The God Mars Book Three: The Devil You Are (3 page)

And I realize: I think I chose it again.

Star said I needed to give her permission to change
me. The “seed” in the helmet could have made the other me, memories
and all, out of any dead meat raw materials, just like I apparently
made this armor and these weapons out of the cave and what I was
wearing. But she needed me alive. She said something about a
“failsafe”, that my existing memories—me—wouldn’t be overwritten,
that I’d be both: One who knew this world, cared about the people
in it. The other who knew this body, and the other world, what was
lost (and maybe should have been lost).

I’m not feeling any other “me” in here. Just the
memories, ghosts of what I apparently lived through. But then,
maybe that’s all there is to anyone: Conscious awareness,
personality, ingrained behaviors, and memory to give it a back
story, an identity.

Am I only a vessel for two sets of data?

Did I tell Star “yes”? Or did she make the decision
for me?

Would
I have said “yes”?

I
am
alive (whatever I am). That means I’m
still in the fight, I can still do something. Maybe more than I
could do before. Maybe enough to beat Chang. Save the world. Or at
least the people I care about, if they’re still alive.

Yes. I think I would have said “yes”.

I wonder what else I can do.

I need to get back to the fight.

I remember Paul telling me he got around the valley
on his little unauthorized explorations by walking, that he found
it soothing. I’m not sure how much of his dry humor was in that
statement, considering the trip from his Blue Station to our Melas
Two base was about a hundred and sixty klicks, the first dozen on a
severe down-slope. I wonder how many days it took him (or weeks,
considering the ETE never seem to be in a hurry about
anything).

My curiosity is more urgent than his, and thankfully
I have maybe only a hundred and twenty klicks to hike (with a lot
less downhill).

Remembering an old Chinese adage about a thousand
mile journey, I find a convenient cord in a pocket inside my
surcoat, tie back my still-annoying hair, and step to the edge of
the cliff cave.

The Zodangans were big on fortification. The rim
foothill slopes are a good hundred meters below me down a sheer
wall. This place would only be accessible to their airships or to
patient, skilful climbers with O2 reserves to spare.

Me, I seem to have no fear of jumping. So I enjoy the
view across the valley for another long moment, and do just
that.

The fall feels gracefully slow in Mars’ 0.38 gravity,
but I know it’s still more than enough to break bones. Alarms go
off in my head (I hope I haven’t just done something remarkably
stupid), and I feel something shift in my skeleton. And then the
talus comes up at me much too fast, and I hit. And sink. Like
someone dropped a car into a sand dune.

It’s stunning and ungraceful and I’m on my armored
knees in a fresh hole almost as deep as I am tall, and the talus
slope is threatening to give and send me further by way of
avalanche, but it settles. And I seem to be none the worse for
wear, though I ache deeply—a sensation I find I’m actually grateful
for. I
can
be hurt. I can
feel
.

Continuing my gracelessness, I crawl out of the divot
I’ve made, slipping, and the loose rock keeps sliding out from
under me. There are gouges in the plates on my legs, but they fade
as I watch, and I feel my left ankle popping back into place.

I get back up onto the slide slope, and start the
awkward skipping dance downhill.

Not godlike at all.

I make the lower foothills in a few more hours. The
sun has moved west over Tithonium and Ius. The winds begin their
tidal shift back eastward, putting them at my back.

I’ve been daydreaming all this time, filling in the
details of my other life. I remember that we did nothing good with
our gifts. We stopped caring about the planet as we stopped caring
about ourselves. Art and literature dumbed-down to childlike crap,
easily produced and more easily dismissed as our attention spans
decayed (and one would think an immortal would have a long
attention span). Everything was about distraction and
entertainment. More than half of the population simply disappeared
into virtual worlds, their now-perfect bodies in eternal stasis,
while the rest did a garish job of making their fantasies into
reality. The world became a collection of absurd amusement parks
dedicated to every imaginable extreme behavior. There were, after
all, no physical consequences.

