The God Mars Book One: CROATOAN

by Michael Rizzo

29 September, 2115:

  “Your own sense of superiority will be your greatest vulnerability.”

  I let the warning sink in for a few moments. I’m actually surprised when it goes unchallenged. The fifty sealsuits sitting at attention in the brightly lit auditorium-sized underground hall just stare back at me with their uniform lack of any kind of expression—they might as well have their masks on. Eye-contact is the only thing that lets me know that they’re probably listening—otherwise, I could be lecturing a big room full of mannequins.

  “We’ve had a lot of hard experience with this over the last century-and-a-half,” I continue my point. “Asymmetrical warfare: a high-tech force confronts a low-tech enemy—the outcome seems obvious. After all, the history of warfare has been to evolve your technology to defeat your opponent’s. Better weapons equal victory. But true strategy is finding the simplest, least costly means to defeat a superior threat. That doesn’t necessarily require greater technology or resources, and the lesson has become that reliance on those advantages will lead to disaster.”

  The fifty suits—five of each of the ten representative colors of the ETE Stations—continue to be impressively immobile. If nothing else, they have the discipline of long years—Paul told me the average age of these “young” technicians is fifty-five Earth-calendar years. “Time is different for us,” Paul has said more than once. Apparently it applies to sitting through long lectures on tactics.

  “You’ve been drilling in the use of your tools for dealing with combative opponents,” I allow them. “I have to say I’m impressed with what you’ve created—not only in how well you’ve been able to address various threats, but how well you coordinate in your teams. Mr. Stilson—Paul—has told me that you’ve been studying from a substantial library of military tactics and training. I expect you’ve also been studying your enemies—I know you don’t like that term, but they see you as enemies and will treat you as such.

  “Just remember your enemies have been studying you as well. Every encounter gives them more intelligence. They have weapons that can pose a threat even to you, but they are also extremely intelligent, and—perhaps most telling—they are survivors. They’ve been living with death and suffering for generations. I won’t tell you that they do not value life, but they certainly perceive it differently than you do. Don’t forget that. That said, let’s get down to business…”

  I flash our best estimated graphics of what the Shinkyo Colony looks like under all that dirt and rock. It fills the air behind me, and then all of them as one put on their goggled masks (a very creepy effect), probably to get more detailed feed. (Their helmets function for tactical coordination in the field like ours do, but Paul tells me that their version of a Link actually flashes communications and data real-time into their brains. This explains why they can’t be heard communicating with each other.)

  On my signal, Paul suddenly shuts off the feeds, making the whole chamber go dark along with it. Now I hear them squirm in their seats.

  “Lesson One: This is what happens when you get too reliant on your gear and your enemy decides to see what happens when you lose it. Suddenly you’re blind, deaf, mute, and have no idea what’s going on. You need to be ready to function when this happens. If not, you’ll lock up, get lost, get ambushed, or even wind up firing on your own people by mistake. The aptly named ‘Fog of War’ is a very deadly reality. Make sure you train for this. Still, expect it will throw you when it happens.”

  Paul turns the feed (and the lights) on again. They settle back down quickly, but have lost some of their stoicism. I go back to the map.

  “Let’s start with what we know versus what we can estimate about Shinkyo: We know they had one nuke, and I doubt they would have fired it in a gambit if it was their only one. We know they can detect you at range, probably from an energy signature your live tech emits, so they’ll know when you’re coming. We can also assume they expect you to respond to their attacks, even if they’re not monitoring our communications, so they’ll try to prepare for it.”

  I turn to my “co-advisor,” and she takes her cue, stepping forward.

