The God Mars Book Four: Live Blades (12 page)

“Matching set… One arm, one leg…”

“You just need the left leg and the right arm,” the
other man who made it out of the cave jokes, letting me hear that
he’s at least breathing hard. He goes to join Ishmael in checking
the severity of the wound.

The Ghaddar is already going about essential
business, having arrived several seconds ahead of us, refilling
tanks.

“You said something about my brother-in-law?” the
wounded man calls to me. He pulls aside his mask so I can see his
bearded face, and recognize him from the file stills that Hassim
showed me.

“Abu Abbas,” I name him.

“Most of him,” he keeps up his humor. “And who should
I thank for getting me shot?”

I’m struck speechless. His tone tells me he’s joking,
but I feel a flash of guilt, of shame. I’m much more badly hurt
than he is, but I’ll heal much faster and much better than he will.
And he lost a man—a friend, perhaps family—likely to a wound that
would have only caused me pain and inconvenience. I gather myself,
find my words:

“My name is Erickson Carter. And that was not my
intention, sir.”

“You’re a Jinn, a Terraformer,” he assumes correctly.
“I saw you shot.”

“Minor inconvenience,” I discount, though I probably
sound in the worst shape of our little band by far.

“So it’s true,” the other man from the cave says,
crouching at Abbas’ side to start first aid with a portable kit. I
realize he wears the black and gray light-armor uniform of the
Tranquility Hammond-Keller under his cloaks and partial plate, and
carries their signature revolver. “The Guardians have been barred
from using their Tools?”

“Jon Murphy, Ambassador of the Tranquility Domers,”
Abbas introduces with a wince as his wound gets prodded. “And my
nurse, too many times more than I’d like.”

Ishmael, reassured that his father will survive his
injury, goes to help the Ghaddar, distributing the oxygen tanks. He
offers one to the slim girl, but she waves his offer away. I, on
the other hand, am grateful to be able to plug one into my mask,
take the strain off my systems so I can get a start Stage Four.
Ishmael goes back to the tap to fill canteens, passes these around.
The girl accepts this gift, gives a small bow to thank him. I
consider that the girl must be cold in the open air wearing so
little, no matter how much her biology has adapted. I make myself
stand and hand her my cloak. She’s initially hesitant to take it,
so I assure her:

“I need this less than the others. Please.”

She hesitates, but then turns her back to me and
lowers her head, allowing me to drape it over her.

“My thanks,” she says quietly, eyes down, like it’s
something she’s not used to saying. I sit back down, still trying
to pretend I’m done healing.

The other sentry—Jibril—is watching the path of our
retreat nervously, scanning the terrain with his binoculars. I make
myself limp over to join him, try to be useful.

“Why are we stopping here?” I ask something
practical.

“We stopped here before,” Ishmael explains. “The
ground is solid all around. No sign of tunneling. The Silvermen
don’t usually come out this far away from the hills.”

The girl spits when he names our attackers.

“Digging here might risk damaging the Feed Line,”
Murphy guesses, but looks to me for confirmation of his theory. I
give him a thoughtful nod, though I’m still not sure of the extent
of the threat we’re facing.

“You’ve run afoul of them before?” I ask.

“Since Tyr,” Abbas confirms heavily. “And every time
we’ve approached the highlands on either Rim since.”

I remember the body Azrael left me, realizing I must
have strayed too close to their territory. I was dumbly lucky that
I chose a path in the lowlands.

“They should not be this far east,” the girl finally
speaks up, her voice a growl of simmering rage. “Concordia is
ours
. You saw them at Gagarin?”

Ishmael nods. She spits again. I realize she’s
spitting blood, clots remaining from the beating she took. Her
wrists are cut from her bonds and her use of my sword to cut her
bonds. She ignores the wounds, glares back toward the colony
site.

“
Our
lands. The graves of our grandparents.
They
know
better.”

“And who are you?” Abbas finally gets around to
asking her, sounding tired.

“Kah Terina Sher-Khan,” she announces regally without
looking at him. “First Daughter of Sagrev Khan, War-King of
Katar.”

“A
princess
?” Abbas muses. She doesn’t confirm
or deny it.

