17 November, 2115:
Look east sunrise…
We keep the Lancer set down at the missing relay site. Rick sent us out a replacement unit by late yesterday afternoon, but we have yet to anchor it.
Matthew’s been making a show of sending ASVs back and forth to the relay site outside the net, first to change out the ships damaged in the attack, then to get me what I’ve asked for.
He also passed word that both Anton and Bailey will be okay, but that Hanson is still listed as “critical” after surgery while Doc Ryder tries to use the rebuilders we have to stimulate healing his lung. He’ll also be short a few loops of small intestine in the deal.
Morales has ASV 1 patched and ready to fly again by nightfall, while ASV 2 really only needed a new bay module. I told her to leave the wings battered for the time being and send the ships back in the rotation—I want our attackers to see that they’ve done no real harm to our air power.
I sit with Smith, Rios and Sakina in the Lancer’s cockpit and watch the screens as the distant sun breaks over the Melas rim, sipping the “tea” Tru has been lovingly cultivating in our rebuilt and expanded greenhouse. Breakfast was a tasty if dense bread made from our first successful crop of “Graingrass”, and meaty “Red Olives”. I’m beginning to feel like I live here, enjoying the sunrise and real native food. I wonder if that’s a bad thing, because I won’t be able to maintain my objectivity for what I expect is coming.
You’ll see the Dutch coming…
“Visual,” Smith tells me even though I’ve already seen it: the cigar-like hull of the sailed zeppelin that attacked us (or one just like it), a silhouette rising just enough above the cliff-line to be seen. I wonder how the ETE could be unaware of something that big flying around—maybe they are just too isolationist to have seen one, despite the proximity to their Blue Station. However, radar shows only what may be no more than a dust cloud—they must be using stealth materials, which suggests advanced manufacturing resources, maybe kept running since the Apocalypse. I have to estimate its range at a dozen miles.
If you see men on the sand, come meet in good faith…
Long range optics get me the best view I can hope for: I can see rappelling lines hanging down from the “Dutch,” and a small group of figures taking up a position on a hilltop well out into the Gap.
“Spin her up,” I tell Smith. “Time to chat.”
The hilltop chosen for our meeting is like a long bar of a dune. Footing is poor at best on the loose but coarse sand. I suspect our “hosts” wanted this on purpose to give their light frames an advantage over our relative bulk.
The “Dutch” has quietly sailed off about a half-klick to watch from a reassuring but still intimidating distance, its sails furled and its fans running slow, probably just enough to maintain position in the morning winds. I wonder what the ranges of its guns are.
Sakina, Rios and I debark with our remaining three prisoners and send the Lancer gliding gracefully away. It makes a long, low circle around the floor of the pass, Smith showing off the graceful way the ship can move, before setting down about a half-klick behind us.
Our hosts are waiting: four figures standing on the crest. Two wear the same brightly painted working suits worn by those that attacked us beyond the net, only these wear masks and cowls like the Nomads instead of helmets, and their masks are adorned with strings of bone beads that very well might have once been human fingers. The other two are dressed in a mix of scavenged gear. The female of this pair sports select pieces of UNMAC H-A plate: chest and thighs and shoulders, all marked up with Zodangan graffiti. She has part of another thigh plate cut into a cover for her mask, and wears the heavy goggles favored by construction techs. Her long, dark matted hair is full of bone-beads. Her male counterpart wears a UNMAC LA jacket over colony security blacks, his hands in heavy surface gloves like gauntlets. His hair is even longer than hers, a tangle of dirty blonde dreads. He wears a plain mask and light goggles. All four wear swords that look like someone took time and pride in making them, but I don’t see any firearms.
We prod our bound captives toward their fellows. Their reunion looks tense but wordless, and then the prisoners are sent jogging in the general direction of their ship—I note how their comrades don’t bother to untie their hands.
In good faith, I draw my pistol and perform the Nomad truce ritual, placing it down on a rock between our groups. Rios does the same with this ICW. Then I remove my mask long enough for them to see my face. They don’t show the same recognition that the Nomads did.
“Ya don’ impress like yeh think, ‘Maker,” the blonde throws back at me with much more pride in his tone than the one we set free to summon him. “Not plus wi’ threat o’ nukes.”
“Zodanga is the sky,” I give him a calmer reading of his comrade’s mantra. I see his face twist up just short of laughter under his mask.
“Ya say like yeh know, ‘Maker. Ya will know, if ya try us. An’ yeh bombs only burn sand-bugs, while we fly free.” He makes a nod in Sakina’s direction when he says “sand bugs.”
“The bombs you saw were not ours,” I tell him. “You know of the Shinkyo?”
“Darty li’l slants,” he confirms that racism is not a dead tradition. “Play scary but run n’ hide from a hot fight,” he insults haughtily.
“The bombs were theirs. They used them to attack the ETE—the Eternals, the Jinn, whatever you know them as—to try to steal their technology.”
