The God Mars Book Five: Onryo

By Michael Rizzo

The God Mars is a pulp-style science fiction series set in a rich world of varied cultures and colorful characters. The series plays out a partially-terraformed Mars, a half-century after a man-made disaster cut thousands of colonists off from Earth, and the fear of a rampant nanotech plague prevented rescue. Left to survive for generations with few resources, the various groups develop unique new cultures at different levels of technology, ranging from the primitive to the frighteningly advanced. But all are trapped in an escalating war between an oppressive Earth that’s terrified of potentially infectious nanotechnology, and invincible superhumans—both heroes and villains—who claim to be from a nightmare future caused by that technology.

In Book Five: Onryō, a terrifying new nanotechnology weapon threatens the lives of every “Normal” living on Mars. Meanwhile, a young adopted Nomad warrior finally learns the truth about his birth parents and where he comes from, but at devastating cost. And the technological ghost of a murdered scientist returns to seek bloody revenge for the deaths of his wife and child.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Michael Rizzo
• Release date: Jan 30, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310555787

Michael Rizzo

In addition to writing dark speculative fiction, Michael Rizzo is a graphic artist (yes, all those covers are his), a martial scientist, a collector and frequent user of fine weaponry, and a pretty good cook. He continues his long, varied and brutal career as a mercenary social services consultant, trying to do good important work while writing about very bad things.His fiction series include Grayman and The God Mars. (The research he’s done for the Grayman series has probably earned him the attention of Homeland Security.)Check out his Facebook pages ("The Grayman Series" and "The God Mars Series") for lots of original art and updates.He causes trouble in person mostly in the Pacific Northwest.

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The God Mars

Book Five: Onryō

By Michael Rizzo

Copyright 2015 by Michael Rizzo

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Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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Table of Contents

Part One: Dead Men Tell Tales

Chapter 1: The Invisible City

Chapter 2: Harvester

Chapter 3: Heroes Quest

Chapter 4: Die to Live

Chapter 5: Dead Man’s Memories

Chapter 6: Return of the Reaper

Chapter 7: Wizard and Demon

Chapter 8: Premature Burial

Part Two: Time of Death

Chapter 1: Local God

Chapter 2: Duty

Chapter 3: Purpose

Chapter 4: Yod’s Will

Chapter 5: Weaponized

Chapter 6: The Battle of Katar

Chapter 7: Fates Worse Than Death

Chapter 8: End In Fire

Epilogue: The Importance of Ritual

Map of the Western Vajra

Part One: Dead Men Tell Tales

Chapter 1: The Invisible City

From the Diary of Jonathan Drake:

"Abu Abbas of the Northeast Melas Nomads, tell your life."

The deep commanding voice of the War King of Katar booms in the massive cut stone and rammed-earth chamber.

As bidden, my father steps up to the Speaker’s Podium, standing directly under the circle of open sky that is the apex of the Oculus dome. After a brief moment of silence to finish gathering his thoughts, he looks out at our fantastic audience as if he can make eye contact with every one of them. He takes a last deep breath through his mask, and then loosens it to hang over his chin so that he can be heard better, relying on the passive oxygen bleed to keep him from getting light-headed in the thin but actually breathable air here.

And then he honors the tradition of our hosts, as strangers who come in peace are expected to: He tells the story of his life, of our people.

My name is Abu Abbas, son of Yusuf. I was born in Twenty Sixty-Four by the old Earth calendar, a Standard Year after my father brought his family to Mars. He was an engineer, and a skilled near-vacuum welder. He worked hard out in the cold and what was then one-percent atmosphere to construct Baraka Colony in the belly of Melas Chasma. He helped build the first Holy Mosque on this planet. Then he served as its Imam. He was a good man. A brave man…

His voice, as usual, is soothingly deep and rich, and echoes off the walls of the great circular space, rivaling the War King’s.

