The Nomads feel their weapons get hot. Then they feel their skin get hot through their protective layers. It’s a variation on an old military/police “non-lethal” weapon, producing a sensation of being on fire, hopefully sending the target fleeing before the skin actually sears. This time, the Nomads do start dropping their weapons and running.
A few brave souls try shooting the Devil, only to see their bullets vaporize in hellfire. Then they also decide running is the better option.
I turn to Bly, take off my helmet. With his still on, I can’t tell if he’s watching the Nomads run or brooding over what remains of his mate.
“Come with us,” I offer him.
He doesn’t move for awhile. I start to worry about Bel’s prediction that Burns will take the opportunity while he has us in his gunsights. I’m about to repeat my offer when he turns his bug-skull mask to me.
“How are you better?”
He turns and walks off. I try following. He marches about seventy-five meters with purpose, stops, and impresses me: What otherwise looked like a dune swirls and morphs into a… What? Some kind of dragon/hippogriff hybrid, body the size of a large horse, a wingspan unfolding to many times that. He hops on, gives me a last silent look, then spurs his mount to fly him away. Northwest.
My alternate memories remember tech like this: “smart hive” materials that could coalesce into pre-programmed shapes, even complex machines—complex enough to mimic living things. Consumer toys.
I look back at Melas Three, just long enough for them to get a look at my face with their sentry cams. They can decide later if I’m ally, asset or still nightmare.
“Huh…” Bel is walking up to me, back to his normal non-hellfire self, watching Bly fly off. “Why didn’t I think to pack one of those?”
“We should go,” I decide. Our flyers come on command.
“I wouldn’t want to miss the party,” Bel grins.
Poor choice of words. Though I’m sure some would agree with him.
Mohamed Aziz was supposed to be smarter than his uncle Farouk, the greedy megalomaniac he replaced after Sakina ended her former employment. Too bad what Chang dangled in front of him proved blinding in its appeal. He’s made some lethal mistakes, the last of which was sending the bulk of his army to take Melas Three, leaving his camp poorly defended. Maybe he really believed that Brimstone was unbeatable. Or that Chang would honor whatever agreement they had and fly to his rescue if he found himself in dire straits.
His next mistake was letting Brimstone show off, demonstrating her ability at aggressive demolitions, and in proximity to his camp. It drew too much attention. He was smart enough to move once he realized he had defectors, but then he had Brimstone whip up a morale boost with another pyrotechnics display. He could be zeroed from fifty klicks. He should have moved again, but he was too focused on taking the prize his uncle couldn’t. He forgot about the old blood.
And he should never have attacked a food caravan.
His men have already found his body by the time we fly over the tapsite. We knew they’d have to stop and refill on their retreat. Their leader is already there to meet them. Stripped naked. Decapitated. And emasculated just to make it clear who did the deed. They wail at the sky. Wail at us as we fly over. Fire off a few impotent rounds. Then rush to get themselves the oxygen they’ll need to run home. If they somehow forgot where they hid their camp, all they have to do is head for the smoke.
There’s no sign of Chang come flying to their rescue. (If Bly was truthful, he can’t, not yet. He’s too busy plundering his “allies” in northern Melas to rebuild his flying fortress.)
The smoke looks like it’s from shelters. I can see at least a dozen still smoldering. Aziz had his camp in an ancient arroyo; out of sight, but low ground if he found himself overrun. He was counting on his sentries for warning and force of arms to cover any retreat, push through any attempt at blockade, but he sent too many of his fighters on their doomed errand. Abbas had no problem breaking his lines, overrunning the camp.
The mission, as we discussed it, was supposed to be surgical: Eliminate Aziz for his crimes against the Food Traders, take their surplus caches of ammo and the food they stole, leave them with subsistence while they decided what course to take next: peaceful alliance or war they could no longer hope to win. Sakina herself was to take Aziz, slip in before the fight, make an example of him and leave them temporarily leaderless. (It appears she was successful). The defectors would then try to convince their fellows of the error of their ways, to go back to Allah, to consider productive peace. This is the part that doesn’t seem to have gone so well. I see the bodies to prove it, cut down resisting a superior force. And I see the bulk of Abbas’ force, already moving off, careful to disguise their course.
