The God Mars Book Five: Onryo (26 page)

“It shouldn’t be a former PK, not after what these
people have been through. Besides, I’m needed back at Katar. This
isn’t like fighting the bots. The Harvesters emit much weaker
signals. Beyond about ten meters, we can’t hear them enough to
target. And that’s just when they’re sending. They can perform
basic seek-and-destroy or hide-and-wait
without
connecting
to their master. In the thick green, they can slip past us, or be
buried right under our feet. We’ve had to… We’ve had to kill the
people we’re trying to protect, to keep them from becoming those
things.”

The rage that hisses through my mask now is all
mine.

“The Katar learn quick,” she continues, her own anger
simmering behind her metallic eyes, “but then the drones hit us
with new tricks, and it costs us. Asmodeus is smart. I’m sure he
watches how we respond each time, then has Fohat upgrade the
tactical algorithms. The scary part is that Ram is sure this is
just the beginning, that Asmodeus is still just playing with the
weapon, figuring out how to use it, before he does something really
big. And the only ones that the Harvesters can’t infect are people
like us. Modded.”

Now I expect her to ask me to come back to Katar with
her, to help her defend their colony, but that’s not what’s going
to end this.

We have to kill Asmodeus. We have to find him and
burn him to ashes and bury him deep. And Fohat. And then we need to
find Thel and smash his brains to jelly.

I’m in full agreement with Peter on this. I want to
go now, find them. But then I see the eyes of those watching us,
their fear for their future, for their families.

Don’t, lad…

“What about these people?” I want to know. “Who
protects
them
now?”

She doesn’t say the obvious, doesn’t let me hear it
in her thoughts, but the look in her metallic eyes…

We’re the only ones the Harvesters can’t infect.
We’re the only real defense.

No. I can’t. I can’t stay here. I have Thel to hunt.
And Asmodeus…

“This is a war,” she reminds me—apparently I’m still
not masking my thoughts. “This isn’t personal. It
can’t
be.
We have to coordinate. We have to do this smart. Which is why I
have to get back to Katar. Otherwise I’d run off and hunt Asmodeus
myself. But I can’t afford to. Unless you want to take a shift on
the Gate Wall. With your father, your family.”

I try to put up white noise, but I’m sure she can
hear me anyway.

Still, I think she needs to understand why I can’t go
back. I unseal my helmet, take it off. I see her eyes process, try
not to register her shock.

I’ve been watching it happen in the mirror, very
slowly. I’d even tried convincing myself it’s my imagination, but
I’ve seen it in the Ghaddar’s eyes, and now Straker’s especially.
She hasn’t seen me in nearly a week—the changes will look more
profound to her.

My jaw line is changing, as is the bridge of my nose,
my cheekbones, and the shape of my eyes. My beard is thinning,
getting darker.

She looks crushed, sick. Tries not to show it.

Peter changes the subject for me, gets back to his
own agenda, and I let him:

“I can’t protect these people against
two
enemies. Unless you’re willing to help me ensure the remaining
Keepers will never be a threat to them again.” And all that
implies.

“We made need their guns, their skillsets,” she
argues logically. “We may still be able to turn them to our cause.
If they’re anything like the Melas PK, they’d give anything to
fight a proper enemy, a true threat to their homeland. We just need
to convince them who the true threat is. Unfortunately, right now
they’re probably focused on it being you.”

I know she’s right. It’s not just her reluctance to
exterminate (or let me exterminate) distant cousins-in-arms. She’s
a trained tactician, her entire education has been the arts of war.
Just like Colonel Ram.

Peter’s a biologist. He’s no soldier. He’s only
managed what he’s managed because of his accidental power. And real
soldiers managed to defeat him once, despite his advantages. I’m
the one in this collision of a relationship with the battle
experience.

I’m struck by a sickening idea: Maybe that’s why he’s
keeping me “alive”—to make him a better warrior. I quickly distract
myself by focusing on the immediate threat, a technique that seems
to keep Peter from “hearing” things I don’t want him to (but then
I
can’t think them either).

We can use the ship,
Peter offers.
We can
set up a series of listening posts across the mouth of the canyon
with the drones, catch those things as they cross into the
Blade.

