The God Mars Book Four: Live Blades by Michael Rizzo Page A

stands
between us and the rescue line, the deafening blast of the gun
betraying its large caliber.
    Still far too injured to leap (certainly not carrying
a girl who’s not terribly sure she should come with me), I wrap the
girl in my arms and do something resembling running around the edge
of the pit, trying not to trip on fallen armor, stumbling over my
own leaden feet (and accidentally banging my charge into the rock
wall, but she doesn’t complain). My body is bisected by blazing
pain. I stagger forward, lunge, grab the line.
    “ GO!! ” I hear our rescuer shout, and the line
jerks us up, pulling us for the cave roof, for the vent. Still, I
take a spearhead through the left calf, apparently not done paying
for my impulsiveness. It tears meat when it catches on the rock. I
have to stop, tear it out (too late realizing it has razor-like
fins that act like barbs), leaving the girl to keep hold of me, her
long arms tight around my neck. I throw the spearhead back like I
could hit someone with it.
    I’ve lost my sword.
    But I have the girl.
     
    Our rescuer shoves us up past him, possibly choosing
to wait for the Ghaddar, and we go banging up the vent as we
continue to get pulled.
    When we hit daylight, the other Nomad sentry is there
to greet us, running a portable rappelling winch he’s wedged into
the rocks. There’s still one more line down the vent for his
companion.
    The girl lets go of me and wrestles herself out of my
grip, rolling away from me on the slope. I realize through my pain
and dumb shock that she has my pistol.
    Thankfully, the sentry manning the rappelling gear
takes my lead and raises his hands in response to her threat.
    “It’s okay, girl… We’re here to…”
    She answers me back by putting a bullet into the dirt
next to my head. Then she puts one between my legs. It’s pretty
clear she’s meaning to miss, but has little patience or trust.
    The rappeller motor whirs again, and the other sentry
gets dragged up out of the vent, grabs the edge and pulls himself
out. Sees the gun in his face. Freezes. Offers his hands. Then goes
further by slowly pulling away his cowl, mask and goggles, showing
her his face. He’s young, maybe little more than a teen, though he
sports a thin beard. But he’s blonde, pale, blue-eyed. I realize
from descriptions that this must be Abbas’ adopted son.
    In the light, the prisoner has long dark hair, tied
into braids. Her skin is indeed painted with something that looks
like it’s based on the high-iron Martian clay, but where it’s
flaked away, it looks like it’s dyed her skin rust-colored,
matching her simple clothing. The fact that she’s partially exposed
in front of us doesn’t appear to bother her. Her body is strikingly
long and lean, except for her enlarged ribcage. She looks like a
child’s doll from Old Earth, one I remember was criticized for
portraying impossible female proportions. Even her face is
elongated. And she also doesn’t seem to mind the chill or the thin
air.
    I’m thinking she may be a product of generations
living in the richer, deeper valleys, with no concern for
weight-discipline, letting their bodies conform to the .38 gravity
and low atmospheric pressure. She may have lived without oxygen
supplementation or pressurized shelters her entire life. Perhaps
the clay coating is a defense against the UV radiation that keeps
the other Normals under heavy cloaks and cowls.
    I realize we’ve forgotten the larger threat when
something whips through the air past my head and smacks the pistol
from her hand. Then a cloaked shape is standing over me, having
climbed out of the vent in absolute silence. It’s the Ghaddar. She
hands me my sword, still stained in blood.
    “It’s a good blade,” she appraises casually, then
walks over to recover the steel rod she threw to disarm, and my
pistol before the girl can reach for it.
    My own rescuer turns his head back to the vent,
listens, calls to his companion
    “Jibril! Grenade!”
    The other