Godengine Read online

  ‘Why are we carrying on?’ interrupted Santacosta. ‘We’re stranded, without food or any way of staying warm...’ Her bottom lip started to tremble. ‘Why can’t we go back to Jacksonville?’ she asked tearfully.

  ‘Because Jacksonville is over ten thousand klicks away!’ snapped Madrigal. ‘The North Pole is only a couple of hundred klicks.’

  This did nothing to reassure Carmen, who continued to cry. ‘But two hundred kilometres -’

  The shuttle chose that moment to finally go out, plunging them into the cold amber twilight of the Doctor’s matches. The Doctor bounced to his feet. ‘In the absence of any other ideas, underground it is.’ He looked back at the map, before pointing into the distance with his umbrella. ‘There should be a concealed entrance shaft to the city walls about five kilometres in that direction.’

  McGuire gestured towards the written-off ATET. ‘Madrigal, Vince, Roz; grab as much as you can easily carry from the buggy. And remember, there are six of us now.’

  As the three headed towards the ATET, McGuire looked around at his expedition, so very different from the one which had set off from Jacksonville a week ago. Kolchak, who had part-funded the expedition, was dead, and the replacements appeared to be a night-club singer, a middle-aged woman with the same attitude as Madrigal, and a mystery man who not only seemed intent upon taking over the entire mission, but who seemed to know far too much about the Greenies. McGuire sighed; all they needed now were for the Greenies to show up in person, and everything would be just perfect.

  ‘Perfect,’ breathed Cleece. With a final glance at the vermin encampment, he set off for the cave in which his fellow pilgrims had chosen to rest. As he walked across the dusty scree, he considered what he had overheard. The mammals were also heading towards the Cauldron of Ssethiis; surely even Abbot Aklaar would have to agree that they should die?

  He sighed, and adjusted his visor to penetrate the darkness that lay beyond the encampment. As the infra-red sensors cut in, the vague shapes that surrounded him resolved into flattened boulders and rivened ground, an endless vista of lifeless red. Cleece vaguely remembered an areography lesson years ago: Scholastor Heelek and his endless maps of the Martian surface, comparing the rolling plains of Jull-ett-eskul – the Garden of Oras – with the dried-up sea-bed of Ssken-dass-giis – the Dead Ocean of the Forsaken – through which Cleece and the others currently found themselves trudging. Dead... and depressing, he decided.

  A cliff face suddenly loomed out of the darkness, a twenty-metre high wall of unbroken beige rock. Cleece felt a disturbing combination of relief and dread. Relief, because the honeycombed interior of the cliff offered food, comfort and company. Dread, because it brought him back to the lifestyle that he had come to hate: six months of endless marching across the plains and deserts and desiccated remnants of a planet that old Heelek claimed had once been verdant and rich, accompanied by constant prayers to Oras for good fortune and safety from predators...

  He sighed, stopped, and instructed his visor to surrender to the darkness. As the boulders, scree and cliff face melted back into the blackness, he inclined his head and looked towards the stars that filled the clear night sky. The ancient myths told many tales about the stars; Ssethiis and Oras had brought their fraternal war to Mars from the stars, providing a basis for Martian culture into the bargain. And the archaeologists believed that the Great Death – the curse which had withered the vegetation and wiped out the strange and alien people who had once populated the planet – had also come from the stars, laying waste Mars before heading towards Earth. Cleece snorted: if only the Great Death had been as effective there! He grudgingly realized that he owed the mammals a debt of gratitude: at least their arrival offered a diversion from the constant sermons of Abbot Aklaar.

  The stars were out of reach, as far as Cleece was concerned; he had only been a clutchling during the holy war against the Terran infidels, but he could remember the lights in the sky, the caved-in tunnels, the dead and the dying and the young whose nests had been destroyed and would become Unclean unless they were adopted. Huddled under the thick hide blankets, he had dreamed of being up there with his brother, of piloting a fighter, attacking the vermin... Instead, he had been adopted by a pacifist caste after his parents had been murdered. And now, decades later, he was on a pilgrimage to the Cauldron of Ssethiis, preaching a message of peace and understanding that he wasn’t sure he believed in any more. If he ever had.

  Up there, a new war was in progress; another race from the stars had crushed the mammals on their own homeworld, just as the mammals had done to Cleece’s people. A glorious battle was happening and he longed to be part of it.