  “From what I know of the Shinkyo, they regularly employ explosives, so they must be able to produce them in quantity,” Zauba’a tells them, her own face hidden behind her demon-mask. (She has not taken off her armor since we arrived, not even to sleep in the comfortable rooms they gave us.) “They also manufacture their own ammunition, which is capable of piercing all conventional body armor. Their numbers are unknown. The Nomads estimate the Shinkyo control a no-man’s land of about twenty miles around the old colony site, and seem to put priority on eliminating all trespassers. Nomad raiding parties have disappeared entirely in that region. The few that have managed to return report fleeing from storms shrapnel, from grenades or from concealed anti-personnel mines. Those that survive the traps are picked off by warriors who use the resulting dust and chaos.”

  A rough perimeter lights up on our map, but then she zooms it back on the actual colony.

  “They know you can be at least stunned and disoriented by conventional explosives, especially if you are not expecting it. They will likely protect their perimeter with sequential mines, timed to keep you off-balance. However, if they believe their best weapon against your technology are more nuclear warheads, they will have placed such devices to protect their perimeter, shielded from detection. If they have the means, there will likely be more than one line of them. Do not assume that they will be weak enough or positioned far enough from the colony to avoid damaging it—they are willing to sacrifice, especially if they think it will give them advantage. They may also have one or more devices deep inside their colony as well, to try to take you with them if they feel they are defeated. The Shinkyo always choose death over failure, and will eagerly die to kill an enemy.”

  She speaks with amazing presence and confidence, but the edge of controlled rage under her voice is chilling—I wonder what experiences she’s had against the Shinkyo. (I also wonder if that’s the way I used to sound.)

  “This is assuming they have several warheads,” one of the Green Team suits criticizes, though her tone is coolly objective.

  “Always assume your enemy has maximum potential,” Zauba’a counters, her voice icy. But then I see her eyes lock mine. I give her a slight nod of approval. I think I can see those eyes smile.

  “That said, assume nuclear warheads are not the only threat to you,” she continues. “They also know that EMP weakens you, so they will have considered other ways to generate it. Beyond that, we know that they have the means to manufacture nano-materials, so they will be trying to make weapons that can harm you significantly despite your enhanced ability to heal.

  “I have reviewed the video records of the previous attacks. It is clear that you are not omniscient, that you can be taken off guard. The key to success in personal combat as well as troop engagement is the breaking of the opponent’s balance, physically or mentally. If you can be thrown off balance, then your power and training will be worthless.”

  “Can you be more specific?” one of the Red Team asks, sounding like a student in a college lecture.

  “Explanation is no substitute for experience,” she tells him. “I will have to show you. You will have to feel it.”

  “We’ll run exercises with you,” I clarify, “give you a taste of what the Shinkyo may put you through.”

  Zauba’a seems satisfied with my solution, and done with her lecture.

  “What can you tell by looking at the colony itself?” I test them.

  “They appear to have facilities for growing food as well as recycling nutrients,” a Yellow tries. “They also appear to have significant stores, scattered in numerous locations. They could withstand a siege.”

  “They don’t tap our Feed Lines for resources,” a Blue suit extrapolates, “so they probably don’t fear what we might withhold from them.”

  “What doesn’t the map show us?” I probe.

  “The map is
weeks old,” a Red tries after a few tense moments of silence. “Things may have changed. They may have moved things, anticipating what we’ve seen.”

  “Excellent,” I give him. “What else?”

  “It doesn’t show us what’s off the map,” Paul answers when his fellows don’t. “If they were expecting attack, it would be likely that they would move significant fall-back resources to other locations.”

  “They know that we know where they are. Their main force, or their command structure, may already be elsewhere,” I confirm. “What’s left may be no more than bait in a trap.”

  “That seems like an unacceptable sacrifice,” the Yellow suit that spoke before chimes in again.

  “They may believe their colony is already lost,” I assess.

  One benefit of spending more than a brief “diplomatic” visit at an ETE Station is that they feed us, and they process or synthesize a wide variety of foods that, while not a substitute for real fresh food, is definitely an improvement over what we’ve been eating at Melas Two (the fresh bounty of our greenhouse is still too limited to be a mainstay of our diet, so we continue to suffer with recycle). Still, it reminds me of the highly processed convenience foods that were the bane of Earth diets—I’m not sure if that’s a matter of taste or some fear of eating anything that hasn’t been thoroughly processed. (And while I haven’t actually broached the subject of their apparent ritual germaphobia, I still haven’t seen an ETE—even at “home”—wearing less than a zipped sealsuit and gloves.)

