The God Mars Book Three: The Devil You Are (17 page)

“Ammo,” Two Gun lists. “Grenades.”

“There’s a lot more coming. You’ve seen the aircraft.
Earth is back. And they still think this place may be contaminated,
no matter how much we’ve tried to convince them it isn’t. They want
to relocate you by force until they’re sure it’s safe. They’re
scared enough to crush whatever resistance you put up. I’m talking
missiles, aircraft turrets, bombs. They’ll hit hard from out of
your reach once they realize how dangerous you are.”

“Domers too?” Two Gun wants to know, looking at
Murphy.

“Domers too. Everyone. But that’s not even half your
problem. Have you seen strange storms? Or something really big in
the sky, even a shadow in the dust blows?”

They look at each other—they
have
seen
something.

“That would be Syan Chang. He’s got a flying fortress
with a railgun—a giant cannon that hits like a meteor strike. One
shot could blow apart the domes. He’s building an army, so he needs
conscripts, and especially food. And materials. He’ll strip this
place, kill you all if you resist.”

“Does he fight the Unmakers?” Mak asks, trying for
hope.

“He does. And the ETE. Anyone who could potentially
use nanotech or biotech. He sent the Discs, caused the Apocalypse.
But if you’re thinking about joining him, he’s already stripped two
colonies, killed whoever he had no use for, and he sacrifices his
soldiers without a care. Oh, and I don’t think he can be killed.
I’ve watched him get blasted to dust and come back.”

“You give us no choices,” Two Gun confronts,
fingering his guns.

“I’m here to help. And there are others. Even the ETE
have become warriors in this fight.”

This makes him chuckle again.

“I know: They’re assholes,” I give him.
“Self-righteous and insufferable. But they’ve chosen to fight. And
they can help you in other ways—they’re willing now. They can seal
this dome so you don’t need masks and shelters, increase your
resources.”

“Domers too?” Two Gun repeats, this time with even
more contempt.

“I’m afraid this is a package deal. You won’t get
help—and I’m hoping to get UNMAC to help instead of uproot
you—unless you manage some kind of peace between you.”

“You’ve told this to the Domers?” Two Gun asks after
a brooding pause. I nod. “Explains why you’re out here and on the
run.”

“They liked the terms exactly as well as you do,” I
allow him. “But that’s why this man came with me—some of them know
you’ll live or die together.”

“Some of us are willing to let you all die,” Murphy
makes a daring admission, “even burn the gardens, hoping our
enemies will be convinced nothing is left here.”

“They’ll die, too,” I add before they decide how much
“fun” Murphy might be. “They can’t sustain themselves much longer.
Burning the gardens will just doom them sooner.”

“And if the Unmakers drive us out, or this Chang
strips it all for himself, we will be just as done,” Two Gun
reasons.

“I can deal with the Unmakers,” I try to reassure
him. “And with a little help, Chang too. That’s why I’m here.”

“And you expect us to become Domers again?” Mak
criticizes. (And I think I see doubt in Fera’s eyes about this
crush of hers.) “You expect them to let us?”

“I don’t care if you maintain separate societies,” I
tell them outright. “But I won’t condone needless brutality and
slaughter. From either of you.”

“We defend our homes, our food,” Two Gun throws back
at me. “And our home is the home we made when we got thrown out of
our home into the Cold Thin. By Hunter-Killers like
him
. Did
you know: they shoot down anyone who resists or stands up to them?
Then if the ones they kill had children that can’t be taken care
of, they kill them, too. Babies. Or they throw them outside.”

Murphy won’t look at me right now.

“And
you
don’t torture and kill those tossed
your way?” I confront.

Fera glares daggers at me like I’ve struck her, but
then turns her venom on Murphy, accusing.

“We hurt the Siders and Hunters and Domers so they
scream,” Two Gun defends, his rage also rising, enough that his
voice gets shaky. “Screams travel. Screams make stories. Stories
last after the screams. The Siders need to know to stay away. The
Hunters need to know not to try us. The Domers need to know we
don’t want their trash.”

“Is that what the evicted are to you?” I need to
know.

