The God Mars Book Three: The Devil You Are (43 page)

I hope it was just a random trigger, set off by
opportunity. Maybe an emotional cue. Or some physical compatibility
match. (Or has the seed made its final decision?)

At least I felt it coming this time, recognized it
for what it was. And I still appear to have free will, the ability
to resist, to choose.

So I choose to stay well away from her.

3 July, 2117:

I hear Lux yelp with the glee of a child as the Circe
lifts out of its hole. It’s taken days of hard labor—and Bel and
Azazel and Paul—to dig the thing out and get it in flight
shape.

It’s a short flight, just a test—up, spin,
land—because now I’m sure we’re going to draw unwanted attention. I
expect Richards has seen us digging from space. I wonder if he knew
about the Circe’s mission. I wonder if any of his team did. In any
case, they’ll all know soon enough.

Paul goes to get Lyra—he’s the least-scary of any of
us, in terms of both presentation and technology. We’ve already
made sure to clean up the corridors and bridge (leaving the
resealed labs in all their bloody glory). This will be the first
time since the massacre that she’s set foot in the only home she’s
known, where her family died (and died protecting her). I don’t go
to meet her at the hatch.

I know she’s been watching me from her cave for days.
I’ve sent Paul up to check on her, and I know Bel’s paid a
condolence visit. I expect she thinks I’m angry with her about her
challenging me to share my tech with Earth, with UNCORT, and that’s
probably much more comforting than the truth that I might lose
control of myself and undo her, make her into someone else (and I
don’t even know who, thanks to my missing memories).

Through Bel’s eyes, I watch her hesitate at the
hatchway, Paul patient behind her as she steels herself, makes
herself cross the threshold. She looks proud of herself for doing
so, then turns to Paul and asks

“Are we really going to one of your Stations?”

He smiles and nods, even though I know he’s not
terribly looking forward to this.

The Circe—now that I can see it out of the
ground—reminds me of a huge winged beetle. The smaller Siren’s Song
fit into a keel-length recess on the underside during the flight
from Earth, the whole thing capping a booster and fuel module
that’s still in high orbit. Assuming that the flight plan the crew
had was honest, a return trip was an option.

She’s a heavy ship—it burns a lot of fuel to move in
atmosphere. It was designed for a direct drop and hard burn back
up, not for recon. We won’t be going far.

Lyra comes forward to the bridge, and we do the
uncomfortable mutual ignore. She almost loses her balance as we
climb, head upslope for the Turquoise Station.

Paul sends recognition codes as soon as we’re in
range. No one comes out to meet us, which is both a good and a bad
sign.

Lux—enjoying playing pilot—manages to settle us on
the largest pad, and I decide to make a show: Paul goes out first,
with Lyra under his arm and shelter field. Bel, Lux, Azazel and I
step out into the cold thin wind and simply stand in front of the
ship, as if to say “Here we are. But we will honor your barring
us.”

Paul and Lyra wait by the airlock for a full two
minutes before it opens. Only three Turquoise ETE are on the other
side of the hatch. I see Paul communicate directly, silently.
Chrome helmets nod. Then one of the Turquoise turns to me and
projects

“You may come.”

Lyra is all wonder as we go deep into the Station. I
suspect she’s watched it from afar, like so many others that live
here, all her life without being able to approach it: too far, too
high, and then the resident Jinni would never let you pass.

We take the usual path, wind up in the usual dark
chamber. Lyra jumps when it goes bright. But the only avatar we get
is Council Blue. Mark Stilson.

“Thank you for seeing me,” I tell him. He doesn’t
speak to me. He looks at Paul, who produces the flashdrive I made
for him, containing all of the records of the Circe that we could
salvage, including their orders, atrocities, results, messages to
and from home. I can “overhear” Paul send it to him, feel him scan
it. He spends ten minutes being an ephemeral statue. Then the feed
stops, and his mask turns to me.

“What are you going to do?”

“I’m going to give them their ship back. Then I’m
afraid I’m going to make a scene. Just a small one. No fatalities.
I won’t even break anything. Unless they insist.”

