More disturbing: She’d detected more than one DNA sequence in his coding. It wasn’t an overwriting of a host—it was in his seed core. Somehow he’s made of more than one person.
But as far as Kali was concerned, being able to turn herself a shocking blue was just an amusing bonus, and a fitting tribute to the depictions of the goddess she’s named after. (She could be any color at will, and demonstrated several options in turn, including optical reactive camo, blending perfectly with the background.) She even showed me a new demon mask—patterned after classical Hindu art—that she’d made to wear into future battles (as if she was looking forward to it). And—her words—the blue showed off her body much better than the ginger-pale (no matter how fond I’d been of her freckles). Then she demonstrated by showing me all of her (almost all of her—she left on the flame-bladed arm guards and the boots with the knee-high greaves), eager to get me back on topic.
Needless to say, I had more urgent matters on my mind, and when she failed to distract me, she stormed off (still mostly naked) in the direction of our spaceport “base”, sure that Lux would happily “grow one” for her.
After I’d not really satisfied myself with my tour of the blast site, I had to head back north to refuel so I could make the funeral. I passed within distant view of Blue Station, which made me think of Paul. And Simon, his brother, blown to bits by a self-destructing Disc; his remains painstakingly gathered, taken home, allowed to regenerate into a full body, only to be left in stasis because the mind is a blank slate, infantile innocence, the Simon they knew erased.
I have pangs of regret for telling Paul what Asmodeus told me about how he was re-created despite having been dead for decades. I admit I was planting an idea, offering him an option: If his people could analyze what they scanned of my tech, reverse-engineer my memory restoration mods, they could possibly recreate Simon, or a close approximation. Assuming we are just neural-wired personality and experience, backstory…
He would be a copy, of course (and I expect he would have to deal with knowing that, just like my time-flung fellows and—to a lesser extent—myself). But Paul and his father would have an option, rather than perpetually store a sleeping cipher.
I took one more detour, made one more visit on my way to my old base.
Abbas has had to move his encampment closer to the feedlines, which also takes him north away from the hot zone, but puts him in more vulnerable ground. He no longer has to worry about the Zodanga, but he’s closer to Melas Two, under the UNMAC patrol routes to Industry and Pioneer. Richards has generously and gratefully offered him—and Hassim—fresh pressure gear, portable atmosphere processors and shelters to help weather the Net failure, but the gesture was declined—there’s too much fear Unmaker gifts will be traceable from orbit.
“Hassim has chosen to hold his lands, though he’s moved even further west and north, toward the Station of the Purple Jinn, which puts him out beyond Keeper territory,” Abbas told me. “Hopefully far enough from the Unmakers.”
The look on his face—and the faces of his people—made me ask the next questions:
“And what will you do? Will you stay here?”
“I think I once told you we would never leave our desert…” he began sadly. “The bulk of our people will hold camp here. The rest… I will be leading a pilgrimage to the east, into Coprates, to search for better lands. We will continue to maintain the old Food Trade routes to Tranquility as long as we can, but because of the radiation and the air loss… We must think of our children.”
I remind him of the evidence we’ve found of other peoples already entrenched in the region, the war stories told by the Cast and Domers. He doesn’t once ask me for help, for protection. He appears to have confidence in his fighters. And Sakina will be going with him.
We embrace like brothers.
Flying away, I hope this won’t be the last I see of him.
“You understand why I have to stay?”
Lisa’s giving me the Duty and Greater Good speech, winding up to telling me goodbye again. Everyone else has gone back inside, though I expect there are still plenty of eyes on us.
“Yeah. Inroads.” I say what she wants to hear, but can’t remotely sell it. And we have to have the conversation out in the abrasive wind, since they still won’t let me inside the base.
“You’ve made a difference,” she tries to reassure. “You saved lives. Richards is starting to come around, to see us as something other than scary monsters. I don’t think he’s the only one.”
But he hasn’t done anything obvious about Burns, even though it was likely Burns that ordered Jackson’s botched suicide bombing. Or Jackson—I’ve heard chatter that he’s being played up as a hero for his “brave sacrifice”, however misguided and catastrophic. My only consolation—and it’s a small one—is that he isn’t walking away unscathed:
Rescue flights found his cockpit module nine hours after the blast. They were initially sure he was dead: penetrating rounds—most likely from Azazel’s attempt to stop him—lanced through the armored cockpit, blew away the right side of his face, including his right eye and ear. There wasn’t enough left to reconstruct, just graft closed, especially given the limited on-planet resources. The impact also cracked his cervical spine and left him with some dangerous swelling on the brain that Ryder had to relieve, but his latest prognosis is promising. A miracle from his God. (I find myself hoping that his God decides he deserves the gift of significant pain for the rest of his life, a small reward for putting his holy mission above the lives and welfare of everyone living here. Trying to kill me, I can accept. In fact, I hope he heals enough to be able to try again. I look forward to it.)
