The Empress of Mars (Company)

by Kage Baker

  WELCOME, GOOD STRANGER. DO NOT ANXIETY. EAT, DRINK, REST WITH US. ROWAN, LOOK HE GET ALL HE REQUIRE.

  CHAPTER 11

  The World, the Flesh, and the Devil

  They were very considerate, under the circumstances, fixing Ottorino up a sort of tiny room of his own by removing the table from the booth and arranging a bed there instead, since of course he could not go up on the wonderful trapeze-artist flying ropes to the lofts tucked away high in the mossy arch of the ceiling.

  But he loved watching them all ascend in the evening and descend again each morning. He especially loved watching the girls, his beautiful Rowan and her sisters, the pale one and the little talkative one. They seemed graceful as angels, Martian fairies, delicate and weightless. At first he wondered at the ropes, before it sank in on him that within a dome of limited space and lighter gravity, it made sense to utilize every possible surface, and the ropes took up less room than stairs or ladders.

  Indeed, there was just as much to marvel at in the Empress as outside in the Martian wilderness. He lay there observing the others and was as entertained as though he watched a holodrama. Who were they all, and how had they come to be there? The furtive one-eyed creature who cooked so badly, the nervous skeleton-man, the Red Indian with his crucifix, the talkative Sherpa with his constant holocam. What were their relationships to one another?

  His interest in this question, however, paled beside his interest in his relationship with Rowan.

  She tended him dutifully, bringing him his meals, assisting him to and from the toilet, sponge-bathing him. She had eyed the breadth and solidity of his chest and the rippling muscles of his arms, and seemed very favorably impressed. In return he had preened for her, twisting the ends of his mustaches until he resembled Salvador Dalí, and initiated courtship by telling her all about himself: how he came from a wealthy family, how he had been variously an artist’s model, musician and actor.

  To his pained surprise, these things did not seem to impress Rowan. She withdrew perceptibly; narrowed her eyes with suspicion, and became distant. He could not imagine what he’d done to offend her.

  “I have good news for you, Mr. Vespucci,” said the lawyer De Wit, leaning over the top of the booth to smile at him. “Polieos of Amsterdam appraised your diamond. Quite a lucky strike! Not like the other little Martian stones that have been popping up on the market. Almost as remarkable as Ms. Griffith’s original find. Eighty-one carats, and they think once it’s been cut it’ll come in around sixty-five. Would you like to see it?”

  Ottorino spooned down the last of his Proteus nuggets—it was amazing how quickly he had gotten used to Martian cuisine—and carefully napkined his mustaches. “Yes, please,” he said. Mr. De Wit opened his buke, punched in a command, and there was Ottorino’s diamond in holo. Mr. De Wit swiveled it around in midair.

  “Nice color—pinker than the Big Mitsubishi, you see. Here are mock-ups of some of the proposed cuts.” Three wireframe sketches filled in, took color. Ottorino thought of strawberries, Valpolicella wine, spoonfuls of cherry jam.

  “They’ve offered to buy it from you, if you like,” said Mr. De Wit. “I’m sure they’d bid enough to let you live comfortably on the proceeds.”

  Ottorino stared at the image of his diamond. “No,” he said. “Would they do a custom cut? Can they cut it in the shape of a heart? And I will pay them for the cutting and shipping. I will present it to Rowan.”

  Mr. De Wit sighed. “The hold on your credit disc from Importatori Vespucci isn’t scheduled to expire for another three and a half years. May I make a suggestion? A specialty cut can be made from this face—” His long finger traced a line through the image. “—leaving the remaining two-thirds of the stone for sale. Polieos might be willing to cut and set your stone in exchange for the option of purchasing the remaining piece.”

  “Then, yes,” said Ottorino. “As long as I have a heart to give Rowan.”

  “I can’t think why you advised me to leave,” Mary said to Mr. De Wit as he sat at the bar. “We’ve never done so well!” She glanced at the plaquette she held and considered again the profits from her harvest of Finn’s long acres; considered the prospectors lined up at her bar, gulping down good ale, and the miners who were working up a thirst digging out iron ore on the far side of the mountain. Even Mr. Crosley, who had opened what was surely the smallest bar in the universe in a corner of the Excelsior card room, bought his beer and whiskey from Mary.

