The God Mars Book Three: The Devil You Are (12 page)

“Life will out,” I let him know it’s inevitable. “The
planet is greening, terraforming. I’m sure you’ve noticed. And not
long until you’re all outside, unless you get some repairs done,
and it doesn’t look like you have the parts. But I’m here because
you have more pressing problems.”

“You’ve come to threaten us?” Murphy starts to lose
his diplomacy.

“I’ve come to help. Though I’ve been reconsidering
since I’ve been reading your records. Do you really kick your own
people outside, then hunt them?”

I realize what I must sound like: smug, superior.
Probably worse than an ETE.

“You don’t know us,” Murphy defends.

“You said ‘hello’ by shooting me in the head. Twice.”
I can’t seem to stop being a prick.

“You look fine to me,” Palmer digs me back.

“What are you?” Murphy gets us back on track.

“I heard you talking, about things you’ve seen in the
sky,” I change the subject. “Maybe UNMAC aircraft, back after all
these years? And something a lot bigger? Or unexplained
storms?”

The H-Ks look nervous. I’ve assumed correctly.

“Unmakers, yes,” Murphy confirms. “Three weeks now.
And twice several months before that: the Cast chewed up a scout
team, chased them off with losses. We collected two bodies.”

The needless tragedy I was forced to order flashes
back whether I want to see it or not. But right now I need to let
that go. I’m trying to prevent a repeat, or something much
worse.

“And the DNA matched your system’s records for men
who should have been dead fifty years ago. Like me.”

This seems to unsettle them, probably has been
disturbing them since they identified our fallen troopers.

“But they
were
dead,” Palmer throws back.
“Unlike you.”

“Like I said: Long story. You might want to get
comfortable. And I would like to get to know you, if you’ll let
me.”

They don’t reply. Instead, they all turn and look
into the lenses of the chamber’s sentry array. Wait.

“CONFIRM,” a soft drone of a voice comes out of
everywhere. “ESCORT PRISONER. STANDARD TEAM. H-E LOAD. DESTINATION:
TOWN HALL. H-K OPERATIONAL ASSESSMENT: NO PENALTY: M-7. NO PENALTY:
P-6.”

Whatever the last bit was, it seems to raise a weight
off of Murphy and Palmer.

The sealed door to the Iso unlocks.

I get led by Murphy, Palmer and another intimidating
H-K suit. Murphy and the other man took the time to switch the ammo
in their revolvers for another loading, probably the high explosive
rounds Palmer prepped himself with. I wonder what’s happened over
the years between them and the ETE—or someone more dangerous—to
require such a load as standard carry. (The ETE never mentioned
trouble with the H-K, instead excusing their avoidance of the
colony as a desire to avoid unnecessary violence with the “wild
people”—the Cast—who control the Lower Dome. Either they’ve been
hiding a darker chapter in their custodianship of the planet, or it
happened too long ago to be deemed worth mentioning. But the H-K
still carry penetrating explosives.)

We don’t go back the way we came. Instead, I get
escorted deeper into the facility, down a long corridor
that—according to Gardener’s droning announcements—has been cleared
for my passage. Then we take a cargo-sized elevator up several
levels.

We’re going to the Upper Dome.

The Upper Dome was and still is primarily housing:
bright, efficient little apartments stacked in balconied terraces
all around the inside of the stadium-sized space. The roof arching
over us has been similarly patched and reinforced. The light here
is warmer, more sun-like. There are gardens and small groves of
trees—Earth species, not just hybrids, all well cared for—and what
I can only describe as a park-like space down in the center:
flowers, grass and shrubs landscaped into a tea garden aesthetic.
The far side of the dome, like the one we just came from, is
dominated by an operations ziggurat, all clean steel and white
ceramic. There is a large pavilion in front of it, in the middle of
the park. It looks like it’s actually made out of hardwood, walled
by sliding screens, all very neo-Japanese, moated by neat-kept Zen
sand and rock gardens. (I wonder what the Shinkyo would think of
it.)

What there isn’t: people. Still hacked into Gardener,
I can hear a silent alarm—a signal patched into every room, into
every personal Link. It’s a curfew warning, an order to stay locked
down and indoors. Away from me, whatever threat I may pose.

