The God Mars Book Four: Live Blades (30 page)

“They know that,” Azrael insists. “Just like they
know what you’ve done for them. You need to take the next
step.”

“Bly’s right,” Ram agrees heavily. “We can’t.”

“As antisocial as ever, I see,” Azrael teases
him.

Ram suddenly turns with a jerk to face Azrael. His
mouth works, but no words come out. He’s stunned, flummoxed.

“Hello, old friend,” Azrael greets him easily. “You
look… different. But then, I can’t say I’m not showing the
miles.”

He peels away his mask and cowl. The skin and hair
has been burned away from half of his head and neck, revealing
metal and thick hose-like cables. He’s a
machine
, some kind
of android. All this time. I realize: my blade knew.

“You’re usually not so speechless,” Azrael nudges
Ram, who’s still in dumb shock. Bel steps up to him, curious,
fascinated.

“My blade…” Elias finds words. “It called him The
Ancestor.”

“That’s because we’re both AI,” Azrael tells him.
“Though what
they
are is impressively beyond me. I suppose
that makes me an antique to them, a relic of their history. Quaint,
even.”

“
Dee
?” Ram finally manages to speak again.

“Short version: Been here since the Eco problem.
Thought you could use a little help. Didn’t have a chance to call
you before the Bang, sorry, but then I was too busy trying to
deflect a nuclear extermination. Then I was a bit fried. Now I’m
better. The end.”

I think I actually see tears form in Ram’s eyes. They
do
know each other.

“And you… You’re a bit like me now,” Azrael tells him
with a smile.

“It’s… It’s been an experience…”

“I expect so, though I have no frame of
reference.”

“You’re Dee?” Bel asks in awe. “
The
Dee?”

“Well,
a
Dee,” Azrael corrects. “Catch up
later. Our new friends are offering to feed you. As in make you
lunch.”

“Where’s Wei?” Jak demands.

“The good Specialist is safely on his way back to
your Mobile Command Post with a Pax escort,” Azrael assures her.
Then, almost as an afterthought, he puts his cowl back on, hiding
his exposed machinery.

“I think we can fix that for you,” Bel offers.

“I’d like that. Thank you.”

A delegation of Pax, including the one in the Green
Man mask, leads us deeper into the canyon. They still haven’t
spoken to us, and we let Colonel Ram take the lead. He maintains
the silence, communicating with our hosts only in respectful nods
and little bows. Our weapons have been sheathed and shouldered,
while theirs remain in hand but lowered. (Sheathing my blade was a
definite act of will. Funny: It’s made itself a scabbard, but
doesn’t want to be in it.)

I’m certainly grateful that they haven’t demanded we
surrender our weapons—I’m not sure that I could, that the sword
would let me, and that would have provoked another fight (which my
blade would have been very happy to oblige).

Either slope of the canyon, like their defensive
wall, is lined with green-suited and masked fighters, watching over
us as we pass. The canyon floor beyond the “gate” starts scrubby
and laced with vine, but the growth gets lusher as we go deeper and
the canyon begins to narrow. I begin to see signs—barely
visible—that may be cave entrances all along the steep rocky canyon
slopes, perhaps a well-hidden village.

Ram, Bel and Azrael continue to walk at the head of
our group, followed by our Normal members, while we three sword
“hosts” bring up the rear, along with Bly who has begrudgingly
joined us—Jak walks by his side. I begin to sense a kind of silent
conversation—signals passing between Ram and Azrael on a closed
link—and I get flashes of memory, as if they’re sharing their
stories, “catching up”.

It’s as I’m trying to eavesdrop that I notice my
vision has enhanced the two alt-world immortals—Ram and Bel—as if
targeting them.

“BEWARE THE SERVANTS OF THE TETRAGRAMMATON.”

I glance at Elias. He appears to have received the
same internal message. A look back at Jak confirms that she did as
well.

I have no idea what the message means, no idea what a
“Tetragrammaton” might be, but I feel a fresh urge to draw my
blade, if only for a moment.

