The God Mars Book One: CROATOAN

by Michael Rizzo

Paul Stilson continued his dialogue, answering any and all questions put to him with apparent candor. He maintained his palpable urgency throughout, giving the underlying impression that time—suddenly now after the fifty years we’d been sleeping—was of the essence. This didn’t help to improve Matthew’s trust.

  “Was it you that tampered with our Hiber-Sleep systems?” Ryder asks before Matthew can put the question to him in a more prosecutorial tone.

  “I maintained your systems,” he is careful in wording his confession. “I sought only to ensure your health and safety.”

  “By extending our sleep for fifty years?” Halley takes a turn at him.

  “That was not my decision,” he tells her levelly. “In fact, I do not personally possess the knowledge necessary to enhance your hibernation systems.”

  “Your Council of Elders?” I try. He nods.

  “I had been looking for your base for several years, using the excuse of geological surveying to pursue my unauthorized ‘hobby’, but I did not expect to find you all still in hibernation. Upon discovering you, I reported your status immediately. I had hoped my Elders would rush to revive you, but there was long deliberation, and I was ordered to keep my knowledge of you secret even from the rest of our people. Days passed. I began to doubt the wisdom of telling the Council about you, despite the fact that my own father is an Elder. Then they ordered me to leave your base and not return.”

  “But you did,” I prod him. He gives me a bit of a sheepish grin.

  “In time,” he admits. “And I kept returning in secret. But after a number of years, your systems were at risk of failing.”

  “The system would have simply revived us,” Halley tells him.

  “No, doctor,” he corrects her, his voice tense. “Something had been done to your systems to prevent that—I only became aware of it as I came to study your technology during my visits.”

  “Sabotage?” I want to know. I catch Matthew’s gaze, and he gives me a look to say he isn’t buying a word of this.

  “I don’t think so, Colonel. It appeared that someone simply wanted to ensure you did not wake on your own, so the failsafe was disabled. I do not know enough about your systems to know if this was done before or after I discovered you, so I did not know whether I should bring this information to the Council. But as your time came close to running out, I dared approach the Council again and admitted my continuing visits. I expected censure, but received only silence, as again there was cloistered deliberation. Then, instead of restricting me, they gave me detailed instructions for modifying your systems to extend your sleep safely.”

  “But not to wake us,” Matthew grumbles.

  “I was not about to risk all of your lives by attempting to revive you myself,” Paul calmly insists. “As I told you: I’m a geologist, not a physician. And they only gave me instructions to accomplish one specific task.”

  “But we did wake up,” Halley presses the conclusion. “Was that you?”

  “The instructions I was provided restored your failsafe, but reset it to the newly extended parameters of your system. And when I returned home, I did find myself more closely monitored, my movements restricted. Still, I managed to find my way back here a few more times over the decades. Honestly, I did not expect to find you awake when I came this time—I must have miscalculated the dates. I’ve spent the last week camped in the desert, just trying to consider how to approach you.”

  Matthew can’t help rolling his eyes, but he keeps his mouth shut.

  “What about Colonel Copeland?” Halley blurts out. “Our commanding officer—he stayed awake while the rest of us went down. We’ve seen no sign of him.”

  Paul seems to brood on that, then shakes his head.

  “I’m sorry. It was already more than a decade after the Apocalypse when I first found you. In my curiosity, I explored your facility thoroughly. I did not see any sign that anyone else had been active—the dust was undisturbed, the only tracks my own. But neither did I find any human remains.”

  The guards are changed out (the relief is still wearing HA suits) and a break is called to allow for the basic necessities of the human body. Paul is offered the nearest toilet without overly-invasive escort, but he politely declines (even though he’s had several cups of coffee).

  Lunch is brought up, which Paul receives with the same gracious reverence that he did our “real” coffee, though he picks at it like he isn’t sure what parts—if any—are edible.

  Fed, stretched, relieved and reassembled, the questions flow again as a sudden dust blow kicks up outside.

  “How many survivors are we talking about?” Halley wants to know.

  “Thousands, easily,” he throws it out like the number should not be surprising, “though an accurate census is almost impossible. While there are still a few groups that keep close to our Stations, most have made a rule of avoiding us—if not out of superstition, then because they fear we possess the means to call Earth. The same reason they will come to fear you, only worse, because you wear the uniforms of those that bombed them.”

