The God Mars Book Two: Lost Worlds (42 page)

“Thank you again for coming, Council,” I feel
obligated to repeat, offering him a chair centered on the window
side of the table so that he’ll have the landscape of Mars visible
behind him, including the bluer sky that he and his people have
worked all these decades to provide us.

He gives me a nod, his expression reminding me he
isn’t here for my benefit. It’s a real planetary threat (or what
may now be an
interplanetary
threat) that brings him out
into the dust and human smells. Then he does something even more
impressive: he takes off his gloves, folding his bare hands in
front of him on the table top as he settles. (Watching very
closely, I think I catch a fraction of a second’s uncertain
reflexive discomfort: his hands touch the table, recoil very
slightly, then settle and stay put with what looks like the effort
of will.)

Helmet and gloves off, he looks remarkably normal,
plain, like any scientist in his late thirties who keeps himself
reasonably fit and professionally groomed. What will damn him is
that he looks pretty much exactly like he does in the file images
from fifty years ago. (At least his son—a young boy at that
time—has no unsettling Dorian Gray image files to show his lack of
aging.)

Kastl gets the uplink open as the rest of us sit
down, Paul on his father’s left and me on his right. To fill out
the table, I chose to have Anton, Rick, Tru, and Doc Halley join
us; a mix of science, medicine and conscience. The only soldiers at
the table will be me and John Wayne Sutter (who’s become our
indefinite Knight-in-Residence, though he’s chosen to wear a plain
UNMAC uniform for this show).

Kastl reminds us there will be an awkward two-stage
delay, as it will take twenty minutes to transmit to Earth, but our
incoming relief is now only just over five minutes transmission
time from us. This is one time I’m glad the ETE have such glacial
patience.

We all get seated, try to look like this doesn’t have
the potential to go very bad very quickly. After asking our guests
if they’re ready, I give Kastl the signal to start recording. I
make my introduction:

“To the people of Earth, esteemed delegates of the
United Nations, and my U.N.M.A.C. commanders, I’d like to introduce
Doctor Mark Stilson, Chief Atmosphere Scientist and governing
Council member of the on-planet Environmental Terraforming
Enterprises…”

Stilson nods with polite serenity, and addresses the
primary camera evenly:

“Greetings to you all, and my thanks to Colonel Ram
for giving me this forum to speak with you. While I understand you
have your reasons not to trust me or my people, reasons to fear us,
I wish to assure you once again that our only priority is creating
and maintaining an environment on this planet viable for
all
the people that live here, and for all the people that
will
live here. I hope that is a priority you can also appreciate,
despite how you may feel about our methods. Perhaps in time, we can
earn your trust.

“But now there is a pressing threat to what all my
fellows and our children have worked and sacrificed for. It would
be easy to see Syan Chang as simply a threat to
our
technology, which he has made clear he intends to eliminate by any
means necessary. Those of you that fear us may sympathize with his
cause. But he has also clearly threatened your fellows on this
planet, proved his intention to prevent you from establishing any
relief operations, and worse: he has shown that he is willing to
threaten or exploit
all
human populations on this
planet.”

His voice stays pretty even, his face calm, but I’ve
heard him speak enough times to recognize an edge. He’s upset by
what his people have just discovered, what he’s come here to tell.
I wonder if he would present better if he sounded as shaken as I
expect he is.

“I have come here today to share with you our most
recent findings, and to show you what ‘any means necessary’
apparently means to this single-minded monster.”

Paul feeds the files he’s brought with him to our
screens, and Kastl splices them into the upload. It starts with
multiple videos of familiar sights: the Zodangan canyon, their
empty caves. Then it looks like other places I’ve seen: dozens upon
dozens bodies laid out in neat rows of post-mortem respect,
anonymous but fresh. Men, women, children. Then pictures of how
they were found, scattered on the floors of stone chambers, looking
like they’d been packed in where they died, or huddled
together.