I can’t say I expected that Abbas would just withdraw if things got ugly. A lifetime ago, Abbas told me that interfering with the Food Trade was unforgivable, as it puts all the Melas peoples at risk. Even if it was solely Mohamed Aziz pulling that trigger, the bulk of his people stood behind him, and apparently chose to keep standing behind him when Nomad justice came for him. Or maybe it was just too many old blood debts between the groups.
I tell Bel to fly ahead, to meet me back at Abbas’ camp. He looks at me like he knows I’m about to do something stupidly noble, but lets me without argument, just a weak smile and nod.
I land in the ruin of Aziz’s camp.
I find the dead include women and children. But I also find tracks: several dozen escaped, and it looks like Abbas let them run. They took what they could, and Abbas left little else behind of value.
I’m wandering that scene when the warriors make it back from the tapsite, back from defeat to worse.
Some of them fall to their knees and wail. Others take positions on the high ground, aim their weapons at me. I let them. I turn to face them. Wait for them to shoot.
They do. First a few, then most of them. They’re good shots, a necessity when ammunition is scarce, but they waste at lot of bullets against my armor. (I wonder if this is the same “test” they gave Brimstone. If so, they should already know the result.) Then they use up some of their remaining grenades and rockets. I either weather the shockwaves and shrapnel storms or swat them away. But the fact that they can’t hurt me actually starts making me feel less for them, as if they’re nothing. Inconsequential.
Still, I let them expend some of their rage. When they finally wind down (or at least decide they need whatever they haven’t shot at me), I still stand there. Repair and absorb. I don’t bother to say anything to them, don’t make a plea for peace or reason. I just point in the direction their fellows retreated in, up the arroyo toward the South Rim. Then I turn away, climb up the rise out of their former camp, get back on my flyer and leave them to make their own decisions.
Small comfort: There is no “party”.
The return from the raid is all urgent business: tending to the wounded, mourning the dead and preparing the bodies for burial, securing and distributing what was taken. It’s all somber and professional (except for those who cry over the fallen). No celebrating.
“Your friend lost seven of his people,” Murphy reports when I find him. “Twelve more have serious wounds. I think we killed thirty of them before they fled. We brought two of their wounded back with us when they were left behind.”
I notice his use of “we”. I know he and Two Gun and Mak (because she insisted on meeting the Nomads, and Kali gave her approval) went along on the raid. His uniform is dusty under his borrowed cloaks. I see Two Gun—he also seems intact—but not Mak.
“Where’s Makenzie?” I ask him, concerned.
“Went with the Ghaddar. They seemed to get along nicely.”
Sakina isn’t back yet, but she would have had the longer route home. I wonder what Mak thought of her “signature”, and if they were still getting along.
“Any trouble with the stragglers?” Bel asks me.
“Not really,” I tell him. “Hopefully my
message was understood: Revenge would be a waste of what little they have left. Maybe healing some of their wounded will open the way for more productive relations.”
“It depends on who their next leader is,” Bel has little faith.
“Colonel Ram!” Abbas calls to me. He approaches us, his son by his side. And then does something entirely surprising: He embraces me like he used to, like a brother. I realize a large number of his people are watching intently. “Your friends from Tranquility are impressive fighters. We thank God to have had them with us today.”
Two Gun reaches into his armored jacket, removes a necklace of carved bone beads and shell casings, offers it to Abbas.
“You may trade with my people directly. This will identify your traders. Approach openly from the north. I respected those people who traded with us. You have given me a gift, to allow me to be a part of avenging them.”
Abbas grasps his forearm, then gives him a brotherly hug.
“Let this be the beginning of a long alliance between our peoples,” Abbas hopes.
I see Murphy look uncomfortable. I realize he’s in no position to make any bargains on behalf of his own people without consulting with them first. But he’s admirably taken the first steps at productive relations with other groups, an example his “Council” will hopefully follow.
