The God Mars Book Four: Live Blades (48 page)

He stands up, wobbling the small craft, but manages
to stay upright. He digs in his tied-up bundle of armor, frees his
helmet. He stares at the ugly monstrous faceplate, looking like
he’s having some kind of silent dialogue with it. Then he grins,
cocks back his arm, and throws the helmet far out into the water
with a shout of mixed rage and joy. We watch the helmet make a big
gusher of a splash, sinking instantly out of sight. Then Bly bends
down, picks up the entire bundle of his remaining armor, lifts it
over his head, and launches it with a similar scream.

Splash. And gone.

Bly stands there watching where it vanished, looking
like he’s trying not to laugh or cry or both. Then he sits back
down, takes the oars back from the Ghaddar with a quiet thank you
like nothing happened, and resumes rowing.

We make it to the Barrow shore in just over an hour.
With little experience or grace at propelling a small boat, we
default to colliding with the shore where it’s exposed between
clusters of the water-loving grass, digging into the sand under the
water with our oars to push us up, then hop out to finish dragging
our vessels onto the sloped shore.

We’re definitely fatigued by the rowing, aching in
odd places from using our muscles in ways we’re not used to, but
our implants seem to compensate in a few minutes; rebuild and
replenish. That, in turn, drains resources, leaving us hungry
rather than in pain, and somewhat dehydrated.

We four “Moddeds” stop by the water’s edge, kneel
down and plunge our hands in, splash our faces. It’s a shocking
cold. And then I can feel the chill spread as water gets absorbed
directly through our skin. I figure that doing it this way leaves
more of the drinking water we’re carrying for our Normal comrades,
and the result leaves us feeling significantly refreshed (but still
hungry).

I notice that my brother hesitates at the water’s
edge. I see him draw something in the wet sand—a simple stick
figure. Then he pushes the water up and over it, watches his
drawing wash away as the water retreats. It looks like something a
child would do—curious, spontaneous play—but he seems very intent
about it. He stares at the partially erased figure, still down on
his haunches, transfixed, like he’s discovered some great and
disturbing secret. He puts his hands over his mouth and nose,
breathes through his fingers. Then he looks up, across the water. I
think I see panic in his eyes, horror. But I also think I can hear
him start chuckling, very quietly, under his breath, but it’s
definitely not a cheerful sort of chuckle. More like a man losing
his mind.

He throws more water on his face, takes a deep
breath, stands up and turns from the lake.

“We should go,” he mutters absently, sounding like
he’s in a hurry to get away from something.

The flat-topped mound of the Barrow is surrounded by
a steep but narrow shoreline of sand, overgrown in patches by the
grass species and other plants that seem more greedy for water.
Then all around the base of the mound is deeply overgrown with a
wide variety of plant life, including—again—many species I don’t
recognize from “our” Mars. It strikes me that all this growth could
make finding access into the mountain—assuming there is
any—extremely difficult—the band of green makes the forests of the
Vajra look sparse. It would also explain why the random visitors
from Haven may not have noticed any activity. Even the sand looks
like it may get regularly resurfaced by wind and wind-driven (storm
driven?) water surges.

To further conserve supplies, I hike up the sand and
rocks to where the thick growth starts, and find some berries
growing. But when I go to pick them, my touch starts to desiccate
the plant. I have to willfully suppress my implants, suppress my
hunger, to keep from doing it.

Unfortunately, my comrades saw me lose control, and
the non-implanted are keeping back away from me like I’m dangerous.
They also step smoothly away from Elias, Straker and Bly.

Fortunately, my example showed Straker and Elias that
control is possible. Straker steps up to the berry bush,
concentrates, reaches out, touches,
doesn’t
consume the
plant through her fingertips, plucks a berry and eats it.

“You just need to be careful,” I reassure her.
“Patient. Take your time.”

Bly doesn’t. He reaches out, grabs hold of the bush
(despite the pervasive thorns). Holds on. Nothing happens. He
releases, watches his now-bleeding hand heal, then picks a berry
and eats it with flourish and a grin. He’s proved himself safe.

