Moving Mars

by Greg Bear

  Royce sat emphatically, arms still folded, and said, "All right. Over with? Can we get back to work now?"

  "We've got about four more weeks before we have no secrets whatsoever," Ti Sandra said at the beginning of our next daily conference call. Alone in my quarters, surrounded by hollow sounds of construction echoing through the soil into the tunnels, I watched Ti Sandra's range of expressions as I might examine the face of an idol, hoping for clues. "It's time to survey," she said. "Take Phobos to our suggested destination. People will notice that a moon has been borrowed, so we'll need to have the moon back before any alarm is raised. The trip must take less than five hours."

  "Charles and I have discussed the details. He thinks we can manage," I said. "I want to go with them."

  "Why?" Ti Sandra said.

  "I won't even think about sending Mars someplace unless I've been there first."

  "Point One will have a fit."

  "Then we just won't tell them," I said.

  Ti Sandra considered for a moment, weighing risks against advantages. "You'll go with them. I want somebody I can trust implicitly. As far as I'm concerned, you're flesh of my flesh."

  "Thank you," I said.

  "I'd like to put a tweaker team on Deimos as well. If you don't come back, or come back too late, we'll move Deimos into the Belt, hide it, and prepare for the worst."

  The prospect of using Deimos as a backup — no need to specify for what purpose — seemed almost normal, not in the least disturbing.

  "Are we telling them that Phobos is moving?"

  "We owe them that much," she said. "Whether they'll believe we're not attacking, I can't predict"

  I told her about Wachsler's continuing objections, about the growing spirit of resistance among the Olympians and some of our closest advisors and aides.

  "Just what I expected," she said. "I'd join you if I could. Help you state our case a little more firmly. But you can do it. They'll come around."

  I felt my sense of urgency might not be communicating over the vid display. "It may not be that easy. Think of what we're suggesting."

  "It scares the hell out of me," Ti Sandra said. "Maybe they're so scared they'd rather trust Earth?"

  "It's a natural reaction."

  "Is everybody forgetting so quickly?"

  "I hope not," I said.

  "Some folks didn't lose much," Ti Sandra said with a touch of bitterness. "Keep fighting and persuading, Cassie. Keep your believers enthused. Send them out as proselytizers, if you can spare them."

  "Another campaign," I said.

  "It never ends," Ti Sandra said.

  "Sometimes I feel like such a monster, even contemplating this. Couldn't we investigate the possibility of having a plebiscite?"

  "How much time do we have?"

  "Charles gives Earth a month, maybe two, with the clues they have . . . And he doesn't eliminate the possibility that there are spies here. It could come much sooner. Oh, God. There is so little choice."

  "Exactly," Ti Sandra said. "You and I are expendable. We're working to save everybody else. Remember that, honey."

  "We need you here so much," I said, my voice breaking. "There's so little to keep me going any more."

  "I'm healing as fast as I can. You hold on. You're strong."

  Just hours before dawn, on the twenty-third of Aquarius, five of the Preamble team — Charles, Leander, myself, and two astronomers — boarded a tractor and crossed a kilometer along a new-carved track from Kaibab to a hidden Mercury launch site.

  The astronomers I had met two hours before. They had just arrived from UMS. The elder of the two, Jackson Hergesheimer, specialized in the study of extrasolar planets. He had originally come from the Moon and had no BM affiliation. UMS had invited him to join the faculty twenty years ago. He was tall, knobby, gray-haired, with a worried monkey-like face and large hands.

  His assistant. Galena Cameron, had come from the Belt five years before to study at Tharsis Research University. She specialized in the engineering of deep-space observatories. Some of the equipment being brought on board was hers: prototype sensors for the Martian SGO, Supraplanar Galactic Observer, a multi-BM prestige project whose launch had been postponed nine times in the past five years. Hergesheimer seemed unimpressed by what we were going to do — hiding his fear, I suspected — but Cameron's face sported a rosy flush and her hands could not stop moving.

