by Allen Steele
‘No nukes,’ he said. ‘I won’t tell you what’s up there, but I will promise you, a nuclear strike isn’t being planned. You’ve got to trust me on this.’
‘Miho,’ Johnson said. Sasaki looked at the American scientist, and Johnson solemnly nodded his head. She took a deep breath and slowly nodded her head as well.
Johnson looked at Jessup. ‘Okay, what’s next?’
Jessup unclipped the beltphone from his jumpsuit and passed it to Johnson. ‘Call Sasha and Major Oeljanov and ask them to come here.’
Johnson took the phone, switched to Channel Two and tapped in a couple of numbers. ‘Dr. Kulejan, Major Oeljanov, please report to Module Nine at once.’ He gave the phone back to Jessup. ‘You know, Dick, Sasha hasn’t been crazy about this situation either. It’s been Oeljanov’s doing all along. He’s been caught in the middle.’
Jessup nodded. ‘I’ll try to remember that. Thanks for telling me.’
A few minutes later, Sasha Kulejan and Major Maksim Oeljanov arrived together at the laboratory. The module had been crowded with only three people inside: now, with two more people present, the meeting was almost literally face to face. Kulejan had not been at the pad when the lander had arrived; the slender, bearded Russian grinned and seized Jessup’s outstretched hand between both of his and squeezed it warmly.
‘Richard!’ he exclaimed. ‘So good to see you once again! Welcome to Mars!’
Jessup forced an uncomfortable smile. ‘It’s good to see you again, too, Sasha. I wish it could be under happier circumstances.’
Kulejan’s face changed from warmth to puzzlement, and Jessup once more felt vague, condescending amusement for his old acquaintance. Sasha was an excellent scientist, one of the very best in the Russian space community—but he could also be incredibly naive, deliberately isolating himself within an eggshell-thin sphere of theory and investigation, rarely peeking out at the harsh realities surrounding him. Wake up, Sasha, Jessup wanted to snap at his friend. You’ve been surrounded by your own country’s armor…don’t you want to ask why?
No. Sasha knew, all right. He was just unwilling to admit the facts to himself. Before the Glavkosmos astrophysicist could say anything more, Jessup turned his attention to Oeljanov. The CIS Army major—tall, with a prize-fighter’s build and thin, receding dark hair—was standing at parade rest next to the hatch. ‘Dr. Jessup,’ he said formally.
‘Major Oeljanov,’ Jessup replied with equal formality, ‘I’m here as a representative of the United States government. For the time being, I have officially replaced Dr. Johnson as the American co-supervisor of Cydonia Base.’
Oeljanov gazed unwaveringly at Jessup. ‘Yes? Please continue.’
Jessup took a deep breath. He had been rehearsing this moment even before he’d left Earth, when the duty had been thrust into his hands, but he still felt himself shivering. Making ultimatums, particularly to a Russian military officer, was not something to which he was accustomed. ‘We have problems…’
He stopped, took a deep breath and started again. ‘Major Oeljanov, we cannot tolerate the presence of autotanks or combat armor at this base. They’re destabilizing to the international nature of this investigation and a threat to the well-being of its members. As a designated representative of the United States of America, I’m asking you to remove all Russian weapons from Cydonia Base.’
Oeljanov remained impassive. ‘Speaking as an official representative of the Commonwealth of Independent States…’ There was a slightly ironic tone to his voice ‘…we believe that the deployment of our armor units leads to a greater stabilization, on the other hand. And no one has been harmed by them, have they?’
Behind him, Jessup heard Miho Sasaki move restlessly, but he did not look around. Sasha Kulejan looked uncomfortable, embarrassed. Jessup kept his eyes on Oeljanov’s face. ‘I…we don’t share that view, Major. Again, I ask you, please withdraw your autotanks from Cydonia Base.’
The officer skeptically raised an eyebrow. ‘And do what with them, Dr. Jessup? Abandon them in the wasteland?’ He shook his head. ‘No. That’s unacceptable. We have gone to considerable trouble and expense to bring the AT-80s to Mars. My own CAS isn’t that…eh, far removed from the design of your Hoplite II armor.’
‘It’s armed. That’s difference enough.’
Oeljanov shrugged indifferently. ‘Be that as it may, I’m afraid that they must all remain operational at Cydonia Base.’
‘Then you refuse?’
Oeljanov’s mouth twitched. ‘Officially, yes, that is what I just said, Dr. Jessup.’
