“Guards, search the castle and adjacent grounds,” said Wu, his tone that of a man very bored indeed.
Cameron planted her hands upon her substantial hips. “Do ye think I’m so daft as to keep a dangerous criminal in me own manor?”
Wu turned back to Cameron, raising one dark eyebrow in a formidable arch. “You know where Brian Wallace and his companions are to be found?”
“Tell me what the Chancellor’s offering. It may jog me memory.”
“At present,” said Wu, “The Chancellor is offering to forgive your unfortunate oversight in harboring wanted fugitives and your possible collaboration with the Madeiran divers.”
“Oh, is she now? Well, as it happens, at present, I’m in none too forgiving of a mood meself. I might just decide to go to the newsfeeds with the information that me island’s been attacked by highly illegal nano–bacteria, and that the attack was immediately followed by a threatening visit from the Chancellor’s right hand man. I don’t think that’ll do much for her popularity, now will it?”
Wu’s right hand clenched into a fist, and Cameron knew she was treading on dangerous ground.
Wu, keeping his voice low with evident effort, replied, “Should we find the inciter Brian Wallace in your home, it won’t much matter what you tell the media. Inciters aren’t popular at the moment, in case you hadn’t noticed, stranded far from civilization as you are here in the middle of nowhere.”
Cameron noted how every word Wu used was chosen for its ability to remind Cameron of her insignificance and her vulnerability. Which had the effect of stiffening her resolve to thwart this man and his employer.
“It would be a pity,” Wu continued, “Should the Chancellor decide to test additional nano–bacteria on your remote population. Not all the microbials are bred to consume metal, you see.”
“Ye would not dare,” said Cameron, her chest and neck flaring with the heat of sudden rage. “Ye’re bluffing. The backlash for such an action would only increase sympathy for independent nations such as mine.”
“The government will dare a great deal where inciters are involved. Don’t be too sure public opinion won’t back the extermination of a proven harbor for terrorists.”
Cameron spun on her heel as if in anger, but actually she wanted a clearer view of her sergeant–at–arms, who had appeared at one of the many doors leading in and out of the Great Hall. The Clan leader made a motion with one finger so small as to be mistaken for an involuntary twitch. It was neither involuntary nor insignificant. The gesture made inquiry as to the progress of getting the Marsians and their friends off–island.
Unfortunately, Jamie’s response indicated they were neither gone nor safe.
More stalling, then, thought Cameron Wallace. She dismissed Jamie with a second miniscule gesture.
Wu, meanwhile, turned to speak to two of his officers in red. When he addressed Cameron once more, it was with a very unflattering smile.
“It would appear my troops have found it necessary to disable a rather clever hovertube system you have in place.” Wu smiled blandly. “I’m certain you understand the necessity of preventing anyone from departing the castle at such a time as this.”
With great effort, the clan leader kept an expression of indifference on her face. Her sergeant–at–arms slipped quietly away, after delivering a final signed message as to the next step to be undertaken.
“It was disabled before ye touched it,” Cameron replied as coolly as she could manage. “Wretched system’s out of date and no longer functional.”
“I see,” said Wu.
He stepped closer to Cameron, staring without blinking. It might have unnerved a lesser woman than herself.
“Where is the inciter Brian Wallace?” he asked, his voice soft as the whisper of eucalyptus leaves.
13
En Route to Squyres Station, Mars
Cavanaugh Kipling attempted to sit comfortably in the austere Desert Dasher flying him to his next campaign stop. The ascetic ship gave him the appearance of a self–sacrificing candidate, and Cavanaugh was all about his appearance.
Had young Cavanaugh Kipling known, that fateful day his uncle re–entered his life, how great would be the demands of Cavanaugh’s Noble Calling, he might have sent his uncle packing. The road leading from “wealthy mine–owner” to “elected official” was considerably less easy to traverse than Cavanaugh had initially been led to believe.
Shifting in his seat once again, he decided there was no getting comfortable in a Dasher.
Now, of course, Cavanaugh realized his uncle had reconstructed much of the truth in order to ensure Cavanaugh didn’t simply throw up his hands and decide the task of getting elected was impossible. It was thankless work, Cavanaugh had discovered. It was challenging, as well, but it was not impossible. Not for someone as skilled as himself, thought Cavanaugh, as his ship pulled into Squyres Station. Fortunately, he no longer had to pilot himself anywhere: an ample campaign coffer had seen to that.
Or rather, Cavanaugh had seen to it. He hated piloting. Years earlier, Uncle Archibald had determined that the bars of a captain’s insignia would assist his nephew’s launch into realms political and had arranged for his attendance at the Academy. Cavanaugh had hated the Academy. More accustomed than he’d recognized to wielding power and influence, he’d found himself at the bottom of the heap once more. He cultivated friendships—Daschle “Crusty” Crustegard among them—and studied hard, but he hated every minute of it.
It wasn’t only his status as persona non grata that had irked Cavanaugh at the Academy. Gradually, he made himself important amongst his peers, using his skills to promote his welfare and reputation. However, there were things at MCAB over which he could exert no influence. The laws governing flight—the actual physical laws on Mars—could not be persuaded or coaxed or reconstructed into behaving differently.
And Cavanaugh hated them for it.
A ship could be flown, landed, or crashed according to unalterable realities. Cavanaugh preferred realities with more options. He graduated, without distinction, and vowed to never put himself at the helm of a ship again, emptying his mind as quickly as possible of much that he’d learned.
However, there had been one important lesson he’d gleaned from studies at the Academy: life on Mars Colonial was a losing bet. Too many lives were lost to Mars’s unforgiving climate. Too few children survived to adulthood, despite a birth–rate that ought to have ensured a growing population.
