The God Mars Book Three: The Devil You Are (45 page)

Dessert is fruit and custards and candies and cakes
made with Graingrass flour. Tranquility even manages to grow small
quantities of cocoa and coffee beans. If nothing else comes of
this, this is the first time the Cast and Domers have come together
to share food and face a common unknown as one colony. Today may
well go down in their history as the equivalent of the legendary
American Thankgiving feast.

And we’re almost acting like friends by the end of
it, though it’s clear that tension remains on both sides:
Tranquility hasn’t forgotten it has Unmaker guns inside (and
outside) its domes. And the UN contingent hasn’t forgotten what
happened the first time a recon team stumbled in here. But the UN
inspectors have managed to reassure themselves there isn’t a
rampant nano-plague here, that the people are impressively healthy
despite their hardships, so hopefully the upworld brass will pass
along the viability of a diplomatic course.

Richards says his farewells at the main hatch.

“Captain Rios was correct to call you ‘sir,’” he lets
me know he has keen hearing. “I didn’t have the heart to rescind
your commission. You’re still listed as Missing in Action.
Colonel.”

I give him a salute for the risk he’s taking. He
returns it. The gesture especially unsettles his own new arrivals
(and gets Cormac glaring at us again). Rios looks impressed, and we
exchange our own. Rick just gives me a wry smile and a nod.

“Take care of yourself, sexy,” Tru gives her own
farewell. “Too bad you’re too young for me now.”

4 October, 2117:

It takes me much too long to realize I’m not just
having a vivid dream.

I’ve had dreams like this before, when I’m someone
else, inhabiting their body, seeing and doing from their point of
view. But I usually take over that person quickly, act for them,
act as I would act. This time, I’m just an observer, helpless. And
the body I’m riding this nightmare in is Lisa’s.

She’s running down dark tight corridors, through a
classic nightmare maze. And things keep coming out of the
walls—bug-like limbs made of junk that slash and grab at her,
becoming bug-like child-sized robots as they pull free of the
junk-built walls. She swats them away, kicks them out of her way,
rips them apart. She finds bodies in the maze: Troopers and techs,
mangled and lying in pools of their own blood.

She makes it to an airlock, slams it and blows it. I
see more blood on the walls and deck. Then I get my only sense of
time as she gets outside and I can see the Martian sunrise
beginning to tint the sky. She gives me a bigger look around. The
location is obvious enough: She’s on the Stormcloud. And then she’s
running again. Because the wreck has come alive. Literally.

The smallish machines are coming out of the structure
everywhere at once. They’re like some child’s simple mechanical toy
insect—abstract junk sculptures, prying themselves free of the
junk-built ship. And attacking anything else that moves.

I watch troopers go down under flailing hacking
stabbing arms that first produce blades, then rudimentary hands
that take the guns of the fallen and use them. The few troopers who
manage to return fire do some damage—the robots aren’t
bullet-proof, but they are resilient and hard to hit, and it’s guns
against a swarm.

“
Michael!!
” I hear Lisa shout. “
I need you
to hear me! I need you NOW!!
”

There are explosions—grenades—as the defending
troopers get desperate trying to hold the swarm off, but it’s clear
the battle is already lost. I hear someone shouting for General
Richards, trying to get him to move, to get to safety. Then there’s
a series of much bigger and brighter explosions, and I see an ASV
on one of the flight decks go up as its tanks rupture and ignite,
its hull crawling with the robots.

Lisa grabs a weapon and starts shooting back
surgically, bursting them apart at the joints, popping their sensor
arrays, killing their drive systems center-of-mass, but she quickly
winds up having to go hand-to-hand with the skittering machines,
smashing and tearing as they slash at her L-As. She changes course,
jumps up onto the flight deck and runs past the blazing ASV,
swatting away a few damaged ‘bots that try to intercept her.

“
Michael! I need help! This just started! These
things are crawling out of everywhere! They were part of the ship!
Richards in on board! Michael! Can you hear me?!
”

“Michael!!!” It’s another voice, and hands shaking me
awake. Star. She looks like she’s in a panic, horrified. But I can
barely see her. The dream keeps playing in my eyes.

