The God Mars Book Six: Valhalla I Am Coming by Michael Rizzo Page B

conspiracy together.
    Let them think whatever they want, I remember
thinking. Then I went to find the son-of-a-bitch, or at least take
some satisfaction in butchering whatever Harvesters were left in
the Keep. I’d kill them all, I told myself. I’d kill them faster
than he could make new ones, before they had a chance to infect and
replicate.
    I didn’t meet any resistance at all climbing down to
the cliff entrances of the Keep. Then I didn’t meet any resistance
when I actually met Harvesters, spread through the tunnels
to lurk like sleepwalking sentries. They simply ignored me.
    I took small comfort that some were wearing Chang
Black (as if being former enemy combatants justified such a
horrific fate), but now even the animated bodies of the Pax were
carrying guns.
    Putting my sword through a skull and taking a rifle
to examine, I confirmed it had been modified to fire seed rounds.
But even that act of violence brought no reaction from the drones.
Nor did splitting the skulls of several more. Every drone I
encountered completely disregarded me like I was of no consequence
whatsoever.
    But close, I could hear signals. Their eyes were his
eyes.
    “Are you here?” I asked the artificially-animated
dead. “Or do you plan to keep wasting my time and your drones?”
    I didn’t get an answer, not right away. I found my
way in the shadows back to where I’d destroyed his last cloning
attempt, hoping I’d find another one brewing, or sign of any
equipment he might be using to accomplish the deed. But I knew he
was probably doing his copying trick using only nanotech,
introduced as a seed into an unfortunate body. There would be no
manufacturing assets to destroy, only the finished products or
half-formed works-in-progress.
    And then I did find equipment. Hardware. Of a
sort.
    Stacked sloppily as if for disposal in a shop-sized
chamber were a number of body-sized metal cylinders. On closer
examination, they looked like rough-cobbled versions of Hiber or
trauma pods. As I tried to hack into any internal mechanism,
slide-away panels sprung open at the right touch. The first few
were empty, just insulated metal coffins. But then I started
finding bodies inside. Pax. In restraints, gagged, some convulsing
in the throes of conversion, others just staring blankly, sensor
stalks glowing faintly behind their eyes. The ones that were still
suffering I gave efficient mercy, stabbing my knife through their
foreheads and into the growing module core, trying not to absorb
very much of their blood and tissue as I did so.
    I distracted myself from the humane murdering with
practical questions as I went: Why would he need these tubes? The
infection runs its course no matter what—the infected don’t need to
be contained or restrained. Or was this some kind of protection for
the conversion process? And if so, from what?
    Closer inspection revealed no technology in the tubes
other than basic oxygen re-breathers and reservoir cylinders,
probably repurposed from Chang’s conscripts. There was nothing to
suggest the tubes were meant to assist the conversion process,
other than provide it a place to happen. But the outer walls of the
cylinders seemed thicker than basic shelter protection or
pressurization would require, almost like armor, but made of welded
scrap. Arrayed as they were, they reminded me of homemade torpedoes
or massive artillery shells, the dregs of an ordnance dump. Is he
planning to launch corpse-drones at his targets? The impact
would completely crush a body inside, rendering it useless as a
drone. Perhaps if he intended to drop them like bombs from very low
altitude… but he would need ships …
    “Merry Christmas,” I finally heard his voice, sweet
and seductive. “Welcome to my own personal Santa’s workshop. These
toys aren’t quite ready yet, but I have been busy.”
    He was in my head, but I could also hear him echoing
in the tunnels. He was here, at least in clone form.
    “They’re not for you, I’m afraid.