“We’ll see,” I allow her.
At least she let me take her to Tranquility, let me show it to her, before taking her back to endure “processing” with her fellow hostages, which included decontamination, invasive exams, isolation, and brutal debriefings to try to ensure Earthside that none of them had been “tampered with,” infected. (I assume Earthside is just as nervous that the ETE messed with them on the ride home after their rescue as much as they feared Chang did during their days of captivity, or that the whole thing was a charade to give the ETE the time to alter the hostages, maybe even replace them with convincing clones.)
She also decided to tell me why she and Richards were on the Stormcloud to begin with: The UNCORT team had supposedly made a breakthrough, discovered technology Chang had to control all of our mods, even disable them from a distance. (The fact that they’d since tried using this “weapon” on us multiple times from orbit and we never even noticed is proof that Chang was just being tempting with his bait.) Richards was indeed smart enough to take Lisa with him for added protection, though he apparently told his UNCORT chaperones that it was so they could test the tech on her up close.
I’m struck by how little I have to say to her. She’s heard my concerns, weathered my protests. And I can’t argue with the spirit of her decision, what she’s hoping to do no matter what it puts her through. She was always a better soldier than I was, did her job when I was off on my own righteous crusades.
“I’ll keep in touch,” she gives me, “update you whenever I can.”
“Call me if you need me,” I give back the obvious. She just nods, chews her lip looking for anything else to say. Decides to risk giving me a hug in front of everyone watching us.
I hold her for a handful of seconds longer than is comfortable. I don’t tell her I miss her. I don’t tell her I still love her. (I try not to let her hear me chuckle at the irony: When her mortality was breaking me, when I thought she was dead, all I could think of was what I didn’t do and say when I had the chance. Now that she’s as indestructible as I am, there’s no urgency. Again.)
She lingers, holding my hand, still not sure this is an adequate farewell. I give her a nod to let her know I understand. Then I make myself walk away.
“What will you do now, Colonel?” Richards took the time to face-to-fac
e with me right after the funeral, disregarding his uncomfortable and impatiently waiting entourage.
“Make your life easier by getting myself a more comfortable distance away from here,” I barely joked, then specified: “Some of the Melas peoples are migrating into Coprates, looking for more livable real estate, at least until things improve here.” I wondered if he caught that I wasn’t just talking about the air, feedline and radiation issues. He seemed to, the way he nodded thoughtfully in his helmet. “I figure I could help reduce the potential bloodshed when they collide with whatever locals are established there.”
“I think that’s a good idea,” he agreed, but I’m still not sure of how all he meant that. Then, after a tense pause: “We’ll be seeing Chang again, won’t we?”
“At the very least,” I confirmed what I’m sure he already knew he will be facing. “You know how to get my attention if you need me.”
“I expect if I do, you’ll already be offering.”
We didn’t discuss politics, command issues (Burns and Jackson), or whatever pressure is on him from up-world. He did dare shaking my hand, which he followed by giving me a salute, which I returned like I actually still work for them.
I wonder how much the people of Earth know about what their desperate stupidity has wrought here. How much is being made public? How much is being withheld or distorted? (Apparently enough to make Jackson into a hero.)
I didn’t say goodbye to anybody else.
I expect they have eyes on me as I fly “home”. They’ve proved they’ve gotten smart, put priority on securing orbit. They managed to destroy Chang’s “Disc shuttle” before it could deploy. Only one drone managed to separate, and was quickly shot down by their waiting guns.
Just one more reason to leave Tranquility behind me.
Kali doesn’t come out to meet me (and neither does Lux, perhaps attesting to Kali’s success at revenge seduction). Bel and Azazel come to make sure I’m okay after whatever my visits dealt me. I let them know there’s still no sign of Chang or Asmodeus or Fohat, that the UN personnel at least played tolerant, and passed along Abbas’ plans to explore eastward. Azazel reminds me needlessly that the Avalon Knights have already encountered violence as they’ve been slowly moving that way: hit-and-run night raids by some unseen force wielding those rocket-propelled spearheads.