“Michael! Chang is calling me! He’s back!”

Under my feet—Lisa’s feet—I feel the Stormcloud
lurch, roll. Metal groans and screams.

I have to ground myself. I remember where I am: I was
sleeping alone up in my own—Fera’s—apartment. Past Star, I see Bel
in the hatchway.

“Call from the Siren: The Stormcloud just came
alive,” he lets me know. “It’s rising.”

I can already hear the railgun charging.

I drag myself up, gather my armor, my weapons. I
force what Lisa’s sending me to the periphery so I can
function.

“Lisa, we’re on the way,” I call out. “Twenty.”

“
I’ll try to hold…
” She rips another ICW away
from one of the robots—arm and all—and keeps shooting.

“I need to go to him,” Star tells me sadly. I squeeze
her arm, her hand, nod.

“Go.” Then I turn to Bel. “We need to get there.”

“Lux and Azazel have eyes-on from the Siren…” he
updates me—it was their turn on long-range watch, keeping our vigil
far enough off not to raise the ire of UNMAC. I remember they
reported the arrival of an ASV last night—probably the one that
just blew—and discreetly hacked chatter about Richards and a fresh
team of scientific advisors going aboard the wreck, no explanation.
Then Richards and his team got stuck when the ASV had mechanical
issues. Richards refused an alternate ride, opting to stay the
night, probably as a morale-builder since they’ve had a total of
six “accidental” deaths and two disappearances.

I collide with Kali and Bly out on the balcony. Paul
isn’t far behind them.

“Stormcloud was a trap,” I give Paul and Bly the
short version as we move, since they’re not linked directly to what
I’m getting. “Chang’s making his move.”

The fight isn’t going well on the ship. Lisa finds
Richards on the starboard “wing” flight deck, probably waiting for
an incoming lift, but his contingent is cornered, surrounded. More
troopers are going down as the robots advance. She smashes her way
through their line, tries to get between the ‘bots and her people
to hold them off, buy time for the extraction, but she gets quickly
overwhelmed as the swarm targets her. All the robots seem to move
as a unit, coordinated, probably networked, possibly run by a
single AI.

We’re out of the dome and running for our flyers,
secure in an artfully hidden bay Bel gleefully designed for them.
Now I’m getting long-range from AAV cameras—it’s Anton, hacking me
in. There’s no voice, but I get closer eyes than the Siren’s to
watch the broken fortress lifting, turning. It looks like the
structures around the massive hole blown through the hull are
self-repairing. Then turret guns open up, firing on the UNMAC
patrol ships, sending them into evasive patterns, keeping evac from
getting to the people on the Stormcloud. I feel one get hit,
damaged. Jackson orders it away. Two more try to stay close, at
least to provide eyes, hoping for an opening.

On the Stormcloud, the swarm is slowing, having taken
out most of the UNMAC resistance. The few troopers left get
disarmed, hemmed in with the rest on the wing deck. The ones on
Lisa have managed to overpower her, do enough damage to weaken her.
They drag her down at Richards’ feet, as he tries to face the
inhuman enemy with dignity. Then another body gets tossed in with
them, battered and bloodied but alive. One of the troopers gets him
a mask off one of the dead. He takes the mask but waves away
further assistance, then forces himself half-upright on his hands
because his legs don’t work. It’s Anton.

We make it to the flyers, roll back the camouflaged
hatch over the bay, spin them up and start cooking the overnight
ice off.

“Do you want us to interdict?” Azazel wants to know
in my head.

“Hold. Wait for us. Keep giving me eyes.”

“I’d say something cliché about resistance and
futility,” I finally hear Chang’s voice, “but then I’d be a poor
host. I
did
invite you here, after all.”

The black shape forms against the purple sky on the
smaller flight deck above the surrounded UN survivors, a perfect
silhouette that even absorbs the fire light, a man-shaped hole cut
in reality. (The deck he’s standing on had been reduced to twisted
shredded scrap by the orbital gun. I can see it reshaping around
him, trying to repair.)

“It’s nice to meet you, General Richards,” Chang
continues. “I’ve been listening in on your communications since you
first got yourself assigned to this misadventure. You sound like a
man of character, as compared to many of your fellows. I hope we
can have a constructive dialogue.
After
some initial
necessary violence, for the benefit of those who require such
lessons.”

