The God Mars Book Three: The Devil You Are

by Michael Rizzo

  “And there’s no chance this technology is contemporary?” I try to give him a more rational explanation.

  “We have been extrapolating possibilities since our first encounter with Chang,” Green denies heavily. “The technology we’ve seen is beyond what could be developed from any of the research extant at the time of the Apocalypse. And we’ve monitored nothing incoming from Earth since then that even remotely indicates that level of advancement. The only other explanation is that Chang—or someone behind Chang—developed the technology in isolation here on this planet, but that seems extremely unlikely.”

  “Less likely than time travel?” I have to criticize, however confident of their investigation they seem. “Especially time-travel that violates the Temporal Paradox?”

  “We have also accounted for the human elements, Colonel,” Council Red interjects. “You have now heard the same tale of an erased future from multiple supposed witnesses, including the ‘memories’ you’ve been given. You had speculated yourself that Chang was only using the story to convince others of the righteousness of his mission. Perhaps your memories have been falsified to support his claim. But why bother? The people of Earth have long demonstrated even greater fervor in their fear of an imagined future disaster, without ever needing to claim it’s a certainty. In other terms, manufacturing this motive seems… unnecessary, even if his intent is to use it to mask his own origins and hidden supports. He would have no reason to make such claims, or go to the suspected lengths to make you believe those claims, if they were simple deception.”

  So the proof is that Chang has no good reason to lie. And I have no good reason not to believe my second set of memories. If only because it makes an impractical strategy.

  My headache is back. But I also start to feel sick, flushed. Part of me has been hanging on to the reality I knew—now the ETE themselves are chipping away at it.

  “One day, we may discover a more comforting explanation,” Council Gold hopes without faith. “Until then, we are faced with something devastating beyond imagining.”

  I realize I haven’t told them there’s likely several more like me and Chang that squeaked through during this impossible jump. But I don’t think that’s what has them so disturbed.

  I get more silent faceless brooding. Paul shifts uncomfortably behind me. I remember: He’d presented the whole time-travel theory of the Discs to me himself. Now I’m here offering him proof of something he really didn’t want to believe.

  Then I get something unexpected. Mark Stilson’s avatar steps up to me and takes off his helmet, shows me his face. I’ve never seen him so disturbed.

  “Can you even imagine the implication we’re all facing, Colonel? The technology and resources required to do this aside… What it means for an event of reverse-causality to actually succeed in changing the chain of causation? Time is fundamentally a measure of change in matter. Linear change, at least as far as we can perceive. And that means the event we’re speaking of has instantly unraveled everything between its arrival and its source on a sub-atomic level. This isn’t a cheap science fiction plot device—this is real. Dismissing any unproven fantasy theories of multiple parallel dimensions, alternate timelines somehow existing together… Physical reality itself has been undone. The scale of it is unimaginable, even if it was contained to Mars and Earth, only affected two insignificant planets in the universe... that’s still two planets, unraveled and re-woven. Decades of cause-and-effect… the scale… the amount of sheer energy required to re-structure every single atomic… to…”

  I watch his eyes as his words trail off. He’s gone from protest to… realization?

  He freezes like there’s a glitch in his projection, but his eyes move. Scan. Put something together.

  When he comes back, he’s gone stoic again. I’m getting a steely stare. Like I’ve suddenly become his enemy.

  “You will leave here immediately,” he orders.

  “What…?” I get taken by surprise. His fellows look equally stunned. I try another hack—he doesn’t seem to be communicating with anyone else. Whatever he’s thinking, he doesn’t dare share it, at least not where I might hear.

  “You will leave our facilities and never return,” he repeats, sounding like I’ve done something unforgivable.

  Paul gives me a stunned look. But his fellows follow their leader, point their tools at me, parting to give me passage to the big hatch that’s already opening. When I look back, the Council avatars are gone.

  Paul gives in, jerks his head for the exit. But he follows me out not like an escort, but like a companion.