  “How many of you—your people—are there?” Ryder asks.

  Paul shrugs. “All ten of our Marineris Stations remain operational. We lost several members of our teams in the early years—illness, accidents, radiation, age—a few unfortunate violent encounters with other groups—and children have been born, grown, had children of their own. None of us have died in quite a long time. We thrive, but do not exceed our resources.”

  “You avoided the question,” Matthew criticizes.

  “I realize that,” Paul admits. “Partly because I am not updated on our current census. Partly because I’m not sure what I should share.”

  “Trust will hopefully come in time,” I allow.

  “Are you all… like you?” Halley asks gingerly.

  “Not the children, those younger than twenty-five, as I said before. They are no different from you. Natural. That is why we are so protective of them. The adults and elders have been implanted. Like me. We heal fast. We enjoy good health. We don’t age perceptibly.”

  “Can you contact Earth?” Anton presses. I catch Matthew’s eyes narrowing.

  “We have restored our technology since the Apocalypse, and advanced it—as you have seen. Though we have been primarily investing in our original mission to create and maintain a viable atmosphere, we should also be able to produce a transmitter capable of sending reasonably clear signals.”

  “Even through the interference of the electrostatic net?”

  “The current atmosphere Ceiling is by no means intended to block transmissions,” Paul defends. “It would be far better, for example, to transmit from outside of the covered areas, or directly from our Stations because of their altitude, than from deep in the Chasma as you are. Otherwise, you lack the power and the filtering technology to penetrate the interference.”

  “Can you provide us the needed technology?” I ask before Matthew can accuse again.

  Paul falls silent for a moment, his eyes betraying some internal conversation. His lips purse.

  “Was that a hard question?” Matthew blurts out sarcastically.

  “No, Colonel Burke. It is just that I may not be able to answer it independently.”

  “Your ‘Council’?” I try. He nods.

  “I understand this is a point of trust between us,” Paul allows. “But we do have strict rules about sharing our technology with other factions. We have had bad experiences in the past.”

  “Are you the only group with viable nanotechnology?” Ryder asks.

  “It is a matter of defining that viability, Doctor. We are the only known group to have advanced and harnessed the technology in a directed, controlled fashion. There are stories that come from the Nomad tribes—the groups that keep mobile for scavenging and raiding, as well as for avoiding attack from rivals. They sometimes speak of encounters with individual entities with abilities that could be nano-enhancements. The stories are likely exaggerated, and have an
almost fairy-tale quality—as I said, the Muslim tribes have taken to calling us ‘Jinni.’”

  “What kind of ‘abilities’ are we talking about?” Carver asks seriously. Paul shakes his head.

  “Camp tales, Lieutenant,” he dismisses the question. “Fantasies for entertaining or frightening children. We ourselves have had no confirmed encounters with any other enhanced humans.”

  “And what kind of ‘abilities’ would you have that would inspire ‘genie’ stories amongst the less-fortunate?” Matthew presses. “I mean, besides the whole excellent health and fast healing thing?” I see Rick nod and bring up images of Paul’s mystery objects.

  “Nothing malevolent, I assure you,” Paul insists calmly but firmly. “We do not make weapons.”

  “And these deceptively simple objects?” Rick probes. “Your spheres and rods?”

  Paul almost chuckles at that.

  “Funny, Doctor Mann—that is exactly what we call them: Spheres and Rods. They are tools that respond directly to my bodily nanites. No one other than an adult ETE can make any use of them.”

  “’Tools’?” Rick insists on clarity, “not ‘weapons’?”

  “Almost any tool can be used as a weapon, Doctor,” Paul admits bitterly. “It gets us back to our question of trust.”

  He slips back inside himself again, as if considering what options he might have. The dust blow outside is sand-blasting the windows, obscuring our view as it hisses and howls across our bunkers. Paul goes to sip his coffee, then stops, like the drink has inspired something.

