Moving Mars

by Greg Bear

  "No," I said.

  "Much experience with men at all?"

  I continued smiling and said nothing. Bithras watched me intently. "I have observed that young women acquire most of their knowledge of men in the first five years of their romantic lives. It is a crucial time. I would guess that you are within that five-year period. To neglect your education would be a pity. A spaceship offers such limited opportunities."

  Here it comes.

  "If you remember anything more about Charles Franklin, please tell me. I am reluctantly forced to catch up on physics, and I am not so skilled at mathematics. I hope Alice is a good tutor."

  He thanked me and opened the cabin door. In the hallway, I passed Acre on some errand, murmured hello, and went to the exercise room. There, accompanied by four sweating men, all about Bithras's age, I worked off my anger and dismay for about an hour.

  Charles had married. He had the anchor he wanted. He was well on his way to being significant, to Earth and Mars, if not to me.

  Good for him.

  Orianna burned like an intense flame blown by swift winds. I never could predict the direction of those winds, what her moods would be precisely — but I never knew her to be morose, or discouraged, or even overtly judgmental. When she fixed her attention on me — listening to me or just watching me — I knew what a cat must feel like, scrutinized by a human . . .

  Orianna was not effectively more wise than I was, but her instant access to information, her blithe show of skills not learned or earned but bought, were marvelous. What she lacked was what I lacked — what all Earth's glory could not give her or me: experience that sat deep in the mind and in the flesh. Her enhancements and all her advanced education could not give her passionate conviction or a true sense of direction.

  Talking, letting the telescope fill our rooms with projected images, sharing LitVids, playing games in the lounge, watching the stars pass from the observation deck . . . Orianna showed me a mirror to my own immediate past — she taught me a lot about Earth, and perhaps even more about myself. Through her, I saw more clearly how far I had to go.

  But I was still reluctant to join Orianna in a sim. She persisted in her efforts to convince.

  "I smuggled some real outer sims past Earth douane. I haven't told my parents," she said to me on Jill's Day, December 30. We were in the fifth month of our crossing and had just emerged from the most strenuous regimen of exercises yet — three hours in the gym with magnet suits, running in place in fields that simulated full Earth gravity. "You won't tell?"

  "Is that illegal?"

  "Well, no, but the companies that make them are pretty protective. They could cut me off a customer list if they found out. They don't want dupes made off Earth."

  "Sims aren't very popular off Earth," I said.

  Orianna shrugged that off. "There's one I think you'll really like. It's gradual. Puts you in touch with all the cultural differences between you and me. Set on present-day Earth, but it's not an education piece. It's fantasy and very romantic. Since you have access to Alice . . . Alice would be perfect for screening our sims. Much better than slates . . . We could go full-depth with Alice."

  "I'm not sure she'd agree."

  "I've never met a thinker that wasn't eager to build up more data on human nature. Besides, it's Jill's Day. Time to celebrate. Alice needs relaxation, too."

  Jill, the first thinker on Earth to achieve self-awareness — on December 30, 2047 — had served as template for the next generation of thinkers, and so in a very real way was a direct ancestor of Alice. Jill was still active on Earth. Alice wanted to visit her broadband on the nets when we got to Earth, if we had time.

  We took turns in my room with the vapor bag and toweled off, then sat. "You are fixed on sims," I said. "What about real life?"

  Orianna said, "When I'm eighteen, real life will mean something. When I'm on my own, and my parents aren't responsible for my actions, I can take risks and be dangerous. Until then, I'm a cutlet."

  "Cutlet?"

  "Slice off the parental loin. Sims are exercise for the rest of my life."

  "Even fantasy?"

  She smiled. "Well . . . not to stretch a point. They're fun."

  I gently declined the offer, but hinted there might be time later.

  The routine of each day in space became hypnotic. After four or five hours' sleep — growing less each month — I would wake up to pleasant music and a projection of the ship's schedule for the day, along with a menu from which I could choose my meals and activities. I exercised, ate breakfast, spent a few hours with Orianna or Alice, or sat in the main lounge, chatting with other passengers. Space chat was congenial, seldom stimulating or controversial. I exercised again before lunch, more strenuously, and joined Orianna and her parents to eat.