The green gets forest-dense again toward the dead end
of the canyon. We lose sight of the slopes (and watchers) around
us. Our guides weave us through the trees and vines. The growth
gives way to overgrown rocks, a head-high and higher maze of
winding crags so narrow we must pass single-file. I see some of the
Pax moving almost effortlessly above us, pacing us easily despite
the sharp treacherous crests of the maze “walls”, scurrying
smoothly and nearly silently from rock to rock. Ahead of us, I see
the terraced cliffs of the canyon terminus, and catch glimpses of
caves that must be manmade in their neat geometry, like the pillbox
slits of bunkers, only tall enough for a man to stand up in (and
men do: scores of green suited and masked warriors are arrayed in
the wide rectangular openings, waiting to receive us). The caves
are all artfully fit into the terraces and layered rock—from space,
the cliffs likely appear solid, the caves invisible.

Several hundred people could live here, secure. The
maze-approach provides an effective delay to potential invaders (at
least human ones—I doubt they considered the need to face Fohat’s
nightmare creations). And the defenders can fire or drop stones
down on anyone approaching at their leisure. I even expect the maze
walls themselves can be toppled to block the approaches if need
be.

The winding corridor takes us up-slope and out of
daylight, into one of the wide, low-ceiling caves. They do look
like they’d been cut from the mountain, but they don’t show the
usual telltale scars of mining equipment. This all may have been
excavated by hand. The surfaces show weathering and oxidation that
tells me they’re old, maybe decades.

The only light is what spills in the cave mouths,
supplemented by a few small hand-cut vents—skylights—that
ingeniously radiate beams of sunshine onto polished metal mirrors
to diffuse it. The interior of the cave we’re in looks like a mass
campsite rather than a permanent residence: there are stacks of
supplies, survival equipment, bedrolls. I see what look like
families cowering back into the shadows as we pass.

I notice there’s no kind of airlock or atmosphere
seal, and I haven’t seen any sign of the Pax warriors wearing
breather gear. They may be acclimated like the Katar.

The rock smells moist, water-rich, but I also smell
the musk of people living in close quarters despite best hygiene
efforts, something I recognize from the hospitality of Nomad
shelters. And then a new scent suddenly hits us: something smoky
that I don’t recognize. It’s like burning plant matter and burning
flesh—smells I now know too well from battle—but not quite. I
wonder if the machines managed to attack here in this cave
sanctuary, but I see no obvious signs of a fight.

A handful of the green-suited fighters line up in
front of us, then peel off their painted metal masks. This confirms
that, like Terina and her father, they don’t wear breathers, don’t
seem to need them. There are three males and two females in the
party. Their features remind me somewhat of the Katar I’ve met:
sharp cheekbones, thin lips, broad nostrils, thick-lidded eyes.
Their skin is weathered and shows the etching of years of capillary
rupture and too much UV, tone varying from pale to deeply tanned.
The males have short-trimmed beards. Also like the Katar, they have
oversized torsos and are otherwise very slim, though they are not
as tall as Terina or her father.

The Green-Man-Mask steps through them to greet us.
When he removes his mask, he looks some years older than the
others, his skin more leathery, his beard frosted gray, his eyes
dark and intense.

“Gaius Archer.” I assume that’s his name. His voice
is deep and rough and confident. He offers his hand to Ram, who
steps forward and reciprocates, the two grasping forearms.

“Michael. Ram.” He says it as if he’s uncomfortable
with his own name.

“Also known as the Ragnarok,” Bel qualifies. Ram
seems to flinch.

“The great Peacemaker of the Eco War,” Stilson adds
better credentials. “From before the Apocalypse.”

This news is received with a stunned silence, glances
back-and-forth between our hosts. They look to Ram for confirmation
of this wild tale, and he nods.

“We were in chemical hibernation for fifty Earth
years, buried by the bombing,” he explains his existence.

“And then stuff happened,” Bel downplays. “But it’s
him.”

They seem to accept the revelation, half-bow in
respect. Apparently the name and reputation of Mike Ram has been
kept alive in their history for the generations he was asleep. I
expect it’s known by many of the survivor descendants. (And I
expect many new legends will be spun, especially now that he’s
become so much more than he was then, including immortal.)

“Belial,” Ram introduces his friend back. “Shaitan.”
Bel grins wryly, despite what his surname translates as. “And this
is Doctor Paul Stilson, Blue Team ETE.”

“Former,” Paul corrects with an edge. He glances back
at Elias and I, as if he’s expecting some kind of challenge or
argument, but only briefly. I notice he’s been otherwise ignoring
the two of us—I’m not sure if we somehow offend him or he’s
reluctant to engage with those he’s separated himself from.