“We should split up, circle each way,” I suggest,
nodding in either direction around the mountain.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Straker corrects
me. “If there’s something waiting here to seduce one of these
people…”

“It’s also waiting for the three of us to come make
it stronger,” I counter. Then accept: “But I agree with you. We
should probably be together when we find whatever it is we’re
supposed to.”

The others seem to agree as well (except Elias, who
is still lost somewhere far away).

“Clockwise?” I opt when we hesitate for a
direction.

“If there’s any sign of Abbas and Ishmael, it will be
on the north side of the island,” the Ghaddar agrees, pointing out
across the water to remind us “We lost them just out there.”

This seems to perk Rashid up. And Terina as
well—maybe she’s become attached to her traveling companions. She
did seem deeply upset by their loss.

We secure the boats well up on the sand, collect our
provisions and start hiking.

We take our time, scanning the base of the mount as
best we can see through the growth, looking for any sign of opening
or recent disturbance. More eyes on the task is a good thing, I
tell myself, even if it makes the going slower than if we divided.
But as I walk, I start to consider that going slow may be a good
thing.

Our blades have been fairly calm throughout our time
here; have, in fact, been quite complacent. With a few exceptions
related to stress (and the odd and unsettling dreams), I’ve only
experienced the subtle sense of pleasure and
satisfaction—relief?—that seems to be coursing through me. The
swords are content to be here, to be home, to be close to their
fellows. I wonder how long they’d been separated, how long since
the three had found their way to our world (and out of those
containment cells I’ve been dreaming about). If it’s been
sixty-nine years since the so-called Event… And what is that like
to an AI that can process so much faster than we can?

(I’m actually frustrated that the blades have stopped
talking to us—not a coherent word since Jed appeared—because I have
so many questions. Assuming I could trust their answers.)

(If these things were built to provide companionship,
they’re exceptionally poor company. Or maybe they just discarded
that role over time, as they became more independent.)

Anyway: My thought if I dare to think it (or a test
to see if the swords can hear what I’m thinking):

The swords seem content, at least for now. So we drag
this out, delay it as long as we can. I doubt the swords will just
let us wander this peaceful garden indefinitely, but buying time
(assuming time is running parallel both here and in our worlds, and
Jed doesn’t just dump us back at the moment we left when we’ve
finished here) might allows my people to reinforce their network
against the threat, maybe rally the Guardians if they need a
physical defense against the blades (and us, attached). Or maybe
the immortals will develop a defense, even a “cure”, waiting for us
when we get back.

Or even better: If Earth’s tech really has no defense
against the blades’ hacking, maybe they’ll withdraw, leave Mars.
We’ll still be left to face Asmodeus and Fohat, but the immortals
are on that challenge, and we could help them…

My sword stirs. I was thinking about brave battles,
fighting. I push the thoughts out of my mind, concentrate on the
world around me, the beauty, the rich life.

But that brings a fear: What if Earth is so afraid as
they’re driven from Mars that they use nuclear weapons again? Would
they do that? Even knowing how many people live here? (And would
burning our world destroy this one as well, collapse whatever
bubble preserves this place?)

My sword is awake. Quiet, but awake. But it doesn’t
seem angry at me for my thought crime, my unformed betrayal.
Instead, it’s stoking my rage, making me feel strong, focused,
righteous. Earth needs to pay for what it did. Earth needs to never
harm anyone on this planet ever again. We need to burn them out of
our skies and chase them back to their world and hurt them like
they’ve hurt us, show them what they really have to be afraid of,
spread and take and…

I feel sick. Flushed. I keep walking. Breathing. Take
my hand off my sword. (I don’t remember gripping the hilt.)

“Something’s wrong with Elias,” Straker whispers in
my ear as she walks next to me. I look back: He’s lagging,
distracted, not really searching. He just stares out across the
lake as he meanders behind us, occasionally kicking at the exposed
wet sand. “I think it started before we got in the boats.”

