The God Mars Book Four: Live Blades (20 page)

We have the technically-living bodies of sixteen of
our own people in indefinite stasis—including the Council Blue’s
own son Simon—physically regenerated after catastrophic damage that
included brain destruction, leaving them in a blank-slate state,
all memories, learning and developmental events missing. Such
technology could potentially restore them to what they were, or at
least a functional approximation. (Such technology might also
restore those more thoroughly lost—I cannot help but have pointless
fantasies about resurrecting my own parents, though I know that
they would only be convincing copies.)

I spend an hour centering myself, trying to restore
objectivity, and then decide to return to work on my assigned
projects, an occupation I can accomplish at any of the Stations as
all are networked and engaged in the various experiments. But first
I give in to my primary reason for being here, perhaps testing my
ability to check my frustration. I make another stop in
Operations.

It was a mistake.

The technicians are now idly tracking weapons fire
down in the valleys. Their maps put the violence along the symbolic
border between the North and Central Blades. (There is no real
physical boundary except for one of our buried Feed Lines: the two
small valleys simply join each other for about ten kilometers on
their long sides.)

The implication stokes my ire.

“I thought the indigenous peoples didn’t possess
firearms?”

The technicians ignore me, the non-essential outsider
on his pointless personal errand. I’m sure they believe my brother
is long dead, having stupidly wandered into any number of threats
eager to do the deed, and I’m just a victim of denial.

But I am getting enraged again at their (our)
inaction. Gunfire in quantity suggests Chang or the Earth forces.
So either they’ve started a skirmish, and possibly in proximity to
vulnerable locals, or one of them is brazenly attacking a
practically helpless target.

I remind myself: I’ve decided this is none of my
concern, and made that clear when my father joined the Guardian
teams. I am a physicist. I have my work, work that may one day
better us all, better the planet. (Assuming I don’t continue to
waste my time in pointless experiments. But if we
could
find
a way to practically restructure matter…)

I have no taste for human violence, as I have no
taste for human affairs, social or political. I barely tolerate the
company of my own, and only do so when required. (I expect that’s
why I chose such a cerebral career path, one that agreed with my
preferences for solitude.)

So I consider any emotional triggers that I’m
experiencing now to be a disorder, interfering with my functioning,
causing me pointless distress. I realize this disorder may well be
genetic, as I apparently had and father and have a brother
afflicted with enough empathy for strangers to cost them their
lives, and I’ve inherited just enough of this curse to make me
request this useless journey.

I turn to leave, and find it difficult to do so.

But then the airlock slams shut in front of me, and
the panels go bright with alarms.

“We’re being hacked,” Sung announces, with more
urgency than I’ve ever heard out of him. “It’s coming in on our own
network… Someone’s accessed our implants.”

Council White materializes as a holographic avatar
almost on top of me. I have to back up a step to see him.

“Source?” he asks directly, but I can hear an edge in
his voice as well.

“Local,” Guerrero reports. “Short range personal
link. The rest of the network is unaffected. They’re using us as an
access point.”

“Can you block it?”

“It’s weaving through our firewalls.” Sung is getting
overwhelmed. “I’ve never seen code like this. I don’t think we can
block it.”

“Shut it down,” Council orders. “Shut down the
network.”

We’ll be cut off, unable to communicate with anyone
beyond this Station.

“I’ll use an off-network link to warn the other
Stations,” Council decides. That will make us all blind, deaf and
mute. But the alternative… If someone could gain control of our
Stations, they could sabotage our terraforming operations, even
shut down the Atmosphere Net.

“Can you identify the source?” Council wants to know,
possibly hoping for a practical fix.

It takes the technicians a few seconds to analyze the
code, check it against local files. Sung and Guerrero then turn in
their chairs as one, turn to look at
me
as if this is my
fault, stony faces hiding none of their anger.

“It’s Erickson Carter.”

Without the customary wait for a pre-consultation, I
am escorted into the Council Chamber. But there is only one Council
present—White, in physical presence—because the others cannot be
here without the network.

