The God Mars Book Six: Valhalla I Am Coming (40 page)

Under their layered clothing, their bodies are
universally thin and gangly, adapted to Martian gravity, but
they’re not as tall as the Pax, and certainly not the Katar. And
they all wear breather masks, several of which look like they’ve
been repaired and rigged beyond effective function.

They silently form a semi-circle around the center
where the rover and I stand, like this is a practiced ritual. Then
seals hiss from other directions, all around me, and more hatches
open, only these discharge smaller groups that include children.
Families
, I realize dully. These hang back from the original
larger group, almost shyly, as if either curious or bound by some
duty to attend whatever’s about to happen.

Then, finally, I get spared my search. Armed warriors
bring out Horst and Lyra through the central door of the main
facility.

Both have been stripped to T-shirts and trousers,
barefoot on the icy stones. Neither have masks or goggles, and by
the way they move, they’re already suffering mild hypoxia. I see
signs of abuse: Lyra has a dried bloody nose and a split lip.
Horst’s left eye is swollen and his cheek and brow have been cut as
if from a beating. Their hands are tied behind their backs, and
their ankles tied together with cords, leaving enough slack to
hobble but not totally immobilize them.

As they’re dragged toward me (well, toward the center
of the square since they still don’t seem to see me), I hear an
eerily familiar chant start to build all around me.

“Yoo-Ess-Ay… Yoo-Ess-Ay…YOO-ESS-AY…
YOO-ESS-AY
…”

One man steps through between the captives into the
middle of the space. I have to step back so he doesn’t obliviously
back into me as he turns and faces the crowd. He raises a rifle
overhead, shakes it like a talisman, and yells

“COLD DEAD HANDS!!!”

They all repeat the sentiment as one, then fall
silent.

“
Istos
, our Great Constitution prohibits cruel
unusual, so we give you to Mars. If you make it through first
night’s freeze, the UV will peel your skin and toast your eyes
unprotected. None of you have made it more than three nights, but
that’s still plenty to make confession. Tell us what we want, and
we may give the precious gift of a bullet.” He pokes himself in the
temple with a finger, his gloved hand mimicking a pistol.

Horst and Lyra try not to shiver, their breath coming
out in milky clouds, but stay bravely silent.

“
Stake them out!
” the leader decrees.

And I think I’ve let this go on long enough.

“Your Great Constitution also prohibits taking of
life without due process, and guarantees trial by jury of peers,
right to counsel, and to confront and present witnesses.”

I let myself become visible, my armor going black.
They all jump back a step and level their weapons on me, shaking
from the shock of my appearance out of thin air, their leader
almost falling backwards over his own feet getting himself well
away from me. I keep my hand casually close to my gun.

“Since I’m nothing resembling a lawyer, I present
myself as a witness for the defense.”

One of them impulsively fires his rifle. I bob my
head sideways to avoid the shot. I’m sure it appeared to them as a
blur (and had the unfortunate side-effect of shaking my unruly mop
of hair loose from its pony tail).

I see Lyra grin with her abused lips. Horst gives me
a look of caution, as if I didn’t already know these people were a
bit nuts.

“What are you?!” the leader demands from behind the
sights of his own rifle, the trembling tip of his bayonet pointed
at my nose.

“Long story. Bad ending. I
was
Colonel Mike
Ram, formerly of UNMAC, which I expect doesn’t make me very popular
around here…”

“
ISTO!
” I get shouted at by the entire throng
before I finish my sentence. “
ISTO!!
”

“Fasc
ist
, Social
ist
, Marx
ist
,
Commun
ist,
” Horst semi-explains when he sees my confusion.
He gets a rifle butt in the gut for his helpfulness.

“Not a good idea,” I warn them. “I am trying to be
civil. And there are others like me. Most would be patient with
you. Some might even be generous. One, however… Perhaps you’ve met
him? Red hair, beard, high forehead, strong nose, sick sense of
humor…?”

I see what I was hoping I wouldn’t: Recognition in
their eyes.

“You
have
seen him.”

