The God Mars Book Two: Lost Worlds by Michael Rizzo Read Free Book Online

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