I was not even a year old when the Apocalypse came, but I remember pieces of it like an old nightmare. Alarms. People running, panicking, faced—I realize now—with the unthinkable. My father took us into the shelters, dug deep under the colony, but the shock and the noise of the bomb through the bedrock of the planet… By the will of God we were spared, some of us, because the missile that was meant to sterilize our colony was knocked off course before it detonated. A miracle… But the blast wave shattered and crushed and burned the above-ground structures, the Mosque, all of my father’s work.

I notice something: Our hosts have all closed their eyes and lowered their faces in unison, all the same, like a ritual, just at the moment my father mentioned the nuclear bombardment.

Those of us that survived sheltered in place for as long as we could. There was no word from the outside, no rescue, no relief. The surface was too hot from all the fallout to go out and explore, but within three months we had no choice, because our water and air recyclers had begun to fail, and the Feed Line to the colony had been cut by the blasts. We packed surface gear, shelters, rations, and hiked in pressure suits for the nearest intact Line. My father and the other engineers welded the first Taps to draw what we needed: Oxygen. Water. Hydrogen fuel for our heaters and cook stoves and generators. We made our home in the open desert. And out of fear of those who had dropped bombs on us, we painted our shelters to match the terrain, made these cloaks to keep us warm and shield us from the sun’s radiation and hide us when we moved. Unseen, they would believe us all to be dead, and not send more bombs to finish the task. And so, by the mercy of God, we lived.

The story having passed the nuclear stage, our hosts open their eyes and look up, look at my father with the same dispassion they’ve universally shown since we were escorted through their great Gate Wall, as if the coming of strangers is no more than a routine annoyance.

As I stand here on the chamber floor with my too-few surviving family and friends, my eyes can’t help but scan our strange and amazing audience. The Oculus is easily big enough for the several hundred citizens present, most of whom sit on the tiers of benches that climb the walls all around us like stairs—I feel like I’m standing in the bowl of a steep crater, the inner slopes of which are made out of these incredible environmentally-adapted human beings.

The adults are almost universally a full head taller than we are, with long thin limbs and oversized rib cages. But what’s most impressive when they gather in such numbers is their homogenous color palate: The apparent civilians wear a variety of simple hand-made clothes, all patterned with the same abstract rust and green and ochre patterns as the armor of their warriors, as if constant camouflage is as much a rule for them as it has been for us. The effect of so many of them sitting so close together is that they visually begin to blend into each other when they’re still. Then when they all move—like they did to lower their gazes—it almost makes me dizzy.

And even more striking than that is their dyed skin: The ruddy mineral compound they use to protect themselves from solar UV leaves a permanent rust red tint, under which can still be seen a variety of ethnic tones ranging from pale to tan to dark. It’s like I’m looking at them through crimson-tinted goggles.

They all sit and listen to the story of a stranger (who must look as strange to them as they do to us) in perfect polite disciplined silence. The only sound in the domed chamber during my father’s pauses is the whisper-howl of wind across the open circle of the single apex skylight—it produces a low tone that makes me think of an ocarina, almost hypnotic. This gives the space a palpable sense of sanctity.

Watching them, I decide to correct my initial impression of these people: What I’m seeing is not a lack of interest in the proceedings, but practiced, ingrained serenity. And it’s being exercised in the face of what must certainly be terrifying times.

The cold hardened stoicism is what I feel from their Council of Kings, sitting at their curved stone table on the chamber floor, facing the carved-stone Speaker’s Podium (and behind it, the rest of us), symbolically forming a thin line between the stranger and their people. Five pairs of eyes glare from faces that could also have been cut from stone: full of hard experience, loss, and difficult decisions. And here we are: one more difficult decision. Or maybe not so difficult. Maybe they’ve already made up their minds about us.