“And what, or where, is Katar?” Azrael’s silken voice
interrupts the moment. He climbs casually over the Feed Line to
join us. I notice he’s managed to recover quite a few of his
arrows. The rest of the group starts at his entrance, ready for a
fight.

“It’s okay,” I try to reassure. “He’s with me. Sort
of. He works for Hassim.”

“There’s no sign of imminent pursuit,” he tells us
easily. “The Silvers appear adequately discouraged for the
moment.”

“I’m not sure what that was all about,” Murphy
grumbles, packing and wrapping Abbas’ arm. “What did we just
stumble into?”

“I was sent for
diplomacy
,” the girl—Kah
Terina—tells us, still the bite of her rage in her words. “The
Black Clothes, they came to our lands, set killing machines on our
scouting parties, began digging in the Grave to bury their flying
city. Violating our sacred ground.”

Chang. She’s talking about his Stormcloud, his flying
fortress.

“We came to seek treaty with the Steel, to ask them
to honor the old pacts,” she continues, getting even angrier as she
brings up these possibly former allies. “But they have violated
those pacts, moved into our old lands… We were attacked as we
arrived, only by more Black Clothes. Except different.”

“Deserters,” I give my guess. “After their master and
their ‘flying city’ were destroyed, they probably broke away, tried
to make a new home for themselves here…”

I realize she’s turned and is staring at me like I’ve
said something exceptionally confusing.

“The Flying City is not destroyed,” she insists. “It
is still there. Hidden. Deep inside Lucifer’s Grave. They work on
it day and night as their machines stand guard, bringing loads of
scrap from the Outlands on their big airships.”

“What?”

No. She’s mistaken.

“How long ago did your people see this flying city?”
Murphy asks, sounding as unsettled as I suddenly feel.

“It was there when we passed our borders. Twenty days
ago. You say it has been destroyed?”

My abused guts sink. My limbs shake. The Stormcloud
was completely destroyed seven months ago. We all saw it dissolved
by nuclear fire.

“No,” the Ghaddar confirms grimly. “This is another
one.”

The girl—who testily insists we call her “Terina”
rather than “Kah Terina”—won’t answer further questions until we
explain ourselves. So Abbas tells her the tale of his people, of
the return of the Unmakers, of the war against Chang, and of the
stupid thing the Unmakers did to try to defeat him; the resulting
damage to their homeland, their hope to find better. And their hope
that better might lie beyond the reach of the enigmatic and
merciless Silvermen (or more simply “Steel”, as Terina calls
them).

Murphy adds on a description of his home, his people,
his mission to meet and hopefully make treaties with new peoples,
to trade and to form alliances against the Unmakers and the “Black
Clothes”. He also admits the extent of their dual threat: Nuclear
weapons on one side, immortality and superhuman power on the other.
It’s Ishmael that gives hope to the tale: the coming of the other
immortals, those that stand with Colonel Ram to defend us. (I watch
Azrael’s eyes during this part of the narrative, see them become
especially alert at the mention of Colonel Ram.)

Terina seems to take this all with only mild shock,
as if she’s already seen enough to make our tales less than
fantastic.

The makeshift camp falls silent, waiting for my tale.
My tale is short and unimpressive, my mission sounding petty now
that I put it in words before other ears. I am a fool on an errand
I know not how to complete. But I have completed one mission: I’ve
found Abu Abbas for Hassim. Or at least I’ve half-completed it: I
must find a way to report my news.

“Already done,” Azrael surprises me. We all stare at
him until he decides to be more forthcoming. “I can discreetly hack
into the UNMAC satellite network. I’ve contacted Hassim on an
encrypted Link, gear he kept from the time when you enjoyed peace
with the Unmakers, thanks to Colonel Ram, before the Earth
commanders returned. I’ve been updating Hassim regularly—the
Unmakers don’t detect me. He’s very pleased to hear that you’re
alive, though he mourns with you your losses.” He hands Abbas a
flashcard which plays a message from Hassim.

“What are you?” I decide to confront, despite the
company.

“This is neither the time nor the place for…” Azrael
begins to deny, then has to catch a sharpened rod thrown at his
head by the Ghaddar, but finishes his sentence as if nothing
happened: “…that discussion.”