  The launch pad revetment appeared as low dark mounds in our searchlight beams. The Mercury itself lay under a simple soil-colored tarp — the merest of camouflage. Clearly, there had been only a knee-jerk attempt to disguise what was happening here. Equally clearly, observers from the Belt or Earth or points between would have to track hundreds of such launch sites. Martian orbital space was still open to all former BMs, many of whom stubbornly maintained separate orbital shuttle fleets. A launch from what had been disguised as a reopened mining station on Kaibab plateau would not, in itself, attract attention.

  The tractor driver, Wanda, a stocky, athletic woman in a bright green thermal suit, looked over her shoulder at us and smiled. "You need to be up and out in thirty minutes. Once you reach orbit, you'll be given clearance by direct link. When you get back, we'll use direct link to tell you where to land. We don't want Terries tracing Mercury back to Preamble."

  "Direct link" was code talk for instantaneous communications using the tweaker. We would be using "direct link" for the first time, but only from orbit.

  Charles thanked her and patted her shoulder. "Wanda was our tractor driver on the first jaunt," he said. "We're getting to be old hands at this."

  "I don't ask questions," Wanda said, brown eyes focusing on each of us in turn, lips set in mild amusement. "I just want the pleasure of seeing the results in the news."

  "No news on this one, I hope," Charles said. "And that's all you'll learn today."

  "Awhh," Wanda said, disappointed. She extended a pressurized chute between the tractor and the Mercury. The six of us clambered through on our hands and knees. Charles and Leander unloaded the equipment carefully. I helped carry the QL thinker and interpreter. We sealed for launch.

  In our narrow couches, stretched side by side in two rows, we waited tensely for the rockets to fire. I hadn't gone to orbit since my trip to Earth, lifetimes ago.

  "Time to tell you something about making a leap," Charles said. I turned to look at Leander and Charles on my left. Leander lifted his head and grinned. "It isn't all tea and cakes. For passengers, I mean."

  "What did you leave out?" I asked.

  "We won't have any electrical activity for several minutes while we make the trip, and for a few minutes after. No heat, nothing in the suits, that sort of thing. It might get stuffy in the cabin, but we've made a mechanical scrubber without electrical parts, and that should take care of most difficulties for as long as ten or fifteen minutes."

  "Why the lapse?"

  "We don't know. You'll feel a little queasy, too. It'll pass, but all your neurons will seem to be on hold for a few minutes. It's like a blackout, but you sort of realize what's going on. The body doesn't like it. Other than that — and it's pretty minor stuff — everything is as advertised."

  I lay back on the couch. "Why didn't you mention this earlier?"

  "We had trouble enough back there." Charles waved his hand in the general direction of the laboratory. "What would Wachsler say if we told him?"

  "He'd have a fit," I admitted. "But what will happen to everything on Mars . . . life support, not to mention everybody's mental state?"

  Leander interrupted what threatened to be a long discussion. "It may not be a problem in a week or two. We think it's adjustable. We think we can fix it. But for now ... be prepared."

  "Anything else I need to know?"

  "You won't even feel a lurch. Smoothest ride in the universe," Charles said.

  Mercury's human pilot from the first mission had been replaced by a Martian-manufactured dedicated thinker. It gave us a one-minute warning. With a loud series
of pops like gunshots, the vehicle lifted on a pillar of flame and steam, pushing us firmly into our couches. Through the ports and on vid displays, we watched Mars recede. The little ship swung around to target the small gray-black moon, and we enjoyed a few minutes of quiet inaction while it carried us into a high dawn.

  Cameron lifted her head from her couch as far as the restraints allowed and smiled at me. "I wanted to tell you how honored we are — I am — to be included. This is incredible . . . Absolutely fantastic. I'm terrified."

  I smiled as much reassurance as I could muster. What we were about to do was beyond my imagination — though not beyond the calculating power of my enhancement.

  Because there would be no acceleration, no force expended, a very different notion of force and work came into play — based entirely on descriptor adjustments observed in experiment. Translating into familiar terms, moving Phobos across ten thousand light-years would require stealing from the galactic treasure-chest enough energy to power a star like the sun for several years.