“I expect you’re going to do a lot of damage.” But he
says it flatly. He’s not condemning or criticizing. I’m not sure if
he’s just numbed by the rage of what he’s been shown or if he’s
really detached himself beyond caring. Then: “What about the
girl?”

“Her, too. She needs to go back to her own.”

Lyra turns and glares at me. I ignore her.

“They’ll never let her off the planet,” he states
dully. He sounds drugged. Or deeply depressed, crushed.

“Not unless they lift the Quarantine.”

Lyra is fuming silently, not wanting to throw a
tantrum in this solemn place, but I can feel it. And being this
close to her, I’m already starting to lose impulse control.

“Thank you for bringing us this information,” he says
almost as an afterthought.

“It’ll be everyone’s soon enough,” I promise.

His avatar fades. Audience over. The big hatch opens
to let us out into the light, and we turn to leave. But then the
avatar materializes in our path, just standing there, as if it
forgot something.

“In the other timeline,” he asks like it isn’t
important, “what was the date? When you left?”

I find myself having to guess, estimate, the calendar
having become meaningless in that world.

“Twenty-One Twenty-Five? Thirty? Not much farther
ahead than we are now.”

I hear him sigh inside his helmet. Then he vanishes
again, no explanation.

“Any idea what that last part was?” I ask Paul when
we get back on board.

“No.” He sounds unsettled. “And no one had anything
to say about one of our own being taken and experimented on. No
confirmation. No denial. Nothing.”

Lyra pushes herself in front of me, makes me look at
her.

“Why are you sending me away?!” she demands, coiled
with rage. “I wanted to see Tranquility! I wanted to meet the
Nomads! I don’t know Earth! I’ve never been there! I was born here!
Here!
”

And what do I tell her? That her existence is in
jeopardy just sharing air with me? That those people she so
desperately wants to meet would probably kill her because of what
her parents did? That staying with us puts her in the firing lines
of two unreasoningly desperate powers?

“The people who sent your parents—your family—here
are going to try to deny everything. You were there, you saw and
heard. And they’re probably going to put you through a thousand
tests and keep you contained until they’re sure you’re not carrying
anything scary. But you need to speak for your family. There are
things you don’t know. It’s going to be hard. I’m sorry.”

She stews on that as the ship lifts, begins cruising
for Melas Two.

“I can do more than speak for them,” she says
defiantly, shifting her rage. “They taught me. I know the science.
I know the research, the findings. Maybe better than anyone… anyone
left.”

I realize I may be simultaneously condemning her and
handing UNCORT another weapon. But I think she’ll make the right
choices.

“You may still see Tranquility, meet the Nomads. I
hope you do.”

It only barely tempers her anger at me.

Jackson is scrambling AAVs to meet us, but we’re
coming in too fast, catching him unprepared. Burns has the
batteries all aimed our way. I send them the mission recognition
codes, send them uplink—the ship’s transmitter is strong enough to
send all the way to Earth, even through the Net, and that’s going
to be a problem for them.

“General Richards,” I call out. “This is Colonel Ram.
I bring you a gift, or more correctly, I’m returning your property.
You may or may not want it.”

I have Lux set us down on Pad 5, the furthest out
from Command.

“What are you doing?” I hear Lisa demand in my
head.

“Testing their moral compass,” I tell her. Then I
hack into MAI, into the uplink, and transmit all the Circe’s files,
security blocks removed. Thirty seconds later, I use the ship’s own
uplink to send it all to anyone who can hear it.

“Colonel Ram, what’s the meaning of this?” Richards
comes on to demand. He’s still up in orbit.

“Scan it yourself. Someone inside UNCORT sent this
ship here almost twenty years ago. They encountered survivors,
found no sign of dangerous nanotechnology. I take it this is the
first you’ve heard about it. I take it this is the first almost
everyone on Earth has heard.”

I give him a few long seconds to digest that, then
drive the knife in:

“They also managed to capture one of the ETE,
experimented on his nanites. Then they got orders—from UNCORT—to
conduct experiments on live subjects, locals they’d been luring to
examine.”