He tosses her back her weapon.

“You are Immortal?” Ishmael guesses, the awe of a
young boy coming through.

“Not remotely,” Azrael tells him lightly.

“ETE?” I give a guess I’m already sure is wrong.

“You know I’m not.”

“You are not the Angel of Death, despite the name you
use,” the Ghaddar confronts him.

“Not intentionally, but I have indeed played that
role incidentally. And
you
, despite the name you use, are
not a demon that bites off men’s genitals,” he returns, coolly.
“I’m only guessing about that second part, of course.”

The rest of the group stays silent, but I can feel
them all coil, as if ready to get out of the way of a brawl between
two exceptionally dangerous beings.

“So what
are
you?” I repeat, hoping to
distract the imminent violence brewing.

“I’m just looking for an old friend.”

“Ram,” I name.

“Yes,” he confirms easily. This seems to shift the
Ghaddar’s focus.

“You’re another time traveler?” I assume.

“Sorry. No. Someone else’s turn to guess?” He’s being
intentionally frustrating.

“You have my Brother-in-Law’s trust,” Abbas gives
him, trying to put an end, at least temporarily, to this tense
exchange. “You have mine. Nothing else needs be said.” He shoots a
look at the Ghaddar. According to what I’ve heard, Abbas took her
into his service when she fled from what Ram had become. And then
Abbas was willing to embrace and accept what Ram had become; that
terrifying, unexplainable being. And the others like him.

“You have my service, if you intend to continue your
journey,” Azrael offers.

“You intend to keep going east?” I have to ask, given
the hardships they’ve apparently been through thus far.

“We must. We’ve come this far, and still not found
what we’re looking for.”

Azrael gives him a solemn nod.

“We have told our tales,” Abbas confronts Terina
politely but firmly. “I believe it is your turn.”

She seems to seethe at being told what to do,
especially by strangers, invaders, even if we did rescue her.

“I left Katar twenty days past with thirty warriors
and six hand-men. We bargained passage through the lands of the
Pax, as my father went to negotiate with them against our mutual
invader. The Steel control the Rim Lands of our Origin, but our
Grands had treaties with them that I hoped to renew. But when we
came to the Cemetery Ground of Concordia, we found Black Clothes,
entrenched in the slopes, in the caves. We killed many, but their
weapons and positions were superior. The last of us were taken to
their cave camp, tortured for information, for amusement. There was
talk of ransom—they needed passage west for some reason, but could
not pass the Steel borders, and their ambassador had not returned
in many days. They thought we would be worth something to the
Steel. But the Steel just returned the bodies of those left as
offerings, impaled alive… my Hand-Servant… my War Chief… The Black
Clothes became enraged. They demanded that we guarantee passage
back to their people at the Grave, desperate. I refused. They began
to torture the rest of us…”

“Is that when I… we… arrived?” I guess. She nods.

“Is it possible the Silvermen—the Steel—were
attempting a rescue?” Murphy wonders.

Terina glares murder at him.

“They had plenty of time to set that ambush,” Azrael
assesses.

“They chose to strike while we were busy shooting at
each other,” the Ghaddar agrees with him. The looks they exchange
are tense but hopefully promising an accord, at least for now. I
don’t know how far Hassim’s assurances go with her.

“Where is your home?” I ask a practical question.

“In the Spine of the Fork, the Home Mountain,” she
answers cryptically. “From there, we control the Central Blade of
the Green Trident. Or we did, until the Black Clothes came with
their hunter machines. Even the Pax are coming under attack in the
North Blade.”

“How far?” Abbas asks her.

“One hundred and twenty kilometers.” She points east.
Toward the Vajra. I realize her descriptions of trident parts make
sense, especially if her people only know the western half of that
region. “But we must pass back through Pax Land. And past the Black
Clothes.”

And the shadow of White Station. (Again, I’m
frustrated with how little my people choose to know about those
that live in the valleys all around them. And worse: Chang may well
have another flying fortress being readied right under their
noses.)

“Is there viable land between here and there that my
people might make a treaty for?” Abbas asks her, sticking to his
own mission.