We cross a well-traveled stone path and step up into
the pavilion. I almost expect them to gesture me to take off my
boots before entering, but apparently that’s not a requirement (or
maybe this is just special circumstance).

There are long tables and benches inside, enough for
a few hundred people, at least all of the adult residents on
Gardener’s roster. At the far wall is a long bar of a table, behind
which are rows of tall-backed seats, like a tribunal or a
parliament. I count fifty of these chairs, each one marked with a
Tranquility Colony logo.

“Council Gallery,” Murphy tells me. “The ten H-K
families serve as representatives of the population, each one of us
serving armed, and assigned a share of Protecteds from the current
roles. We advocate for them, judge infractions and performance
values, make final decisions on Casting.”

No civilian government, just gunmen.

“I thought Gardener decided such things,” I try not
to sound as judgmental as I can’t help being.

“Gardener does,” Palmer pipes in icily. “The numbers
are absolute. If an H-K argues to save a Protected, another must be
chosen, or the whole suffers.”

Murphy nods heavily. It feels like the duty weighs on
him.

“Sit.” Palmer brings a chair and almost slams it down
facing the H-K seating.

“What happened to the original colony
administrators?” I try to sound innocent as I ask. “I remember
meeting them. Scientists. Idealists.”

“Their descendents still serve,” Murphy explains with
some hesitation, like he’s trying to be delicate. Palmer looks on
edge, like he’s nervous about what his partner will say, as if it
will cost his “score” as well.

“Scientists were not up to protecting the colony,
making the necessary decisions,” Palmer takes over, sounding like
he’s inherited no love for the colony founders (or he’s defending
some current dogma). “Gardener agreed: Only the serving H-K can
protect the colony.”

“But Gardener makes the necessary decisions,” I
distill.

“The numbers are absolute,” Palmer repeats the
mantra. “Only Gardener can process all factors. Only Gardener can
calculate the full needs of the colony.”

“So the H-K mostly just enforce Gardener’s
decisions,” I extrapolate.

I’m beginning to get a sense of what happened
here.

“The scientists—the administrators—couldn’t make the
difficult decisions necessary for the survival of the largest
number,” I process out loud, to see if I’m corrected. “They let the
AI do it for them, then entrusted the H-K security force to carry
out its will. The responsibility is passed down in your clans, each
individual’s performance continuously reviewed. When the colony
can’t support everyone, the low scores have to go.”

Murphy and Palmer have taken seats in front of me.
The third H-K is back at the entrance, behind me.

“You know nothing,” Palmer insists, trying to
intimidate. “You’re Sider.”

“Your machine speaks to me,” I tell him, casually
gesturing all around us. “It seems to have no issue sharing its
secrets.”

“
Your
story,” Murphy cuts off before Palmer
can melt down on me. “What are you?”

“I
was
Colonel Ram. I lived through the
Apocalypse, survived in Hiber-Sleep buried with over a thousand of
my fellows. We woke up just over a year ago, started exploring.
Made contact with Earth…”

They both go rigid, like I’ve given them—all of
them—a death sentence.

“For good or ill, Earth is coming back,” I confirm.
“For good: We’ve received shipments of supplies. We can help you,
restore your colony systems, maybe completely eliminate the need
for Casting. Those aircraft you saw are the first of many to
come.”

“And for ill?” Murphy keeps the lead so Palmer
doesn’t.

“They still believe Mars may be contaminated by
something deadly. They want to relocate everyone, examine and
quarantine them. They’re frightened enough to do this by force. So
far, they only expect this place is home to the Cast. They don’t
know you’re here, but they’ll figure it out soon enough.”

“And what are you to them? Diplomat? Spy?”

“Worse. That’s why I asked about storms, something
big in the sky. You’ve heard tales of the Discs?”

“We preserve our history, our schools,” Murphy
actually sounds defensive, like I’m assuming I’m talking to
primitives. “So yes: We know what Discs are.”

