges and lock work) is a small plain room with a bedroll on a worn bunk pad, a lantern, a heater, water cans, a compressor and an old shelter-sized cooktop. She seals us in, turns on the one light and cycles up the pressure so she can ditch her mask, habitually connecting her canisters to the compressor for refilling. She shakes out her cloaks, then adds them to her bedding.

  She’s a slight girl, slim, maybe five feet and a few inches tall. She initially goes about her routine as if I’m not here, and I take the time to look around.

  There’s a small table, a desk, and a combined shower/sink/toilet unit like the one in Two Gun’s place. And a selection of outfits hung up on one wall—various mixes of colony gear and hand-made—not all her size, more like a gallery of keepsakes, displayed complete with jewelry and gear, tools, weapons, footwear. Under one displayed cloak I find a repeatedly-patched H-K uniform.

  I count eight different displays, like a private museum. On a strip of wall is scratched a roster of names, all with the last name Hammond. A family tree. The last name is “Feralle Carson Hammond”.

  I realize she’s watching me intently, gauging my reactions. She goes to the desk, opens a drawer and pulls out an old plastic case I recognize as a pistol case. She sets it on the desktop, pops it open, steps back.

  It’s an H-K revolver, still in pristine condition. I’ve only had the opportunity to examine one other like it: Abbas’ personal sidearm, a prize supposedly obtained at great price from the Food Traders.

  “May I?” I ask before picking it up. She nods.

  It’s a fine weapon, beautifully balanced: A stainless .357 revolver with a heavy barrel and well-aged wood grips, re-chambered to accept standard military 9mm self-oxidizing rounds.

  “No bullets,” she almost apologizes when I open it to check. The action is still butter-smooth.

  “My great-grandfather’s,” she confirms as I put it away. I turn to face her, and she steps in to me, springs up on her toes and gives me a nervous kiss. Pulls away when I hesitate.

  “I’m not pretty,” she concludes quickly, backing away, looking like she might cry.

  “You are very pretty. And more than that. But I’m probably three times your age.”

  She shakes her head, steps back into me, puts her hands on my chest armor.

  “Cast live day-by-day,” she tells me intently. “Only today matters. Not numbers. Domers live by numbers. Die by numbers, too.”

  I look into her green eyes. Up close, I see the fine lines of age—she isn’t a child (she just has some residual baby-fat in her face). And her big eyes are deceptively innocent. She pushes her body against mine, grinds her pelvis against me, moves up to kiss me again but waits for me to respond.

  Murphy’s warning repeats in my head, but I kiss her anyway, taking her by the shoulders, then sliding my hands down around her waist as she grinds. Her arms go around my neck, and she fumbles her bladed arm guards off, sending metal and leather clattering to the floor behind me. Then she throws her legs up around me again.

  My other set of memories is reminding me: a “side effect” of my core mods is increased—extremely increased—libido. I’m not sure if another is reduced impulse control. Or maybe I’m just tired of death. Tired of being treated like a monstrous freak.

  I can smell her. It’s intoxicating. Maddening. I know this is the last thing I should be doing, but she’s kissing me like she’s trying to consume me, moaning and riding me like we’re already…

  I carry her backwards to her bedroll, lay her down on her back. My armor shows me another convenient feature and quickly begins to fall off around us. She’s grinning and growling like an animal as she peels out of her own suit, grabs me by the hair and pulls me down and this is the last thing I should be doing but I don’t care…

  Chapter 7: Death From Above

  In the late morning, my “wife” prepares a simply breakfast of tea, flat bread and hummus, running out quickly (wearing not a lot more than her mask) for fresh-picked fruits to add to the tray she brings to our bed. We’ve barely finished eating when she starts to initiate yet another round of play. But then a series of wailing cries echoes outside. It gets her attention, but not necessarily as an alarm. She jumps up and dresses quickly, including armor and weapons.

  “Come! Quick!” she urges as I’m reassembling myself (and pleased to discover I still smell like her).

  “Trouble?” I want to know, but she won’t say, just grabs her mask and pops the hatch.

  She leads me on a merry (and it does seem merry) chase down toward the floor of the dome, down toward the main entrance, the bone path and the skull hill. I hear the sounds of cheering, rising and falling, and I think I know what I’m running into even before I clear the green to see.

  I left Murphy. All night. In the care of blood enemies.

  In a circle of Cast at the base of the skull hill, he’s having it out with Two Gun. The two of them are doing an impressive job beating the hell out of each other. Both are quick, skilled, brutal, smart fighters. They strike and kick and grapple and throw each other around, blocking and countering, equally matched. They use a combination of familiar techniques and instinctive freestyle. Murphy’s managed to receive a bloody nose inside his mask, but that seems to be the extent of the damage they’ve done each other. It isn’t until I’m close enough to intervene that I realize I don’t feel or hear the sounds of honest rage or d
esperation between them. They both seem to be… having fun?

  Fera has a hold of my arm, stopping me, gesturing for me to keep quiet. I look across the circle, see Mak, holding both of their gun belts.

  The throng cheers when Two Gun lands another solid hit, and they both wind up on the ground hard. Then just as quickly, they break from each other, drag up, circle, get their breath. Lunge…

  “He’s a good fighter,” Fera assesses as we watch.

  Two Gun manages to get the better of Murphy, taking him down, trying to choke him out with his legs, but Murphy’s wiry, starts to get out of the hold, reverse it…

  The cheering gets silenced by a new cry, and Mak holds up a hand. This gets Two Gun to disengage, let Murphy go, gesturing him to stop, be quiet.

  “Hunter Killer,” Fera tells me, pulling me for the green. Everyone scurries away like animals into the brush. I watch their heat shapes move, fan out, hold. Then new shapes glow live among them—I realize these are their heater-generated decoys.

  Mak tosses Two Gun and Murphy their weapons as she runs. I follow them as they scramble for cover, hunker, wait.

  “Your pet has skills,” Two Gun whispers to me, out of breath. Mak signals for him to be quiet.

  I hear something unexpected: short bursts of full-auto fire that sounds like a UNMAC ICW. Then a grenade blows somewhere in the green. But I didn’t hear ASVs. Nor do I pick up any Link chatter.

  There’s a crunching of heavy boots coming up the back side of the skull hill. I realize the area is probably in view of Gardener’s cameras—the H-K were probably watching the “play” fight between Murphy and Two Gun, trying to make sense of it (maybe even thinking he might be getting initiated into the Cast community).

  A red H-A suit crests the hilltop, plants, scans. Takes another potshot into the green.

  “Murphy-7!!” Palmer’ s voice buzzes out of the armor. “I’m here to rescue you!”

  He doesn’t sound remotely sincere.