  But Cleece was stuck on Mars, while the rest of his race were either dead, in hiding, or starting again on Nova Martia, beyond far Arcturus. Turning his visor back on, he left his dreams behind and walked the last few metres towards the cliff face.

  Tapping the signal device that had been stitched into the hide belt around his carapace, he waited as the Chameleon field melted away like mist. The solid rock coalesced into a pattern of flickering lights before vanishing completely, and Cleece walked into the tunnel, leaving his dreams behind him.

  Dreams of glory.

  ‘Crap!’ hissed Rachel. ‘He told you that the invaders were coming back and you believed him? Obviously your doctorate included an advanced course in gullibility.’

  Felice sighed. Rachel’s reaction was hardly unexpected. ‘What harm can it do?’

  ‘It diverts us from getting a bloody stunnel, that’s what. Then again, if Earth had sent me a proper scientist like Gregory Ketch, rather than a girl who doesn’t know a Higgs’s generator from a quantum resonator -’

  Felice snorted. ‘That’s low, Rachel, really low.’ She nodded towards the work-station on the far side of the room, a low table covered with readouts and monitors. ‘I’ve checked; the ‘scope isn’t even being used at the moment. It hasn’t been used for the last three months.’

  Rachel leapt from her chair and made a growling noise. ‘Do you realize how much power the ‘scope needs? Why the hell do you think we haven’t been using the damned thing?’ She stormed over to the ‘scope station and thumped it. ‘For every hour that we use the ‘scope, we lose ten minutes of stunnel access.’

  Got her, thought Felice. ‘But you aren’t planning to try another stunnel attempt!’

  ‘Not till tomorrow, no.’ She groaned. ‘Oh, go on. Use the bloody thing. See if I care.’ She reached into the pocket of her white jump-suit and retrieved a small cube: the trisilicate key for the ‘scope station. ‘Let’s see if lover-boy is telling the truth, or just trying to save his skin.’ She inserted the key into a depression in the station, and beckoned Felice over as the readouts and monitors lit up.

  ‘Aim it towards Venus; that’s where Chris reckoned that the invaders would set off from.’

  ‘Oh, Chris is it now?’ She could have curdled milk with that look. ‘Okay, okay, Venus it is.’ She tapped away at the keyboard for a few seconds. ‘Co-ordinates locked, bringing up visuals ...’ A large viewscreen faded into life on the nearby wall, patiently waiting for the tachyon beam to return from its exploration of Earth’s neighbouring world.

  ‘I know that you’re going to find this hard to believe, Rachel, but I really hope that Chris is lying.’ Felice thought back to the initial bombardment; the jet-black saucers had swooped down out of the sky, clearly visible through the transparent geodesic domes. She had been one of the fortunate ones, working below the surface in the stunnel lab when the ships shattered the domes.

  Most of those who survived the sudden vacuum – the paranoid people who kept environment suits handy, in the once-thought-pointless fear that the domes would rupture – failed to survive the directed energy weapons that followed the bombs and turned the carefully thought-out cities and elegant buildings from architecture into so much radioactive dust, sparkling in the feeble reflected light of cold Pluto. Here, a thousand metres below the frozen crust of Charon,
the fifty-four survivors soon imagined themselves safe from the horrors that were being inflicted upon the solar system, a bastion of freedom with their subspace researches and supposed invulnerability. But if Chris’s horror stories were true, the invaders were returning with weapons that could penetrate the surface and finish off what they had started.

  ‘Oh, shit.’ Felice looked round at Rachel’s whispered expletive, and felt her stomach drop through the floor as she took in the grainy images on the screen.

  Three of the terrifyingly familiar saucers were just passing the orbit of Jupiter at near lightspeed. On a direct course for Charon, according to the overlaid telemetry.

  ‘All techs to the stunnel room,’ barked Rachel into the comm unit. And then she turned to Felice. ‘Your boyfriend was right, Felice; those bastards are on their way. Let’s just hope that we can create a decent, two-ended stunnel before they arrive.’ She set off for the stunnel room. And then paused in the open doorway. ‘Because, if we can’t, we’re on a direct road to hell.’

  Felice followed; her pleasure at Chris’s honesty being proved was well and truly soured by the knowledge that the invaders were on a return visit.