“We discovered this atrocity and more as we explored
the abandoned Zodangan stronghold. Our action against Nina Harper,
who calls herself Brimstone, did not do this. It appears the
Zodangans did—we just don’t know if by choice or under duress. When
the complex was evacuated, they took everything of value, including
the atmosphere seals and heaters. These people all suffocated and
froze. It would be like leaving them just below the summit of Mount
Everest unprotected. My people have recovered one hundred and
twenty-three bodies so far. Examinations show a mix of advanced
age, chronic infirmity, physical disability, even recent
injury…”

They took everything of value, left the rest.
Apparently that applied to their own people as well.

“We found seventeen more bodies when we started to
excavate the collapsed Zodangan mines…”

More bodies laid out, these thickly crusted with
ruddy Martian dirt. Some look visibly crushed.

“This was likely to result of dangerously rushed
mining operations, as the Zodangans, or Chang, pushed completion of
whatever they are working on. But what we found at the site of
Frontier Colony was even more disturbing…”

The video show shifts again to things I’ve already
seen: the freshly excavated craters where the PK colony used to be.
All that’s left are bulldozed piles of shattered concrete, stripped
of the reinforcing metals, and—like Zodanga—assorted junk. It
reminds me of a sloppy job of building demolition, assuming the
buildings had extensive sub-basements.

But then we see another pit, and—at least for
me—another too-familiar sight from a past I hoped had been left to
history:

The ETE have found a mass grave.

“One hundred and forty bodies so far,” Stilson
details heavily. “At least they took the time to bury them, even if
it was with bulldozers, though probably less out of respect than to
hide their crimes. Like the Zodangan atrocity, the casualties are a
mix of adults and children, but not all appear sick or disabled.
They look like workers, laborers, bearing the physiological scars
of poor diet and hard living, including exposure to solar
radiation, extreme cold and low atmospheric pressure. Several were
amputees, wearing homemade prosthetics. Unlike the bodies at
Zodanga, these souls did not succumb to the elements. A handful had
gunshot wounds, and a few more had been beaten to death. We
estimate these died first, possibly punitively or as examples to
their fellows, likely over a period of weeks. The rest all seem to
have died on the same day—within the last week—and these had the
questionable mercy of having their throats cut. Or maybe their
murders simply didn’t want to spare the bullets.”

He lets us digest it as best we can. I’m regretting
having non-soldiers at the table. (But then, the Stilsons—the
ETE—aren’t soldiers either. They’re supposed to be scientists.)

Rick has been in this life with me long enough that
this isn’t new to him, but I can see it sicken him. And I know Tru
has seen tragedy and atrocity in her time on Mars—much of it
inflicted on people she knew personally—but certainly (thankfully)
nothing of this scale; she looks shaken, pale, and I see that
specific flavor of rage that comes with being helpless. Halley just
shakes her head, mouth slack, eyes lost in the screens. Anton looks
like he’s about to boil.

Sutter, for his part, keeps his anger locked down.
But when I catch his gaze, I don’t think he’s terribly surprised by
this news. I remember how Grandmaster Kendricks described what they
knew of the PK, how they allegedly devalued their non-military
personnel (and military status is apparently a birthright).

I feel my own programming kick in hard. Old triggers.
Old drives. I would make war on these monsters. I would slaughter
them.

But I need to be better than that on this planet.

“This horror isn’t the only reason I have chosen to
address you today,” Stilson continues after a long, difficult
silence, sounding like it’s taking some effort to settle his own
voice. The screens shift from death to mystery: the huge
rectangular imprint in the regolith next to the now-missing
Frontier Colony. “We may have more pressing priorities than
justice. The reckless mining and the stripping of the colony would
have produced far more raw materials than it would take to make a
fleet of the aircraft we have seen so far. This imprint measures
two hundred and fifty by twenty five meters. The depth and soil
compression indicates a mass equivalent to five thousand tons
weight at one Earth gravity. The soil has been exposed to
significant levels of electromagnetic radiation, similar to what
was detected from the lift system of the ship Chang used to attack
this base, only exponentially more powerful.