The blonde begins to laugh heartily and is soon joined by his fellows. I’m beginning to think they’ve been raised watching old pirate movies.
“I speak the truth,” I assure him. “We have video records if you doubt me.”
“I do believe,” the blonde gives me back as he catches his breath. “I know ‘em good enough: Da slants’d slice off deh own heads just ta bleed in yeh eye.”
“Those bombs weren’t sent from Earth, from UNMAC,” I reiterate. “But Earth will very likely send more—a lot more—if you interfere with us.”
“Ya’d not be standin’ ‘ere if Apoc’lypse was comin’ again,” he challenges.
“You’ve mistaken us,” I correct him. “We did not just come from Earth. We’ve been asleep under the sand since the Apocalypse. Earth doesn’t know we’re here, they think we all died in the bombing. But thanks to the Shinkyo lighting up the surface, they’ve likely seen things that will frighten them. And if they’re frightened enough to send bombs, they’ll be sure to send more this time than they did in the Apocalypse. Many times more. Unless we can contact them first.”
“An’ tell ‘em best where ta aim?” he criticizes.
“Earth believed everyone here was dead, that a plague had taken the planet. We have to tell them they were wrong. You’re interfering with that.”
He chuckles, puts his fists on his thin hips theatrically.
“Ya tell a tale, ‘Maker.”
“If you like tales, then you will have heard some old ones about an Unmaker called Mike Ram. That would be me.”
He hesitates for a moment, his eyes deciding what he should believe and what it means to him.
“I heard yeh name, in meh schoolin’ stretch,” he admits cautiously. “Ya be spry for an eldest—more so ta be from deh pre-burn-time, Cap’n Colonel.”
“And what do I call you?”
“Cap’n Thompson Gun Bly. The Dutchmun be mine…” He gestures at the floating fortress behind him. “Flagship o’ Zodanga, twenty-two big bore guns ta scour deh bugs from deh sand…” He clasps the hand of the female. “Dis is her Gunner Chief, meh lovemate Nina Harper, but she’s called Brimstone for the sandies.”
“Your guns were impressive, Chief Harper,” I try to flatter. “Your own manufacture?”
“Zodanga makes,” Bly brags. “All engineers, our eldest. Crafty. Gave us deh sky, made us deh sky. Set us upon deh sand bugs. Now upon you.”
“What do you use for powder?” I ignore his idle threat, turning to his gunner.
“No powder,” she eage
rly tells me. “Hydrox gas, or solid rocket fuel we make.”
“Very impressive,” I give him. But he only laughs.
“More than… Means we need nuthin’ we can’t take.”
“Food? Gear? Medical supplies?” I offer. “The supply drops are getting rare—how much is left to take? And stealing from us didn’t go so well for you.”
“An’ what? Ya willin’ ta give if yeh get what yeh want, is dat yeh deal?” He says “give” like I’ve offered something offensive. “Trade fer a cease-fire?”
“We won’t need to trade if I can get Earth to send relief—it’ll come to you freely. But first, you need to let us complete our uplink without further interference.”
“We need nuthin’,” he repeats defiantly. “An’ first be followed by second, mos’ times.”
“Second would be your help, if you’re willing to give it. Zodanga is the sky. We haven’t seen much of this world yet, but you seem to have the run of it. We need to be able to tell Earth how many people live here, what they need, and maybe even what they don’t. You could help us seek them out.”
He laughs again.
“What we seek is teh feed us an’ our kidlins, Cap’n Colonel, not teh be helpin’ out our enemies.”
“An alliance could benefit us both, Captain. And we can compensate you,” I offer. “Food, gear, tools…”
“Guns an’ bullets?” he counters, knowing I’ll hesitate.
“That depends on the situation,” I allow. “And the strength of our alliance.”
“Yah think I’m dull like a sand bug, Colonel Cap’n?” he sneers. “Bad error.”
“I’d prefer to avoid killing the people I’m trying to help.”
“Secon’ bad error, Cap’n Colonel.” He looks to his fellows. They lock eyes with him but otherwise show nothing. Then he faces me again. “So yeh’d like teh see over mah Dutchmun?”
“I would like that very much, Captain Bly.”
“Makes no matter what yeh’d like,” he says with a grin under his mask. “I really wa’n’t askin’.”
The soil erupts in a semi-circle around us, sprouting four more men in full pressure suits, carrying old colony PDWs wrapped to keep the sand out. Bly and his companions draw their swords.
“Bes’ if Colonel Cap’n come as our guest,” Bly declares, pointing his blade at me. “Then we see what yeh give.” He puts his foot on my pistol.
I slowly draw my sword as if to offer it to him, making the gesture broad enough not to be mistaken even from five hundred meters away. Then, instead of giving him my sword, I turn it on him.
There are four sudden pops almost simultaneously as his gunmen’s visors explode. (Smith’s lazy circle with the Lancer dropped two teams of our best snipers—hidden from our prisoners’ view in the rear section—to nest and wait.)