  She smiled at Mr. Vespucci, who smiled back at her in hopeful incomprehension where he sat in his little cubicle. But Mr. De Wit shook his head gloomily, staring into the holoscreen above his buke. “It’s all a matter of timing,” he said, and drained his mug of Ares Lager.

  “Let me pour you another, sweetheart,” said Alice, fetching away the empty. Mary watched her narrowly. To everyone’s astonishment but Alice’s, Mr. De Wit had proposed marriage to her. As far as Mary had been able to tell, it had happened somehow when Mr. De Wit had been left to console Alice while they’d gone out to find Dunstan. Then Alice had been the one delegated to collect Mr. De Wit’s laundry, and had made it a point to personally deliver his fresh socks and thermals at an inappropriate hour.

  One thing had led to another, as it generally did in the course of human history, whether on Earth or elsewhere. The only surprise was that Alice was making an effort to be pleasant to him.

  He accepted another mug from her now with a smile. Mary shrugged to herself and was about to retreat in a discreet manner when there was a tremendous crash in the kitchen.

  When she got to the door, she beheld the Heretic crouched in a corner, rocking herself to and fro, white and silent. On the floor lay Mary’s largest kettle and a great quantity of wasted water, sizzling slightly as it interacted with the dust that had been tracked in.

  “What’s this?” said Mary.

  The Heretic turned her face. “They’re coming,” she whispered. “And the mountain’s on fire.”

  Mary felt a qualm, but said quietly: “Your vision’s a bit late. The place is already full of newcomers. What, did you think you saw something in the water? There’s nothing in there but red mud. Pick yourself up and—”

  There was another crash, though less impressive, and a high-pitched yell of excitement. Turning, Mary beheld Mr. De Wit leaping up and down, fists clenched above his head.

  “We did it,” he cried. “We found buyers!”

  “How much?” Mary asked instantly. Chiring whipped his holocam out from under the bar and switched it on.

  “Two million punts Celtic for yours,” Mr. De Wit replied, gasping after his exertion. “A quarter of a million for Mr. Vespucci’s custom cut. Mitsubishi, of course, because we aimed all the marketing at them. I just wasn’t sure—I’ve instructed Polieos to take their offers.”

  “Is there good news?” inquired Mr. Vespucci plaintively.

  “Excellent news,” Mr. De Wit told him in Milanese.

  “Will I have my diamond heart for Rowan?”

  “Yes, sir, and a lot of money.”

  “Then I am happy,” said Mr. Vespucci.

  “I hope that meets with your approval, Ms. Griffith?” Mr. De Wit turned back to Mary. “Because, you know, no one will ever get that kind of money for Martian diamonds again.”

  “Won’t they?” Mary was puzzled by his certainty. “Whyever not?”

  “Well—” Mr. De Wit coughed dust, took a gulp from his pint and composed himself. “Because most of the appeal was in the novelty, and in the story behind your particular stone, and—and timing, like I said. Now the publicity will work against the market. Those stones that were stolen out of your field will go on sale at inflated prices, you see? Everyone will expect to make a fortune.”

  “But they won’t?”

  “No, because—” Mr. De Wit waved vaguely. “Do you know why they say ‘A diamond is forever’? Because it’s murder to unload the damned things, in the cold hard light of day. No dealer ever buys back a stone they’ve sold. We were
very, very lucky. Nobody else will have our luck.”

  He stooped forward and put his hands on her shoulders. “Now, please. Follow my advice. Take out a little to treat yourself and put the rest in high-yield savings, or very careful investments.”

  “Or I’ll tell you what you could do,” said a bright voice from the bar.

  They turned to see the Brick in the act of downing a pint. He finished, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and said: “You could sink a magma well up the hill on Mons Olympus, and start your own energy plant. That’d really screw the British Arean Company! And make you a shitload of money on the side.”

  “Magma well?” Mary repeated.

