The God Mars Book Five: Onryo (3 page)

Miracle: I see Khan subtly nod his head. Some of his
fellow “Kings” let themselves smile briefly.

Perhaps this is the secret of this ritual: They have
us tell our tales, supposedly as a measure of our character, but
the true measure will be our actions, not our words.

I consider that it was our prior actions that have
allowed us
this
far into their world: Rescuing Khan’s eldest
daughter from the “Black Clothes” who killed her diplomatic party
and abused her, then escorting her safely back here. Well, not
safely, but intact. We did battle Asmodeus’ bot army, and at dear
cost. And then there was that business across The Lake, which none
of us—including Terina—are speaking of.

Left standing at the Podium with no further reply
from our hosts, Straker eventually decides the proper thing is to
give a little bow and step down, joining the rest of our ragged
group as we stand as if on display on the stone floor of the center
of the Oculus. And so we stand and wait.

I see my Second Mother Sarai discreetly squeeze my
Father’s hand from where she stands just behind him as if he’s her
shield, our shield. This gets me looking again across our remaining
numbers. Only thirty-one of our original seventy-five are still
with us, the rest buried with honor along our long path from Melas.
Add two: Ambassador Murphy, who joined us when we left Tranquility;
and Jak Straker, who chose to join us at the end of our bloody
journey after fighting alongside us, for us, unable to go “home”
because of what she’s got inside of her, and certainly welcome in
our company.

But how welcome are
we
in this place? Since
the expressions of the “Kings” of Katar are so unreadable, I keep
scanning the hundreds looking down all around us. I’m not surprised
to see fear in their large, thick-lidded eyes. But I think I also
see a little hope.

These people are under threat, attacked by machines,
and maybe soon by weapons even more devastating. We, at least,
still have guns, and a preciously small cache of armor-piercing
ammunition and explosives. And we tell them we know these enemies,
that we’ve fought them and beat them back.

What we haven’t told them is how many of us, and our
allies, have died doing so. And worse: the monsters ultimately
behind this cannot be destroyed by mortal weapons. Chang even
managed to survive a nuclear blast, and…

“We thank you for your stories,” Gempei Akinaga, the
Katar “Science King”, finally breaks the silence. “We will discuss
your petition for treaty. You will hear our decision by noon-sun
tomorrow. We have arranged for more comfortable lodging until then.
You will be safe here among us as long as you act as you
claim.”

While my father offers the Council his thanks, I lock
eyes with Terina. She’s sitting in the gallery directly behind the
Council table, likely in a section reserved for families and
associates of the Kings. This is the first I’ve seen of her since
we were escorted through their defensive wall, and she actually
looks like the First Daughter of a King now: Her plain abused tunic
and trousers have been replaced by a fine sleeveless dress, with
sections of ornate armor and a diadem of high-polished stones. She
also wears the matched daggers that the Forge gave her as a token
of renewed peace (or at least the hope of a renewed peace). She
gives me a reasonably reassuring smile and nod, then rises with the
rest of the audience, and they begin to file out of the great
chamber in an orderly fashion. She walks with regal grace.
Beautiful.

Once this apparent social elite has made it to the
main entrance and out into the morning daylight, everyone else in
the terraced seating stands as one and exits through whichever
portal is closest in what seems like practiced order. Only the five
Kings stay where they are, still looking vaguely bored, as if
preoccupied by a hundred matters more important than us, despite
the news we bring.

As our audience files out, our guards file in: Four
dozen armored warriors, armed with their characteristic
sword-spears, Shinobi-style swords and longbows. They march past
the Kings’ table on either side and neatly surround us.

“If there is anything else you need, you may request
it of the Unit Captain,” Khan tells us as he finally stands, his
laced-scale armor rustling. Then, as if eager to be done with this
business, he and his fellow Kings turn and exit without farewell or
a single look back.

I hear Straker grunt her frustration under her
breath.

Small consolation: They haven’t killed us.