Through Lisa’s eyes, I see a long and massive section
of the ship’s bow tip and elevate independently of the rest of the
main hull. The Siren’s long-range optics confirm it’s the
centerline railgun, pivoting upwards. Straight upwards. A few
bodies and damaged bots go tumbling off of it like so much
insignificant debris.

“Of course I knew about your science-fair space gun,”
Chang taunts calmly.

The gun fires in a blaze of plasma and kinetic-energy
friction, a plume of white-hot lancing skyward. I access the hack
Anton gave me, get an orbital camera just in time for it to go
offline into static when an incoming fireball hits it. It’s Kastl
that confirms their satellite gun is down.

The Stormcloud’s gun begins to charge again, but the
“barrel” begins to tilt back down.

“Obviously, I could do a lot more damage to your
orbital resources than that,” Chang states like he actually has any
kind of compassion. “But shall we see if mercy has more value than
wanton slaughter? I’ll give you a full five minutes to evacuate
your Melas Three facility.”

We kick off, burn for our target. But it will take at
least twenty minutes…

“Do you want us to interdict?” Azazel repeats. I
don’t answer.

Richards hesitates, then gives the evacuation
order.

Chang dissolves, then re-forms in front of Lisa,
who’s been pinned to the deck by robots.

“Colonel Ava. Or do I call you Parvati now?” The
robots release her. She stands warily, ready for any opening, her
visible wounds healing despite her L-A uniform being in tatters.
“Life is so much more convenient like this, isn’t it? Whether we
deserve it or not… Please tell your former lover and his odd
collection of friends to keep their distance, if they value these
fragile lives. I will need to speak with him in due time. General…”
The silhouette turns to face Richards. “Please communicate with
your people that you will be safe as long as they do not
impulsively put you in harm’s way. This also goes for your team of
inspectors, and your surviving personal guard. I will see that your
injured receive care. As I said, you are my guest.”

“We’re inbound now,” I try to tell Lisa. “We can get
you all off—just stall, hold position…” She answers me by shaking
her head: No. Don’t.

Then she takes the time to get a detailed look at
Chang’s machines for my benefit: Each has anywhere from four to six
limbs, standing on three at any given time. The arms and legs
appear entirely interchangeable, just like Bug, only much smaller,
simpler. And these can operate human weapons, scrounge from the
fallen. Each limb has a shield-like piece of the ship’s
structure—bulkhead, decking, piping—that allowed it to conceal
itself in plain sight, probably completely inert until activated.
She shows me others—damaged—repairing themselves by scavenging
useable parts from their more-disabled fellows. As long as they
have an intact torso-core, a sensor “head” and at least four limbs,
they can fight.

Next she looks over the ship, as much as she can see
of it.

It doesn’t look like Chang has any human minions
left, only these automatons (probably Fohat’s work, though he’s
staying hidden). I wonder if he’d really intended to sacrifice his
entire human crew to set this up, and how long he’d been planning
to do so.

The AAV channels go crazy as the UN aircraft get
buzzed by Disc drones—more than a dozen of them. They form a
perimeter around the Stormcloud, but don’t fire. Jackson is also
maintaining a weapons hold. (I don’t hear Burns.)

We fly as fast as we can burn despite Lisa’s
discouragement.

Chang’s deadline runs out. He “invites” Richards and
Lisa to stand with him on the lead edge of the wing deck for a
better view. Through her, I see two aircraft lift and burn away
from the Melas Three pads. In the dim light, I think I see people
running on the surface for whatever cover they can get to as the
Stormcloud comes down on them.

“Ragnarok…” Azazel tries again.

“Hold position,” I tell him heavily.

The big ship turns, aims, and the railgun pivots for
elevation, maybe a klick away from the base. Without further
heraldry, the bow muzzle blazes. The man-made meteor flashes
downward at a shallow angle that sends it almost dead-center to the
bunker structure. Reinforced concrete erupts skyward. A visible
shockwave radiates out across the desert. I wonder how many didn’t
get away, or get far enough away.