  “What was that?” I whisper to him as I hurry toward the lifts, weapons pointed at my back.

  “Really no idea,” he sounds shaken up. “I’ll see what I can find out.”

  “And Tranquility?” I consider my most pressing priority as he steps into the lift with me.

  “I’ll petition a Guardian operation, see what I can do about the supplies you requested.”

  “I appreciate it. Whoever I am.”

  That gives him an uncomfortable chuckle. Then gets quickly serious as we rise.

  “You’d always been good at warning us about what we need to be afraid of,” he allows me. “Now it’s upon us. You were right.”

  “No, Paul,” I grimly correct him. “This is worse.”

  A long silent march around the Generator cores, another short lift ride, a set of heavy airlocks, and I’m back out in the Cold Thin. And get another surprise:

  My ride has changed color: Turned from a patchwork of metal and Zodangan markings to uniform black. The seams we cobbled in the dark look cleaner. For Paul’s sake, I try not to look freaked out by the implication: I can manipulate technology—at least metal and plastic and carbon weave—even when I’m not present. Or intending to. (Unless this is a Bel surprise.)

  “I’ll be in touch,” Paul assures me as I get back in my harness and spin up my thrusters.

  “Thank you.”

  One more unexpected gesture as I lift off: The Red and Green Guardians take off their helmets, let me see their faces. Jaden Fox and Rhiannon Dodds. I trained them. Fought alongside them. I give them a nod of recognition, spread my wings and kick in my mains.

  Fly away.

  Chapter 9: Revenant

  5 April, 2017:

  Three days have passed. The relative good news is there’s been no attempt at mass-murder by the Domers, no activity at all. Nor has there been any sign of Chang or UNMAC.

  The bad news: No contact from Paul.

  I wander the Cast’s world like a phantom as they go about their lives. They seem to have thoroughly adopted Murphy as one of their own, and he’s started to go native, forgoing his military grooming and decorating his battered uniform with “gifts” from the Cast: bead jewelry, a pair of knives, a handmade armor plate to cover his damaged shoulder, a cowl and a scarf.

  They also seem to have accepted Bel, fascinated by his ability to work with metal and technology as he repairs their gear when he’s not tinkering with the salvaged Kites. (He still denies responsibility for the ongoing morphing of my personal flyer, though it does seem to amuse him. The nose has become almost beak-like as the hull has streamlined, and there are patterns that look very much like large feathers on the wings.)

  Bel and I share Fera’s shelter like old friends, spending our down-time merrily arguing morality, history and the nature of mankind (both post and pre mod). Murphy has found his own space somewhere. It’s not because he’s disturbed by us—I feel like I’ve disappointed him.

  He makes it a point to let Gardener’s cameras see him every day, proving something or daring them. (Or maybe he just hopes his family will see that he’s still alive.) He gets no response.

  I’ve already stopped visiting Fera’s grave.

  I get woken up in the middle of the night by a blast of cold and sudden depressurization. I expect this is just Bel, out working on his projects, but

  “I can’t believe you buried me. In sh
it.”

  Female voice. I know it and I don’t, my dual memories teasing me.

  “In. Shit.”

  There’s a slim figure in the hatchway, wasp-wasted, a thick mop of almost shoulder length hair. Her forearms bristle with saw-like blades.

  My armor instinctively begins to form around me as I sit up, try to see in the dark.

  “Fera?”

  “No,” she corrects me. “Yes.” She gestures with a clawed hand, and one of the lanterns responds. “I haven’t figured it out yet.”

  It is and isn’t Fera.

  Similar red hair, similar girlish face. Body sheathed in what looks like red leather. Shining fantasy armor on her shins, forearms, shoulders and collar. Her forearms sprout rows of flame-like blades (the right hook forward, the left backward). Her black-gloved fingers are tipped with steel claws. Her collar and belt are decorated with skulls. Her irises glimmer silver.

  In the light, she holds up her bladed forearms, appraises them.