“I am Hanzo Negev, Bannerman of Katar,” the apparent
Unit Captain steps forward and formally introduces himself. His
armor looks somewhat finer crafted than his rank warriors, but the
only detail that obviously sets him above them is a kind of emblem
on the forehead of his helmet: A bright red flower with many fine
petals. “I am at your service, and you are free to move about the
common areas of the City-Valley, but you are
not
to leave
our company. Fresh quarters have been prepared for you.
Please…”

With the hand not holding his pole weapon, he
gestures for us to move toward the main entrance, the same one we
entered through, and up a short flight of stone steps well-polished
by years of use. When we get back outside under the mid-morning
sky, our hosts have all vanished like Shinobi. The colony we can
see looks deserted. It’s only us, our guards, and a perimeter of
several dozen more warriors on the wide stone-paved “Plaza” outside
the Oculus, which overlooks much of the colony from its more
up-valley western end, giving us an impressive view.

I glance around at the rest of our party. The effect
of this disappearing act isn’t lost on any of us. Our hosts had
their required ritual and then scattered and hid themselves away.
Are they afraid of us? Or does our presence offend them?

As our guards don’t seem to be in any hurry to take
us to wherever it is that’s been “prepared” for us, I wander to the
edge of slab of the Plaza and finally take a good look over Katar.
I can see most of it from here, nestled in its long, high-walled
dead-end canyon, descending down to the massive defensive Gate Wall
across the canyon mouth to the east.

Most impressively though, from up here I can see how
the stone, cast and rammed-earth structures artfully conform to the
natural terrain, explaining all the seemingly random shapes and
angles, as well as the pervasive patterns of paint decorating every
exterior surface. It all made little sense as we passed through it
at ground-level, but from above, it becomes beautifully obvious:
Like their armor and attire, camouflage is the rule.

Of course, I haven’t had the opportunity to really
see it before now. We arrived yesterday evening, and were quickly
and directly escorted through the narrow zigzagging gap that allows
passage through their Gate Wall, across what I assume is a
defensible (though rocky) field about a hundred meters across, and
into the seemingly randomly-built colony that fills the canyon
floor and spreads up the side-slopes.

We were taken together to a large room built of
rammed earth that appeared to be some kind of community eating
space, and we were held there through the night with little
communication from our hosts. Their warriors—our guards—brought us
water and simple food, and sent runners to refill our oxygen
canisters from the nearest Tap. (No structure we’ve seen so far
appears to be pressurized, though the thresholds of our “cell” bore
old scars that may have once been seals.) They also brought us
fresh bandages and ointments for our wounded.

In the center of our group quarters was a small
shallow pit ringed in stone blocks that had been stained black by
burning. Inside this, they made a pyramid of dried cut plant
matter, and set fire to it, letting it burn to embers to produce
heat for the night (which was chilly, but didn’t get below
freezing). The smoke from the burning was neatly channeled through
a kind of vent cut in the rammed earth roof.

And so we barely slept, in our rolls on the stone
floor, still in our masks rather than setting up our shelters.

More food was brought in the morning: flat bread,
fruit and a thick grainy porridge. Canisters were refilled, and
heated water was poured into large basins for us to wash. Our
guards waited patiently while my father led morning
Salat
,
and then we were summoned here.

It was a long walk up the canyon, along a strangely
winding path of well-packed ground that wove between the oddly
staggered and angled structures. Between the dim light, the dust
haze of the morning wind and the low-ground of our course, we still
couldn’t see much of our new surroundings. And except for our
escort, we didn’t see a living soul, but it made sense that they
would clear our course. In fact, we’d seen no sign of anyone other
than their warriors until we were brought into the Oculus, where
our overwhelming but silent audience was already waiting.

They arranged us as if for inspection, and our
life-telling obligation was explained to us by Pers Almquist, the
“Engineer King”. For a “king” he had very little ornamentation—just
a few intricate pieces of “jewelry” made of old circuits and
wires—and he spoke to us like a wise old teacher. I got the
impression that he hoped we would do well.

