The God Mars Book Three: The Devil You Are (44 page)

I find Astarte in the gardens, sitting quietly. This
is also the first time I’ve seen her in the flesh in nearly a week.
She smiles when she sees me, but can’t hold my eyes. I sit with
her, take her hand.

“How much of Cal do you have in you?” I ask gently.
She looks like she’s trying to find the words to explain, then
tells me:

“It’s like a movie. Or a video series I’ve seen. It’s
worst when I dream. I dream I’m him. And some things are more than
seeing and hearing. I can taste and smell his grandmother’s
cooking, his favorite foods… He was from Louisiana, you know. He
loved his goddamn crawfish…” She wrinkles her nose, sticks out her
tongue. “And then there’s… well… knowing what it’s like to be a
guy… I mean… It’s not just sex from the other side… Do you know we
see
differently? You see colors so sharply, primaries, and
motion… It’s like being on acid. And Jesus, the hormones… I thought
we had it bad, but for you it’s every day, being driven to do
stupid stupid shit and damn the consequences all for one moment of
intense pleasure that immediately turns on you and knocks you out
like fucking opium, and then you’re back at it like a junky…”

She squeezes my hand, looks me in the eye.

“That’s why I was spending time with Lux. Did you
know he was born male? Bisexual. Effeminate. But he never
considered himself transgender. He tried it on a lark as soon as
the TG morphing mods hit the market. He says it’s the best thing
he’s ever done—it opened a new world to him… He was just trying to
show me, share…”

I surprise her with a kiss.

“I told you: I can’t judge you, what you’ve been
through… But I want to understand, if I can. I know I haven’t
been…”

She shuts me up by kissing me back.

The delegation of the New Knights of Avalon arrives
outside the gate just before sunset, just in time for the party.
Two Gun and Murphy welcome them as honored guests.

31 August, 2117:

“I’m impressed you’ve come in person. I thought there
was a Quarantine in effect?”

I greet General Jonathan Richards warily and
informally—I’m not serving under him, after all, but I think he
came to see me as much as to have his tour of Tranquility.

“There is. But some things are more important,
especially now.”

In person, he reminds me a lot of his grandfather,
including, unfortunately, the uncomfortable weight of the position
he’s found himself in. But he also has the assertive carriage and
confidence of an old-school officer who’s born to the game. Then he
shows me he’s brave enough to shake my hand, even though he’s still
wearing gloves (I wonder if they’ve somehow been treated to detect
any attempt to “infect” him).

“I expect the drama I’ve stirred up has landed
squarely on your shoulders,” I indirectly apologize. He manages an
honest little chuckle, letting me know he’s human under that crisp
new L-A uniform.

“It does dispel some of the doubt as to whether or
not you’re still actually Mike Ram,” he barely jokes. “You’re
certainly living up to your historic reputation.”

“I thought your grandfather spoke highly of me,” I
remind him of a much earlier conversation.

“He said you were a skilled warfighter, an impressive
tactician, and a charismatic leader who was able to engender trust
even in an enemy. And he did respect your moral compass, even when
it threatened to topple world powers down around your ears. And
his.”

“High praise,” I accept. I wonder what Thomas
Richards would think of this particular version of me. I remember
the other-timeline version died of natural causes before the
longevity mods were out of classified trials. But like Matthew, I
doubt he would have accepted them, preferring to go out with the
world he’d served.

Murphy and Two Gun have come to meet the UNACT
delegation at the restored Lower Dome main lock. We cleared enough
of an LZ fifty meters downslope for the two ASVs he came in, along
with a squad of guards in new-model H-A cans and a team of
scientists to look over the gardens. The main lock is just big
enough to handle all of them and the three of us. There’s a tense
few minutes between the outer hatch sealing behind them and the
pressure cycling to release the inner hatch. Murphy and Two Gun
take off their masks first, and Richards honors their hospitality
enough to remove his, take his first breath of the oxygen-rich
Tranquility air. More masks start coming off, but only one of the
H-A troopers pops his helmet: It’s Rios. He gives me a warm if not
entirely easy grin and a small nod of greeting.