“Stranger. Quarter-year ago. Out of the wastes—came
from the northeast, from the direction of Alchera—none’s come from
Alchera since my father’s young days. Wearing rags. Not even a
blade to him, just a stick. Mad as a Libby. We gave him to Mars. He
smiled like a fool as we staked him, like we was playing. Then he
vanished middle-of-dark, snapped his wires and snuck away, no sign
since.”

Asmodeus wanted to see the place first-hand.

“What did he tell you?”

“He raved,” their leader discounts. “Said the Yoo-Enn
Istos were back, taking over the planet, taking homes and freedoms,
killing and imprisoning, bombing and burning. We didn’t believe—he
was ox-starved, blue-brained. But then we saw the ships.”

And he stoked them with the best kind of propaganda:
the kind that’s mostly true.

“He didn’t lie,” I allow. “But he did play your fear.
Earth
has
come back. They came to rescue, but they also fear
that the planet is contaminated from the old corporate labs, so
they’ve been demanding everyone here relocate, surrender arms…”

That brings the expected growl from the crowd. They
start chanting “Cold dead hands” again like they’re pumping up for
a fight.

“They’re scared!” I repeat over them. “They’re in a
war with that man, the redhead. He’s attacked colonies like yours,
infected the people with technology that turns them into mindless
drones for his army, walking corpses. He’s slaughtered
hundreds
. And you can’t kill him. Let me show you…”

I reach for my gun; a big, sloppy act. Then I stand
there with open arms, my feet planted, while they shoot me. I close
my eyes and take it, let the bullets slam my armor, cut into my
face, ping off my skull. It hurts, stuns, staggers, but I stay up
until they realize I’m not going down. Then they watch my wounds
close, watch my armor consume their bullets as it reshapes,
repairs.

When I open my eyes, I make them glow. Then I ripple
in and out of visibility a few times, just to seal my point.

“These people…” I point to Horst and Lyra. “They wear
UN uniforms, but they’re helping me find the redheaded man. So are
the people on the big armored vehicle you saw in the crater. Let us
go in peace, finish our mission. Those like me can help protect you
from what the UN would do to you in their fear.”

I get silence for several very tense seconds. I’m
afraid I’m not selling this. I’m afraid I am going to have to take
life to save life.

“Tell us!” their leader barks at me. “You say Earth
came rescue! What about Yoo-Ess-Ay?” He even says it like he’s
chanting it. “What happened to Yoo-Ess-Ay?!”

“As far as I know, as far as they showed us, the
place is still there, the people still call themselves Americans…
But after the bombing there was a crisis. A world government took
over in the aftermath, took power over the other nations. I’m not
any happier about that than you are. But it wasn’t a war, not
really. The people, broken and desperate, gave up their freedoms
for what they thought was a greater good.”

I’m not trying to make this worse, but the more I
tell them, the more I think maybe I should be picking up a rifle,
pumping it over my head and chanting along with them. I can’t
honestly say it’s out of the question. Maybe it can save thi…

“Our sentries aren’t responding!” someone pushes
through the crowd to tell the leader. “Payne and Lexington… We left
them guarding the Gap.”

And I get turned on again.

“I’m sorry,” I try. “They fired on me and mine. I
didn’t intend…”

An older woman shoves her way to the front of the
crowd, shakes off hands that try to restrain her, and starts
emptying a pistol at me. I think I hear her screaming something
about her son over the gunfire. I take the shots, take my
punishment, however meaningless.

She realizes the futility, falls to her knees
sobbing, but all the other guns are pointed at me again. These
people just don’t…

“
Watch your friends die, monster!!
” she spits
at me, shakes the supporting hands off of her as she reloads, and
turns her gun on Horst and Lyra. I’m torn within the barest second
between shooting her and trying to throw something at her (though
that went wrong the last time) when I hear the whistle of a
high-vel round whip over my head, watch the old woman’s brains
spray all over her fellows, watch a man behind her collapse
clutching his gut because the bullet went through her and into
him.

Fuck.

