The God Mars Book Two: Lost Worlds (5 page)

I almost tune her out at that point—the excuse sounds
bogus. Someone should have kept listening; someone should at least
have preserved a means to recognize and translate our signals. Even
some die-hard crank, or fringe department buried in some nation’s
intelligence community. The look on Matthew’s face tells me he’s
thinking the same thing.

“The rest of the delay betrays how our fears persist.
I cannot give you specifics, but you can imagine that any message
coming from a planet assumed to have no human life for five
decades, but unimaginably dangerous and possibly harboring evolving
nanotechnology, was taken by many as some kind of cruel ruse,
especially given the incredible tale of your long sleep, which I
admit is still an issue for debate. Some went as far as to believe
that the signals themselves might contain some kind of virus
designed to take control of us from across space, and should be
blocked absolutely. This was one of the reasons we had so radically
changed our communications codes and completely discontinued using
the old codes many years ago. It took time to argue that your story
might have any truth to it, and longer still to debate that the
potential rewards of reaching out to you would outweigh the risks
of infection-by-communication. I am sorry to say that this debate
remains unresolved and tenuous.”

At least that sounds more likely, and more honest.
(And not just because Satrapi just addressed two of our more
popular assumptions almost exactly.)

“I can only offer my own personal apologies for
whatever they are worth. Expect that you still have many questions
to answer, and so have we. Be assured I will speak with you again
as soon as the vote is taken this afternoon, and that others will
be in touch.

“Farewell for now. Message ends.”

Kastl and Shaloub are looking back at me like they’re
expecting me to pass judgment on this latest news. Matthew comes up
on my personal screen from his suite.

“Almost makes sense,” he gives me his take. “She’s
still holding a lot back.”

“I feel like a child with cancer,” Tru puts it.
“Nobody wants to tell me how bad it is.”

“I think Secretary Satrapi gave us something at least
close to the truth,” I try hope, or at least a modicum of
acceptance. “We may never get the whole story.”

“I’ll be happy just to get supplies flowing,” Lisa
comes on from Melas Three Ops. “You ready to tell the troops?”

“Give me a wake-up chime and put me on PA,” I tell
Kastl. He proceeds to wake up First Shift at both sites with a
ready alarm. I rub my shaved head, find the words (and more
important: the tone), and break the much-awaited news:

“All personnel, this is Colonel Ram. At just after
zero one hundred hours this morning, we finally began receiving
return transmissions from Earth. Since then we have sent and
received two more transmissions, the last from the current
Secretary General of the United Nations. I am releasing this
transmission to all of you to listen to in your own time. The news
isn’t all good—some of what happened that we didn’t know about is
hard to listen to—but Earth is still there, and they will be
sending material aid as soon as possible. I have sent out a
personnel roster and requested news of your families, as well as a
recap of the history we’ve missed. I will keep you all posted as we
receive further communications. Ram out.”

I think I can hear cheering rumble through the
bunkers below me.

“You want me to release the whole UN message?” Kastl
asks, apprehensive. I consider having him edit the end of Satrapi’s
speech, especially when she suggests that some on Earth may still
think our communication attempts are some elaborate trap created by
an evolved nano-intelligence, but

“I think our people have earned it.”

The rest of the day passes with brief transmissions
that are few and hours between. Since there seems to be no further
need of timeliness, I go for a light breakfast (all local-grown)
down in the Officers’ Mess, and then a few hours of sleep in my
rack.

Richards call us back by lunchtime to repeat his
request for more information about the ETE. I have Rick compose
something about the current environmental conditions and the specs
on the atmosphere net, focused on “preparing” any relief for what
they’ll be operating in. Tru sends a similar report detailing her
horticultural research and a list of humanitarian requests for
equipment that the locals could benefit from (new environmental
gear is at the top). In turn, I ask to see their official reports
on the “Martian Tragedy” and the subsequent Disc attacks in Earth
orbit.