My father continues our history:

We were not the only ones spared by God’s will, of course. Soon we encountered more of our own, refugees from Uqba. And a very few random others. But food was becoming scarce, and there were those that were not interested in sharing. We risked scavenging the ruins of the other Melas colonies, sometimes finding precious rations, or useful supplies, medicine. Because of those who would not share, we also began scavenging metal, making weapons, because our precious few guns had precious little ammunition, and when it was gone, all we would have left were poor clubs. So we made knives and swords and spears, bows and crossbows, and armor…

He touches the lamellar on his breast, even though it isn’t our manufacture—a fine gift from the Forge-Men (and an impressive prize for a traveler to be wearing in this place). Since they have let us keep our weapons—likely because they outnumber us several-hundred-to-one—he also gestures to his prized revolver and his Forge-made sword, then raises his cloaks to show them the rest of his load: tools, canteens, breather gear, travel rations, med kit, spare clothing; prayer rug and Holy Quran in their battered protective cases…

We wear all this metal, carry all this weight, because we lost our colony centrifuges, and our parents wished us to keep as much of the bone density and muscle of Earth-Gravity as we could, my father digresses as if he needs to explain, and explain tactfully, since our hosts have obviously chosen the opposite path: They’ve long-since embraced the conditions of this world, strived to adapt to it as completely as possible, letting their bodies develop unburdened in the .38 Gravity. Compared to them, we’re almost as squat and thick-bodied as the Children of the Forge.

Even long after all hope of ever returning to Earth had faded, we kept the practice. Tradition.

He’s holding back. The real reason we keep Weight Discipline is that my father—our Sharif and Imam, as his father before him—reminds us that we were made in God’s image, and should strive to stay so. Of course, saying that would likely sound like an insult to our hosts, who have been gracious enough to let us into their fortified homeland and not just kill us when we approached their great defensive wall.

As the years passed, we traveled and scavenged, and sometimes encountered new groups. Our armor and weapons and concealment tactics became essential to our survival and success. To the southwest, Shinkyo Colony had become a hidden fortress, defended by stealthy warriors. To the northwest, the City of Industry, which was made to look like an abandoned ruin, was protected by equally deadly soldiers, former Unmakers who still call themselves Peace Keepers… I will let my good friend Lieutenant Straker tell you of them in her own tale, as she is from there.

He nods to Jak Straker, who gives a polite but clearly uncomfortable smile. Apparently even the power of a Companion Blade does not overcome the inherent terror of public speaking.

"To the northeast… From there came the Zodanga in their crafty flyers and air ships, calling themselves ‘pirates’ and raiding and killing for what they needed, striking from their fortress in the Rim.

"We wandered, kept moving to avoid our enemies, and divided our band into three factions, each taking a quarter of Melas to seek their resources and fend off our mutual enemies, and sometimes each other as need drove us to compete against former brothers. Living and moving on the surface became easier as the air thickened, but as it did, the scavenging became thin, the preserved food began to run out, and our meager shelter hydroponic gardens could not provide for all.

"But just as we were succumbing to malnutrition and starvation, God again showed us His mercy. From the east came food: A few brave travelers had managed trade with Tranquility in Western Coprates—I will let my dear companion Ambassador Murphy tell you of them. They brought us precious fresh and dried fruits, vegetables, beans and grains. And so by God’s will we lived, had children and grandchildren, occasionally fought with competitors and buried loved ones for it.

But then came the return of the Unmakers. And the coming of the Shadowman.

He punctuates these revelations with a dramatic pause. I know our hosts have had their own intelligence of these turns, some of it at tragic cost, so I expect this is the part of the story that they’ve really been waiting to hear, far more than my father’s life story as a testament to his—and our—character and quality.

At first it was just the few: The Unmaker Base Melas Two, on the eastern border to Coprates. They had all been asleep, kept safe in chemical hibernation after they were buried by the bombing…

The Katar again all close their eyes and lower their heads. It’s definitely a ritual gesture.

"Fifty years, they had slept. These were good people. Soldiers and civilians, some of them former enemies, now a great family. They made allies of the Jinn, who you call Eternals—the Terraformers. And then they became our friends, after some unfortunate bloodshed. Their leader, Colonel Ram, the great Peacemaker, became my brother. Together, we built a grand greenhouse, traded precious supplies, even fought side-by-side.