  Allen and I met in with Bithras every two or three days. His Earth agenda was shaping up and afternoons were devoted to deep training. He gave us LitVids and documents to study, some proprietary to Majumdar. I was careful not to reveal anything I learned from these sessions in conversation with Orianna, or anybody else.

  At dinner, I joined Allen and Bithras and several of Bithras's acquaintances from Earth. After dinner, I spent time in my cabin with LitVids — hungry for an outside existence — and then exercised lightly and had a snack with Orianna or Allen.

  It didn't take me long to pick holes in some of the statements made by Terries aboard ship, general assumptions about Earth's future, GEWA's or GSHA's plans,- I was close to a center now, and what I was learning both disturbed and impressed me.

  One conversation sticks in my memory, because it was so atypically blunt. It took place at the end of the fifth month. After an hour poring over Earth economics and its relation to the Triple — a relation of very large dog wagging a tiny but growing tail — I dropped down to dinner and made my choice. Minutes later, trays of excellent nano food — better than anything available on Mars — were ferried to me by the dining room arbeiter from the brightly lit mouth of the dispenser.

  Orianna was in her cabin, lost in a sim,- we had a date for later in the day. I sat beside Allen at the outside of a curved table. Across from us sat Orianna's parents. Renna Iskandera, her mother, a tall, stately Ethiopian woman, wore a loose jumpsuit in brilliant orange, dark purple, and brown block prints. Her husband, Paul Frontiere, French by birth and a citizen of Eurocon, dressed in trim gray and forest-green spacewear, loose at waist and joints, slimming around wrist and ankles.

  Allen was already talking with Renna and Paul. I sat beside him, listening attentively.

  "I think we're a little daunted by Earth and Earth customs," Allen said. "So many people, so many cultures and fashions . . . The more I learn, the more confused I get."

  "Martians don't study the homeworld in school?" asked Renna. "To prepare, I mean, for such trips as this."

  "We study," Allen said, "but Martians are pretty self-absorbed." He glanced at me, the skin around his eyes crinkling in private humor.

  "On Earth, we're proud of our acceptance of change, and of our unity within diversity," Paul said. "Martians seem proud of common heritage."

  I decided to ramp up the provocation, in the interests of understanding Terries, of course, and not because of the slight sting of the veiled accusation of being provincial. "We've all been taught that Earth is politically more calm and more stable than it's ever been — "

  "That is true," Paul said, nodding.

  "But there's so much argument! So much disagreement!"

  Renna laughed, a high, wonderful melody of mirth. She was twice my age, yet appeared much younger, might have been sister to her own daughter. "We revel in it," she said. "We take pride in shouting at each other."

  "You mean, it's all a front?" Allen asked.

  "No, we genuinely disagree about many things," Renna said. "But we do not kill each other when we disagree. You are of course taught about the twentieth century?"

  "Yes," I said. "Of course."

  "The bloodiest in human h
istory. A nightmare — one long war from almost the beginning to almost the end, a hothouse for every imaginable tyranny. Even at its conclusion, passions between peoples of different heritage, different religions, even simple geographic differences, led to murder and reprisal on a hideous scale. But it was the century in which more people than ever broke from traditional power structures, expressed skepticism, found disillusionment and despair — and grew."

  I frowned. "Grew out of despair?"

  "Grew out of necessity. No turning back to old ways — no one could afford to. There was no longer profit in destruction. The great god Mammon became a god of peace. And that is when we looked outward — and made the beginnings of the settled Moon and Mars and the outer small worlds. People were able to see more clearly."

  "But you're still arguing," I said, and bit my lip gently, hoping to give the impression that my naivete now lay naked on the table before them. Bithras was teaching me the art of lapwing — faking confusion or weakness for advantage.