A few hours later, an Ivan Chandry identifies himself
as being chairman of the “UN Committee Overseeing Research and
Technology” (UNCORT?). He’s urgent with questions about ETE
technology and resources, and wants to know specifics about how our
Hiber-Sleep was so unbelievably extended. He also asks a lot of
repetitive questions about our assurance that there is no sign of
nano-contamination. He’s a hawk-faced man who brings to mind the
Spanish Inquisition, Joseph McCarthy, and the Gitmo Extremist
Trials. I have Halley send him the specs from our Hiber systems and
add my politic explanation that we were discovered by ETE
technicians who could not decide on how and when to revive us, but
were able to adjust our systems to extend our sleep safely. I
suggest he could get better information directly from the ETE, but
warned him that they are very suspicious of Earth and haven’t been
willing to speak to us much, at least about the issues he’s most
concerned with. I expect I sound like I’m being intentionally
abstruse. I conclude by idly asking him what it is that UNCORT
does. I don’t get a timely answer.

Shortly before dinner, we get our promised call back
from Secretary Satrapi.

“I bring hopeful news,” she begins with a subdued
smile, maintaining her professional, matronly lines. “The General
Assembly did pass by majority vote the re-institution of the United
Nations Martian Affairs Council, so that our efforts to reach out
to you will be coordinated globally. General Richards has been
assigned as our military liaison. Security operations will be
directed through the team he is assembling. Work on relief missions
proceeds in earnest, though I am sorry I have no estimation as yet
for when you should receive your first material shipments.

“I can also tell you that your news has created quite
an upheaval back home. While there are massive celebrations in
every nation, bigger than anything that has been seen in decades, I
regret to say that not all has been positive: There is still
great
fear in the international community; fear of
contamination as well as of the risks in returning to Mars. The
Disc threat remains a primary concern despite your assurances, so
the more intelligence you can provide from the surviving groups
will hopefully help assuage those fears. I also apologize for
Doctor Chandry’s tone in his communication; our military and
scientific advisors channel the concerns of many of our members
that certain questions regarding the extant technology on Mars
remain unsatisfactorily answered. Do not take this as any criticism
of your reports, Colonel Ram—we understand your limitations in
mounting a full survey and inspection of the effected regions.”

I watch her face fall into almost-pained
seriousness.

“However, I do very much regret to inform you that
these concerns have supported the continuation of the Planetary
Quarantine that had been put in place after the original disaster.
What that means—for now—is that only material support will be sent,
though I assure you it will be as generous as we can possibly
manage. No personnel will be sent to the surface, and—far worse,
I’m certain, from your perspective—no survivors will be evacuated
to Earth. I dearly wish that this policy does not remain steadfast
for long, but I can give you no assurances. I cannot begin to
express my regret to you or your brave people.”

She pauses to collect herself, a performance very
similar to her last communication. I can’t tell from the video if
she’s honestly grieving or simply a good political player. I find
I’m feeling too numb to believe in either possibility.

She goes through the motions of wishing us the best
and assuring us of the usual, then signs off.

“And the other shoe drops,” Matthew grumbles, shaking
his head.

“
Planetary Quarantine?
” Tru can’t seem to
believe what she’s heard. “
No
evacuation?”

“And
no
relief personnel,” Anton adds numbly
over the Link.

“I don’t care about that,” Matthew snaps wearily.
“I’d rather not have
any
of them down here bushing with us
anyway.”

“But we’ve got people who would like to see home
again,” I try, knowing the possibility of evacuation was not a
priority heretofore voiced by any of my command team. And I
strongly doubt any of the survivor factions are eager to visit
“home.” But having that door locked against us suddenly weighs
heavily.

“I think my people will handle,” Tru offers. “They
won’t like it, even if they had no plans to shuttle out. But I
think they’re good to stay on for the haul.”

I give her a tired nod of thanks.