  Another benefit of staying days with the ETE is that we get to learn a lot more about how they live than they would reveal in short contacts. They have a whole world underground, but they keep it lit with a convincing simulation of daylight. Once past the industrial sections below the generators, the spaces cut out of cliff rock become like ancient temples and palaces of stone (though plain and clean). And there is life:

  Despite their reliance on their impressive food synthesizers, they maintain vast underground greenhouses of plant specimens, some brought from Earth for experiments, others still in the various stages of engineering that the colonial agricultural researchers were developing. The ETE got these samples because “greening” the planet was an integral part of their terraforming schedule (only not expected to be implemented for at least a full century), so they worked intimately with the bio-engineering colony labs even before the Stations started being used to shelter projects from the Ecos and Discs.

  One facility is specifically dedicated to plant life that apparently can be found growing wild on the surface. The selection of species is overwhelming—I have to pause, try to take it in. They have far more than Abbas has been able to show us. I see various fruits, pods, grains, edible leaves and stalks and roots. One of their horticulturists volunteers that they’re working to develop some of the “prototype” species to be able to thrive in surface conditions, adding even more variety to the evolving biosphere.

  The horticulturist—whose nameplate says “E. Adair”—let us know that Council Blue has given permission to share some of these species with our greenhouse project—this is probably why I was even allowed to see their greenhouses.

  I wonder if all of the Stations have facilities like this one, but don’t push my welcome with too many questions too soon.

  The combination of synthesized and fresh ingredients—despite the heavy processing—does make for the heartiest and most varied eating I’ve had since coming to this planet (though Abbas’ wives’ cooking, I would have to say, is the tastiest). The ETE must have impressive metabolisms, considering how well they eat (and all look equally fit—perhaps it’s just a benefit of their nanites).

  Zauba’a at least takes her mask off to try the food. She seems impressed by the volume and variety of it, at least (though she is still hard to read, especially when more eyes than mine are watching her). I expect she’s used to much simpler fare, though may have enjoyed the benefit of being a Sharif’s champion (Farouk did look very well fed). Since she’s been with us at Melas Two, she’s eaten whatever she’s been presented, without request or complaint, and seemed quietly grateful to have it.

  “Don’t worry about waste,” Paul comments, perhaps sensing our astonishment at the excess of the feast. “The leftovers are easily recycled.”

  “I’m just thinking some of the survivor factions might appreciate having your dietary resources.”

  “Those resources are more limited than they may appear,” Simon insists with a bit of discomfort in his tone. “We have what we have because we recycle so efficiently. We can’t afford to feed all the Naturals any more than you can. But we do give gifts of food for those we find in need, if they are willing to accept it from us.”

  I don’t press the issue, but Paul apparently feels the need to.

  “Charity on this world, even from us, is often greeted with suspicion, as is anything left to be conveniently found. There have been incidents of rivals poisoning or booby-trapping food and other supplies, then giving it as ‘peace offerings’ or leaving it to be taken by raiding parties. We have had to cultivate discreet contacts with individual tribal members who can deliver the unused produce of our gardens to their peoples. These contacts usually have to convince their fellows that the food came from some source other than us, such as trading or raiding, because of camp-tales that we infect Naturals, turn them into a kind of zombie thrall, taking them as slaves or for experiments.” He gets more pressured and irritated as he goes. I’m not sure if I’m hearing defensiveness of the ETE’s perceived elitism or frustration with the survivors’ pervasive xenophobia. I honestly didn’t intend to start a fight over lunch, but I seem to have stepped into a tender area.