  "I hope not to speak for everyone on Earth, of course!" Paul said, laughing. "To argue is not to hate, not for healthy minds. Our opponents are prized. They goad us to greater accomplishment. If we are defeated, we know that there are other wars to be fought, wars without blood, wars of intellect and of many possible outcomes, not just defeat or victory."

  "And if you argue with Mars?" I asked, putting on a mask of provincial anxiety. "If we disagree?"

  "We are fearful opponents," Paul admitted. Renna seemed less happy with that answer.

  "What is good for all, is good for Earth," she said. She touched my hand. "On Earth, there is so much variety, so much possibility for growth and change, so much, as you say, argument, but if you track the politics, the responses of peoples wherever they may live, there are astonishing agreements on major goals."

  Goals. The word rang like a bell. Alice, you are so right.

  "Such as?"

  "Well," Renna said, "we cannot afford to lack discipline. The universe is not so friendly. Weaknesses and weak links — "

  "Such as Mars," I said.

  Renna's eyes narrowed. Perhaps I was laying it on too thick. "We must act together for the common goals of all the human worlds."

  "What are we to unite against?"

  "Not against, but for. For the next push — to migrate to the stars. There are worlds enough for all who disagree to try great experiments, make great strides . . . But we will not achieve them if we are separate now, and lacking discipline."

  "What if our goals don't coincide?" I asked.

  "All things change," Renna said.

  "Whose goals should change?"

  "That's what the debate is about."

  "And if debate isn't enough? Debate can grind on forever," I said.

  "True, there isn't always the luxury of unlimited time."

  "If debate has to be cut off," I said, "who does the cutting?"

  Renna looked at me shrewdly. She was enjoying herself, but I had to ask, despite all their obvious sophistication, despite their time on Mars, did they truly understand how a Martian felt? "When a society can't do the good drive, as Orianna might say — when it refuses its responsibilities — then other means must be tried."

  "Force?" I asked.

  "Renna dearly loves to debate," Paul said confidentially to Allen. "This ship has been too quiet, too polite."

  "Where Mars and Earth cannot agree, there is always room for growth and discussion," Renna concluded, staring at me in an entirely friendly and expectant way. "Force is an old habit I do not approve of." She obviously wanted me to counter, but something had cut deep and I did not wish to oblige her. I gave a cool smile, inclined, and tapped my plate to signal the arbeiter I was finished.

  "We sometimes forget the sensibilities of others, in our enthusiasm" Paul said warily.

  "It's nothing," Allen said. "We'll pick up the discussion later."

  Bithras had a lot on his mind. His behavior was exemplary. He seemed more a concerned blood uncle than a boss,- sometimes a teacher, sometimes a fellow student working with Allen and me to riddle the puzzles of Earth. Never the sacred monster my mother had described.

  His transition, in the middle of our sixth month, came abruptly enough to catch me completely off guard. Bithras called me to his cabin for consultation.

  He had taken to wearing tennis togs again, and as I came in, he sat in his white cotton shirt and shorts, legs pushed against the opposite wall, slate on his lap.

  "A lot of tension on Mars this week," he said.

  "I haven't seen anything in the LitVids," I said casually.

  "Of course not," he said with a twitch of his mouth. "I wouldn't expect it to get that far. Not yet. Two BMs have decided to make their own proposals for unification."

  "Who?" I asked.

  "Mukhtiar and Pong."

  "Not top five . . . " I asked.

  "And not likely to attract any attention ... on Earth. But I made a lot of concessions and forced a lot of favors to carry our proposal to Earth. Some people who are nervous are much more nervous now. If I am undercut, if someone decides to mount a strong campaign across Mars before we arrive . . . concessions to Earth, sellouts ..." He lifted his hand and squinted at me. "Not fun. I worry about Cailetet. They seem to believe they have extra cards in the game."

  I shook my head in sympathy. He leaned back a few more centimeters and looked me over. "What have you learned from the Terries?"

  "A lot, I think."

  "Do you know that Terries have been increasing the average age for first sexual experience for the last thirty years, and that more and more of them never have physical sex at all, up to ten percent now?" He squinted skeptically, as if mounting a speculation.