Jessup did not bother to repeat the ultimatum to Kulejan. Although Sasha was technically the Russian co-leader of the base and held equal authority with himself and Sasaki, it was tacitly understood that, in matters military, his authority was superseded by Oeljanov. Indeed, repeating the demand to Kulejan could be embarrassing for his friend, whom he had known from meetings at space science conferences on Earth. Such nuances could be reported to—and misinterpreted by—Sasha’s superiors in Minsk. The old Communists might be long out of power in the CIS, but hierarchy of power had withstood the test of time, neo-capitalist democracy or not.
He was operating under orders. Oeljanov was operating under orders. Everyone on the goddam planet was operating under someone else’s orders…and, despite the political rationalizations, they had less to do with politics than with who had the most toys on Mars.
‘Then…’ Jessup paused to pick his words carefully, trying not to tip his hand. ‘The United States and its Mars allies will have to take appropriate measures.’
Oeljanov started to say something, and then stopped. He folded his hands behind his back and stared impassively at Jessup. The challenge was clear in the expression on his, face: try it, but remember that you’re outgunned.
Okay, Jessup thought, but it’s not like I didn’t ask nice first…
‘Excuse me,’ he said, and edged past the Soviet officer to step through the hatch. Behind him, he heard Johnson speaking in rapid-fire Russian to Oeljanov, apparently trying to placate the major, and Oeljanov responding in phrases punctuated by the only commonplace Russian word Jessup understood: nyet…nyet…nyet…
Have it your way, you stubborn bastard.
Cydonia Base was a small installation; nothing in it was more than a few steps from anywhere else. Jessup walked down the access corridor until he found Module Two, the command center at the opposite end of the habitat. Shutting the hatch behind him, he immediately ordered the duty officer to radio the Shinseiki, using a priority frequency which the ship’s command crew was monitoring. A set of code-numbers established the validity of his contact and a few seconds later captain Omori’s voice came over the comlink.
‘Yes, Dr. Jessup? How did your meeting go?’
‘No go,’ Jessup replied tersely. ‘Go with Steeple Chase, code Romeo Delta two-triple-one. Repeat, Steeple Chase, code Romeo Delta two-triple-one. Please affirm, over.’
A short pause. Then Colonel Aldiss’ voice came over the comlink. ‘We copy that, Cydonia Command. Steeple Chase, code Romeo Delta two-triple-one, affirmative. We are go, repeat go, with code November Tango three-zero-nine, shall we dance?’
‘Affirmative, code November Tango three-zero-nine,’ Jessup replied, completing the chain. ‘Kick it out, Steeple Chase.’
‘Will do, Cydonia Command. Falcon Team is on the case. Over and out.’
Jessup signed off and settled down in a chair to watch a bank of TV monitors above the console. Fifteen minutes, if everything went according to plan.
Now, if only Oeljanov did not wise up before then…
Excerpt from ‘Benjamin Cassidy—The Rolling Stone Interview’, Rolling Stone, November 16 (2028)
You started out with The Working Blues…
That’s right. Jaime, Les and Amad, plus a couple of session people we hired for studio work on the two albums we did, Flashpoint and Big House. Good bunch of guys, great musicians.
So why did you break up the ban
d and start playing solo?
Because I didn’t want to pay ’em. I’m cheap that way. (Laughs.) Naw, that isn’t it. The Working Blues was a hot ensemble and we were making money, enough to get by at least, but I just decided after a while, y’know, just to cut loose, see if I could get the blues back to…back to one guy and his guitar, just that. Not to make those guys sound bad, but I began to wonder if a backup band was necessary. It’s like, y’know, how John Mayall went for years without a drummer in his Blues-breakers ensembles because he considered a percussion section to be adding just a lot of noise. After a while, I began to wonder if we were overpowering the blues with all this extra stuff, so (draws a finger across his throat) phfft! I decided to get rid of the band. But I still respect and admire those guys. In fact, I’m going to be sitting in on the sessions for Jaime’s next album, so this time he gets a chance to fire me from his band. (Laughs.) I bet he does, too, just to get back.