Even crime became a pointless issue: No one could be
hurt by assault, no one could be murdered. In fact, the experience
of victimhood was actually sought by some, just to have any thrill
at all. (And unpleasant memories, unwanted traumas, could simply be
erased.) Property crimes were equally meaningless when anyone could
make anything they wanted at will. So what was once a social plague
became another form of entertainment. (I remember when early video
games about committing violent crimes were the subject of
controversy. Now it was a consensual reality: Hurt me. Kill me.
Rape me.)

Our bodies had become valueless in their eternity,
and everything else followed.

I try to remember how long it took. Only a few years,
I think. Maybe a decade. My sense of time was another casualty of
our “evolution”.

I look down at my plain black armor, remember I had
no taste for gaudy excess, and maybe that was my saving grace: I
appreciated the simple things. Even the experience of this long
walk through a monochrome desert.

I realize none of the Martian dust is sticking to
me.

I also eventually realize I haven’t had anything to
eat or drink since before that battle that killed me. More gauges
in my head appear to report varying levels of depletion in
“energy”, “oxygenation” and “hydration”, but my “bioframe” is
“nominal”.

I wonder if I can even be considered to be alive
anymore.

Answering a more practical question, my eyes do their
HUD trick again and pick out what I know is a tapsite on an ETE
feedline in the distance, not far off my course. I change my
direction of travel accordingly.

I reach the tapsite by sunset. I still have not seen
sign of any activity on the surface, but I know how skilled the
Nomads are at hiding, digging in to the terrain. And I expect I
make a disturbing sight: Black armor and no mask, taking a
leisurely stroll across the open waste.

My internal gauges tell me it’s already dipping below
freezing, which also registers as an increased power drain. My new
eyes have no problem with the fading light, and I find the tap
easily enough.

The ground around it is well-trodden, and there are
items left behind, both trash and gestures of Nomad hospitality
mandates. In the latter category I find a few usable O2 and water
cylinders, and a survival blanket. Amongst the trash I find a
broken “rebreather” unit—one of the portable air recyclers favored
by the Knights—looking like it’s seen multiple repair attempts. Not
discarded in the sand, it’s been left hanging near the taps,
perhaps for more skillful hands to try restoring.

I use one of the canteens to draw fresh water from
the corresponding line. It’s already near ice-cold, and tastes of
metals, but provides soothing refreshment (and my hydration levels
start rising back toward green). I take the time to fill an O2
cylinder, only to find a slow leak. But then, holding the cylinder
and thinking about it, I watch the seals repair.

Testing the phenomenon, I try the rebreather. I
realize I have no knowledge of its mechanics, but somehow they seem
intuitive, simple. I embrace the mechanism like a precious
treasure, and feel it begin to fix itself.

After it’s done, I fill its tanks and test the unit.
It seems to work well enough, though not as-new. I use my eyes to
look close, trying to find some sign of active nanotech (as if I’ve
“infected” the thing) but the materials appear inert. I test my
growing hypothesis by breaking a seal and setting it down on a
rock, stepping back. It does not self-repair. Not until I pick it
up again.

“Huh…”

I perform a similar trick with a discarded heater
unit, charge it with hydrogen and oxygen from the tap, and find I
now have three of the necessities of survival (even though I don’t
really seem to need them at all).

As there is no food (the most precious commodity on
the planet, even above ammunition, and therefore unlikely to be
left for wandering charity), I consider making small shelter out of
the blanket, but find my surcoat provides a hood and robe-like
“sleeves” on demand. I settle in front of my “fire”, sip water and
oxygen from my cylinders, and let myself drift.

I try to stay in the memories of what I consider my
“real” life, my life as a soldier and an officer, a life I hope had
at least some meaning, some good service. But I can’t shut out the
other life…

At least I tried to do something about it, tried to
get people to do something meaningful and worth immortality,
however hopeless. I remember thinking that maybe one day we would
wake up, find better direction, hopefully before we had done
irreparable harm. But I also remember losing faith as the years
passed.