Anton changes gears:

“Just
odd
: She keeps talking about all these
big celebrations and all, but we get not
one
attached video
file. We’ve asked—I know we’ve asked—but they’re not showing us
anything
of home. You’d think they’d let us see it at
least…”

“Maybe things are just too different,” Tru considers.
“Maybe they’re worrying we’d go into some kind of shock.”

“Or maybe their happy crap is just that,” Matthew
cuts. I can see the look on Rick’s face on the Link feed from
Candor: he agrees. Lisa doesn’t look too optimistic either. Maybe
it’s just the burden of what we’ve been through in our time
together.

“We’re used to not trusting,” I voice what I’m
mulling.

“We’d be dead if we did,” Matthew reminds me—not just
with his words, but with his hardening tone. I remember what
happened to Amber, as far as I know the one actual love of his
life. “You think the world has changed that much?”

I don’t have an answer for him.

An hour later we get an odd transmission: Not as
strong as the others, spotty and jerky. Two heads crammed into a
tight view on a blank background: one male, one female, middle aged
and weathered-looking, a tannish blend of racial
characteristics.

“This message is for Truganini Greenlove,” the woman
begins with an urgent tone. “Colonel Ram, we have studied your file
and trust you will not censor it, but please see that she receives
it. We want her to know that her movement is still alive and well,
but the news of your contact has divided us, and the rest of
humanity, along bitter lines.”

“Ms. Greenlove: Many of us share your dream that your
Mars can become a garden for future generations,” the male
continues, “but more are afraid that what came before will come
again, and that war will return with it.”

“There are many things they aren’t telling you,” the
woman speaks faster. “You will not see the faces behind what they
do. Mankind has not changed despite what they have been professing
all these years. Beware of greed and the politics of fear. They
are…”

The message dissolves in a storm of nonsense
pixels.

“What the fuck…?” Matthew spits out at the blank
screen. Tru looks pale.

“That’s it,” Anton confirms. “Jammed. No
attachment.”

“You recognize any of those people?” Matthew asks
Tru, who just sits with her mouth open. Then an old UNMAC graphic
comes up on the screen.

“Apologies, Colonel,” an anonymous voice comes
through. “This is Colonel Markus Burns of UNMAC Earthside Command.
We should have warned you to expect the random crackpots. We’ve got
fringe groups globally trying to punch in on your reception bands.
I’m surprised the media nets haven’t hacked you into overload by
now looking for exclusive interviews, and I know there’s an
impressive queue of state leaders forming just to get a press-op
face message to you. We’re working on dedicating your signal. Hang
in there with us—we haven’t done this kind of thing in any of our
lifetimes. Earthside out.”

As if fulfilling Colonel Burns’ prophecy, we detect
hacking attempts twice in the next hour—shoddy attempts to access
our files and Link system, both easily blocked. The virusware was
sophisticated beyond what we’re used to; it was only the poor
signal bandwidth that made the attacks so easy to deflect. And
Anton can’t give us any assessment as to whether the viruses were
civilian or military: the zealous intrusion of a hungry media
service or something more sinister (including the possibility that
UNCORT is trying to take whatever it thinks we’re hiding from
them).

As for myself, I’m not sure if I appreciate Colonel
Burns’ assurances of “signal security”. It sounds too much like
someone wants to restrict access to us, to what we might have to
tell them. Or what someone on Earth might tell us.

“My people are taking the news as well as can be
expected,” Tru tells us over a quick meal she’s brought up to us so
we can keep sitting in Ops awaiting the next message. “First
celebration, then anxiety as they realize Earth is afraid of us, or
at least afraid of here. A lot of them weren’t looking to return,
but someone puts a barrier up, and we humans start thinking harder
about what we can’t have…”

The meal she brought for us is all local grown,
including a generous helping of fist-sized engineered strawberries
grown from ETE seedlings. I wonder if she’s purposefully reminding
us that Mars can feed us, and better than preserved ration packs
from “home.”