My enhancements track the angle of the offending
round back up-slope, originating from about where I left the
Knights, but that’s clear enough to the so-called Sons of Liberty.
They start to shout about “Istos” and “Redcloaks” and scramble into
defensive positions—the entire area is dug and piled with handy
trenches and earthen walls. Soon, the night is ablaze with gunfire,
lancing up into the surrounding heights. The Sons of Liberty don’t
seem to care much about conserving their ammo. I see only a few
using night vision gear to find their targets in the darkness—the
rest must either be firing to their fellows’ point-of-aim or
unloading blindly at where they’ve learned to expect attack to come
from.

The Knights are far more conservative and efficient:
I hear another high-vel round come flying in, see the head of one
of the men holding Lyra burst. I turn to the slopes, light the
Knights up in my enhancements, and wave wildly for them to
cease-fire. But that doesn’t stop the Sons.

In the chaos, the fighters charged with guarding
Horst and Lyra start screaming that they’re going to execute them,
forcing them to their knees with guns pressed to their heads.

I need to act, I need to do something about this.

I get an idea, glance back at the rover to confirm my
concept, then dive for the bot. I don’t go for the main gun.
Instead, I get a hand on the smoke launchers, hack in to the firing
mechanism and start popping grenades all over the clearing. The
Sons start taking shots at me again, despite knowing the futility
of it, but I’m happy to eat their ammo as the smokers begin to
burst and mask us all in what I expect in better light would be
multicolored billowing clouds.

I kick one canister of what I think is red or pink at
Horst and Lyra, use my camo to vanish in the haze, then charge
straight for them. I spread my arms and catch each of them in quick
succession, knocking aside their guards and throwing us for the
nearest potential shelter, which is the long bunker they just
emerged from.

I toss them through the still-open door, which is a
repurposed colony airlock fused into the rock, and slam and lock it
behind us. Then I need to move fast to seal the other two exterior
doors and drop the blast-grade shutters over the slit windows. I’m
not fast enough: There’s already a man with a tactical shotgun
inside the lock to my left, and two more riflemen come running
through the lock to my right. I pick up a table—a use-worn antique
folding mess table probably from the original colony—and flip it at
the single fighter, then sling a matching aluminum bench at the
other two.

I run over the top of the one man, pinning him under
the tabletop as I stand on it, slam that hatch shut and spin the
manual lock, setting my nanites to fuse it. Then I bounce the table
into his forehead by stomping on it. It makes a satisfying
gong-like sound as it slams his head into the hard-pack floor,
stunning him.

I run back the other way, across to the other hatch,
wielding another light bench like a quarterstaff, swatting aside
the weapons that try to shoot me, breaking two legs, a nose, a jaw
and an unknown number of ribs before they go down. The bench is
twisted into unrecognizable scrap in the process. Then I have to
shove more Sons out through the hatch before I can shut and lock it
in their faces. I can hear them shouting and hammering on the other
side, trying to force their way in.

Room secured, I finally get a look around, find a
valve that lets compressed air hiss into the chamber. Then I make
sure that Horst and Lyra didn’t take any stray shots. Thankfully,
they were both smart enough to grab the deck while I met gunfire
with flimsy furniture.

I find their confiscated gear, piled next to a kind
of podium that I expect was used in their “trial”. Displayed
prominently behind it is an antique American flag alongside their
own single-star version.

The America theme continues as a series of wall
panels that circle the room. Skillfully carved into the laminate
are representations of US landmarks: The Capitol, the White House,
the Washington Monument, the Pentagon viewed from above, the statue
of Lincoln in his memorial, the Statue of Liberty, Mount Rushmore,
the St. Louis Arch, the Liberty Bell…

While Horst and Lyra quickly get themselves more
appropriately dressed, I take a few seconds to appreciate the
architecture, the engineering of the place:

It isn’t a cave. There’s a welded metal frame,
holding up a rock ceiling that’s been artfully cut, fit and glued
together with pressure-seal. The ceiling is low—barely over two
meters in places—but the room itself is an impressive
seven-by-twenty meters, filled with tables and benches like a
community center or mess hall. There are rifle racks near the
hatches, enough to hold a hundred weapons, but they’re all
empty.