The God Mars Book Two: Lost Worlds by Michael Rizzo Page B

and intact under the greened-over slide
mass.
    I watch multiple Link feeds as Thomas divides her
squad into fire teams: one to cover while the other moves in to get
a look inside the exposed dome. The fact that they’ve managed (or
been allowed) to approach this close without resistance is not a
comfort.
    There’s an old cargo bay hatch at ground level,
opening into the arroyo. Its doors are long gone. Vines of
Graingrass and Rustbean snake out of it and spread up over the dome
to join hundreds more growing out of the jagged breaches and out
across the ravine. The ground still shows no sign of recent
tracks.
    “Somebody cut these hatch doors away a long time
ago,” Thomas examines. “Scavengers?”
    “I think if you were trying to defend the site from
competitors, you’d want those heavy doors,” Lisa assumes.
    “Unless you want your enemies walking in,” Matthew
says it before I do.
    Taking that to heart, Thomas lets MAI sweep through
the open hatchway without putting anyone in a possible firing line.
The hatchway opens into an equally door-less cargo-sized airlock,
that in turn opens directly into the dome. It reminds me of an old
castle gate.
     
    “Still no sign of activity,” she reads MAI’s
assessment. “Going in…”
    “We don’t have you covered once you’re through that
door,” Sergeant Masters—who’s leading the sniper team—cautions
her.
    “Understood, Sergeant,” Thomas tells him, not
sounding terribly confident. Still, she does her job.
    The H-A team leapfrogs smoothly through the open
hatchway, covering each other and as many angles of attack as they
can anticipate. Their boots crunch on a combination of undergrowth
and damp mud that’s flooded the original dome floor. The interior
is a jungle—only a few of the edges of the original terrace-like
garden decks can be made out.
    “Does this look like blood?” I hear Spec-4 Regev ask
as his feed shows us one of the internal support columns. It’s
twisted with vines and its original white enamel paint is chipped
and battered, but there are smears of dark reddish brown too dark
to be Martian mud. Pulling away some of the overgrowth, we can see
these aren’t random markings—they look like the finger-painted
letters of a child.
    I read what might be names: “MAK” “2GUN” “FERA”
“SPYK” “AKS” “DART”
    Next to each name are rough tally marks, like the
scorecard of a child’s game.
    “It looks like blood,” Thomas confirms softly.
    “Holy…”
    Jenovic—still on point—has stopped dead in his
tracks, his hand up in the fist-sign for “hold.” His own feed
points down at his boots, crunching on something under the thick
net of vines. He kicks up something thin and slightly curved, about
eight inches long, that looks like a piece of brown-stained
ivory.
    “Rib bone,” Doc Ryder tells them over the Link,
taking a breath as Jenovic pans up. What had looked from a distance
like a vine-covered mound starts to focus into a hill of human
bones, at least twelve feet wide and taller than Jenovic. He has to
back up to get a shot of the top of it, which is crowned with
roughly-polished human skulls.
    “Lieutenant?” Jenovic asks for advice, trying to keep
from sounding as unsettled as he must be. Thomas gestures for
everyone to get low, cover their perimeter.
    I click up a separate channel and signal Abbas’ Link.
It takes him a few seconds to answer. His face on my screen shows
he’s in his shelter. I see his women getting a meal ready over his
shoulder.
    “Ah, my friend…” he begins with his usual warmth.
    “Rather urgent question,” I press him. “The food
route caravans from Coprates: What do you give them in
exchange?”
    He looks a bit bewildered, thinks his answer over for
a moment, then tells me what he had before: “Survival gear.
Weapons. Food and medical supplies from the sky drops when we
can.”
    “But the sky drops have gotten less and less,” I
remind him. “Has that changed what you trade