But Colonel Ram was bound by duty to call his leaders, to call Earth. When Earth answered that call, they were not the world—the people—he expected. They had been changed by events, events we did not know about. Most of us here believed that the Apocalypse came… (Eyes close again on cue.) "…because Earth believed that the corporate labs had been breached, that contamination was rampant. We on the surface knew this was a lie, an act of unthinkable sabotage designed to murder us all just to destroy what the corporations were producing here. What we did not know is that the same drones that triggered the failsafe alarms also attacked everything in orbit: Destroyed ships, the space dock, the base and fuel depot on Phobos. All destroyed, thousands dead in the vacuum of space. Then the Disc drones attached themselves to the few surviving shuttles that managed the return flight, and destroyed Earth’s orbital facilities as well. Then signals were broadcast from the surface of Mars: chatter and EMR to convince Earth that the planet was hopelessly contaminated. All to keep Earth from ever coming back here.

But after fifty years of living with the guilt of what had been done with their so-called ‘failsafe’ and the fear of what they thought was here, Colonel Ram called them and told them that there was no contamination, no nano-plague ravaging the surface, and that they had left behind survivors all those years ago. This moved them to come back, but they remain fearful, and perhaps they have reason. Because their return has raised the Shadowman, Syan Chang, and his armies of Black Clothes and machines; armies you have fought here, that the Pax have fought.

I can feel their questions now—so many urgent questions—but they keep them in, let my father tell his tale in his own way.

The drones that triggered the failsafe, the bombing… My father has already gotten into the habit of pausing for the closed-eye ritual. "…they belonged to Chang. And Chang does not belong to this world. Not this world… He says he comes from a future where the corporations succeeded in their research and development here unmolested. The technology you have seen the Eternals wield, this is only a fraction… In Chang’s world, men had become like gods, made themselves gods. Immortal. Superhuman. And because they weren’t ready for such power, they destroyed their world, made it an unimaginable hell. Syan Chang said he came back through time to stop it all from happening, to stop the research that was going on here and scare Earth so that they would never try again. He thought he had succeeded with the Apocalypse… Eyes close. …but when Earth came back, he raised his own army to drive them away: the Black Clothes, recruited from the Peace Keepers and the Zodanga, their colonies razed to build his flying fortress and his robots—and his robots are run by the brains of his fallen soldiers. But Chang himself is invincible, indestructible, powerful. And he brought others like him.

"By God’s mercy, another power has sent others back from that world to resist Chang, to protect us. You have seen some of these heroes: they fight for you now against the machines that attack your homes. But because of what they are, because of the technology that makes them what they are, Earth fears them as much as Chang. We fought a great battle together against Chang in Melas, in our homeland, and defeated him, but then the Unmakers used a nuclear weapon in hopes of destroying both Chang and the heroes. Four hundred and fifty kilotons yield…"

My father pauses, but this time the eye-closing is brief. They are all too riveted by his tale.

"This bomb damaged the Atmosphere Net in Melas, bled the air too thin even for our masks, and the radiation made the middle of the valley toxic. I swore I would never leave my desert, the home of my father where God had blessed us with life, but I have taken my people here, all the way here through hardship and loss, seven hundred kilometers to find a home away from the Unmakers and their war with Chang. And now… I find Chang’s army here—Chang is gone, but another has taken his place, a greater villain. His name is Asmodeus.

If you accept us… We came here seeking a safe place to live. But if you accept us, we will help you fight. We will pledge you our guns and our swords and our lives to protect this place, to help you fight the machines and the Black Clothes and the monsters that command them. That is my promise. That is my tale.

He bows. Receives no response other that the slight head-bows of the Council. Stands nervously in their midst (the rest of us behind him, but all of us surrounded by hundreds of Katar, and waiting beyond the chamber, hundreds more of their warriors).

In the tense waiting, I consider the things my father didn’t tell them: That Chang really didn’t come back through time, and in fact isn’t ultimately responsible for the Apocalypse. But the truth of it…

"Ambassador Murphy of Tranquility, Sagrev Khan, War King of Katar, commands, his deep voice now sounding vaguely annoyed, as if my father’s tale was neither interesting nor useful. Tell your life."