  “This was her idea, her fantasy… I think I like it…”

  I get to my feet but don’t approach her. She’s still being fascinated by what she’s wearing, like it’s the first time she’s gotten a good look at it.

  “Kali,” the name comes to me unbidden. She locks my eyes, glares at me wildly, grins like a predator.

  “Hi, honey. I’m home.”

  “Ohhh…” Bel is in the hatchway behind her. She whirls on him, her claws ready. “This is awkward.”

  “You…” she hisses at him. “You piece of shit…” Advances. He holds up his hands, backs up.

  “I’m on your side!” he tries to call her off. “Inside man! Or at least I was until I blew it. Still: I’m the only reason you all knew when Chang was going.”

  “He’s telling the truth,” I defend him. She turns back on me.

  “You’re kidding,” she doesn’t believe, apparently having no faith in him whatsoever.

  “I just watched him blow a tactical nuke in Chang’s face.”

  She raises her eyebrows, looks like she doesn’t know whether to doubt or be impressed. But what strikes me is this really isn’t Fera. She’s sharper, older, angrier.

  “I really should let you two be alone…” Bel tries to exit.

  “You really should explain what’s happened here,” I insist.

  “What’s happened is you buried me in shit,” she returns. “I suppose I should be grateful for the rich regen media. And that your meat friends didn’t chop me up first. But still: Shit. And rotting corpse meat.”

  But she looks (and smells) clean. Which means she absorbed it all. Resources. I don’t point that out. Bel, however, is chewing his lip, looking like he’s trying not to comment. But then he blows it:

  “So this is the wife?”

  “Twice, apparently,” she growls. “If you count the horny little wild thing I’m sharing a brain with.”

  “Fera?” I try again, hopeful.

  “Sort of,” she allows, but she sounds stressed even by the reminder. “Failsafe. I didn’t over-write her. So now I get to remember this whole other life.”

  “You started conversion while the girl was still alive,” Bel assumes.

  “I seem to remember some really hot fucking,” she says without shame, looking at me almost hungrily. “Like us in the good old days.”

  “You were carrying her seed?” Bel confronts me.

  I hesitate. Shake my head. I have no idea…

  “How do you not know that?” she almost spits at me.

  “Brain damage,” Bel excuses for me. “Something went wrong during his regen. He doesn’t remember Yod at all.”

  She starts to shake her sharp finger at me like I’ve failed in some unforgivable way, then seems to remember something. Laughs.

  “Time crunch,” she explains to Bel like I’m not here. “He didn’t agree until the last minute. We had to use a backup. It wasn’t updated.”

  That seems to make perfect sense to Bel. He actually looks relieved. I’m not sure if I should be or not.

  “Why didn’t I know you were working for us?” she grills him.

  “None of you did,” he tells her. “Yod wanted to make sure nothing about us got shared.”

  “’Us’?” she picks out.

  “Ummm…” Bel regrets.

  “I’m not allowed to know that?” she growls at him. “Even now? I may have just woken up five minutes ago, but just from what’s in Wild Girl’s shit-life memories, I know we’re beyond fucked. Chang won. Everything is gone. And what the fuck did you fail to do to stop him when you had the chance?”

  Bel looks frozen, locked up, probably second-guessing everything he did or could have done. I realize I don’t even know what his orders were. Or his situation. I don’t know if he could have done more, but it’s clear: he’s been carrying the guilt of doubt. And Kali isn’t in an understanding mood. (I seem to remember she rarely was.)

  “It’s that Company whore, isn’t it?” she assumes. “Astarte. Whose idea was it to trust that skank? She lies like she breathes.” She turns back on me. “And don’t you fucking defend her. You were just banging her because you were on the rebound from your bad breakup with Tess Trueheart, and she was happy to use you to save her own ass.”

  “Yod sent her,” Bel tries, his voice sounding unusually small.

  “Yod!” she rages at neither of us in particular. “Yod is gone! Gone with everything else! Including the real me! And you! None of us ever even existed now!”