  The approach to the moon seemed glacially slow. Phobos, across an hour, grew from a bright speck to a dark smudge as we fell again into Martian shadow.

  Deceleration was more abrupt than take-off, one loud staccato burn that left bruises on my elbow where it pressed against a thinly padded metal bar. We skimmed a few hundred meters above the regolith of Phobos, ancient gray and black mottled craters, grooves, pits, and scars from early mining and research.

  We would be occupying a thirty-year-old mining base near the center of Stickney crater, still viable but inhabited only by arbeiters.

  If Mercury were attacked, we would have a better chance of surviving buried beneath the small moon's bleak gray surface.

  "There it is," Leander said. Charles sat up. On one sloping side of the irregular bowl of Stickney crater, a small landing beacon flashed every few seconds, as it had for decades. Mercury shifted course with a lurch. We approached the beacon with alarming speed.

  "Searching for anchor points," the thinker announced.

  Another jarring deceleration, then a gentle bump as Mercury locked down. We checked all systems in the station, found everything in adequate condition, and extended the ship's transfer tube.

  Charles unbelted from the couch and I followed, floating free. "Three days' supplies," Charles said with a crooked grin as he passed me in the cargo bay.

  "Will that be enough?" Galena Cameron asked, face creased in concern.

  "We hope to be gone less than five hours," Leander called from the deck above.

  Hergesheimer grimaced. "We could spend ten years studying the system and not know enough."

  "The tunnels are going to be cold and uncomfortable for several hours," Leander said. "Not used to visitors."

  Crawling through the transfer tube behind Charles, I nearly bumped into an old arbeiter felted with dust. It floated in a corner, the size and approximate color of a much-loved teddy bear, ancient sensor torque spinning with a faint squeak as it examined us.

  "This device is in need of repair," it said in a muffled voice.

  Charles rotated in the lock to look at me, and for the first time in weeks I smiled, remembering Tres Haut Medoc. He returned the smile, wincing as stretched skin tugged on his nano patches. "We really should take better care of our orphans," he said.

  Hergesheimer cursed the lack of adequate sensor ports, and Leander instructed a small sample-drilling arbeiter to make new ones. We had brought repair kits with us, and most of the station arbeiters were undergoing upgrades and refits. Galena Cameron coordinated the sensors and telescopes, sitting in a cold cubic chamber by herself, putting everything through practice runs with simulated targets and data.

  For the time being, I had little to do. I helped Leander by sitting in the star-shaped central control chamber and keeping close watch on pressure integrity; we could not trust the station's own emergency systems until the upgrades were finished. I occupied one point of the star. Charles nursed the QL thinker in another. He leaned around the corner, optic leads attached to the back of his head, and said, "It's fuddled."

  "What is?"

  "The thinker. I should have given it a focusing task before we left. It's off somewhere doing something we'll never need to know about."

  "Can you get it back?" I asked.

  "Of course. It just takes a while to corral all of its horses. How's your enhancement?"

  "Quiet, actually," I said. "I think I've finally got it under control."

  "Good." He looked at the wall behind me as if someone might be there. I felt the urge to turn, but I knew we were alone in the control center. "Casseia, I don't know what this is going to do to me. Every time I guide the QL, I get a different reaction. It's definitely not ..." He couldn't seem to find the word. He waggled his fingers in the air.

  "Pleasant?" I offered.

  "Maybe too pleasant." he said. "Like slipping into a bad habit. Like joining a raucous party of crazy geniuses. There's always something enchanting, the solution to everything — "

  "You'd like that," I said quietly.

  "Exactly. My weakness. I go looking for it, and the true parts vanish like ghosts, leaving only a sensation of completeness. The QL chases different kinds of truths, things not useful to human brains. Mathematical tangents we'll never pursue, logics that actually hurt us. I have to watch myself, or I'll come back and not be useful. To you or anybody."

  "You'll always be useful," I reassured him.

  "Not necessarily. I just wanted to ask . . . May I keep a focus on you? I don't really have anything but this job and you. Focusing on the job is recursive. Not productive."

  "How do you mean, focus?"

  "A goal," he said. "Something to value that's real."