I was actually starting to think the same thing, but
immediately see a problem with the idea:

“And if they climb over the Divide, like we did?”

Asmodeus is smart. He’ll see what we’ve done through
his drones and work out a way around it.

Peter doesn’t have an answer.

“You could partially restore the colony security
grid,” Straker considers. “Slave it to alert you directly. That
would also let you know if the PK try to retake the site, give you
eyes on whatever’s happening.” She seems to have gotten used to the
benefits of her Mods enough to make creative use of them. I have to
remind myself she was only “infected” a few days before I was.

It’s a sound idea.

I nod my agreement. Now I just need to figure out how
to do that. Or maybe my nanites will just do it for me, like they
fixed the ship’s chipware or crashed the colony’s grid to begin
with.

“It will take time for you to respond. It would be
more effective if we could train these people to defend
themselves,” the Ghaddar reasons. Straker shakes her head.

“The PK took all the weapons and remaining ammo. And
even if we could get them or make them weapons, Civvies are
conditioned to be afraid of fighting, to be dependent on their
warfighters.”

“And not resist them.” I’m not sure if that was me or
Peter or both. Straker doesn’t deny it. I see her shame again.

“So they wouldn’t put up a fight if their masters
came back,” the Ghaddar grimly decides. Straker suddenly looks
ill.

“What?” I press.

“The surviving Garrison lacks the numbers to manage
the facility and the current population,” she reminds us. “That
means—if they do come back—they’ll probably do a culling, then demo
the tunnels until they’ve cut the colony down to a size they can
secure.”

We need to hunt them now. We need to kill every last
one of them.

I try to ignore Peter’s tenacious bloodlust just to
keep us under control, but I don’t entirely disagree with it. As
long as the Keepers think they can come back here some day, these
people are in mortal danger. If they realize I’m not nearby…

“They’re dug in too deep and too spread, and they
know the territory too well,” Straker lets me know she’s heard
Peter, and that there’s a tactical reason not to go after them. I
also notice she hasn’t once specifically asked for mercy for her
brethren, just prudence. For the greater good.

The Ghaddar looks a little lost every time we have
one of these partly unspoken exchanges, but seems to get the
essence.

In my head, Peter is harping on hindsight:

If we’d come back sooner, we could have finished them
before they got away from us. One problem would be solved.

“I’m not killing over a hundred people as a
preventative measure.” I only realize I’ve said it out loud after I
have. Both my companions seem to have some understanding of my
internal conflict.

The Civvies are still watching us. They look like
we’re deciding their fate. I suppose we are.

“Come!” I call out to them. “Summon everyone! Come to
the Barracks!”

I stand in the wreckage of Thel’s suite. The Civvies
line the catwalks around the inside of the dome. I count more than
four hundred men, women and children, and those were just the ones
brave enough to dare coming in here. And those that did, shuffle
nervously, can barely bring themselves to look at me.

“Listen to me!” I shout across the open space of the
dome. “I am not a ghost! I am not a demon! I may be a monster, but
I was once a human being like you. My name is Jonathan Drake.”

I take off my mask and helmet, let them see my face.
I hear them gasp, mutter, shocked that there’s flesh under the
skull, that I look something like them. Thankfully they’re too far
away to see my blood red eyes.

“There are others like me. Strong. Fast. Hard to
kill. Some are good…” I reach out, gesture for Straker to stand
beside me, and put my hand on her shoulder. “Others are not.
Thelonious Monk Harris. Asmodeus. Fohat. These creatures will
happily kill you all and take your resources and homes for their
own use. Those like me will fight them if we can, but this fight
may take us far away from you. I have restored your security
systems and set them to alert us. But it may take time to respond.
You may have to shelter from them, hide, even run.

“Your hatch locks are back online and no longer
respond to your Keepers. This will buy you time. But if you need
to, take masks and flee outside, overland. If you can, head
northeast, for the eastern end of the mountain range that separates
this canyon from its neighbor, and then cross it. Ask the Katar for
shelter—we will make sure they expect you. I will leave you maps to
find your way.”