Now, with the sun higher, the haze cleared and a
proper vantage, I can see the marvel of art and engineering that
the people of Katar have accomplished:

What I thought were oddly random shapes are very
intentional. Combined with the paint scheme, every structure and
path—even the terraced Gate Wall—blends neatly into the rocky
terrain. The illusion isn’t obvious when seen from the ground, but
from above—from orbit, from space—the entire colony becomes
effectively invisible.

“
Trompe L’Oeil,
” I remember from my studies of
Earth art.

“To fool the eye,” Negev translates
appreciatively.

The patterns on their clothing and armor probably
have a similar effect, especially if whoever they’re camouflaging
themselves from is looking from a great distance.

That makes me reconsider the population’s lack of
visible presence, their quick vanishing after their ritual. Maybe
the colonists aren’t hiding from
us
. Maybe their habit is to
stay under cover unless they absolutely need to be moving out under
the sky.

Awestruck, I turn and look back at the Oculus dome.
On the inside, it is geometric perfection, but from the outside:
Above the cut-stone entry, all I see is an oddly lumpy mass—like a
small child’s putty sculpture—painted with their signature
camouflage patterns. Behind it rises the terminus of the canyon, a
sloping rock wall that reaches all the way up to the pointed summit
crest of the Spine Range, a few thousand meters up. I can only
imagine what the colony looks like from above, from orbit. I also
imagine their colony engineers and artisans, pouring over satellite
images, supervising the construction and camouflaging from
somewhere up high in the cliffs. How many years—decades—did this
take?

(The Pax told us that the Katar came here from their
destroyed colonies of origin to the west, but I don’t remember them
specifying how long ago. The Pax said they had help from the Jinn
in building their massive Hold Keep, when the Jinn were still
willing to help in that way. Did the Katar have similar
assistance?)

I look back east, take it all in again. The
protective canyon slopes rise up on either side, forming
sharp-crested walls that reach to the heights of the main range.
These crests form the “U” of a massive, deep box canyon, five
klicks long (though the southern ridge is two klicks longer than
the northern) and three-and-a-half wide from ridge to ridge, that
splits the eastern end of the Spine along its axis (making the
Spine Range look like a two-pronged fork, with lopsided tines). The
colony itself fills the bottom of the terminal end of this U,
stretching over half-a-klick wide and well over a klick long (if
measured from the jagged line of the Gate Wall up to the Oculus—I’m
not sure what more may reach further upslope).

“What about heat?” my father asks. “How do you avoid
being seen on infrared?”

“Our roofs are thick, and our chimneys are designed
to diffuse the heat of our fires,” Negev grants him an explanation,
sounding like he appreciates the question. “Even then, we measure
our fuel burning carefully.”

I remember the Pax speaking of similar practices. But
then, my own people have spent generations wearing layered cloaks
to hide our heat and limiting our own heater use. In fact, every
group on this planet has built their way of life around hiding from
the eyes of Earth (whether they were looking for us or not). But
the Pax and Katar have managed methods using only what the planet
provides. I haven’t seen them use any technology left from Pre-Bang
times.

While I’ve been lost in the view, Murphy has found
something. We begin to gather around a large stone—three meters
high and a meter wide, set standing in the middle of the Plaza. I
remember passing it on our way in, and dismissing it as another odd
random shape among a world of them, but now I can see that one side
is naturally flat—the side facing the Oculus, as if to be seen by
those exiting (and I would have, if I hadn’t been so mesmerized by
the view). There are five names carved on it, the first letter of
each surname made bold:

KHAN, RAJEESH

ALMQUIST, JENS

TALOFF, HELENA

AKINAGA, KIRA

ROMANOV, PAVEL

“The Founders of our City,” Negev explains with
obvious reverence.

“K-A-T-A-R,” I spell out the initials.

“Your first Kings?” Straker asks. Negev nods. Then he
steps back, and his warriors open a space for us to pass, back down
the steps from the Plaza and back down into the main part of the
colony.