I realize I almost understand Chang, why he would
want to undo what we had become, even if it killed most of us. And
how meaningful were most of our lives by that time? In our
self-absorbed selfishness, we’d even stopped having children.

There were still a few isolated holdout colonies of
“bio-normals” living fragile mortal lives—our only remaining
“crime” was harassing them, a cruelty too many found idly tempting
(and giving a few of us “purpose” as “Normal Police” to stand as
protector, but challenging them became just another cartoonish
game). Perhaps they would re-inherit what was left of the Earth
after the rest of us died without our precious mods.

Apparently I do still sleep.

It’s light. The eastern sky is purpling with dawn. I
assume I’ve only been out for the one night (my heater is still
running). And I’m not alone.

Idiot. I shouldn’t have fallen asleep in such a
well-traveled place.

They’re hiding from me in the rocks. I can see their
heat, their enhanced motion. A half-dozen Nomads, possibly from
Abbas’ band, laden with canisters as if taking a trip to the local
well.

I try to move slowly, non-threateningly, keeping my
hands away from my weapons. I drop my hood back so they can see me
smile a warm greeting.

Second mistake. Obviously, I’m not wearing a mask.
How am I breathing?

I stay put. Make a poor show of mortality by picking
up my scavenged rebreather, sipping from the O2 line. I hook it
onto my belt like I need it. Show them my open hands.

I see the crossbow bolt coming like it’s been
casually tossed my way. And I catch it before it hits me in the
throat.

I am an idiot.

I should have let it ping off my armor or duck it
rather than effortlessly demonstrate inhuman speed and
strength.

“I don’t mean you any harm.”

Proving how convincing that was, they waste a bullet
trying to shoot me in the head. This I see coming like a thrown
pebble, my perception of time automatically slowing in response to
threat. My hand rotates in a blur, and the shell smacks off my
backhand armor with a stinging crack. Another inhuman feat. At
least it makes them hesitate.

I make the dubious decision of standing, keep
offering my hands. If these people are with Abbas’ band, they know
me. Knew me.

“I am Colonel Ram! I am the Peacemaker! Friend of Abu
Abbas! Friend of Barak Hassim! I mean you no harm!”

I don’t get an answer for several seconds. The Nomads
have frozen in place, hunkered down in the rolling terrain, trying
to be invisible. If any of them had ever seen me, knew what I
looked like before, my statement is ludicrous. And Colonel Ram of
UNMAC certainly wasn’t capable of swatting bullets out of the air,
no matter how outrageous his reputation.

So what must they think I am? I remember there were
stories in the camps of possibly modded humans (other than the ETE
“Jinni”). They may have simply seen Shinkyo Shinobi. Or Sakina, as
the Zauba’a Ghaddar. Or maybe even Chang, since he said he’d spent
the five decades between the Big Bang and showing up to attack us
in idle isolation. (And the only other all-black figure they would
have seen wandering around out here would have been Chang or what
he turned Bly into.)

I get my reply as a whistle through the air, coming
at my head from behind. Again, I should have ducked it, but I reach
out blind and catch the projectile. It’s a foot-long steel rod, ¾
inch thick in the middle, tapered to hardened points at each end.
Throwing torpedo. I know it well.

“
Sakina!
” I shout into the morning wind. (And
I realize I’ve probably committed an unforgivable slip, using her
real name in front of others, her secret name that was just for me,
but I don’t care.) “It’s me! I’m…”

What? Her master? Her lover? Mentor? Hero?

She would have given her life for me. She believed I
could save this world. She even tried to fight an immortal (two
immortals, if Bly is one as well) to protect me.

“Sakina!
Zauba’a Ghaddar!
”

The other Nomads have used the distraction to run
away. I scan the horizon. She has to be close. I don’t see…

Movement.

She’s running. Why is she running?

“
It’s me!!
” I’m screaming nonsense at the
wind. “
I’m still me!!
”

I want to run after her. I’m sure I could catch
her.

But then what? Fight her? Restrain her while I talked
sense into her? And show her I’m stronger and faster than even she
is?