  "I've heard that," I said.

  "Some people marry and have sex only in sims."

  I had been so calmed by his straight and narrow behavior for so many weeks that even now I suspected nothing.

  "There have been marriages between thinkers and humans. Marriages physically celibate but mentally promiscuous. People who have children without having sex and without giving birth. Marvels and frights to a red rabbit."

  "We have ex utero babies on Mars," I said quietly, wondering what he was up to.

  "I prefer the old fashioned way," he said, fixing his round black eyes on me. "There has been damned little of that this voyage. All work. You have not been very romantically adventurous either, I notice."

  Signals of caution finally broke through. I didn't answer, just shrugged, hoping my uncomfortable silence would be enough to deflect the course of the conversation.

  "We will be working together for many months."

  "Right," I said.

  "Is it possible to be completely comfortable together, working for so long?"

  "We'll have to be," I said. "We'll be red rabbits among the Terries."

  He nodded emphatically. "Among very strange and high-powered people. It will cause tensions far worse than what I feel now, going over these recent messages. We're in a war of nerves, Casseia, and we might enjoy — mutually — a place of retreat . . . from the war."

  "I'd like to read the messages," I said.

  "I would not feel comfortable taking solace from a Terrie woman."

  "I'm not sure this is — "

  He pushed on with a little shake of his head. "What if I work very hard on a temporary relationship, and it can be only that, and discover the woman from Earth wants me to have sex only in sim?" He stared at me incredulously.

  Angering by slow degrees, I kept in mind my mother's admonition: be clever, be witty. I felt neither clever nor witty but I did not yet ramp to complete indignation.

  "I like to resolve difficulties, make arrangements, early," Bithras said. He reached up and stroked my arm, quickly moving to grip my shoulder. He let go of my shoulder and ran a finger lightly on the fabric centimeters above my breast. "You are much more ... to me."

  "Within the family?"

  "That is not an obstacle."


  "Oh," I said. "An arrangement of convenience."

  "Much more than that. We may both focus on our work, having this resolved."

  "A stronger relationship."

  "Certainly," Bithras said.

  Delicately, I pushed back his arm.

  "What you're saying is, we should start our family now, right?" I said cheerily.

  He drew his head back, dismayed, "Family?"

  "We need to make more red rabbits, right? To offset Earth's billions? A policy matter."

  "Casseia!" he said. "You deliberately misunderstand — "

  I cut him off. "I hadn't planned on procreating so early, but if it serves policy, I suppose I must." Wit or not, I forged ahead. I put on a stoic face, lifted my hand to my brow, and said, "Bithras, all that can be asked of any red doe, in this life, is to lie back and think of Mars."

  He made a face of sharp distaste. "That is not funny, Casseia. I am discussing serious difficulties in our personal lives."

  "I'll have to update my medical nano," I said. "Bichemistry is different in pregnant women."

  "You miss my meaning completely." He stretched out his arms and again one hand touched my shoulder, moved to my upper breast, while his eyes held me, tried to convince me that this was not what it might seem. "Am I not attractive?"

  I lifted my eyebrows and removed his hand again. "You should talk to my father. He understands family politics and proprieties better than I. Certainly in the matter of liaisons and alliances . . . and children."

  Bithras slumped his shoulders and waved his hand weakly. "I'll transfer the docs to your slate. Alice already has them," he said. Then he shook his head with genuine sadness and perhaps regret.

  Guiltless, I did not feel at all sorry.

  I left his cabin with a dizzy sense of lightness. Forewarned was forearmed. The lightness reverted to anger once I was in my own cabin, and I sat on the bed, pounding the fabric so hard I lifted my bottom several centimeters. Then I lay back and counted backwards, eyes closed, teeth clenched. He has no more control than a baby wetting his diapers, said a calm, cold voice in my head, the part of me that still thought clearly when I was upset. "He has no more technique than a tunnel bore," I said out loud. "He's inept."