Mak and Sakina make it back to camp within the hour. Mak is thoroughly dusty and winded but appears energized as she scrambles down the shield slopes to join us. She embraces Two Gun like she hasn’t seen him in a long time, and they go off together to share stories of the fight.
Sakina hangs back on the crest, watching Mak go back to her friends. Then she locks eyes with me. Gives me a nod—I’m not sure about what, exactly. Then she turns and walks away.
A small victory, perhaps.
12 May, 2117:
“I’m afraid your good deed kind of backfired, Colonel,” I get another flash file from Anton just before dawn. “UNCORT is using the video we got of the Brimstone fight to study you and the other hybrids in action. We tried to recover Brimstone’s remains, but they broke down like a Disc, left only the meat, which was pretty nasty... Some of the UNMAC bigwigs are making quite the stink about your friend, and not just that there’s one more out there like you. Probably didn’t help that he told the Nomads that he’s Satan... The fact that you saved our asses and our base is getting pretty thoroughly overlooked. They’re just not buying that you’re not the bad guy here—this from the folks who aren’t getting that they are the bad guy here, at least as far as a lot of the locals are concerned.”
He sounds hushed and rushed, and there are obvious editing pauses in his recording, like he needs to frequently re-check that he’s not being detected.
“We did take the intel on Pioneer Colony to heart and did a flyover. Almost half of the visible structures are stripped. And we saw a lot of bodies laid out, like there’d been a battle. Or a massacre. Then our flights started drawing fire... No sign of Chang’s flying base—we even risked a run up into Candor. Nada. Though we are still picking up sporadic gunfire at Industry… Going theory is Chang’s behavior has caused a split among his allies—he may have a rebellion on his hands, assuming he hasn’t just slaughtered the offenders already.”
I assume this is his way of dropping a hint, nudging me to get on the PK issue before UNMAC does something tragic, or before I miss a potential window of opportunity: coming to the rescue of an anti-Chang uprising.
“Colonel Ava’s been treated to a fresh round of grilling based on what they’ve seen you and your satanic friend do, not that she has anything to tell them... She still insists she can handle it, keeps telling the rest of us to just go about our business. She seems to be dealing, though I can’t imagine how. I can only hope something will change things… That’s it for now. Gotta go. I’ll be in touch…”
And I’m hit with a fresh wave of frustration, impotent anger, and guilt that I’ve put her in that hell.
I need to keep busy. I need to do something worth doing.
Bel, Paul and I fly out just after sunrise, not caring if we’re seen. (I’m actually almost hoping for a confrontation, just to give Burns a turn at feeling helpless.) Despite their complaints, I insist Murphy, Two Gun and Mak stay home—Bel disables their flyers to guarantee there’ll be no stubborn foolishness. They’re all eager to encounter new peoples, encouraged by their experiences with the Nomads (whether that means diplomacy or combat). Murphy even tries to pull the “ambassador” card (though he seems the least eager for another fight). So I have to remind them that the Peacekeepers liberally employ well-hidden snipers to protect their Keeps, and usually kill all trespassers on sight. Then I tell them that I hope whatever happens today changes that, and they will get their chance to go visiting.
I get a smirk from Kali as I go, a silent confrontation to my lack of faith. Bel and Paul just resign themselves to the misadventure.
We have to stop to refuel twice before we get to Industry. We pass by Melas Two unmolested—I’m thinking maybe Burns would rather we stumble in where he still fears to tread. The tensest moment on our journey is as we pass in visual range of Blue Station, Paul’s home. He tells me he isn’t even hearing transmissions from his people anymore. I wonder what his father thinks, seeing him with us. I wonder what his father is thinking in general.
We don’t linger.
I can’t immediately hear gunfire as we approach the colony, coming up over the ancient slide plateaus. The colony itself looks no different than the last times I was here: It still appears completely ruined and uninhabited. Smashed and holed Hab domes, the buried and crushed Fabs. But I can see the heat of life, buried deep under the ruin, and the faint glow of a few armored sentries in the wreckage and surrounding slide slopes (though not as many as I’d expect, based on those previous visits).