  “There may be ways that I can help you without violating my own people’s rules.” He looks at Anton. “I may be able to use my tools to help repair what you have, to restore it, adjust it. You could have a viable transmitter. Functional aircraft. I could even assist you in making use of the Lancer…”

  “YOU WILL DO NO SUCH THING!!!” a voice fills the room, as if coming right out of the walls.

  “Simon…” I hear Paul grumble under his breath. And then something else comes out of the walls:

  Before any of us can react, a blue suit and silver mask identical to Paul’s comes walking right through a section of reinforced bunker concrete exterior wall as if it were only liquid. Both armored guards lock their weapons immediately, but the figure is holding one of the “Spheres” in one hand, and a “Rod” in the other. With a gesture, the metal of the Sphere seems to swim like quicksilver, and something that looks like a sandstorm hits the guards and knocks them backwards. It takes my mind several seconds to process what is happening: the blowing “sand” is actually the substance of their armor and weapons, breaking down into dust, disintegrating. Their suits and weapons are very much like sand against a strong wind. In an instant, the entire front of their armor is gone, leaving them naked. But their bare skin appears unmarked.

  Matthew is already moving. Impulsively, he draws his sidearm and begins emptying it at the newcomer before I can shout for him to stand down. I see the Sphere glow, and the bullets flare and disappear as they hit some invisible field around the blue suit. The newcomer—Simon, Paul called him—makes a gesture with the Rod in his other hand, like a magician with a wand, and I see Matthew’s gun snap back out of his grip and smack him hard in the forehead, sending him sprawling. Carver and Lisa are drawing their weapons as well.

  “Stand down!” I shout. But Paul’s voice booms over mine:

  “STOP THIS THIS INSTANT, SIMON!!”

  The figure becomes still. Then he lowers his hands slowly, slips his “tools” back into their belt carriers. With a slight shake of his head, his mask folds up, revealing a face similar to Paul’s, only leaner, sharper.

  I realize somewhat numbly that the wind has suddenly died down outside, adding to the tense silence of our disturbingly unbalanced stand-off. (I wonder if the newcomer—Simon—somehow whipped it up to cover his approach. He may have been just outside as long as the dust was blowing. I try to remember how long that was.)

  “You go too far, little brother,” Simon scolds. Paul ignores him and turns to me.

  “Colonel Ram, let me introduce my older brother: Simon Peter Stilson.” He then turns and offers a hand to Matthew, who is wiping the blood from his forehead and struggling to get up. Matthew ignores his offer.

  “No weapons, Mr. Stilson?” Rick is accusing, examining the partially stripped armor. The soldiers inside appear shaken, but intact.

  “Tools are what you do with them, Doctor,” Paul rephrases his earlier sentiment. “Simon could have killed all of you in an instant, but it is not our way. We have no need to kill, and life is a precious thing on this world.”

  “This is supposed to make me feel better?” Matthew grouses as Lisa gets him back into his chair. Halley is checking his head wound.

  Paul raises his right hand, palm open, then rolls it into a kind of summoning gesture. In a moment, his belt of “tools” comes up through the deck at his feet—probably in a fairly straight line from the labs below us—just as his brother came through the two-meter-thick exterior wall. The belt glides into his outstretched hand, and he puts it back on. Then he looks directly at Matthew.

  “It should, Colonel,” he says icily. Then to me: “I apologize for my brother.”

  “Apologize for yourself,” Simon hisses at him, now sounding very much like a rival sibling.

  “I did not reveal our technology to them, Simon,” Paul returns. “You did that.”

  “The Rules, Paul…”

  “Are not broken,” Paul corrects. “And I will be happy to take that up with the Council myself.”

  “You would help them contact Earth?” Simon demands.

  “Earth will be coming back, Simon,” Paul softens, faces his brother. “One day. That is inevitable. Is it not better that they come this way: summoned by their own, who can tell them that their fears are unfounded?”

  “Are their fears unfounded?” Simon returns before one of us can say it.

  “They can at least know that there are survivors. And that there is no contamination.”

  “And what will they say about us?”

  Paul falls silent at that, turns his eyes to the deck. Then his smile comes back. He puts his hand on his brother’s shoulder.

  “Then we would do better to have friends that would vouch for us than enemies who would fear us,” he tells him gently. Then he faces me: “I will help you, Colonel.”

  Part Two: Cities in Dust