“The soil around the imprint shows extensive foot and
small vehicle traffic, and is littered with signs of construction
cast-off. There is also trace radiation that may explain what
happened to the colony reactors.” His video presentation zooms and
highlights, feeding us a wealth of information. “There are traces
of solid rocket fuel, as well as these unusual blast-patterns…”

Barely visible until enhanced, they blossom out from
the edges of the rectangle and various points.

“My impression is that they may have tested the
integrity of whatever they built by bombarding it with what they
expect to face.”

They made something bigger than a naval destroyer,
and then made sure it could survive our weapons.

“As you can see, there are no drag-marks, no sign
that whatever this is was moved overland. The soil compression
would be difficult to create without something of that mass
actually resting there.”

It’s not a hoax to distract or intimidate us. And it
flew
out of there.

Stilson lets the images flow in silence for several
seconds before he starts speaking again. This time, his words sound
even more measured.

“Given the time delay before reply, for the sake of
expedience I will address what I expect your most obvious rebuttals
to be:

“Some of you may believe we faked the images and
data. You have your own people on planet. It would be simple enough
to fly them out to the sites in question, let them do their own
investigations. The evidence remains intact and in place as it was
found, except for the bodies, which we have yet to respectfully
bury. And because we anticipated your doubts, we have held off on
burying the dead—a difficult and unpopular decision, I assure
you.”

He breathes. I see his fingers squeeze tighter
together on the table top.

“A few of you may even attempt to claim that we
committed these atrocities ourselves, to further some sinister
agenda. I would hope that your interactions with us to date—the
experiences of your own good people on this planet—have given you
no reason to believe us to be capable of casual mass-murder. But if
that is your unshakable belief, then we have nothing further to
discuss.

“I thank you again for agreeing to hear me, and hope
that we can work together for the sake of the future of this
planet, for the sake of us all.”

I nod to Kastl to end the recording and upload
everything.

Then we wait.

“Can we get you anything?” I offer, fully expecting
to be turned down. Stilson takes a long, shuddering breath, and
surprises me:

“Do you have any coffee left?”

We don’t speak much in the interim. I think we’re all
still in varying degrees of shock and rage over what we’ve seen,
and spinning our brains on what we expect Earthside to say. Sadly,
I think we all expect some version of what Stilson preemptively
countered: That UNCORT, or some other extremist faction, will try
to claim that the ETE are the villains here, that they are the true
masters of the Discs and all of this has been staged because
whatever they attempted to accomplish with the Apocalypse is
threatening to be undone.

I take the opportunity to discreetly check on our
other
target audience: I had Rios provide screens to our
makeshift POW camp. I wanted the pirates and the PK to see what
they’d missed during their captivity. I want them to know what
they’re going back to when we release them.

As usual, they’re a disciplined and stoic lot when
they know they’re being watched, so I try to read the subtle cues
that sheer willpower can’t always suppress. They tense. They
fidget. I see their eyes dart to one another, and barely visible
head shakes. And on a few I see pain, horror, rage, shame.

They don’t believe. They won’t believe. But they
doubt.

I think I see the most out of them when the ETE show
them close-ups of the bodies, show them what’s left of people they
probably knew.

The pirates look like they’re having the hardest time
containing themselves. Maybe they’re seeing comrades, maybe family.
Parents. Siblings. Spouses. Children. Maybe they knew it was
coming. Maybe they hoped it really wasn’t. Or maybe they were kept
in the dark while they were sent off to war, their loved-ones
murdered while they were away and unable to help, unable to save
anyone. Or maybe I’m just reading in what
I
want to
believe.

The PK look icier, which gives veracity to the brutal
separation of their social castes. Not all, though (or maybe that’s
what I want to believe). I zoom in on Straker. She looks like she’s
been made an unwilling party to horror. I know that look very
well.