I glance at Lyra, watch the shock wash over her,
drain her face. She doesn’t look at me, but her eyes track as she
scans her memories, everything she was told and saw, trying to
decide if she believes…

“He’s lying, sir!” Burns comes on to interrupt. I
catch a jamming signal, shut it down.

“The files are authentic. Review them at your
leisure. The physical evidence is in this ship, though it isn’t
pretty. Chang got to it first. He was apparently very upset by what
he found, probably planned to throw it in your faces when you shot
him down.”

“It’s a hoax!” Burns keeps trying. “He’s trying to
discredit…”

“Stand down, Colonel,” Richards impresses me.

“I have a witness,” I tell him. “One survivor. She
was born right after they made landfall.”

I cue Lyra, and she steels herself, steps up to join
me. She still looks sick, shaking, but she’s keeping it together
impressively. She glances at me briefly, and I try to give her a
look that tells her I’m sorry. She gives me a nod, chokes down her
shock. I debate telling her something soothing, that her family
thought they were doing something necessary, vital, or maybe didn’t
have a choice if they ever wanted to return home, but words aren’t
going to help right now. I return her nod, and we walk together out
of the main airlock, onto the pad.

A platoon of armor is already coming out to surround
us. I hear chatter on the Link channels. Everyone in the base—both
bases—is getting this. And in orbit. Including the resident
refugees, if they’re paying any attention at all.

“Don’t let them approach!” Burns shouts. “Lethal
force!”

“Belay that order!” Richards shouts louder. “Nano
protocols. Take the girl to Medical. If one damn thing happens to
her, I will investigate and prosecute in the extreme.”

“I appreciate that, General,” I give him. “But it
sounds like you may need to initiate an investigation anyway.” I
think he gets my meaning. I expect we both know who really assigned
Burns to this mission.

“Why are you doing this?” he asks me.

“A test of trust, General. We need to start
somewhere.”

I signal the others: Paul, Bly, Lux and Bel come out
of the ship, join me on the pad, in front of the guns.

“So there
are
more of you,” Richards
appraises, understanding the risk I’m taking.

“A few,” I downplay. “And we aren’t your enemies. We
really would like to help you, assuming you’re willing to start
treating the people that live here like they’re humans with rights,
just like you, assuming that concept still exists on your Earth.
But no: we won’t be sharing our technology. Our technology
shouldn’t even
be
here. But that’s an issue for another
day.”

The Siren’s Song suddenly comes in fast and brakes
into a hover right above us, its still-intact stealth skin letting
it slip in while everyone was distracted and freaking out. The
armor platoon reflexively falls back at the sight, but quickly
resolve to stand fast, hold their line.

“I’m keeping this one, General,” I announce before he
can respond. “We’ll call it a finder’s fee. Or a gesture of our new
understanding. Nothing interesting inside anyway.”

I give Lyra another nod and a smile. She actually
makes herself smile and nod back. She has a job to do. Two of the
armor suits come forward to escort her. One of them is Horst, so I
feel better. He throws me a quick salute, and damn the
consequences.

“Call us if you need us, General,” I call out. “Or if
you’re ready to talk like civilized people.”

We leap up into the open underside hatch. Azazel
turns the ship for home, burns away fast just to show them what his
new toy can do.

I trust that a railgun isn’t going to take a shot at
me from space enough to return to Tranquility. It’s the first time
we’ve all been back in nearly a week.

Kali barely has to encourage the Cast to prepare a
feast, a celebration. Of course, Kali’s version of our dark
adventure was that we stopped a great evil and put the Unmakers in
their place.

I take Murphy and Two Gun aside to give them the full
version—they deserve to know what’s been happening, and what may
happen because of it. Murphy wants to discuss sending a delegation
to meet with UNMAC, discuss terms, see if they would be willing to
consider some kind of arrangement that would let the Cast and
Domers keep their homes, while assuring Earth there’s nothing to
fear here (unless they try to push relocation). Two Gun hears him
out, agrees to be part of his effort.

“I’m not going to let my brother do something so
stupid by himself,” he almost jokes.