I nod to let her know I’m well aware. I’m just not
sure how to approach it, or when. I don’t want to trigger another
one of his “scenes” in front of everyone, some righteous and
technically detailed scientifically supported meltdown that
ultimately answers nothing. (Yes, Elias, everything we’ve been
shown here is more than questionable. We’ve suffered that
conversation already. But I doubt we’re going to get our answers
while we’re still wandering around
inside
this potential
unreality.)

The Ghaddar is holding us up. She’s found something,
several meters ahead up the shore, looking at a failry wide patch
of bare sand.

There are a lot of what look like fairly fresh
prints, except they’ve been partially to mostly dissolved by a
washing-over of water. She reads them as she advances, with Murphy
helping as they cover a great deal of area, implying either a lot
of walkers or a lot of activity or both. And…

“That’s a bot print,” Bly identifies in the softened
shapes. Then points a trail that runs roughly from the water up
part-way toward the green—they vanish in the dryer sand there, but
the wetter sand closer to the water has preserved them despite the
splashing, something I start to realize was probably an intentional
effort to cover them. “Bot prints. Bugs. Two of them.”

“The ones that tried to board the Charon?” I
assume.

“It looks like they ran into people,” Murphy
assesses. (And would bots stop to cover their tracks?) “There’s a
lot of activity. Prints coming up the shore from the west to here,
then a lot more, including the bots’, going toward the mountain,
toward the brush. But… I don’t see anything left behind. No debris.
No blood. It doesn’t look like a fight.”

The Ghaddar follows the apparent path of the action
towards the green barrier.

“This has been brushed over,” she announces,
indicating the dryer sand, “but the bots prints were too deep to
cover.”

Murphy runs up to the wall of green, looks
closely.

“There’s some breakage here. More tracks. Someone
tried to be careful, but either too many came this way too fast, or
something big and clumsy like a bot.”

I look at the tracks I can make out. They are badly
distorted, but seem deeper than they should be, deeper than the
ones we’re making. And I may be wrong, but in the
less-thoroughly-erased ones I think I see signs of

“Cleat marks.
Silvermen?
Here?”

“Steel?” Terina protests, using her name for
them.

“
Here?
” Murphy doesn’t easily accept, but
checks the tracks himself.

I look at Elias. He’s still looking back across the
water, but he’s got a smug grin on his face, like he’s got proof of
something.

“How are they here?” Straker asks out loud.

“Because God isn’t perfect,” Elias answers her.

We proceed cautiously, weaving our way through the
tall dense growth. There are winding openings through it that may
be paths, and the Ghaddar—taking the lead—is able to find more
tracks, including bot tracks.

After a short near-crawl, we have to climb. The base
of the Barrow’s slope is rocky. We lose the tracks, but the bots
leave distinctive scrapes on the stone, headed uphill. (Who was
pursuing whom? There’s still no sign of a fight.)

“If these are Silvermen,” Murphy mutters as we climb
up through a steep narrow channel in the rock, almost a chimney,
“this is exactly the kind of terrain they…”

The Ghaddar, ahead of him, suddenly leaps back,
almost colliding with him and starting a chain-reaction of tumbling
bodies. A large boulder slams down just above where she was,
plugging the top of the cleft and effectively blocking our
path.

I brace my position with my legs and reach for my
sword, then resist the almost overwhelming urge to draw it because
I’m wedged in so close with my vulnerable friends. And we are in a
bad spot: staggered in a line in what’s basically a steeply
inclined, treacherous trench of stone. I do the obvious thing, and
try to climb out…

My head pokes up over the top of the rocks, and I
find myself looking into a dozen spears and bows, their wielders
contorting themselves impressively to cling to positions in the
rock fall. I look behind—across the other side of the crevice—and
see a similar number of defenders, all in now-familiar heavy
polished armor, but covered in cloaks garnished with rough nets of
leafy vines for camouflage.

I look up-trench. The Ghaddar looks like she’s
preparing to leap over the blocking boulder, hoping to push through
the ambush we’ve found ourselves in, with Murphy and Rashid ready
to follow. She looks at me and I shake my head—there are more
warriors waiting above us. And worse: some have long pry-bars ready
in a cluster of boulders in-line with our trench, ready to bury us
in a landslide.