1 September, 2115:
“The man is amazing—he’s teaching himself our interplanetary communications engineering out of MAI’s database,” Anton almost breathlessly praises as we watch Simon “study” in the small sealed tech-lab.
Simon—if he hears us at all—barely registers a smirk on his half-exposed face as he intently manipulates graphics through his silver goggles, his gloved fingers working the empty air in some sort of invisible VR interface. We can see what he’s reviewing on MAI’s screens. He scans almost faster than we can see, much less read. I wonder how much his brain has been changed by ETE nanotechnology.
“I can’t build you micro-processors, Colonel,” Simon tells me the same thing Paul had. But then he takes it further by offering: “But for a higher power-cost, we could manufacture something using older technology. I’ll have to go back to the schematics on some of the first probes. Viking. Mariner. Voyager. I studied their designs when I was still in the Crèche. The result won’t be crisp, fast or more than a simple data stream, but it should cut through the EM ceiling.”
“Should?” Matthew picks apart.
“I don’t even know if I can assemble a viable unit—I’m going on theory.” Simon actually sounds irritated. “And there is no guarantee that the signal will be understood even if it reaches Earth. But if you want the best chance of being heard, we would do best to wait until the planetary alignments are better.”
“Which is when?” Matthew pushes, suspicious of the delay.
“We’ll have our best position in between three and five months,” Simon tells him like the span is only a few days. “I estimate it will take a month or more just to craft the parts.”
“And if we miss that window, we don’t get another for two years,” Anton qualifies, anxious.
“We’re very grateful for your assistance, Simon,” I try to shut down any further naysaying.
He raises his goggles so I can see his eyes, and he gives me a sad, lopsided grin.
“I’m not sure you’ll be thanking me after you’ve had contact from Earth.”
“You think he’s shining us?” Matthew asks me as we take the stairs back up to Ops.
“Stalling?”
“None of these people seem eager to get a message out. And Simon: the first time we met him he didn’t seem to like anyone except his own.”
“It might not be his idea to be here,” I consider.
“That’s what worries me.”
“And Paul?” I ask him directly.
“He’s growing on me,” he admits. “He takes it hard when we bleed.”
“Incoming signal,” Kastl announces, jarring me out of my haze.
I’d spent my morning reviewing MAI’s best estimates of what the so-called “PK” colonies might have cached in weapons and ammunition (with and without what they might have taken from Melas One, which Rios’ recent ASV recon proved had been completely stripped). Then I went back to staring—frustrated—at the tactical maps MAI prepared of the City of Industry site, flashing through the AI’s estimations of what the real inhabitable structure might be under the façade of ruin, and comparing the firing patterns they used on us to try to understand their defenses.
“No signature, but it reads like what we’ve seen the ETE use when they hack into our Links,” Kastl clarifies.
“Put it up,” I tell him.
“Colonel Ram,” I get greeted by a chrome ETE mask and blue sealsuit as the main screen comes alive.
“This is Ram,” I confirm. “What do I call you?”
“Council Blue,” he tells me with condescending officiousness. “My name is otherwise unimportant for the purpose of this communication.” The voice matches the Blue Station Council representative who met us, the apparent father of Paul and Simon.
“Do you wish to talk to your team members?” I offer.
“I can speak with them whenever I wish, Colonel,” he talks to me like I’m a child in trouble with some great authority figure. “I called to speak with you. About your reckless encounter with the City of Industry PK.”
“I was under the impression your Council had decided to take no interest in such affairs,” I give him back coolly.
“You have involved us,” he accuses back. The image shifts to add a feed showing three figures, all wearing some kind of light-armored uniform in a Mars-red pixilated camo pattern similar to our own suits. They are kneeling formally, hands on their thighs, staring straight ahead with stoic discipline. All three appear to be young and oriental, two male and one female. “We apprehended these three attempting to break into our Blue Station using what appears to be UNMAC lock-breaking technology from the Eco War. A fourth individual jumped to his apparent death rather than be captured. They will not speak, but their uniforms carry a variety of dust indicating a long journey across the valley. They were armed with these…”
The screen shows a selection of light PDWs favored by some of the corporate site security, grenades, knives, and a kind of simple short sword: slightly curved, single edged, “tanto” point, non-reflective blade, square guard. Further views of their gear show masks, goggles and head-shrouds that look almost Nomad in design, down to their headbands which bear small metal plates. Zooming back in on the captives (who seem to be restrained in position by some invisible force), their uniforms are not UNMAC, but show similarities to the UNMAC contract LA suits supplied to corporate security forces during the height of the Eco conflict, only modified to include additional armor in the torso, shoulders and forearms. Their boots are wrapped in strips of material in Nomad fashion to preserve them against the abrasive terrain. Otherwise, the outfits bear no visible colony markings.
“Those are Colony Guard suits,” I tell him. “The PK are supposedly using UNMAC military gear.”
“This was our analysis as well,” he talks down to me. “But if it was not your engagement of the PK that instigated them to attack us, then it was certainly your active presence on the surface that has motivated someone else to.”
“But why attack you?”
“Paul assisted you visibly in your engagement with the Nomads,” he keeps up his accusatory tone. “You have shown us to them. You have broken our passivity.”
“But why attack you?” I repeat. “They had to know how futile that would be.”
“A great prize might inspire a great risk, Colonel,” he considers, then holds up a canister where I can see it—it looks like one of the nano-containment canisters we found aboard the Lancer. “They carried these as well.”
“They sought to steal your nanotech?” I confirm, trying not to sound completely naïve. He nods with surprising tolerance.
“Failing here, they may try elsewhere, Colonel,” he tells me, his tone becoming more respectful. “They know our people are with you.”
“Understood,” I tell him. Then offer: “They may also have learned from their initial failure, Council. Expect further visits.”
“We shall.”
“We’ll let you know if we have any visitors here. Thank you, Council.”
He drops off without saying goodbye.
The God Mars Book One: CROATOAN Page 20