Murphy steps up to the Podium, giving my father a reassuring nod as they exchange places. It’s actually warm enough in here—even with the hole in the roof—that he doesn’t need his cloaks, so he’s just wearing his travel and battle worn black and gray Hammond-Keller uniform, his revolver slung in its shoulder holster, his Forge-gifted sword hung from his ammo belt.

My name is John Murphy, he addresses them with confidence, as if trying to impress Khan. Designation: Hammond-Keller M-7. This means I am the seventh of my family to take up the Gun and the Duty of protection. I am from Tranquility Colony, which until recently was divided and dying. Two of the original domes were intact, buried, while the third—the main garden dome—was breached in the bombardment. Eyes close. Heads lower. "With the colony unable to support the entire population, some elected to try to live outside, restore the ruptured dome, or at least tend the gardens to provide a food supply beyond what we could grow and recycle in the sealed Hab domes. As our systems slowly degraded, we were forced to eject more, or give them the choice of suicide. Thus went our slow dying, and darkened my Duty. It became our burden to cast out or kill the least-essential. And then when those Cast began to thrive in the gardens, and sometimes tried to tap from our precious resources or resist our foraging parties, it was my Duty—I and my fellows—to cull them. So I became a hunter. Of men. And women and even children. But despite the sacrifice of all those lives, our colony continued to die as our systems aged.

"Then last year, Colonel Ram came to us, told us of the world outside and its new horrors, and offered to help us if we would stop killing each other out of need. I joined with him in this, even though many of my fellows rejected his offer. He and his friends saved us. Restored our systems. Restored the breached dome. Brokered peace with the Cast. Brokered trade with Abbas’ people. Even opened talks with the Unmakers.

"I travel with Abu Abbas now as an ambassador for my people, to offer peace, alliance, and trade. Colonel Ram gave us a dream: That if we could unite, all the peoples of Mars, then we could meet the Unmakers in strength, and help defend each other against our mutual enemies. My people—Domers and Cast together—fought alongside the Terraformers and Nomads and Knights and Shinkyo and immortals against Chang, and we did defeat him in battle. We can do that again here. We ask nothing in return but friendship."

He also gets silence for his offer.

"Lieutenant Straker of The City of Industry, Khan calls out next, with all the enthusiasm of a man reading aloud an inventory list. Tell your life."

Murphy steps down off the Podium, giving Straker a reassuring nod and a quick smile. Straker hesitates a moment before ascending the few steps, breathing, as if preparing herself for war. I see her left hand start to move toward the living blade on her hip, but she stops herself from touching it, keeping her hands at her side.

I am First Lieutenant Jak Straker, Third Generation City of Industry Peace Keepers. When our colony was devastated by the bombing… Eyes close—this is almost getting silly. I have to suppress an urge to snicker. (If I was to face their warriors in combat, if I suddenly said Apocalypse would they close their eyes?) …we chose to leave the blasted surface structures as they were, to preserve the illusion that we had been properly ‘sterilized’. From the appearance of your city, I believe you understand the value of that… She’s the first of us to reflect back on our hosts while talking about herself, but it gets no more response than my father or Murphy did. "Instead, we used our digging machines to expand our shelters underground, spreading them out so that they would be hard for future bombardments to target. We maintained recyclers, tapped the ETE Feeds, started hydroponic gardens, and raised families. Lived.

Our colony was home to a garrison of UN Peace Keepers, stationed there during the Eco conflict. Our neighboring colonies—Pioneer and Frontier—also had garrisons, and survivors, so we kept in contact, coordinated our efforts, assisted each other, helped defend each other when raiders came. And we also enforced order within our civilian populations.

She pauses then. I see her chew on her scarred lower lip. I’ve heard stories of how the Keepers enforced order. I expect she has as many regrets as Murphy does.