  In a little over two hours, the invaders would start bombarding Charon. And this time, there wouldn’t be any survivors. How prophetic that in Greek mythology Charon was the ferryman to the Underworld.

  Taal-Iis Esstar looked up from her meditations as the sound of heavy footsteps came from the hidden cave entrance. Cleece was back from his spying mission, brimming over with talk of killing and death, no doubt. She turned her attention to the Abbot. Aklaar was deep in prayer, sitting cross-legged on the uneven floor next to the portable lightbox, and Esstar wondered why such a Martian – a Martian who had devoted his two centuries of life to peace and the disciplines of Oras – had chosen a bully and a thug like Cleece for their pilgrimage to G’chun duss Ssethiissi. But she knew why: Aklaar wanted her to accompany him, and her betrothal meant that Cleece would have to come along as well.

  Instinctively, she glanced at the other pilgrim in the cave: Sstaal G’Hur-Tiis. Even for a member of the pacifist caste, Sstaal was lightly built, his green-ridged carapace and helmet at odds with his slender frame. Within the high walls of the buried seminary, Esstar and her brothers and sisters dispensed with the protective armour that characterized her race: it symbolized an aspect of the Martian psyche that the Holy Order of Oras despised. But their pilgrimage would have been foolhardy without some sort of defence against the hostile terrain that they would encounter on their long journey, so the ancient armour-incubator vats had been fired up for the first time in millennia. The thick green shells, augmented with cybernetics, had taken a week to grow, and she and Sstaal had been decidedly uneasy when they had been fitted onto their bodies. Not so Cleece, who appeared to thoroughly enjoy wearing the heavy carapace and helmet. Esstar and Sstaal had felt slightly more comfortable once the Abbot had reminded them of the perils that they would face on their pilgrimage: the rock snakes and the spider-lizards – not to mention the venom-moss – that inhabited the wastelands of Mars would have proved fatal to an unprotected Martian.

  She wasn’t surprised to see that Sstaal was indulging in his favourite pastime: reading. Sstaal was a Martian who had wholly embraced the teachings of Oras upon which their order was built; he was a nervous but pious young Martian who embodied the spirit of Oras to a degree that was extraordinary, even in the cloisters of the seminary. She thought back to their early days at Jull-ett-eskul during their long childhood; she and Sstaal would spend hours in the stone labyrinth of the library, reading, discussing, arguing the finer points of philosophy, while Cleece would play juvenile and distasteful war games in the walled grounds. Usually on his own, a pariah amongst his adopted brethren who found his attitude odd at best, and repulsive at worst.

  If only the complex interrelationships of the pilgrim caste had allowed her friendship with Sstaal to develop in the way that they both desperately wanted, she thought bitterly. But no; the Abbots in the seminary had decided that the combination of her bloodline – a descendant of Priest-Queen Lataar – and that of Cleece – an adopted warrior who could trace his lineage back to the time of Tuburr – would be an important asset to their holy cause, so they had been betrothed. Esstar felt a spasm of nausea at the knowledge of her entrapment which intensified as he walked into the cavern: Cleece Ett’Shturr. Her mate.

  She looked him up and down and felt a dichotomy of emotions overlaying the nausea. True, Cleece was a magnificent specimen of the Martian male: over two metres tall, with the heavy build which characterized his true birthright as a member of one of the warrior nests. For a brief moment, she imagined him in the full battle armour of an Exalted Warrior; pictures danced in her mind, pictures of Cleece marching against the humans, or fighting during one of the Primal Wars when legends had been forged and myths had been made.

  She found herself suddenly repulsed, both by Cleece’s latent militarism, and her own sensual fantasies over it. ‘How did the spying go, Cleece?’ she asked without affection.

  He smiled. Without warmth. And ignored her. ‘My suspicions were correct, Abbot Aklaar. The mammals are heading towards G’chun duss Ssethiissi.’ He let out a venomous hiss.

  Aklaar interlocked his clamps in a gesture of prayer. ‘The writings of Oras teach us many things, Pilgrim Cleece. In this situation I would refer you to the Book of Oras; in particular, the Sermon of Liis –’

  ‘ “The Universe is wide enough to encompass all its children”,’ Sstaal interrupted. ‘The humans have every right to travel where they will, Cleece.’