Jaime and Amad have both claimed that your cocaine addiction caused the group to split apart. Sounds like we’ve got two different stories…
Well, no, there’s not two different stories. They’re just two parts of the same tale. Yeah, I was hooked on the stuff, there’s no denying that. It got bad enough that, when we were touring with the Cambodians, I was mainlining every time before we went onstage. First they’d hand me the syringe, then they’d give me my guitar. ‘Okay, Ben, go this way. Don’t fall over anything, now.’ And after the gig they’d put me on a couch in the dressing room and have someone check up on me to make sure I wouldn’t OD. I knew I was sick and they knew it, too, so while I was in the clinics and the halfway houses, getting clean and deciding that maybe I should try it solo, they decided that they were fed up with my bullshit. So it was a mutual parting of the ways. I don’t hold any grudges and I don’t think they do, either.
You once said, ‘Being a junkie is fun…all you need is patience and money.’
What else would you expect a junkie to say? Man, I don’t even remember when I said that. (Pauses.) No, it wasn’t because it was fun. I mean, nobody asks to be a junkie. I didn’t do it for thrills, ’cause there’s nothing I found thrilling about the stuff, and I can’t say it was social pressure, because those guys are clean and even blues audiences are straight these days.
So why did you start shooting coke in the first place?
That’s a mean, tough question. I guess…I think I was scared. I was looking for something, some transcendent experience that made me more of a part of the music. Just playing onstage wasn’t enough. But at the same time, I was scared of what I would find. Don’t ask me why, or what. (Shakes his head.) And maybe I’m still scared. I’m over the drugs, but I’m still afraid.
3. Steeple Chase
‘I HOPE YOU’RE not some scientist who wants to grab some rock samples ’cause I’m not putting ’em on board and we’re getting the hell out of here now!’
W. J. Boggs, six feet of bowlegged Tennessee flyboy, did not wait for an answer as he lurched through the gondola’s airlock hatch and flopped into the pilot’s seat on the left side of the flight compartment. The co-pilot of the USS Edgar Rice Burroughs, Katsuhiko Shimoda, reached above Ben Cassidy—who was scrunched on the floor behind the seats—and flipped a switch to automatically seal the hatch while Boggs stabbed the radio button with his gauntleted thumb.
‘Cydonia Command, this is the Burroughs, requesting permission for emergency takeoff,’ he snapped. He did not wait for a reply. ‘Who gives a shit, anyway?’ he muttered. ‘We’re in a hurry here. Katsu, is that hatch secured?’
‘Roger that, W. J.’ Shimoda calmly flipped toggles on his flight station’s consoles. ‘Cabin pressurization cycle initiated. MPU’s at a hundred percent, check. Elevators, check. Envelope integrity is copacetic…’
‘Yeah, yeah, yeah. Screw the checklist, let’s just get out of here.’
‘Burroughs, this is Cydonia Command. You are cleared for emergency takeoff.’
‘We copy, Command,’ Boggs replied. He glanced over his shoulder at Cassidy. ‘Hang on there, pal, this is going to be rough. Okay, Katsu, ropes off!’
Shimoda flipped two toggles which severed the airship’s tethers. The 120-foot airship bobbed in the stiff breeze which had kicked up as the sun began to set on the western horizon. On either side of the gondola, red dust was blown up from the ground by the idling VTOL turbofans; through the crimson haze the skinsuited ground crew were running from beneath the long, ovoid shadow of the blimp.
‘Elevators trimmed for vertical ascent!’ Boggs called out. ‘Port and starboard fans gimbaled to ninety and up to full throttle! Hang on, here we go!’
Boggs jammed the two engine throttles forward with his right hand and the Burroughs pitched back on its stern as it bolted skyward, its 800-horsepower turbofans howling as they clawed for loft in the tenuous Martian atmosphere. A ballpoint pen which had been left loose on the dashboard skittered down the surface and plummeted to the floor to continue its noisy descent to the rear of the cabin.
‘Oh, hell,’ Boggs murmured. ‘I was afraid of this.’ The pilot eyed his altimeter suspiciously, then glanced back again at Cassidy. ‘Can you fly?’ he asked.
‘What?’ Cassidy asked weakly. It seemed as if the airship was standing on its tail. He had already been sick once today; it wasn’t fair to make him go through this kind of ordeal again, less than an hour after reaching firm ground. He managed to look up from the few inches of deck between his knees. ‘This thing?’
‘No. I mean, if we have to throw you out the hatch, can you flap your arms and make it to the ground on your own? We’re overloaded and this ship isn’t made to take three people.’