  “He speaks truly,” Zauba’a speaks up, perhaps hoping to win some faith with our hosts (though they’ve given her an even more chilly reception than I got on my first visit—perhaps they share Matthew’s fear that she may be a Shinkyo agent). “I have heard many such tales, and anything of value found or given is treated as trap or poison until proven otherwise. Enemies have even gone so far as to use the radioactive material from bomb craters to sicken rivals. And the Eternals are feared.”

  “Nice that we have something in common,” I joke darkly between bites of something like a vegetarian chili slathered over a grainy cake. (The Martian equivalent of cornbread?)

  Paul manages a sad chuckle. Simon shakes his head. The other ETE at the table with us—“team leaders” from each Stations’ five-person “Guardian” unit—look like I’ve just said something nonsensical, like the sky is made of cookies.

  “Something else is bothering you, Colonel?” Council Blue—Mark Stilson—makes an attempt to read my mood, or change the subject, from his seat at the opposite end of the table from me. (Until now he looked like he’d been ignoring our conversations.)

  “Occupational hazard, Council,” I deflect. “Something is always bothering me.”

  “Tell me,” he presses gently. I glance at Paul and Simon. I see the same look in Paul’s eyes that I saw when he called to tell us about the plan to form this Guardian force. Simon avoids my gaze, as do the other team leaders.

  “The road to hell is paved with good intentions,” I give him vaguely. I’m almost surprised that he simply nods instead of challenging the sentiment.

  “We have considered how many ways this can go badly,” he tries to assure. “We have no illusions that our actions will proceed smoothly. I expect we will make tragic mistakes. But you have managed to impress me in the very short time since we have met, Colonel. Please believe that I value you as a friend of the ETE. I hope we do nothing to change that.”

  “I’ve committed my share of atrocities in the name of a greater good, Council,” I forgive in advance. “Don’t expect me to be quick to mete out judgment.”

  “Which is why I value you as an advisor,” he smiles. “We ourselves are very new at ‘saving the world’. You have much experience in this area. And some measure of success, at least according to hi
story.”

  “History tends to rewrite itself as it evolves,” I counter. “And I’ve missed the last fifty years of it.”

  “I expect we’ll be finding out how things have gone back ‘home’ soon enough,” he says, and I can hear the weight of his words under his social lightness. His use of the word “home” especially strikes me. Then I remember: He’s older than I am, but from a similar generation. He wasn’t born here. He grew up, went to school, had a career, married and had his children on Earth. Then Earth stranded him here, and tried to incinerate everything he’d worked toward. At least he had his family with him, safe (though I still haven’t met his wife).

  “That’s one of the things bothering me,” I allow him. “Re-establishing contact. We’re still two or three months away from getting a call out. But odds are the nuke that the Shinkyo threw at your sons was detected from Earth.”

  “And we may be setting off more warheads when we confront them,” he gives back. “How do you think Earth will interpret that?”

  “Assuming that they believe no one is alive down here, what are their options?” I turn the question back on him. He turns to look at his sons, like this is some kind of test.

  “Given the existence of illegal missions like the one that brought the Lancer here, one conclusion is that a covert harvesting operation went wrong,” Simon answers after a moment.

  “And if they still believe that the only thing ‘alive’ down here is a raging nanotech infection?” I qualify. I watch Paul go pale. Simon gives a brief head-shake, like he’s denying what he’s thinking. The other Team Leaders show varying degrees of confusion or distress. The Council just frowns.

  “There is a theoretical scenario, Colonel,” the Council admits cautiously. “Even rogue nanotech might likely evolve itself, and that in manipulating matter for more efficient power sources, it might even take a course that could lead to nuclear fission. This was, of course, a barely-conceivable nightmare possibility, but it was popularized by Eco Movement propaganda.”

  “Their ultimate fear was that the nanotech would convert the entire planet—or part of it—into some kind of huge bomb,” Simon elaborates, his tone cutting with disgust. “Ridiculous pseudo-science.”