"Colonel Ram came to us as well, told us that Earth would be returning, and offered us the opportunity to rejoin our former UN command structure. My commanders rejected his offer, distrusting the leadership that had tried to kill us all, unwilling to surrender our way of life, our homes. Unfortunately, this opened the door for the Shadow, for Chang. He came to us, showed us his power, told us that we could resist Earth if we joined him, that we could keep our homes secured. But… The cost was far too high. First, Chang stripped our homes to make his first flying fortress, larger than the one you’ve seen at Lucifer’s Grave, and ordered us to kill those that were ‘non-essential’: the aged, the sick, the disabled. Then, being a poor general, he threw us into battles with the UN forces and their allies with no concern for our survival—we were little more than ornamentation, soon replaced by his preferred machines. Many hundreds of my fellows died stupid, useless deaths. Others, not so lucky, were carved up to provide organic brain components for his battle drones.

"So some of us rebelled, tried to separate from him, tried to take back our homes. He set his machines on us. Colonel Ram came again, this time in his immortal form, and brought his fellows to defend us. Because of him, because of them, I was able to save three hundred of my people, but we had to abandon our home. Because we needed shelter and medical care, we surrendered to the new UN command, and were housed at Melas Two. There, we were endlessly debriefed and tested for non-existent contamination, and eventually some of us were allowed to serve in their planetary forces, though of course in non-key positions.

"I came to be here because I took an assignment on a Long Range Recon vehicle, sent into Coprates to look for the descendants of survivors. We investigated the ruins of Tyr, Nike, Gagarin and Concordia. We began to encounter Silvermen—what you call ‘Steel’ and who call themselves ‘The Children of the Forge’—spread throughout the highlands from Nike to Concordia. We’d managed to get as far as the ruins of Pax when we detected sign of Chang’s new flying fortress, his Stormcloud. We then detected an attempt to hack the Terraforming Stations, which we assumed was Chang. I volunteered for recon, hoping to paint the target for a surgical bombardment that would have spared you and your lands. But I encountered something else, and then became something else."

She makes her bright metallic green eyes glow even more unnaturally—finally, I hear some noise from our audience: Muffled gasps and nervous shuffling. I see Khan’s eyes shift to her sword, then back to watching her face like he’s monitoring the movements of an enemy force. I know he’s encountered a Companion Blade himself—Erickson Carter’s—and on the wrong end of it. I also expect he knows that it was only the character and incredible effort of the man wielding it that kept it from killing and consuming him.

Straker takes a breath, measures out her words with care, but also with conviction:

"It was—is—a piece of technology from Chang’s world, the world of the immortals. It’s changed me. I’m not like them, not fully, but it has made me stronger and faster and more resilient, and given me some power over the enemy’s technology. It’s a dangerous thing, of its own mind, and I’m only alive because it’s decided to join with me rather than consume me. But I’ve gotten control over it. And I am still myself. But I can never go back to the UN force. Earth remains terrified of this technology, even if it can serve them in their war against Chang’s forces—now Asmodeus’ forces. So now I travel with these good people, serve them, and serve Colonel Ram’s dream to unite Mars against our mutual enemies. Like my fellows, I offer to serve you as well. I don’t expect you to take my word on that. I only ask for the opportunity to prove myself an asset, a friend."

Miracle: I see Khan subtly nod his head. Some of his fellow Kings let themselves smile briefly.

Perhaps this is the secret of this ritual: They have us tell our tales, supposedly as a measure of our character, but the true measure will be our actions, not our words.

I consider that it was our prior actions that have allowed us this far into their world: Rescuing Khan’s eldest daughter from the Black Clothes who killed her diplomatic party and abused her, then escorting her safely back here. Well, not safely, but intact. We did battle Asmodeus’ bot army, and at dear cost. And then there was that business across The Lake, which none of us—including Terina—are speaking of.

Left standing at the Podium with no further reply from our hosts, Straker eventually decides the proper thing is to give a little bow and step down, joining the rest of our ragged group as we stand as if on display on the stone floor of the center of the Oculus. And so we stand and wait.