But he doesn’t say anything to me. He just stands
there, faceless behind his helmet. Making me speak first.

“We have his general location from the ping before we
shut down. We can go after him. Find him.”

“And destroy him, if his technology is too badly
compromised?” Council confronts.

“If necessary,” I impress myself by answering without
much hesitation. “He… He may already be dead. Given what we’ve seen
today, it’s likely Chang that has him. And Chang would only want
his technology.”

“To use against us,” Council agrees. “He would gain
control over all life on this planet. Including the raw resources
that Earth needs to operate here.”

“Then we need to do whatever is necessary,” I insist,
as if the decision is mine, as if it hasn’t already been made. I
realize the Council is granting me some small comfort by including
me in this discussion at all. Or perhaps the comfort is his, having
me somehow absolve him for ordering my brother’s execution.

“I will brief a Guardian team.”

“I want to go,” I blurt out. (My disorder, rearing
its head.)

I can’t see the Council’s reaction, but I expect my
face betrays my own storm of conflicting emotions, chipping away at
anything resembling reason.

“You have no training,” the Council lists my
shortcomings for me (though at least he does it gently), as if
trying to help me restore my objectivity. “I’ve reviewed your file.
You have never, according to record, even been outside. You have
certainly never experienced a verdant environment first hand. You
have no practical experience with our field Tools.”

“I would be vulnerable,” I agree. And then my
disorder takes me again: “But I would have the protection of the
team. If my brother is somehow complacent in whatever’s happened to
him, if he remains reluctant to return, I may be able to convince
him, to salvage him.”

Now I receive the expected Council treatment: White
becomes still, unresponsive, likely communicating on a closed
channel, considering his options, sending orders. (This would
usually be the time he would be in communication with the rest of
the Council. I wonder if it unsettles him to be making his
decisions alone, without consultation or vote.)

We don’t have the time for this. Chang—or one of his
fellow monsters—has my brother. Unless we shut down whatever means
he’s using to hack his implants, we’ll remain in network shut down,
and that’s assuming he doesn’t manage to hack his way through
anyway. I’m sure Council White is processing all of these issues,
but I need to push.

“Would you stop me if I tried to leave?”

This gets his attention, at least in terms of making
his helmeted head swivel to lock on me. I don’t get a verbal reply
for several more tense seconds, but finally:

“Airlock Six. A team will be waiting for you. Go
quickly.”

When I get to the staging area, I discover that the
Council’s idea of a “team” is only three White sealsuits with
standard unmodified Field Tools. They take the time to fit my suit
with an “apprentice” model supplemental heater and oxygen
processor. I do not get any Tools of my own.

As we step into the lock, my red suit is a glaring
contrast to their pristine white ones. I expect mine is the better
camouflage, if only slightly. Sealed in my helmet, I get the barest
sensation of the lock pressure equalizing with the outside, and
then the blast hatch opens.

I see daylight first-hand for the first time, and it
makes me hesitate as the others step out ahead of me. Not wanting
to lag, I step onto the access deck. The winds push against my
suit. My boots grind sand into the steel grid. The open valley
before me… I feel a sudden rush of vertigo… all this space… no
walls…

I feel a hand on my shoulder, one of the Guardians
reading my distress in my body language. The shock of physical
contact steadies me. I feel sick, but I feel more like an idiot, a
child. Fragile. Weak.
I’m better than this.
I wave the hand
away, make myself step closer to the edge of the deck. My reaction
is just a glitch in my vestibulo-ocular reflex. I am standing on a
solid surface. I look down, see the slope drop thousands of meters
down and out into the green of the valley basin. The deck feels
like it’s tipping. I plant my feet, lock my eyes on the horizon,
call up a pertinent graphic to focus on:

The Technicians managed to triangulate a rough origin
for the hack signal, approximately eleven kilometers
east-northeast, but that’s on the far side of the crater sink,
Chang’s base.

Two of the Guardians take me by either arm, draw
Rods, and as soon as I’m set in their grip, they propel us into the
air.

