The God Mars Book Three: The Devil You Are (14 page)

“He could have been eating
you
, for all I
knew. He can talk to Gardener. Maybe he can fake security feed.” He
doesn’t try to make his concern sound authentic. “Besides, I have a
debt to collect, and rec-time to enjoy it.”

“I don’t owe you, Sam,” Murphy calmly defies him,
sounding like this isn’t the first time he’s had this argument.
“Gardener ordered the mission change. You didn’t argue the new
target. Gardener cost you your trophies. Maybe you should petition
for a credit.”

“Maybe I should call for a Casting review.” I realize
he’s looking at me as he says this, like he’s daring me—not
Murphy—to stand up to him. “We have another body sucking resources,
and Hammond-8 on Medical. I bet that puts us over Threshold. And
your little toy isn’t doing too well in her performance evals.”

Ara reflexively grabs her daughter and holds her
close. Kara looks paralyzed with fear. I get a fresh sense of how
terrifying the designated guns of the colony’s AI must be to the
rest of the population.

Palmer moves toward them, and I do what he wants: I
step in his way.

“I could just leave,” I tell him levelly.

“Gardener says you’re an asset. Prime Score.” He
grins at me, trying to egg a stronger reaction. But then Murphy
steps between us.

“Go away, Sam. Call your review. Let Gardener
calculate.”

Palmer stands his ground for a bit, still smiling,
then backs toward the hatch.

“Hmmm… Maybe Hammond will get picked instead. I’m
worried she’ll never get her scores back up—it’s a nasty wound.
I’ll be happy to give her Voluntary—better than what the Cast will
do to her, especially since she’s already got the extra hole.”

“I’ll be sure to pass your offer along, once she’s
back up and ready for duty,” Murphy subtly threatens.

“Partners need to watch each other,” Palmer oozes
back, then shuts the hatch behind him.

There’s a long heavy silence in the moments that
follow. Ara is crying in a corner, holding her daughter. Kara’s
gone pale, still shivering at the threat, the possible fates
looming over her.

“Did I pass?” I grumble at Murphy.

“You played,” he gives me with a breath of relief,
then confirms: “He wanted you to attack him, to prove you’re a
threat.”

“Are you?” Kim confronts, also sounding shaken.

“I have no doubt I could destroy this colony and you
wouldn’t be able to stop me,” I tell her honestly. “But that’s the
last thing I want. I think Gardener knows that. Your friend
Palmer-6, on the other hand, could be in real danger.”

“An attack on any H-K is an attack on Tranquility,”
Murphy confirms my dilemma.

“He wants to see if I‘ll take enough offense at your
way of life to impose my values on you by force,” I read it,
confessing my own sin. “If I do, I’m your enemy.”

“Would you?” Murphy asks straight out.

“I don’t know,” I have to tell him. But I realize:
These people have lived like this for generations, all their lives.
This order is all they’ve ever known. “I haven’t decided.”

Kim is visibly fuming at my arrogance—how dare I
judge them?—but holds her tongue.

“Kara, could you make us some tea, please?”

Murphy’s request is polite and ordinary. It gets the
girl—and her mother—moving again.

Murphy offers me a seat in what’s arranged as a
conversation pit of chairs and sofas (the latter perhaps doubling
for beds for his Protecteds). Sits across from me. His wife and son
join us, looking like they’re preparing to hear bad news. What I
get is a history lesson:

“You need to know about us,” he starts. “In the
beginning, Casting was voluntary. Great heroes went to make their
way outside because the sealed domes would not support all of us.
They died scavenging the structural materials we needed to seal and
reinforce the domes we hold. They salvaged and repaired the
reactors and processors, helped move what we needed inside. Then
they helped preserve and foster the great gardens you see out there
now. They built the shelters that now house the animals that have
come after them—some of them are their legacies, like Two Gun. But
they were the best of us, the strongest and bravest. They died in
the airless cold, exposed to radiation, miserable deaths, and
others gladly went out to continue their work.”