  “The resulting blast would propel invasive nanotech toward other planets,” Green Leader—Rhiannon Dodds, a redhead who looks like a spunky college girl even though she must be sixty—adds, sounding almost amused by the idea, “including Earth, of course.”

  I try to imagine an Earth fearing that the nanotech of Mars would intelligently move toward infecting the entire solar system. Making the call home has become even more urgent, effectively suppressing my previous doubts. (Should I thank the Shinkyo for restoring my resolve?)

  “In any case, we’ll have Earth’s attention, assuming we don’t already,” I focus them, “and not in a way that I’d hoped.” I look to Council Blue. He shakes his head, sitting back away from his meal.

  “We have not changed our position, Colonel,” he tells me heavily. “We will not turn our technology to contacting Earth. Ours is the sin of omission. We were complacent in the isolation of Mars. The call must come from you. Any attempt we make will be suspect in the extreme. We have been confident that you would awaken, and that it would not take you long to find your own way. In that time, I hope you have been able to see enough of this world to give it a fair reporting.” He stands, giving a slight bow of his head. “If you will forgive me, I am due in Council.”

  He turns and walks away. Paul, Simon and the other team leaders look like they’ve been struck dumb. Only Zauba’a has maintained her stoic façade, continuing to systematically sample her meal. (She’s probably sat through much uglier inter-tribal talks.)

  A disturbing realization flashes through my mind, sending a chill down my spine: The ETE kept us asleep longer than our systems could otherwise manage. Our wake-up time was likely calculated. Convenient that it should be precisely when the planets were farthest apart—on opposite sides of the sun—and any makeshift attempt at communication would be delayed for the better part of a year. And now the ETE Council appears all too comfortable that we’ll finally be ready to make the call on our own—though with some assistance from their “rebellious” children—just in time for the next alignment.

  And I wonder: Have I seen what they wanted me to see in the interim? Or will they do something to delay us another two years if they don’t trust that I’ll be giving the report they want me to?

  After lunch, Zauba’a proves her earlier point by demonstrating how fast she can strike and stun the various Guardians before they can use their tools to defend themselves. In many cases, they drop their tools altogether, and prove how helpless they are in the time it takes to draw replacement tools from their belts.

  Zauba’a wonders aloud what would happen if one of them were decapitated, or cleaved in half. Then I demonstrate what a Shinkyo sword can do, just with what my aging body still holds onto from my idle youth as romantic martial artist—a naïve idealist with a sword, nerd samurai. The Shinkyo blade feels good in my hands, makes me long for a time when I could retreat into the fantasy of when people used to just hack and stab each other instead of using guns and bombs and poisons and viruses.

  The sword is very light—almost too light to get any real “feel” for—but it cuts into solid steel like it’s soft wood. My hands are aching from the impacts by the time I’m done “playing.” Zauba’a then takes up a similar length and weight of plain tubing to use as a practice weapon, and shows how fast she can be at landing devastating “cuts” with it. I give the ETE “Guardians” credit for not simply abandoning their new cause on the spot.

  Driving the point further home, we review the video footage of the Shinkyo attacks on the Stations, showing them again how conventional explosives (in missiles that they’d assumed were off-target) managed to knock several of them well off their feet.

  “Your tools are operated through concentration,” I remind them. “If you can’t concentrate, you can’t fight.” Then I blow off a stun grenade in the middle of them. By the time their helmets and their senses adjust, Zauba’a has hit a dozen of them with her “sword.” To their credit, both Simon and Paul get their wits back fast enough to draw on her before she can tag them as well—the only reason that they manage to do so is that they responded to the blast by moving evasively while they drew their tools. I can see that Zauba’a is smiling under her devil mask as the brothers hold her back with a restraint field. I give the brothers a nod of approval.

  By the time we wrap up the exercise, one thing is painfully clear: if the Shinkyo are half as good as Zauba’a, the ETE will quickly be facing their own mortality.