  “Old-style geothermal energy. Nobody’s used it since fusion, because fusion’s cheaper, but it’d work up here. The BAC’s been debating a plant, but their committees are so brain-constipated they’ll never get around to it!” The Brick rose to his feet in his enthusiasm. “Hell, all you’d need would be a water-drilling rig, to start with. And you’d need to build the plant and lay pipes, but you can afford that now, right? Then you’d have all the power you’d want to grow all the barley you’d want and sell it to other settlers!”

  “I suppose I could do that, couldn’t I?” said Mary slowly. She looked up at Mr. De Wit. “What do you think? Could I make a fortune with a magma well?”

  Mr. De Wit sighed.

  “Yes,” he said. “I have to tell you that you could.”

  General Director Rotherhithe never noticed the arrival of the shuttle, so absorbed was he in his private entertainments.

  When the cold red world beyond the dome seemed too looming, too threatening; when the safe indoor world seemed too gray and stifling; when it was occasionally brought forcefully home to him that he had no real control over his life or anyone else’s—then Mr. Rotherhithe sought consolation in the little universe within his holocabinet.

  While it was true that there was a certain amount of pleasure to be derived from watching firm young computer-generated buttocks blush pink, Mr. Rotherhithe had attained the age at which he could contemplate them with relatively objective calm. He had long since grown bored with Julie and Sylvia—they were so young, after all, and what did they know of life?—but Ms. Lash still fascinated him. Why were some people stronger than others? How did they understand so well the human need to be subjugated and corrected? What would draw an attractive and intelligent woman to Discipline? Was it anger?

  He wondered this now for the thousandth time, as Ms. Lash strutted on her tiny three-dimensional stage, and for the thousandth time mentally projected himself between the cowering figures of Sylvie and Julie. “Oh, that thy lash would rise for me . . . ” he murmured.

  “I beg your pardon?” someone inquired in an amused voice.

  Mr. Rotherhithe jumped a full five inches upward from his chair. Quivering with fury, he turned to snarl at whichever one of his clerks had had the temerity to intrude upon him. To his astonishment, he found himself facing a total stranger.

  “This is a private office,” he said.

  “I certainly hope so,” said the stranger blandly, leaning forward to offer his hand. “Edwin Rotherhithe? William Nennius, sir. British Arean sent me to assist you.”

  Mr. Rotherhithe eyed Mr. Nennius suspiciously. The newcomer was young and efficient-looking, darkly handsome in a villainous sort of way, and impeccably dressed when most newly arrived visitors to Mars were rumpled and grubby as only a month’s spaceflight could make them.

  “I didn’t request an assistant,” said Mr. Rotherhithe.

  “British Arean is aware of that, sir,” replied Mr. Nennius.

  “Are they? I’m surprised. They haven’t seemed aware of much else that’s gone on up here in the last five years.”

  “With respect, sir,” said Mr. Nennius, pulling up a chair and seating himself, “they have been very much aware. Especially of late.”

  “Ah. All this business with that wretched woman supposedly finding a diamond,” said Mr. Rotherhithe. “It’s not true, you know. She only started that story to lure customers into her bar. There’s nothing of value here on Mars. Never has been. Nothing but rocks and sand and ice.”

  Mr. Nennius smiled gently. “Again, sir, with respect: Polieos of Amsterdam just sold two Martian diamonds for an undisclosed sum to Mitsubishi Interplanetary. The larger of the two is going on display at their Mexico City offices, with a great deal of fanfare, as their new company icon. The lesser stone is being set in a brooch and will serve as a badge of office for their president. You may have noticed a certain increase in applications for permission to immigrate?”

  “One or two, perhaps,” stammered Mr. Rotherhithe.

  “Seventy, sir, in fact. With the publicity Mitsubishi is generating, we can expect substantial growth in the Martian population. And a group calling itself the Martian Mining Consortium has just discovered a profitable source of iron ore in a gorge some five kilometers outside the British Arean Company’s jurisdiction.”

  “Really,” said Mr. Rotherhithe, with the air of a man who has just noticed he has walked out of his house in his underwear.

  “Very much so,” said Mr. Nennius. “I may as well be frank with you, sir: British Arean has been reviewing its policies, and changes are in the wind. They are not pleased with the colony’s progress, to put it mildly.”