  The request bothered me deeply. I decided that a question needed to be asked now, no matter how awkward it might be. "Are you making a pass, Charles?"

  "No," he said. A frown crossed his face and he looked away again. "I need a strong friend. I hope that's clear, and appropriate." He took a deep breath. "Casseia, to hit on you now would be so horrible . . . You're still grieving."

  "Yes," I said.

  "I need someone here who cares for me in more than a professional sense. To bring me back. Me. Not some product of merging with the QL, not some intellectual mutant."

  "I care for you," I said. "You're important in and of yourself. I value you."

  His expression softened. Once again, I felt my power to please and was dismayed by it. "That's what I need," he said. "But don't be frightened. Even if I lose myself, whatever's left will bring us back. Tamara or Stephen can take my place later. For the big trip."

  "Is it that dangerous?" I asked.

  "I don't think so," Charles said. "But each time gets more difficult. The truths are so compelling."

  "Dangerous truths."

  "Yeah," he said. "Falling in love with another reality . . . Getting all set to marry it. And being jilted."

  Leander entered the control center from below, hand over hand in the moon's weak gravity. "Galena and Jackson say they're ready. I've connected our tweaker by direct link to Preamble's big tweaker. We're getting good signals. I can't guarantee keeping a connection when we move, but I can probably get it back when we return."

  "It's all so primitive," Charles said.

  "Doing my best," Leander said, grinning. "Ready when you are, my captain."

  Galena Cameron came into the center from above, deftly maneuvered around Leander, and faced me. "Madam Vice President — "

  "Casseia, please."

  "We're ready. We're getting clean images from outside. The equipment's meshed and the arbeiters seem to be functioning."

  "Tell Mars we're going to do it," I said to Leander.

  "Five hours?" Leander asked.

  "If we tweak all the descriptors just right," Charles said. Hergesheimer squeezed in beside Galena, his face slick with sweat. He was terrified.

  I felt calm. I pushed from the corner and reached for Charles's ha
nd. He clasped mine strongly. "We're all here for you," I said.

  "My orders, Casseia?"

  "Take us someplace far, far away," I said. "Someplace safe and wonderful. Someplace new."

  "I think I have just the place," he said. "Excuse me."

  He settled back into his chair and connected one last optic lead, long fingers working expertly. We watched the back of his head, the gray nano clamps attached to his cranium, the patterns of his black hair.

  Cradled in a sturdy frame of the old base's central control panel, the QL thinker projected a multicolored circus of complex shapes. The shapes had edges. The edges smoothed and the geometrics became fluctuating blobs.

  In a foamed rock alcove a meter away, the tweaker itself, and the force disorder pumps that maintained its sample of atoms at absolute zero, awaited the QL's instructions.

  Charles closed his eyes.

  "Should we strap in?" Galena asked nervously, her voice little more than a whisper.

  "No need," Leander said, licking his dry lips. "Do anything you feel comfortable with."

  "We're going," Charles said.

  I glanced at the outside views stacked atop one another on the console, Mars directly below us, Mars's limb with sun's corona flaring on black space, clouds of pinpoint stars, graphic of targeted galactic region, graphic of tweaker status.

  The QL was now translating human measurements and coordinates into descriptor "language." The interpreter spoke in a clear female voice, "Particle redescription complete. First destination, first approximation, complete." The interpreter presented its own private estimation of how things were going: red lines growing as the QL addressed and tweaked descriptors within the super-cold sample, then applied the sample's changing qualities to all particles within the mass and near vicinity of the moon.

  "We'll need at least half an hour to find out where we are and calculate how far off we are," Hergesheimer said.

  "Right," Leander said. The position fed into the QL would automatically correct for the movement of our target star in the ten thousand Earth years since its image began a light-speed journey, but other factors made exactitude difficult.

  The room felt colder. The displays blanked, my arms numbed, my vision filled with fringes and distortions. I felt no sensation of movement, no momentous change whatsoever. Unlike anything in previous human history, tweaking involved no machinery, detonated no fuel, wasted no energy as heat and noise. The process had very little drama. The results would have to make up for that . . .