Mixed in with the scientific team I see Rick, Tru and
Doc Ryder. Their faces share Rios’ mix of joy and apprehension.
Richards himself is accompanied by a stern rail-thin blonde (also
in a sharp new-design L-A uniform with major’s clusters) as his
apparent assistant.

The Cast have turned out en-masse, but keep their
distance along the terraces. The general atmosphere is
tense—Unmaker guns inside their world. A handful of Hammond-Keller
Council representatives—mostly older generation—stand in a tight
group at attention to receive. Paul Stilson stands uncomfortably to
one side of them, and with him is Grandmaster Kendricks, flanked by
two of his knights. Bel, Kali and Bly have decided to remain
invisible for now. (Lux and Azazel decided it best to be somewhere
else entirely.)

I make the formal introductions. Then Murphy takes
over (with Two Gun’s enthusiastic approval as he admits he has no
patience or talent for politesse), offering the delegation a guided
tour of the domes. Richards accepts with measured grace, and the
inspection proceeds onward, though my old friends take the
opportunity to lag behind.

“You look good,” Tru tells me first with a nervous
smile. “A little camp pulp fantasy, but it’s kinda hot on you.”

“You look ridiculous,” Rick disarms. “And I thought
your old costume was bad.” He’s recalling my early days of skulking
around under a big hat and coat, like I could actually hide who and
what I was under such an anachronistic affectation.

“You do look good, sir,” Rios tries to affirm.

“No need to call me ‘sir’, Juan,” I correct warmly.
“I doubt I’ve still got my commission, under the
circumstances.”

I realize Richards is looking back our way, but he
doesn’t seem to be objecting to our little reunion.

“You should have a look around,” I encourage them. “I
think you’ll like what you see.”

This first inspection lasts six hours. They’ve
brought new equipment to detect nanotechnology and biological
contaminants down to prion scale. They test the air, the soil,
sample the plants; examine the repaired atmosphere and water
recyclers, the food processors. Ryder supervises some general
physicals on a selection of Cast and Domer volunteers. Then we meet
for an early supper on one of the upper balconies of the Lower
Dome, overlooking the lush garden.

The tables were made by Paul out of spare panel, the
chairs borrowed. A spread of fresh produce, savory beans and
handmade bread from the Cast are paired with a selection of home
cooking from the Domer kitchens. The food, water and teas all get
tested before we sit.

“It’s a truly impressive place,” Richards praises
with apparent honesty. “It’s hard to believe these people have
managed to thrive, to build a new civilization, despite the
hardships of this planet, the disaster.”

“I appreciate you calling it a civilization,” I give
back. “Humans are resilient, no matter the planet.”

He sips tentatively at his sweetroot tea blend, nods
and smiles like he appreciates it.

“Ambassador Murphy and the Cast leader Two Gun give
you a lot of credit for what they have here today,” he allows.

“I didn’t fix the roof,” I nod in Paul’s direction.
“Or repair the recyclers.”

“But you’ve still got the Peacemaker reputation. It’s
no secret this place was divided by violence. Now they seem to be
getting along as neighbors. And I hear there are new treaties with
the Melas Nomads and the Avalon Knights. I expect you had your hand
in that.”

Kendricks shoots me wary a look, like he’s not sure
if this is praise or masking some sinister intent. Rick, Tru and
Rios are also watching me uncomfortably as they eat (and they eat
without hesitation, unlike those new to the planet).

“And where do
we
stand, General?” I ask him
levelly.

“You and I, or Mars and Earth? I’m just a soldier.
Doing my job. So were you.”

“Should I be worrying about railguns pointed at me
from orbit?” I specify lightly.

“It depends on what you are now,” he stays
honest.

“And that remains to be determined,” I assume. Then I
change the subject: “So how much damage did the Circe incident do
back on Earth?”

He hesitates long enough to tell me he has to
consider what he can and can’t say. I notice his assistant—Major
Cormac—is eyeing both of us like a predator as she pokes at her
meal.

“Scandals. Protests, both live and virtual. A formal
investigation by the World Court is underway. Dr. Chandry offered
his resignation, but it was refused.”