‘Uhh…’
‘Damn.’ Boggs turned back to his controls. ‘Katsu, we’ve got a passenger here dumb enough to think he can flap his arms and fly. Hey, keep an eye on the radar, willya?’
Shimoda looked back at Cassidy. ‘Don’t worry about him. He’s always cranky when he has to rush somewhere.’ He checked his gauges. ‘Cabin pressurization normal. We can remove our helmets.’
He unsnapped the collar of his skinsuit and removed his helmet, then reached over to take off Boggs’ helmet since the pilot had his hands occupied with the airship’s yoke. Cassidy fumbled with his own helmet, finally getting the thing to detach from his skinsuit; Shimoda helpfully reached back to push the switch on Cassidy’s chest unit which turned off the internal air supply. The Japanese co-pilot placed a headset over his own ears, then pulled a spare out of a locker to toss to the musician. Boggs managed, with one hand steadying the yoke against the buffeting of the wind, to yank a George Dickel baseball cap out from under his seat and pull it over his head, securing a headset over it. The foam-padded headsets barely muffled the engine roar, but the mikes made it a little easier for them to hear each other.
‘I’m sorry we had to leave your parcel behind,’ Shimoda apologized. ‘Our cargo capacity is limited, as W. J. explained, and we’re forcing matters by putting you aboard. What was it, anyway?’
‘My guitar.’
‘A guitar?’ Boggs yelled again. ‘Are you that musician we’re supposed to be sent?’
‘Yeah, that’s me. I’m the musician. That’s my guitar you left at the base. What are you in such a hurry for?’
Boggs peered at him closely, squinting the sunburn-wrinkled corners of his eyes. ‘You were just up there. You tell me. All I know is, I just got high-priority orders to get us the fuck outta here mucho pronto. Something’s about to happen back there and I was told not to have my vessel at risk.’ He returned his attention to the controls. ‘If there’s anything you need to tell us, son,’ he said over his shoulder, ‘now’s the time, ’cause I’m righteously p.o.’d…and I ain’t half-kidding about those flying lessons.’
‘Well, ah…’ Cassidy remembered Jessup’s warning to him, back on the Shinseiki, to keep his mouth shut. Screw it. Something nasty was about to come down, and he was only slightly more informed than these two characters. ‘There’s so
me Marines up there on the Shinseiki,’ he said, and both men darted glances toward him. ‘Space Infantry,’ he added. ‘They’re planning something called Steeple Chase, but I don’t know what…’
‘Do they have landers?’ Boggs snapped. ‘STS craft?’
‘What’s an STS craft?’ Cassidy shrugged, feeling stupid; he was quickly getting used to the emotion. ‘I mean, if you know what’s going on here…’
‘Oh, I know. I know, all right.’ Boggs stared at Shimoda; the co-pilot nodded his head gravely. ‘Gotta be STS fighters. I’ll be a sheep-dipped son of a…’ He suddenly grinned at Shimoda, who merely smiled back and shook his head, then he glanced over his shoulder again at Cassidy. ‘So you’re the guitar player. That’s funny.’
‘It’s better than getting another boring scientist,’ Shimoda remarked.
‘Keep your eyes peeled on the radar, pal. Angels one-two and leveling off, course thirty-two north by four-zero-four east.’ Boggs pushed the yoke out of his lap and the airship’s nose eased back to a more horizontal position. Cassidy decided it was safe to look up again; he raised his eyes and gazed out the port window.
A thousand feet below him was the rocky, wind-scored terrain of the Martian low plains. The blimp’s tiny shadow passed over an endless red desert, falling into valleys and ancient crumbling riverbeds, passing over small hills and the eroded escarpment of an old impact crater. It was the first time he had gotten a chance to look at Mars; he hadn’t seen the landscape during the lander’s descent, and he had been bustled aboard the Burroughs before he had more than a few fleeting seconds to accustom himself to the one-third normal gravity, let alone the red-tinted landscape.
So this was Mars. It looked like…no, not like hell. He had been in hell, and it looked nothing like this. Like limbo, maybe. Purgatory. Kansas on a really bad day. The way your head feels after a hard summer night in a seamy bar in downtown Memphis when the crowd has been apathetic and the summer heat has sucked the cold out of your next beer before the barmaid manages to bring it to the stage, but you put down ten bottles anyway while you dumbfuck your way through Willie Dixon’s greatest hits. Just like that: desolation of the mind and soul. Mars was a planet suffering from God’s own hangover…