“But those left inside became spoiled,” Kim takes her
husband’s story into darkness, showing her own bitterness in the
process. “The children of those left, raised in safety bought by
the lives of better people, became a culture of cowards. They
refused to sacrifice, even to risk going outside to do repairs and
gather harvest with the protection of the H-K, and there weren’t
enough skilled and willing hands left to keep the colony from
breaking down. Because they wouldn’t go, wouldn’t give, we had to
leave it to Gardener to decide for all of us: Who could stay, who
should be Cast. Even then, confronted with the deaths of us all,
those chosen wouldn’t sacrifice.”

“And we started Casting by the gun,” Murphy takes the
tale back. “The H-K were empowered to protect the colony. It’s our
duty.”

“And a coward shows when death faces them,” Kim
justifies. Her attitude—revealed—seems such a stark contrast to her
husband’s. But then: he’s the one pushing his fellows outside at
gunpoint.

“Some resign themselves,” Murphy gives. “Some try to
fight, even stir resistance. It never gets far. I think maybe
that’s a better death for some, to be shot fighting back, still
inside. It’s why many of us choose Voluntary Termination rather
than face the Cast—they would receive an H-K with special
rage.”

“Do the existing Cast kill all of your exiles now?” I
ask a hard question, testing what Palmer said about the fates of
ejected colonists.

“Not all,” he corrects his partner after a moment’s
consideration. “They are tried, tested for fighting spirit or
anything else that might be of use,” Murphy almost seems to
appreciate this. “But most fail, and become their sick
entertainment. They do seem to enjoy the screaming of their
victims. The majority now are Cast by birth, raised to be vicious,
merciless. To survive. We have nothing in common with them anymore.
They’re sadistic animals. We’re trying to hold together an ordered
society for everyone’s benefit.”

“Did you know the Cast are trading with outsiders?” I
risk revealing a potentially critical secret.

“We’ve seen,” he admits. “Food exchanged for more
primitive weapons. Like the one that wound up inside Hammond-8. One
more reason to keep their numbers down, harvest even when we don’t
need the food.”

“If they can trade with outsiders, why haven’t they
tried trading with you instead of fighting?” I ask a question that
hopefully doesn’t make me sound as naïve as an ETE.

“Too much blood and death between us,” Murphy shoots
down. “Too many are from those forced out, not the volunteers. And
we don’t defend them when they’re attacked by Siders, unless the
Siders try to harm our domes or feed lines. Mostly the Siders want
food, but some have been strong enough to almost overrun the Cast.
We give subtle help, deploy snipers, reduce their numbers with
stealth, always careful not to reveal our existence. The Siders are
better believing only the Lower Dome is viable.”

“Are there still powerful Sider groups?” I want to
know.

“The Desert Men came openly, offered trade, but only
after their raids failed for many years,” he tells me about the
Nomads, the Melas Food Traders. “The Desert Men are the first to
try this new tactic, but only because they seem to be weakest, or
hold land too far away to come more than occasionally. They don’t
seem to care if the Cast are well-armed as long as those arms are
not used against them. I doubt other groups would do such a thing,
and except for precious survival gear, there is nothing else of
value to the Cast to trade.”

“Are the others close enough to fight over
territory?” I wonder.

“Not as much over the years. I think many have moved
on, elsewhere. Maybe there are greener places.”

“There are,” I let him know. “Mostly east of here.
Hundreds of kilometers.”

“Some may have gone that way. I’ve heard stories and
seen poor videos of ‘Red Men’—fierce and stealthy fighters painted
to match the terrain—but none seen in my lifetime. But we have seen
Silver Men.”

I’ve heard that term before. “Silver?”

“They’re covered head-to-toe in thick armor, the
weight of which makes them short and thick. Their weapons are
primitive, except for gas-propelled harpoons and grenades.
Thankfully, they only come every few years, but they seem to want
the dome more than the food inside.”

“Any idea where they came from?”

“The armor and weapons of their dead are prized by
the Cast. It appears to be new manufacture, handmade. We’ve never
managed to acquire anything that could identify a colony of origin.
But the Cast likely have many trophies we haven’t seen.”

“I guess I’ll have to ask them,” I think out
loud.

“The Cast only answer questions with blades,” he
warns me.

“I’ve noticed.”

Our conversation gets cut off by an ominous deep
chime—like a Buddhist temple bell—echoing through the PA. Then
Gardener’s droning vox:

“MANDATORY TOWN HALL MEETING. ALL RESIDENTS. THIRTEEN
HUNDRED HOURS.”