  She’s losing control. Her claws extend and she lashes out, gouges the metal bulkhead. Again. Screaming like she’s in agony. She puts a hand through the small table, spins and aims for the nearest of Fera’s costume displays. Stops with her claws just inches from the shrine. I see her whole body shake. She lets out a keening cry through clenched teeth. Puts her hands over her face. Her claws dig into her own forehead, draw blood. But the cuts heal almost instantly. Still, it leaves her face painted crimson when she finally drops her hands.

  “Remember the old joke? I think you told it to me…” She’s sobbing. “How does a Buddhist order a hot dog? He says ‘Make me one with everything.’” She staggers back into the bulkhead by the hatchway, slides down to sit on the floor. Bangs her head back against the steel. Tears are streaming down her cheeks, trying to wash away some of the blood. “Yod was going to make me one with everything… I was finally going to be free…”

  Her life spins in my other memories:

  Calliope Tostig. Callie. She was a badass operator when I met her: direct and brutal and always in control. I got that she had a crush—she was an aggressive flirt, not at all shy about her sexuality. But she was too young for me—I think we both got that.

  Then, a few years down the road, I stopped being an old man. Found her again. (After Lisa was done with me the second time, and Star was off again doing whatever she did to never sit still.) I brought her into the project. Made her even more weapon than she had been. And for awhile, we were inseparable.

  She chose the codename Kali, just a different pronunciation of her name, female aspect of the destroyer, Shiva. His consort. It seemed appropriate. After all, I was the Ragnarok, the Destroyer of Gods, doom of the established power and bringer of a new order.

  But then there were no more wars to fight—only the destructive games of men-turned-gods. She got bored. Bored with me. Bored with life. Bored with sex. She started playing with extremes, dropped all the limits and taboos she had when she was mortal. I caught her indulging in “Live Guro”, getting off on torture and mutilation (and those willing to be tortured and mutilated for their own sexual gratification were surprisingly common), drenching herself in blood and gore. She wanted me to join her, hoped I would share her new tastes. She called me every vile name in her arsenal when I walked away.

  Now she’s here, in this timeline. And partly Fera, at least her memories. But I don’t think that’s what’s got her broken in a sobbing heap on the floor. I realize I’ve never seen her like this. I wo
nder what Yod showed her, promised her. (I wonder what he showed me.)

  “How did this happen?” I ask Bel, needing to know enough to dare breaking the moment with practical urgency. He shrugs. But he knows:

  “You must have been carrying seeds. Contingencies in case more of us were needed. I’m carrying two myself. All you need is a compatible host, or viable DNA to complete the sequence and a pile of raw materials, or both. Better if you can score an actual DNA match, like Astarte did with you—find the version of the seed-model in this timeline. Or someone close.”

  “Sounds like something you would need to do intentionally,” I criticize.

  “Yes. But there are contingencies if you get yourself in bad trouble. There’s also the possibility that you did it unconsciously.”

  “And how would I have planted one of these seeds?” I look at Kali, remember Fera, assuming…

  “It could be any prolonged intimate contact,” he confirms. “With you or whatever object sustains the seeds.”

  “Is there any way to tell if I’m carrying more?” I really need to know.

  He shrugs again. Steps up to me. Very close. Hesitates, like he’s waiting for my approval. Then asks when I don’t get it:

  “May I? Don’t take this the wrong way…”

  I’m still not getting it when he leans in and kisses me, his gloved hands holding my face, holding us like that for a few seconds while I endure awkwardly. Then he breaks.

  “…or take it any way you like.”

  He chews his lip, almost like he’s tasting me. Mulls it. Raises his eyebrows.

  “You have one left.”

  The news hits me like a shock.

  “No way to tell who,” he answers my next question. “I wasn’t there when you were loaded. But it looks like you were carrying two, just like I am.” He looks down at Kali. She throws her head back into the wall again, eyes closed. Her mouth curls into something between growl and grin as she seems to remember something. And that something is either amusing or hurting her or both. (I realize she has fangs.)