“Wastes of skin, most. Less than babies—babies grow
and learn. Some are worth feeding and airing—they take their place,
do their part. Some do better here than in their domes. They learn
life and death, learn to be Cast.”

“But the Domers see what we do, and they still send
more,” Mak adds in, putting a gentle hand on Two Gun’s shoulder.
“Not strong ones who can make it. They give us what
they
think is their trash. They should just kill them if they don’t want
them.”

I’m seeing fifty years of violence and desperation
and deep-seated hatred. But I’m not seeing monsters.

“Since my grandfather’s day, they throw us to the
Cold Thin,” Two Gun distills their ugly history. “To live? No. They
want us to die. They just don’t want to do it themselves.
Cowards.
” He’s looking at Murphy again. “And when we don’t
die, when we try to live, they send their Killers—the ones that
like killing—out to cut us down. Things like him. They don’t come
to fight. They shoot and run away. Take their trophies. Take the
easiest. Children. Mothers with their babies. They shoot us in the
back. Then they cut off our noses as proof. We find our brothers
and sisters and lovers and babies with their
faces
cut away.
Sometimes they’re still alive.”

Now I’m looking at Murphy. He turns away, faces the
wall. I remember how high his scores were. I didn’t inventory how
he earned his standing, how many Cast he’s killed, or how many of
his own people he executed for resisting.

But I felt his doubt, his humanity. That’s why I
sought him, why I’m protecting him. And now he’s facing his enemies
as people.

Fera is… crying. She takes me by the hands, pulls me
toward one of the hatches.

“Come. Come.”

I look back to Murphy, who starts to follow.

“
Not
him,” Fera insists.

“Go. He has my protection,” Two Gun reassures poorly.
“No one harms him if he doesn’t try first.”

Murphy nods to let me know he’s as fine as he can be
with my leaving him in the care of blood enemies.

I have one power that is not an installed mod. I’ve
always had it.

For some unexplainable reason, people talk to me,
open up. Trust me, even though we barely know each other—sometimes
complete strangers. Sometimes whether I want them to or not. I
really have no idea why.

Before I started on the path of the soldier, before I
got dragged by pain and rage into the Terror War all those years
ago (almost a century now, counting the fifty years I was asleep),
I even trained to be a therapist, a social worker. It seemed like
the thing to do (at least until killing seemed like a more
appropriate thing to do). Even as a warrior, it helped me build
trust in my teams, bring out the potential in my fellows, earn the
loyalty of my warfighters. And it helped me broker peace with my
enemies, play diplomat (even when that wasn’t my mission).

It earned me the nickname “Peacemaker”. It helped me
prevent slaughter in the Eco Conflict, then helped me earn allies
in this mad world we woke up to.

I’m thinking about that as Fera leads me on a tour of
her secret world.

She shows me their gardens, their rich a varied
bounty, all carefully tended. Then down into the bowels of the
structure, to the ingenious handmade machinery her ancestors rigged
to process their waste into fertilizer, recycle their water,
concentrate air for their breathers, even use solar power to split
water into oxygen and hydrogen fuel to supplement what they leach
from the ETE feed lines. (These machines still run today with
skilled maintenance—probably more efficiently than the sealed
domes’ systems. This seems proof that some of the colony’s best and
brightest did Cast themselves in the beginning, maybe confident
that they could ensure the survival of those that came after
them.)

Then she takes me to a nursery where a dozen newborns
and infants are being cared for, protected behind multiple heavy
blast doors. And something very much like a preschool, with twenty
young boys and girls learning language, basic math and reading, how
to use tools, mend clothing. On one concrete wall are several
hundred small hand prints around big letters spelling out “IT TAKES
A VILLAGE”.

Then she takes me out to a grove deep in the green
where young people spar with blunt weapons, and learn to use live
ones. This seems to amuse her the most, but she doesn’t linger
here. She shows me what look very much like master-apprentice teams
working on everything from welding to gear repair to gardening and
food preparation to system maintenance. The Cast have a complete
society.

I notice they move everywhere covertly—staying under
cover when not inside the existing recovered facilities, avoiding
the Domers’ cameras, always alert for intrusion (and always
hyperactively moving, likely to discourage “cowardly” snipers).

It’s getting cold and dark out in the green when she
finally takes me “home”.