The next several minutes are spent in
stomach-dropping hops down the slope. My escorts are being careful
not to gain too much altitude in order to minimize our chances of
being seen, but that means our thrusts and drops are much more
frequent. Still, I’m surprised how quickly I get used to the
wave-like flight.

We’ve come down along the north side of the ridgeline
that separates the western “tips” of the North and Central Blades,
hoping that will keep our descent out of Chang’s view. On my
graphic map, I realize our straightest course will take us almost
directly toward where we’ve been registering weapons’ fire. I
wonder if my companions will attempt to intervene, taking advantage
of their permission to move out in the world, even if it deviates
from our urgent mission. (And what will I do if they try such a
foolish act of insubordination? What can I do, other than go along
with them?)

The terrain steadily shifts from barren rocky drop to
shrub-studded base slope to forest-density overgrowth, and we set
down. I embarrass myself almost immediately by slipping and
stumbling on the rocky ground. I feel a pang of deep regret—I
really don’t want to be here, be out here. The chaos of the
environment makes me deeply uncomfortable. I knew it would not be
the ordered world I am used to, clean surfaces, logical arrangement
without clutter. But even the larger gardens didn’t have this kind
of randomness and entropy—the plant matter that has died simply
lies where it falls, or is slave to the winds until it finds a
place to decay. There are layers of it in places so thick I can’t
see the regolith underneath, and it’s slick and treacherous to walk
on, disturbingly inconsistent, spongy. Rot and debris is sticking
to my boots—it won’t shake off like the dust. I’m thankful for my
mask—I can only imagine what it must smell like.

“We need to walk from here,” my companions speak
their first words to me, and we fall into a line: Two ahead of me,
one behind. The lead Guardian pushes aside the greenery with a
low-power pressor field to make our passage somewhat easier.

Despite my nanites’ best efforts, I tire easily, by
leg muscles aching, my lungs burning, my boot-soles hopelessly
caked with compost. Of course, my companions don’t appear fatigued
at all, keeping up a brisk pace despite the density of the growth
and the uneven terrain.

Our progress seems interminably slow, at least as
viewed on my maps. Looking behind me, I can barely see the slopes
we came down from. And it strikes me in the pit of my gut how far I
am from home. My rooms. My labs. A proper shower and a meal and a
neat, clean bed. (What happens if we’re out here past nightfall?
How do we sleep? How do we bathe? At least my nanites can take
temporary care of waste elimination—I can’t imagine attempting to
defecate…)

If my escorts are aware of my distress, they do me
the courtesy of ignoring it. Pity would make this whole experience
exponentially more unbearable. I wonder how much they must be
slowing their own pace for my benefit.

In the distance ahead of us, I hear intermittent
bursts of gunfire, interspersed with the deeper booms of
explosives. It sounds like some kind of protracted siege: silence
falls, suggesting the violence is done, only for it to start up
again, over and over. I realize it’s been about forty minutes since
I first observed the signs of fighting from Ops.

Then I almost run into the suit ahead of me. The one
ahead of him has stopped us still, holding up a hand that he curls
into a fist. He crouches, as do the others. I mimic them.

The lead two exchange gestures, pointing in various
directions through the brush. I see nothing but thick growth
despite having similar ocular modifications. The only movement and
sound comes from a gentle wind across the growth canopy above us,
raining down the occasional loose leaf. I try my infrared, my
parabolics. I think I can hear a low humming…

The Guardian behind me suddenly shoves me to the
side, toppling me into the undergrowth and decay. He’s got a Sphere
field around us, Rod in his other hand. The others have done the
same.

There’s a sudden rushing sound, and something big
comes at us through the brush, slamming into our lead field,
thrashing. Then another joins it. I recognize them as “Bug” robots:
bigger than a man, six jointed blade-tipped limbs, a
three-sectioned body and an armored sensor “head” on each end. They
struggle and tumble against the fields, trying to push through,
their materials resisting disintegration. The Guardians strike back
at them with their Rods, battering them, starting to break…