“What about Colonel Burns?” I press my suspicions.
This gets Cormac’s eyes locked on me. Richards doesn’t seem to
care, but gives me the expected answer:

“Not a subject I’m at liberty to discuss. But I
appreciate you giving me the benefit of the doubt.”

“Trust has to start somewhere, General. I recommend
the Cast stew, if you don’t mind spicy.”

The meal goes better as people get to actually
eating.

Tru and Doc Ryder are impressed with the way the Cast
have ensured their soil maintains a rich macrobiotic content, so
they don’t have to rely on supplements to keep their digestive
tracts healthy with necessary fauna. Two Gun explains they’ve kept
cultures carefully preserved from the first colonists. (He doesn’t
mention that the dead serve as fertilizer.) Rick and Paul talk
about the colony systems, the restoration process. Rios manages to
monopolize Murphy, talking about weapons and training and tactics,
at least until Two Gun inserts himself (I think I may have
mentioned in passing how loyally and impressively Rios fought at my
side).

We get up and mingle between dinner and dessert, and
I get a chance to get close to Rick as he’s enjoying the view.

“You’ve managed to get yourself into some amusing
situations over the years, but this…” He chuckles and shakes his
head like this is just another one of my legendary
misadventures.

“I think this does top the list,” I agree. “I’m
surprised Anton didn’t come.”

“He’s on the Stormcloud,” he tells me, lowering his
voice. I notice Cormac’s eyes still on me—now us—and I flash her a
smile that makes her uncomfortable.

“Doing what, can I ask?”

“Probably not here. But I think you’ve guessed.
Command isn’t stupid—they expect Chang back. We need every weapon
we can get.”

“I’m surprised I haven’t been more aggressively
recruited.”

“
Almost
every weapon we can get,” he admits
nothing sensitive.

“Well, hopefully this is a step in the right
direction.”

“If it isn’t, I don’t know what is.” But there isn’t
a lot of hope in his tone.

I smile at Cormac again until she averts her
gaze.

“I’ve been hoping to talk to you,” I get to the point
of my ambush. “And Anton. About the ETE. I still can’t figure out
why they’ve locked down so hard. All Mark Stilson said before he
went into intellectual vapor-lock was how unthinkable sending all
the sub-atomic seeds would be, and then he rambled into the scale
of what had been changed.”

“Either the event created an alternate timeline—a
parallel dimension—which really tosses our view of reality and
physics, or it unraveled and re-wove cause-and-effect on a
molecular scale.”

“That’s the one that seemed to break him.”

“I believe it. I don’t think I’ve had a night’s sleep
since you showed up and insisted Chang wasn’t bullshitting us. The
best physicists and machines on Earth have been running those
calculations. The numbers—they’re just…” He trails off, shakes his
head.

“The last thing Stilson asked me was about the date,
when
we jumped from. I told him it was less than ten years
from now, which makes it about sixty from when Chang popped
in.”

“That’s sixty years worth of human history undone in
a flash. On two worlds. You’d think there’d be a mini Big Bang. I
mean, when you unravel matter, that’s a lot of energy. It’d be like
covering everywhere we’ve had any impact as a species in nukes and
setting them off at the same time. Unless it was controlled
somehow. Or is happening just ahead of us in time. Or maybe it
doesn’t work like that at all. Who the hell knows?”

“It makes more sense that it
is
impossible,” I
tell him what I’ve had my own sleepless-night discussions
about.

“Well, Stilson was right about the splice, if you
want to play numbers,” he goes on. “I mean, a simple drone-builder
is nuts enough. But a whole being? We ran those figures. A human
DNA chain is twelve billion bits of information. Granted, it’s only
a small part of it that makes you you, but you say you have
memories, which means it had to pretty much replicate your
developed brain. There’s forty-two zeroes in
that
number. At
our best bandwidth and processing speed, it would take several
quadrillion years and billions of Watt-Hours just to transmit and
replicate as a working model.”

“And Chang’s saying this was done on a
single-particle scale,” I intensify the madness. Even if there were
short-cuts…

“And there’s how many of you here, so far?” he nails
the coffin shut.

“Nine,” I answer him anyway.

At least he finds some humor in the madness.