It’s a climb: Fera has her space up high in the
terraces, away from the denser housing sections, where she has a
view over the dome garden. (Is it for the view, or to keep watch?)
Behind a hatch that looks battered and neglected (but opens
smoothly and silently on well-oiled hinges and lock work) is a
small plain room with a bedroll on a worn bunk pad, a lantern, a
heater, water cans, a compressor and an old shelter-sized cooktop.
She seals us in, turns on the one light and cycles up the pressure
so she can ditch her mask, habitually connecting her canisters to
the compressor for refilling. She shakes out her cloaks, then adds
them to her bedding.

She’s a slight girl, slim, maybe five feet and a few
inches tall. She initially goes about her routine as if I’m not
here, and I take the time to look around.

There’s a small table, a desk, and a combined
shower/sink/toilet unit like the one in Two Gun’s place. And a
selection of outfits hung up on one wall—various mixes of colony
gear and hand-made—not all her size, more like a gallery of
keepsakes, displayed complete with jewelry and gear, tools,
weapons, footwear. Under one displayed cloak I find a
repeatedly-patched H-K uniform.

I count eight different displays, like a private
museum. On a strip of wall is scratched a roster of names, all with
the last name Hammond. A family tree. The last name is “Feralle
Carson Hammond”.

I realize she’s watching me intently, gauging my
reactions. She goes to the desk, opens a drawer and pulls out an
old plastic case I recognize as a pistol case. She sets it on the
desktop, pops it open, steps back.

It’s an H-K revolver, still in pristine condition.
I’ve only had the opportunity to examine one other like it: Abbas’
personal sidearm, a prize supposedly obtained at great price from
the Food Traders.

“May I?” I ask before picking it up. She nods.

It’s a fine weapon, beautifully balanced: A stainless
.357 revolver with a heavy barrel and well-aged wood grips,
re-chambered to accept standard military 9mm self-oxidizing
rounds.

“No bullets,” she almost apologizes when I open it to
check. The action is still butter-smooth.

“My great-grandfather’s,” she confirms as I put it
away. I turn to face her, and she steps in to me, springs up on her
toes and gives me a nervous kiss. Pulls away when I hesitate.

“I’m not pretty,” she concludes quickly, backing
away, looking like she might cry.

“You are very pretty. And more than that. But I’m
probably three times your age.”

She shakes her head, steps back into me, puts her
hands on my chest armor.

“Cast live day-by-day,” she tells me intently. “Only
today matters. Not numbers. Domers live by numbers. Die by numbers,
too.”

I look into her green eyes. Up close, I see the fine
lines of age—she
isn’t
a child (she just has some residual
baby-fat in her face). And her big eyes are deceptively innocent.
She pushes her body against mine, grinds her pelvis against me,
moves up to kiss me again but waits for me to respond.

Murphy’s warning repeats in my head, but I kiss her
anyway, taking her by the shoulders, then sliding my hands down
around her waist as she grinds. Her arms go around my neck, and she
fumbles her bladed arm guards off, sending metal and leather
clattering to the floor behind me. Then she throws her legs up
around me again.

My other set of memories is reminding me: a “side
effect” of my core mods is increased—extremely increased—libido.
I’m not sure if another is reduced impulse control. Or maybe I’m
just tired of death. Tired of being treated like a monstrous
freak.

I can smell her. It’s intoxicating. Maddening. I know
this is the last thing I should be doing, but she’s kissing me like
she’s trying to consume me, moaning and riding me like we’re
already…

I carry her backwards to her bedroll, lay her down on
her back. My armor shows me another convenient feature and quickly
begins to fall off around us. She’s grinning and growling like an
animal as she peels out of her own suit, grabs me by the hair and
pulls me down and this is the last thing I should be doing but I
don’t care…

In the late morning, my “wife” prepares a simply
breakfast of tea, flat bread and hummus, running out quickly
(wearing not a lot more than her mask) for fresh-picked fruits to
add to the tray she brings to our bed. We’ve barely finished eating
when she starts to initiate yet another round of play. But then a
series of wailing cries echoes outside. It gets her attention, but
not necessarily as an alarm. She jumps up and dresses quickly,
including armor and weapons.