The God Mars Book Three: The Devil You Are Read Online Free Page A

the rebreather. I
realize I have no knowledge of its mechanics, but somehow they seem
intuitive, simple. I embrace the mechanism like a precious
treasure, and feel it begin to fix itself.
    After it’s done, I fill its tanks and test the unit.
It seems to work well enough, though not as-new. I use my eyes to
look close, trying to find some sign of active nanotech (as if I’ve
“infected” the thing) but the materials appear inert. I test my
growing hypothesis by breaking a seal and setting it down on a
rock, stepping back. It does not self-repair. Not until I pick it
up again.
    “Huh…”
    I perform a similar trick with a discarded heater
unit, charge it with hydrogen and oxygen from the tap, and find I
now have three of the necessities of survival (even though I don’t
really seem to need them at all).
    As there is no food (the most precious commodity on
the planet, even above ammunition, and therefore unlikely to be
left for wandering charity), I consider making small shelter out of
the blanket, but find my surcoat provides a hood and robe-like
“sleeves” on demand. I settle in front of my “fire”, sip water and
oxygen from my cylinders, and let myself drift.
     
    I try to stay in the memories of what I consider my
“real” life, my life as a soldier and an officer, a life I hope had
at least some meaning, some good service. But I can’t shut out the
other life…
    At least I tried to do something about it, tried to
get people to do something meaningful and worth immortality,
however hopeless. I remember thinking that maybe one day we would
wake up, find better direction, hopefully before we had done
irreparable harm. But I also remember losing faith as the years
passed.
    I realize I almost understand Chang, why he would
want to undo what we had become, even if it killed most of us. And
how meaningful were most of our lives by that time? In our
self-absorbed selfishness, we’d even stopped having children.
    There were still a few isolated holdout colonies of
“bio-normals” living fragile mortal lives—our only remaining
“crime” was harassing them, a cruelty too many found idly tempting
(and giving a few of us “purpose” as “Normal Police” to stand as
protector, but challenging them became just another cartoonish
game). Perhaps they would re-inherit what was left of the Earth
after the rest of us died without our precious mods.
     
    Apparently I do still sleep.
    It’s light. The eastern sky is purpling with dawn. I
assume I’ve only been out for the one night (my heater is still
running). And I’m not alone.
    Idiot. I shouldn’t have fallen asleep in such a
well-traveled place.
    They’re hiding from me in the rocks. I can see their
heat, their enhanced motion. A half-dozen Nomads, possibly from
Abbas’ band, laden with canisters as if taking a trip to the local
well.
    I try to move slowly, non-threateningly, keeping my
hands away from my weapons. I drop my hood back so they can see me
smile a warm greeting.
    Second mistake. Obviously, I’m not wearing a mask.
How am I breathing?
    I stay put. Make a poor show of mortality by picking
up my scavenged rebreather, sipping from the O2 line. I hook it
onto my belt like I need it. Show them my open hands.
    I see the crossbow bolt coming like it’s been
casually tossed my way. And I catch it before it hits me in the
throat.
    I am an idiot.
    I should have let it ping off my armor or duck it
rather than effortlessly demonstrate inhuman speed and
strength.
    “I don’t mean you any harm.”
    Proving how convincing that was, they waste a bullet
trying to shoot me in the head. This I see coming like a thrown
pebble, my perception of time automatically slowing in response to
threat. My hand rotates in a blur, and the shell smacks off my
backhand armor with a stinging crack. Another inhuman feat. At
least it makes them hesitate.
    I make the dubious decision of standing, keep
offering my hands. If these people are with Abbas’ band, they know
me. Knew