“What you may not know is that the Discs brought down
the Apocalypse, simulated catastrophic breaches and triggered the
nuclear sterilization. Then they destroyed everything in orbit. Now
they’re back, because Earth is coming back. And their master has
shown himself. He’s a nanotech hybrid, more impressive than any ETE
you’ve seen. He’s rallied the Zodanga and the Keepers behind him,
armed them, built ships, including a giant flying fortress that
moves cloaked in a manufactured dust and EM storm. He’s sworn
himself to preventing Earth from returning and resuming the
corporate research. He claims to be from a future destroyed by that
research.”

Palmer relaxes, starts to chuckle. Murphy isn’t
laughing.

“It was a good story, Sider… All the way up until the
end,” Palmer condescends. “I give credit: You actually sound like
you believe it.”

“I’m not sure that I do,” I tell him intently. “It
would make more sense that this man—Syan Chang—is just some mad
tech genius, afraid of the colony research enough to slaughter
thousands. But then, there’s me.”

“And ‘me’ is what?” Palmer prosecutes. “Colonel Ram’s
file says he was seventy at the Bang.
Old
man. Yet you have
his DNA. But you heal from head shots. And you say you can talk
direct to Gardener.”

“Chang started using his tech to hybridize his
followers, mostly to fight the ETE since he sees them as another
tech-source to destroy. One of them functionally killed me, gutted
me with a sword. But someone saved me, implanted me with nanotech
that healed me and made me this, technology supposedly from the
same future Chang claims to be from. I remember that future, but
that doesn’t mean I’m convinced it’s real. But apparently, I’m here
to help fight him.”

At least I’ve managed to amuse Palmer further.

“What does any of this have to do with us?” Murphy
needs to know, believing or not.

“As I said, Earthside Command—UNMAC—will be coming
here, with orders to take you all into refugee camps. I don’t want
that to happen. I may have been UNMAC, but let’s just say we’ve had
a mutual Casting. I also have reason to believe Chang is headed
here too, either to recruit you into his cannon fodder army or to
take your resources to feed that army. His big ship has a railgun
capable of leveling this place—this whole colony—in one shot if you
resist. I
really
don’t want that to happen.”

“And we’re supposed to take you at your word?” Palmer
doesn’t remotely buy.

“You don’t have to,” I tell him. “They’ll just show
up at your doorstep. Any day now, I expect.”

Both of them get quiet, their eyes looking up at
Gardener’s cameras, waiting for a proclamation, a calculation. I
read Gardener spinning colony resources—especially weapons and
ammo—against projections based on what it knows of the old UNMAC,
the ETE. Then it tries to calculate what I am, what a similar
threat would be. It takes all of seconds.

“ESCORT PRISONER: SECURE IN QUARTERS H-8.”

Apparently H-8, actual name Dory Hammond, won’t be
needing her quarters for awhile, so Gardener decides to let me
borrow them as a more accommodating cell than putting me back in
Iso. I expect it’s a tactic to win my cooperation, in whatever the
machine may calculate as a solution to the dual threat I’ve
presented.

Unfortunately, the sub-let requires some
eviction.

Dory’s suite—and by comparing Gardener’s floorplans,
most H-K suites—are the largest accommodations in the domes:
Bedroom big enough for a queen mattress, separate living space with
a kitchen nook, and a private bathroom large enough for an actual
tub.

But there’s a campsite in her living room, with
bedrolls and pads wedged into a corner for a frail pale young
woman, an infant and a girl of about nine, all with matching straw
colored hair. The woman grabs her apparent children and hustles
them out of the room as the H-K “clear” it for me. They don’t give
her any excuse or option, and she seems far too scared of them to
question or protest. She just goes.

“Protecteds?” I ask Murphy (who’s the only one that
looks uncomfortable with the displacement).

“Hammond-8 has a weakness for her civvies,” Palmer
answers before Murphy can. “Me, I’m not giving up room space for
low-score sympathy cases. Not unless they’re good for rec-time.” He
turns to Murphy with a cruel leer. “Speaking of: Don’t forget you
owe me one of yours. Don’t worry, I’ll be sure to give her back in
a couple of days.”

Murphy still doesn’t bother to acknowledge the
debt.

“The mother was trying to keep her children away from
their assigned barracks,” Murphy feels the need to explain. “The
secondary recyclers sometimes get contaminated with viruses that
are hard to clear—it’s a risk of communal living. Hammond let her
stay because of her infant, earn her keep with cooking and
cleaning.”