  “And whose fault is that, young man?” said Mr. Rotherhithe, rallying enough for anger. “What did they expect me to do with a settlement population of Eccentrics and degenerates? To say nothing of the budget cuts. If the Company’d wanted progress, they ought to have been shipping up decent people and money, instead of leaving me to fend for my staff on this filthy rock!”

  Mr. Nennius smiled again. “I quite understand. You have done as much as anyone could have expected, under the circumstances. Circumstances having changed, however, it will be important to adapt as quickly as possible in order to take advantage of the new opportunities for investment on Mars. I feel quite confident you will do all in your power to turn this into a triumph for British Arean.”

  “Of course I shall,” said Mr. Rotherhithe. “And, er, to begin with, we’ll form a diamond mining syndicate and stake claims on all the likely diamond and iron-producing areas on the planet. Get the wealth into the Company’s hands!”

  “Actually, sir,” said Mr. Nennius, smooth as oil, “you had another plan in mind. You were very interested in some of the Celtic Federation’s technology.”

  “I was?”

  “Indeed you were.”

  CHAPTER 12

  Power

  Cochevelou looked uncertainly at Mona, who had perched herself on one of his knees, and then at Rowan, who was firmly stationed on the other with her fingers twined in his beard.

  “Please, Mr. Cochevelou, my dear dearest?” Mona crooned.

  Mary leaned forward and filled his glass, looking him straight in the eye.

  “You said we might rule Mars together,” she said. “Well, this is the way to do it. You and me together, eh, pooling our resources as we’ve always done?”

  “You staked claim to the whole volcano?” he said, incredulous. “Bloody honking huge Mons Olympus?”

  “All but the bit of claim those miners are working. Nothing in the laws said I couldn’t, if I had the cash for the filing fee, which being the richest woman on Mars now I had, of course,” Mary replied. “Nothing in the tiniest print said I was even obliged to tell the British Arean Company. I had my fine lawyer and nearly-son-in-law Mr. De Wit file with the Tri-Worlds Settlement Bureau, and they just said, ‘Yes, Ms. Griffith, here’s your virtual title and good luck to you.’ Doubtless sniggering in their First World sleeves and wondering what a silly widow woman will do with a big frozen cowpat of a volcano. They’ll see!”

  “But—” Cochevelou paused and took a drink. “Don’t bet the BAC doesn’t know. They’ve been watching us closer these past weeks, seemingly. Why, only this morning there came some new clerk of theirs sniffing around, asking qu
estions. Wanted to know all about Perrik’s biis.”

  “They’re only just finding out about the biis?” Mary looked contemptuous. “Well, and doesn’t that show how slow on the uptake they are? Likely they noticed when the patent applications came through.”

  “But they haven’t, yet,” said Cochevelou. “Perrik wasn’t planning on filing until he’d got them all the way he wanted, so to speak. Blue ones and yellow ones and red ones and I don’t know what all. He has a grand plan for them, see? But this new man was demanding to talk to him, wanted to know everything about them.”

  “Good luck to a stranger trying to talk to Perrik,” said Mary. She shoved Mona out of the way and took her place on Cochevelou’s knee, bringing her gimlet stare, and her bosom, closer.

  “It all proves we’ve got to stand by one another as fellow Celts. Think of it, darling man,” she said. “Think how we’ve been robbed, and kept down, and made to make do with the dry leavings while the English got the best of everything. Haven’t we always triumphed by turning adversity to our own uses? And so it’ll be now. Your ironworks and your strong lads to provide the drilling rig with my money and Mars’s own hot heart itself beating for us in a thunderous counterpoint to our passion!”

  “Passion?” said Cochevelou, somewhat dazed but beginning to smile.

  “She’s got him,” Chiring informed the rest of the staff, who were lurking in the kitchen. Mr. Morton gave a cheer, which was promptly shut off as Manco and the Heretic clapped their hands over his mouth. Chiring put his eye to the peephole again.

  “They’re shaking hands,” he said. “He just kissed her. She hasn’t slapped him. She’s saying . . . something about Celtic Energy Systems.”