Then Ram proceeds to introduce “Cain Dee” (Azrael),
Abbas, Ishmael, Rashid, Ambassador Murphy, and the Zauba’a Ghaddar,
finishing with Bly and Jak (who he introduces as “Lieutenant Jak
Straker,” as he seems to know her personally). They already know
Terina, who appears to need no introduction. Then we’re left in an
awkward silence—Elias and I are strangers.

“Erickson Carter, Red Team ETE,” I offer with a
little bow. “From Melas Chasma to the west. This is my brother
Elias.”

Elias is at least being civil. He copies my greeting
bow.

“We owe you life-debt,” Archer tells us all.
“Blood-debt. For today and past days.”

“We may be the
reason
the machines have been
attacking you,” Ram discounts, honestly regretful. “Our enemy is
targeting you to keep us from attacking him directly.”

“He knows we’ll rush to protect the innocent,” Paul
adds grimly. “He counts on it.”

“No,” Archer counters. “Katar war parties were
attacked scouting the Hellmouth when the Black Clothes came in
their airships. Their killing machines began attacking us when we
joined treaty against them and crossed the Boundary. They are
our
enemies, invaders, taking and driving us from our lands,
further and further. Before you. They took the Central Blade from
the Katar—they cannot safely leave their mountain keep. This…” He
gestures around the cave, to the camping families. “This is Last
Line. Hold Keep. Shelter. They have destroyed many of our Steads in
North Blade, entire families. Most of what’s left of us have come
here. Those that tried to hold their homes were slaughtered. By
machines—the Black Clothes are cowards, they will not face us like
men. Only you have stopped them. Without, even this Last would be
lost. Pax would be lost.”

Ram takes that in. I look at the apparent refugees.
There is unimaginable trauma here. They’ve lost their world in a
matter of weeks, along with friends, family. I wonder how many…

“The Black Clothes are not your only enemy,” Stilson
blurts out bitterly.

“Paul…” Ram sounds like he’s trying to stop him from
saying something. He does anyway:

“The Unmakers have returned. They are in a war with
the Black Clothes. The Black Clothes are enemies to us all, but the
Unmakers are not your friends. They have said they will take you
all from your lands. They fear everyone here may carry a
techno-plague. You must continue to hide yourselves, as you have
always done. Only now, they have eyes in orbit, aircraft patrols,
soldiers.”

The mood goes freshly tense. I get the sense that the
Pax suspected this, possibly have seen and recognized UNMAC recon
flights, but the confirmation jars them like the sound of fresh
battle.

Ram feels irritated with Stilson’s impulsiveness, but
holds his tongue, perhaps understanding it. This is not at all the
Paul Stilson I expected to meet: He’s hard, angry, weary. He
carries a gun and he’s quick to use it. I can only imagine what
he’s gone through: Fighting this war, losing his brother, facing
the irrational fear and threats of Earth—of those he defied Council
orders to reach out to, to aid—then leaving his people because of
the decisions of their leaders (our leaders). Yes, my reasons for
being here are similar, but they’re but a shadow of his. Will this
be what I become?

Archer takes Stilson’s advice with a solemn nod. I
see him eyeing Jak—she still wears the uniform of the ancient
enemy. But then he lets it go, probably because she fought to
protect his people, and appears to be a friend of Ram’s.

“Eat with us.”

The meal becomes an unexpected kind of hell.

We’re led to a column of daylight, a large vertical
vent that opens the cavern to sky, where we’re all introduced to
their apparent leader, a white-haired skeleton of a man named Leder
Sower.

He greets us each individually, with honest warmth
and gratitude. Then he invites us to sit at a long cut stone table
in the light of the vent. Several dozen Pax of varying ages turn
out to join us, bowing as they’re introduced. I notice that their
names seem to indicate possible current or generational occupation:
Hunter, Harvester, Carver, Smith, Cook (and words I don’t know how
to apply, like Butcher and Tanner and Shepherd). The apparent
warriors—the ones who wear the metal masks and light armor—have
appropriate names like Lancer, Edge, Dart, Fencer, Longbow, Swift.
They’re an almost even mix of males and females, all lean and
weathered like Archer, ranging (I estimate) from late teens to
Normal middle-age. They wear their masks on their chests, hung from
their necks—I don’t know if this is practicality or symbolic.