  ‘They have no right, Sstaal – Mars is our world!’ Cleece smashed his clamps together. ‘Another few months, and the Eight-Point Table would –’

  ‘Silence!’ barked Aklaar. Esstar was taken aback; in all the years that she had known the Abbot, she had never heard him raise his voice. Cleece had, as usual, touched a nerve. ‘The Eight-Point Table led our people into a war that they could not possibly have won, Pilgrim Cleece. They were barbarians and butchers, followers of Ssethiis and Claatris ...’ He trailed off, as if exhausted by the exertion. ‘Never speak of the Eight-Point Table again, Cleece. Never.’

  Suitably chagrined, Cleece cast his gaze to the ground. ‘The verm–, the humans are leaving their encampment and heading towards the surface shaft to Ikk-ett-Saleth. They are planning to defile our cities, Abbot!’ Esstar sighed; once Cleece started arguing, he never gave up. He was like a spider-lizard toying with a rock-snake. Relentless.

  Aklaar rose from his meditative crouch. He was small, wizened, even; thanks to the complicated genetic structure of the Martians, Abbots of the religious caste were physically similar to the Lords of the Warrior caste; Esstar could remember hearing about an Abbot who had masqueraded as a Lord in order to convert an entire nest to the faith of Oras; he had actually succeeded. Aklaar’s armour was thinner and smoother than the others – but just as protective – in reverence to his position, and his green helmet was a smooth grey-green dome.

  ‘Our cities were defiled a century ago, Pilgrim Cleece. By Martians, fighting a pointless war that tore the soul from our race and left us all steeped in the blood of thousands. The humans cannot do any worse than we did ourselves.’ He smoothed down his cloak. ‘But I do find myself in agreement with you. The humans must not be permitted to wander through the graves of our ancestors without a care. There are ghosts in Ikk-ett-Saleth; ghosts that should not be awakened.’ He gestured towards the lighting unit and their supplies. ‘Pack everything up. We leave for Ikk-ett-Saleth in half an hour.’

  But Esstar was close enough to Cleece to hear his whispered retort. ‘Even Oras forgives the killers of heretics.’

  How long could she continue, feeling as she did? How long could she stay trapped in this abomination of a betrothal? As she started to pack her meagre belongings, she glanced over at Sstaal, and felt the warmth of his attention as he smiled at her with feelings which honour and culture insisted she shou
ld feel for Cleece.

  Chapter 3

  ‘It doesn’t look like an entrance,’ said Carmen miserably. Roz had to agree; the collection of boulders looked like, well, a collection of boulders, a metre high and two metre wide pile of reddy-grey rubble. Although night had fallen on Mars, they were all carrying powerful torches, except for the Doctor who was relying on a bundle of everlasting matches which also provided a small amount of extremely welcome warmth. Martian night was well below zero, and even the jacket and gloves were insufficient protection against the cold.

  The light from the torches illuminated an area of about thirty metres in all directions, revealing the cracked and desiccated evidence that Tharsis Plain had once been a wide and deep ocean. Millions of years ago, Roz remembered, Mars had been as habitable as the Earth, but then some global catastrophe had wiped out virtually all life on the planet. It was a miracle that the Ice Warriors had managed to survive.

  Millions of years, only to be bested by Man. It was sad, it was ironic, but it was yet another law of the universe: survival of the fittest. It was a law that Roz wasn’t sure she felt comfortable with any more.

  ‘Are you sure this is the entrance?’ asked McGuire. ‘Perhaps your map is a bit out of date.’

  ‘Looks can be deceptive,’ protested the Doctor, folding his map away. ‘The Ice – the Martians prided themselves on their secrecy.’ He nodded at the boulders. ‘I believe this is called a Chameleon field.’

  Esteban trotted over to him, and Roz felt another wave of irritation; like the others – including Carmen Santacosta, for the Goddess’s sake! – he was wearing gravity boots, allowing him to enjoy the benefits of a full Earth gravity on Mars. The Doctor, of course, had no need of technological support. Roz had considered suggesting that she ‘borrow’ Piotr Kolchak’s boots, but, deciding that such a suggestion would have been in rather poor taste, she had endured the eight-kilometre bounce from the crash site to where the Doctor’s crusty old map claimed the entrance to the Martian city lay.