I see my Second Mother Sarai discreetly squeeze my Father’s hand from where she stands just behind him as if he’s her shield, our shield. This gets me looking again across our remaining numbers. Only thirty-one of our original seventy-five are still with us, the rest buried with honor along our long path from Melas. Add two: Ambassador Murphy, who joined us when we left Tranquility; and Jak Straker, who chose to join us at the end of our bloody journey after fighting alongside us, for us, unable to go home because of what she’s got inside of her, and certainly welcome in our company.

But how welcome are we in this place? Since the expressions of the Kings of Katar are so unreadable, I keep scanning the hundreds looking down all around us. I’m not surprised to see fear in their large, thick-lidded eyes. But I think I also see a little hope.

These people are under threat, attacked by machines, and maybe soon by weapons even more devastating. We, at least, still have guns, and a preciously small cache of armor-piercing ammunition and explosives. And we tell them we know these enemies, that we’ve fought them and beat them back.

What we haven’t told them is how many of us, and our allies, have died doing so. And worse: the monsters ultimately behind this cannot be destroyed by mortal weapons. Chang even managed to survive a nuclear blast, and…

We thank you for your stories, Gempei Akinaga, the Katar Science King, finally breaks the silence. We will discuss your petition for treaty. You will hear our decision by noon-sun tomorrow. We have arranged for more comfortable lodging until then. You will be safe here among us as long as you act as you claim.

While my father offers the Council his thanks, I lock eyes with Terina. She’s sitting in the gallery directly behind the Council table, likely in a section reserved for families and associates of the Kings. This is the first I’ve seen of her since we were escorted through their defensive wall, and she actually looks like the First Daughter of a King now: Her plain abused tunic and trousers have been replaced by a fine sleeveless dress, with sections of ornate armor and a diadem of high-polished stones. She also wears the matched daggers that the Forge gave her as a token of renewed peace (or at least the hope of a renewed peace). She gives me a reasonably reassuring smile and nod, then rises with the rest of the audience, and they begin to file out of the great chamber in an orderly fashion. She walks with regal grace. Beautiful.

Once this apparent social elite has made it to the main entrance and out into the morning daylight, everyone else in the terraced seating stands as one and exits through whichever portal is closest in what seems like practiced order. Only the five Kings stay where they are, still looking vaguely bored, as if preoccupied by a hundred matters more important than us, despite the news we bring.

As our audience files out, our guards file in: Four dozen armored warriors, armed with their characteristic sword-spears, Shinobi-style swords and longbows. They march past the Kings’ table on either side and neatly surround us.

If there is anything else you need, you may request it of the Unit Captain, Khan tells us as he finally stands, his laced-scale armor rustling. Then, as if eager to be done with this business, he and his fellow Kings turn and exit without farewell or a single look back.

I hear Straker grunt her frustration under her breath.

Small consolation: They haven’t killed us.

I am Hanzo Negev, Bannerman of Katar, the apparent Unit Captain steps forward and formally introduces himself. His armor looks somewhat finer crafted than his rank warriors, but the only detail that obviously sets him above them is a kind of emblem on the forehead of his helmet: A bright red flower with many fine petals. "I am at your service, and you are free to move about the common areas of the City-Valley, but you are not to leave our company. Fresh quarters have been prepared for you. Please…"

With the hand not holding his pole weapon, he gestures for us to move toward the main entrance, the same one we entered through, and up a short flight of stone steps well-polished by years of use. When we get back outside under the mid-morning sky, our hosts have all vanished like Shinobi. The colony we can see looks deserted. It’s only us, our guards, and a perimeter of several dozen more warriors on the wide stone-paved Plaza outside the Oculus, which overlooks much of the colony from its more up-valley western end, giving us an impressive view.

I glance around at the rest of our party. The effect of this disappearing act isn’t lost on any of us. Our hosts had their required ritual and then scattered and hid themselves away. Are they afraid of us? Or does our presence offend them?

As our guards don’t seem to be in any hurry to take us to wherever it is that’s been prepared for us, I wander to the edge of slab of the Plaza and finally take a good look over Katar. I can see most of it from here, nestled in its long, high-walled dead-end canyon, descending down to the massive defensive Gate Wall across the canyon mouth to the east.