The muttering and shuffling intensifies. Straker was
right: The thought of needing to defend themselves is terrifying,
but the thought of having to go out into the open world is
unimaginable. I have to make it worse yet:

“As the Lieutenant has told you: beware of those you
may meet or those that may come that look like they’re very sick or
hurt or like they walk in their sleep. These
were
human
beings, but the monsters have replaced their brains with machines
that will infect you if they get close to you, turn you into things
like them. Stay away from them. If you have to fight them, you must
destroy or sever the head, but do not get close.”

Their muttering becomes a rumbling. I have to stop.
I’m only upsetting them, panicking them. But they have to know what
they’re facing.

I feel a wave of guilt, like I’ve left them
vulnerable to this by forcing their protectors to abandon them. But
then I also believe those “protectors” would have surrendered the
colony to Asmodeus for whatever power he or Thel promised, offered
the Civvies as slaves or meat bodies for Fohat’s experiments in
abomination.

I hold up my hand against their fear, and offer a
poor excuse for what we’ve done to them whether Peter wants me to
or not:

“I… I killed your protectors because they chose to
serve my enemy, because they murdered my family. And because I saw
how they treated you. No human being should treat another like
that.” Then I make a pledge I don’t think Peter’s ready to, but
needs to. “If they forsake their wizard and their cruel, brutal
ways, I will forgo my vengeance. I will hold my blade, and leave
you to live in peace. But if they return and choose to harm you, I
will not hold my blade, I will not forgo my vengeance, and then I
will leave you to live in peace. Assuming any of us can.”

I want to tell them that they need to learn to defend
themselves if they want to survive; that if they won’t, then they
don’t value their lives and the lives of their families any more
than the Keepers do. But I think they know that well enough, deep
down—any human being does. I think the best thing I can do is give
them time to decide what to do and how to do it. I can’t imagine
what their lives have been like, conditioned by fear and abuse. I
look in their eyes…

…and I want to say I don’t see people. But they
are
people. Human beings. They just need to remember
that.

I can’t help them remember that. I can barely
remember what it was like to be just flesh and blood and bone, and
it’s only been ten days. Peter may be preserving my mind, my
personality, my memories, but he can’t hold onto what made me
human, no more than he’s held onto his own humanity.

I need to go. I have no right to be here.

“There’s a manual alarm key on the security panels.
Trigger it if you’re in danger. If I can hear you, if I can, I will
come.”

I put my helmet and mask back on, turn and head for
the nearest hatch, get myself out of there, leaving Straker and the
Ghaddar standing there like they don’t know what to do, like I’ve
left something badly unfinished.

I tell myself I don’t care.

I get my first call on the fourth day.

I’ve been watching the feed from the drones I’ve
strung across the mouth of the canyon, having set their frequencies
so my internal Mods can pick up the signals directly so I don’t
have to stay inside the ship staring at monitors. I’ve even gotten
used to getting video and graphics piped directly into my
eyeballs—it’s just a matter of selective attention.

I can’t stay inside the ship. Peter may be immortal,
but I know I’m living on a clock. He’s tried to slow the physical
conversion, but my skin is definitely changing color, my hair is
getting darker and straighter, my face is less and less mine. I
think it happens when we sleep—and we still have to sleep, despite
all the other super-human wonders of Modded immortality. Peter may
not be able to maintain control of his Seed’s default programming
when he’s not conscious.

(I also notice that when we sleep our dreams are less
my dreams—the dreams I’m used to dreaming—and more his: abstract
scrambled memories of Earth, of his life.)

I know I need to stay close to Eureka, but my
impatience keeps taking me east, out of the South Blade, like the
wandering I can manage in a day’s light will take me to wherever
Asmodeus is. I’ve wandered more than once toward the Katar canyon,
but always I stop several klicks south of the tip of the Spine,
like I don’t dare set foot in their territory, like I don’t want
them to see me, even disguised as I am. (And who is it that I
really don’t want to see me like this? My father? Or Terina? Am I
really still holding on to that fantasy?) Whenever I detect a Katar
patrol, I retreat before they detect me—a benefit of my enhanced
senses.