Rios draws his own sword, but the pirate facing him suddenly jerks and collapses, one of Sakina’s torpedoes through his skull. She’s already done the same to the other pirate. Rios looks like he’s about to pout. Now only Bly and Harper are left standing.
Bly settles into a guard position, grinning defiantly under his mask, his free hand gesturing me to deal with him personally. I have no intention of playing his game of honor, but I am irritated enough to express myself in my own way. While he poses, I chop down hard and fast on his extended blade, cutting the weapon mostly through and ripping it from his gloved hand. He freezes with rage burning in his eyes.
Harper suddenly steps forward and draws what looks like a short pistol from under her breastplate, bringing it up at my face. I dodge and take her hand off at the wrist a fraction of a second before Sakina sends her sprawling with a kick that I’m surprised doesn’t shatter her armor (the popping I hear is likely Harper’s bones breaking).
Bly leaps back off the rise in retreat, but his eyes grin at me again. I look up in time to see flashes and smoke from the gun deck of his airship.
“We’re zeroed!” I shout, throwing myself off the hilltop in a tackle that takes Rios with me. I fully expect Sakina will be more than fast enough to do the same, but what I see as I look up is shocking. She’s jerked Harper up to her feet and leaves her teetering on the spot where we stood, then is gone just before whatever Bly’s cannons launched impacts. I see Harper’s legs ripped away from under her just as the hillside shatters. Then a shower of dirt and rock masks my view. I don’t remember hearing the actual boom of the cannon.
“I’m assuming we’re on,” Matthew comes over my Link.
More cannon fire slams the hillside.
“We are,” I tell him, still sprawled on my back and covered with dirt, head downhill. Then the hill—destabilized by another round of cannon fire—comes at me in a wave of gravel and sand.
I roll as the hill slides down with me, getting as much of Mars between me and the big pirate ship as I can. Rios is still with me, tumbling and flailing and bouncing. I have no idea where Sakina went.
Looking back out through the Gap, I see four of our ASVs coming in hot.
“Fire for effect,” I order. “Make ‘em limp home.”
A pair of rockets flies from the lead ASV and burns straight for the Dutchman. I risk poking my head up enough to watch. Maybe two dozen assorted light flyers are breaking away from their anchors on the big airship like bats releasing from their perches. I see one of our rockets hit the gun deck. One of the under-hanging masts falls away, to hang by its rigging. The second rocket blows away one of the big fans.
The small flyers swarm for us very much like angry bees. I see flares as a few fire rockets back at our ASVs—apparently Bly had been saving for such a fight. Our pilots have to take evasive and spend their turrets on stopping the incoming projectiles. More of our rockets fly at the Dutchman.
“Keep your distance from the small craft,” I remind our pilots. “Don’t…”
I hear our latest volley of rockets detonate, but when I look to the Dutchman, it’s no more worse for it—the bursts of the rockets show me they detonated dozens of meters short of target, blowing up in midair.
“What…?” Matthew begins. But then it gets even stranger. The swarm of flyers suddenly gets knocked back like they hit a powerful wind. A few recover enough to fire more rockets, but they’re no longer aiming at our ships. Their rockets also burst in midair.
“We can take it from here, Colonel Ram,” I hear a familiar voice in my Link. It’s Paul. I look south, in the direction the pirate flyers were shooting at last, and I’m not entirely surprised to see one of the modified ETE aircraft sliding silently and gracefully to move between us and the pirates. A handful of blue sealsuits stands atop the ship, Spheres and Rods in hand.
The Dutchman turns its big guns on them, but their projectiles get bounced away long before they hit. The small flyers try to rally, but a few gestures from the ETE Rods damages their motors enough that they have to set down or crash.
The ETE ship holds position between us while the Dutchman tries a few more cannon volleys before giving up. I scramble back up the hillside for a better view. Sakina is there waiting for me, shaking the dust out of her cloak in thick clouds.
A hundred yards or so away I see Bly on the sand, retreating in the direction of his damaged ship as quickly as he can manage, frantically dragging a shapeless something I realize is what remains of his chief gunner. I feel metal under my boots and find myself standing on his broken sword.
Paul—I assume it’s Paul—levitates down to me once the pirates have organized themselves into retreat.
“I’m sorry we couldn’t get here sooner,” he—it is Paul—tells me sincerely. “No one would have suffered, but as you know, our Council takes its time with these decisions.”
“And what decisions have you come to?” I ask him diplomatically.
“You will have no further trouble establishing your contact with Earth, Colonel.”
“I’m thinking you have more than that to tell me,” I press him.
With his mask sealed, I can’t see his ex
pression, his eyes, only myself reflected in his lenses, dirty and bloodied.
He takes a moment to answer me, his helmet turning to watch the pirates’ retreat.
“The Guardians will keep the peace, Colonel. There will be no unnecessary loss of life. Mars is our responsibility to preserve. We will do this to the best of our ability.”
I find I have nothing to say to him. He stays a few more moments in silence, then flies away.
Chapter 6: Lesser Evils