Bel also lets me know that Bly left while I was gone (not that he said goodbye to anyone). I know he’s heading east as well, still hoping to find something left of his people. I expect I’ll see him again. I wish him luck.
“We’re not staying either, are we?” Bel reads me.
“I thought you were getting antsy,” I lighten it.
“That was Lux. I was enjoying the garden.”
“It’s even greener east. More entertaining, too.”
He nods his agreement without giving me crap about my obsessive need to play hero, to save people whether they want me to or not. Azazel just gives me a conspiratorial grin, up for whatever adventure. Then they both decide to give me some privacy, realizing Star has been watching us from one of the terraces.
“How are you holding up?” I ask her, standing next to her as she takes in the green below us.
“Recovering.” She still sounds tired. Her trick on the Stormcloud required her to generate a simple mindless remote-directed semi-clone by interfacing with and reshaping one of the missing UNMAC personnel (killed like the others were by Chang’s bots when they saw the wrong thing and threatened to expose his trap), but it took a lot of her own resources. And then she expended a lot of energy during the fight as Ra. “You?”
“Knee still hurts a little.”
“Not what I was talking about.”
“Lisa makes her own decisions. Just like you do.”
“It’s just that I do stupid shit because it appeals to me,” she sort-of praises. “She does it because it’s the ‘right thing.’ Or whatever. Duty.” She leaves it at that, then gets around to what’s pressing. “So you’re taking the band on the road?”
“You should come with us,” I throw out lightly.
She doesn’t answer for a few breaths, like she’s deciding how to tell me.
“Someone should hang around and keep an eye out for Chang.”
“And Asmodeus,” I add, trying not to sound like I’m condemning. She turns to face me, her face playing a dozen different emotions.
“I didn’t know. Chang… He was careful. He didn’t trust me. Or maybe Ange told him not to.”
“That wasn’t Ange Apollyon,” I have to insist.
“Close enough. You saw. You talked to him. It. Whatever it was. Clone. Copy. You fought him. And if Chang was telling the truth, that Ange Mark Two did all his best planning for him… It makes sense. That’s Ange. Close enough.”
And Ange Apollyon wouldn’t have gone up with that ship. Ange Apollyon was always all about himself.
Chang might be more powerful than we are, but Asmodeus is infinitely more dangerous. He’ll kill this world just to be the last one standing, just to prove that he can.
“We once had a conversation in a cave about how you needed me,” I remind her. “I was kind of out of it at the time, but I remember. And I would have said yes, except I sort of dropped dead while I was playing cool.” I almost get a smile. “Now I’m the one that needs you. Especially if that thing is anything like Ange Apollyon.”
“And I’ll be there,” she tries to reassure. “But for now, you need to go play hero again. Smurfette Kali can watch over this place. Bly is off to save his people. And I at least have a relationship with the PK holdouts at Industry and Pioneer—maybe I can get them moving in the right direction, save some lives. But here we go in opposite directions again. Just like old times.”
I manage a smile. Nod my acceptance. Just like old times.
“It’s funny…” she eventually says, something striking her. “Yod. He sent seven of us. Seven ragtag champions to save the world. Seven Samurai. Magnificent Seven. Lucky Seven.”
I do some quick math in my head, ruin it.
“Actually, there are eight. I still have one seed left. Whoever it is.”
“Ah…” She processes the awkward moment, comes back: “Maybe eight is a more fortuitous number.”
“The Chinese had Eight Immortals,” I try. “Eight Trigrams. Eight directions…”
She shrugs. Goes back to looking at the green, watching the people, breathing this fragile ecosystem.
“I think this place is growing on me,” she says, finally.
“Yeah. Me, too.”
She slides close, presses herself against me, side-by-side.
###
Map of Melas and Western Coprates
The God Mars continues in Book Four: Live Blades
About the Author:
Michael Rizzo is an artist (yes, those god-awful covers are his), martial artist, collector (and frequent user) of fine weaponry, and a pretty good cook. He continues his long, varied and brutal career on the mental health and social services battlefield, trying to do good work while writing about very bad things.
He is also the author of the Grayman series.
He causes trouble in person mostly in the Pacific Northwest.
For updates and original art, visit Michael on Facebook.com, and see the Facebook page for “The God Mars Series”.
Discover other books by Michael Rizzo at smashwords.com
The God Mars Book Three: The Devil You Are Page 39