I try to remember the GPR images we took of the underground “burrows”, an anthill maze of tunnels and caves dug under the ruin, built to defy worst-case invasion or even bombardment. I expect we’d find a way in, heavily guarded, somewhere inside the unoccupied surface structures. But even getting to them will mean walking through fire.
Fine.
I lead Bel and Paul down to land in a short walk of what was “Dome One” in the southwest corner of the colony complex, the most open approach. Then we send our rides away on remote to prevent local temptation.
And we promptly do get shot at.
Demonstrating a good sense of priority, they aim for me first. Demonstrating that they have a sense of what they’re dealing with, I get shot at by three separate snipers almost simultaneously. I manage to duck two out of three, but get seriously grazed by the third, the round smacking the left horn of my stupid helmet hard enough to wrench it sideways so I can’t see for a second until I shake it back on straight. They didn’t hold back, hitting me with something that could have taken down a UNMAC ASV—I get flashed damage reports as my helmet starts to heal itself. At least I manage to keep standing despite seriously getting my bell rung, and try to shrug it off as gracefully as possible (even though I have to re-locate my cervical spine).
Bel and Paul don’t bother with the toughness demos and simply vaporize the rounds meant for them. Our welcoming party hesitates. I can hear Link chatter, calling for orders. Then I hear a call go out: A situation report, and a request for urgent assistance. I expect that means Chang. I don’t hear a reply. Still, I decide to hack in and disable their communications, just to put them further on edge.
My jamming them triggers something unexpected. I can hear gunfire and explosions from somewhere deep beneath our feet. Sporadic. Like a skirmish. Or a siege.
“Where is that coming from?” Paul hears it too. Bel looks like he’s trying to see through the ground. At least what’s going on down there—or our bizarre behavior as we’re suddenly more interested in the rocks than the colony—has stopped them shooting at us.
Bel wanders off roughly west, then northwest, then…
“Here,�
�� he points to a patch of ground. Then another, further off. “Over there, too. And there.”
I’m locking it, too: Multiple points, spread over dozens of meters.
“If I had a better sense of where the caves were, I could get us down,” Paul offers. I think for a moment, then restore their communications. I hear frantic chatter on separate channels. Apparently I did more than kill their Links—I triggered a firefight.
“Got it,” Paul confirms. He pulls out a fresh Sphere, links arms with us, pulls us in close, and we sink.
I’ve taken this ride before. It’s easier this time, mostly thanks to my armor, but I can feel it vibrate as Paul bends the molecular bonds of the rock, and my ears are filled with what sounds like a hailstorm of static. It goes on for an uncomfortably long time—I’m thankful I have no urgent need to breathe, and no inherent claustrophobia—and then we’re falling. Not far. We come through a tunnel roof into a space that’s barely big enough to stand up in. And we get shot. Again. From both sides.
He brought us down between opposing factions.
Paul staggers, having been hit in the right kidney before he could get his fields re-adjusted. Having seen him shot before, I know about how much time he’ll need to recover.
“Pick a direction,” I tell Bel. He nods, charges his armor, and turns down the dimly lit tunnel one way. I go the other, hardening and expanding my plates. I walk into gunfire, the uneven strobe of flashes lighting the tunnel far better than the meager fixtures embedded into the cut rock every four or five meters. Down my end of the tunnel I count a dozen PK with UNMAC-issue ICWs wasting ammo into me, trying to hold a barricade of crates, bulkhead plates and old construction girders at some sort of junction. More come up to reinforce them, called up or drawn by the shooting. I realize they’re not all PK—some are civilians, dressed in old colony gear and work suits. All of them look like they’ve had a rough time: dirty, bloodied, some wounded but still fighting. Under the bite of gunsmoke I smell the stink of humans in tight conditions: sour sweat, urine, shit, garbage…
The God Mars Book Three: The Devil You Are Page 22