Fifteen minutes from now.

“Is that about me? Or did Palmer make good on his
posturing?” I wonder out loud.

“Probably both,” Murphy admits heavily. Ara and Kara
look freshly re-terrified. (Kim almost looks smug.)

I try diving into Gardener to see what’s on the
agenda, but find new encryptions. The only things I can access are
general monitors. I see the population of the sealed domes begin
moving toward the Town Hall.

Time to see what kind of a god I’m going to be.

Apparently not a god of good timing:

I make my “entrance” while the residents are still
gathering, getting seated. This results in some awkward pausing and
shuffling, congesting the process while they stop to stare at me
and/or get as far out of my way as possible. (I was thoughtful
enough not to wear the Halloween helmet, but I almost feel like I
should be wearing a big flowing cape like a fantasy hero or
villain.) I walk through the middle of them as politely as they’ll
let me, then find myself standing up in front of the gallery of H-K
chairs like a nervous groom, waiting.

Murphy has disappeared without a word after walking
with me to the entrance steps. I understand why once the civilians
finally get settled (or as settled as they can be with me standing
up here with a gun and a sword): the H-K do make good entrances.
Gardener chimes the ominous bell again, and everyone falls silent.
Then the H-K file in from the front of the hall, military precise,
and take their assigned seats. Their families file in next,
standing behind them at disciplined attention, even the small
children.

The color contrast that divides their society is
strikingly clear now. The civilians are all dressed in pale,
well-worn work jumpsuits: dingy white, faded blue and green and
orange (indicating job assignment or value?). The “serving” H-K are
all in their black and gray L-A uniforms, all identically armed.
Their families uniformly wear black. (I briefly consider changing
the color of my surcoat to visually and symbolically separate
myself from the H-K—maybe to Mars red—but the effect would probably
scare my audience even more than they already are.)

Murphy has his eyes locked on me stoically, just as
all of his fellows. I barely see recognition—I’m just another
problem to deal with now. (I also can’t help but notice the one
vacant seat—probably Dori Hammond’s. Her gun belt has been
symbolically hung from the back of it.)

And then I get left standing for several awkward
moments while everyone stares at me in absolute silence.

“THANK YOU ALL FOR COMING,” Gardener begins (though
manages to sound insincere even with no vocal inflections
whatsoever). “AGENDA ITEM ONE: THE ARRIVAL OF THE OUTSIDER
IDENTIFIED AS U.N.M.A.C. COLONEL MICHAEL CARL RAM.”

A theater screen extends down behind the H-K, and I
get to stand around some more as Gardener replays video of my
“capture” and “interrogation” in Medical, and then right here in
the Hall. I notice it edits out the parts where Murphy and Palmer
fill me in about life in the colony, defend their survival
protocols with their history. I also notice it edits out the part
when I tell them their colony systems will be dead in a few years.
Otherwise, I’m actually impressed that it’s willing to share the
Chang/UNMAC threat so openly.

“A MOMENT OF GRATITUDE FOR H-K PALMER-6, H-K MURPHY-7
AND H-K HAMMOND-8 FOR THEIR BRAVE SERVICE.”

I feel like I’m in church. Everyone lowers their eyes
like they’re praying. I count a full minute. Then:

“OPEN DISCUSSION. RULES OF ORDER IN EFFECT.”

Palmer stands.

“The evidence of a potential UNMAC incursion is
substantiated,” he tells the masses like he’s running for office.
“We have the bodies of UNMAC soldiers and sightings of aircraft.
Current force strength on-planet is not yet known, but we must
assume it will increase. Gardener has run calculations. We cannot
confront this threat directly and survive.”

Video shows the UNMAC flyovers, and stills of bodies
in H-A armor—men I sent to their deaths. The Hall rumbles with
their hushed reactions.

“The evidence of a secondary threat from an unknown
superior force is not yet substantiated,” he continues. “Colonel
Ram’s fantastic tale cannot be proven. However, Gardener calculates
a solution to the UNMAC threat that may address other unknown
threats.”

Gardener runs a simulation animation. It begins
shockingly with a massive explosion and fire that consumes and
destroys the Lower Dome, leaving a barren ruin.