Cavanaugh took a cold, unflinching look at certain realities and saw that Mars Colonial wouldn’t last long enough to see the terraforming its founders had dreamed of. Cavanaugh tried to persuade the numbers. He cajoled, he re–imagined, he created massive flow charts. But like the physical laws governing flight, the numbers could not be persuaded into giving him what he wanted.
No one would be left in the three–hundred or so years it would take to achieve a fully terraformed world. He pointed this out to his instructors at MCAB, casually at first, eventually in a guarded sort of panic, but no one wanted to hear what he had concluded. He ran into shrugs, smiles, shakings of heads.
“You can never tell,” seemed to be the most popular sentiment, alongside, “Life will find a way.” But life wasn’t finding a way. Mars soil was as stubbornly resistant to cultivation as ever; Mars–grown food made people sicken and even die. Planetary Ag kept at the problem, but it had become necessary to implement legislation prohibiting citizens from risking a diet of Mars–grown food.
The population was shrinking. Not rapidly, and not because Marsians weren’t trying, but Mars had too many ways to kill people. It was almost enough to make him father children. If he’d been a woman, he told himself, he would have seen it as his duty to bear as many children as he was able. He had approached numerous females with his conclusions, encouraging them to become pregnant for Mars, but in this area of truth–reconstructing, he’d been singularly unsuccessful. He’d been both laughed at and physically assaulted, and eventually, h
e had learned to keep his thoughts to himself.
But these early experiences had become the foundation of his campaign rhetoric:
A vote for Mei Lo is a vote for extinction! Choose Life! Choose Kipling!
He had successfully changed some of the language surrounding the campaign as well. Instead of referring to the Secretary General’s “strong stance on Marsian independence,” Cavanaugh was able to change the dialog to address her “strong isolationist policies.”
Mars Colonial needed to reconsider its policy of No Contact, argued Cavanaugh’s campaign. Mars needed more than the hope of a better future. Mars needed the certainty of a better future. Mars needed Earth, and Cavanaugh intended to ensure Mars admitted this.
14
Madeira, Earth
Jessamyn stood beside Pavel in the dim tunnel. Jamie had departed in search of news several minutes ago. At some point Pavel’s hand found Jess’s, and he held it tightly. Jess suspected he was repeating to himself all manner of vows to keep her safe from his aunt. It was what she was doing, herself, in reverse.
The sequestered group heard approaching feet, and Pavel’s grip on Jessamyn’s hand grew tighter. He shifted to place himself between Jess and whoever was approaching. The footsteps grew louder; there was no place to run and hide.
But the approaching group was friendly, comprising Jamie, Zussman, and several others, all members of Cameron’s household. Jess let out the breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.
Jamie spoke quietly, her tone terse. “Wu has shut down the hovertube and intends to search the castle until you’re found. Mr. Zussman has a plan.”
Zussman, in elaborate costume, addressed the group. “I have for several weeks had in view disguises for such an eventuality as this.” He pulled behind him a hover–rack laden with pleated skirts, woolen stockings, and items of clothing and equipment Jessamyn did not recognize.
“We’re dressing up as musicians?” Pavel shook his head. “Zuss, you realize none of us can play the bagpipes?”
“Playing them will not be necessary,” replied the butler. “The disguise will, however, allow you to remain in view of the Chancellor’s man while drawing a minimum of attention to your presence.”
Harpreet smiled. “A most excellent plan.”
The additional persons who had accompanied Jamie and Zussman now assisted the fugitives in transformations that involved not only kilts, but facial hair as well. As Jessamyn was transformed from a red–haired first–body female into a lad with fiery whiskers, Jamie provided quick “how to look like a piper” instructions, involving gait and carriage.
Jess looked over to Harpreet and Kazuko, whose figures included more curves than her own. They were costumed as women, but with their caps, pipes, sporrans, kilt socks, and brogues, neither of them resembled their former selves. None of the seven fugitives did.
Zussman was a genius.
The group was marched toward the Great Hall. Partway, they were joined by Cameron’s true pipers. Jess found the marching step resembled what she’d learned at the Academy during marching drills. And carrying a bagpipe wasn’t so different from hauling a armful of walk–out suits: bulky, awkward, and providing regular thumps on her back. Or maybe she wasn’t holding the pipes correctly.
But then, as they approached the castle forecourt, they were stopped by a pair of Red Squadron officers, weapons raised. Jessamyn shot a side glance at Kipper, whose face blanched beneath her disguise. Kip had to be remembering the secure in red armor who had fired on her, leaving her in a coma. This made Jess feel fiercely protective, and she wondered how a bagpipe might do as a weapon.
“I’ve got you, Kip,” Jess murmured.
At her side, Kipper stood taller.
“You there,” called the woman in red armor. “Halt! No one is to leave the castle.”
~ ~ ~
Cameron had to get Wu out of the castle.
“Me cousin and his cronies aren’t in the castle. I’d be daft to keep them so near meself. If ye can provide documented assurances of compensation, I’ll take ye to the prison meself.”
“And give you the opportunity to cleanse your castle of embarrassing guests whilst I’m away? No, I don’t think I’ll go quite yet. Not until the search here is complete.”
Cameron shrugged her indifference. She suspected Wu was not the recipient of many shrugs. She suspected they irritated him. She certainly hoped they did.
“However, we may as well send a team to have a look. Deliver the coordinates to my secures,” Wu said, indicating two officers uniformed in red.
“Very well,” Cameron replied. “Ye will, of course, remember to the Chancellor me cooperativeness in this matter?”
“That remains to be seen,” said Wu.
One of Wu’s officers took the location from Cameron Wallace.
“Ye’ll be travelling by boat,” Cameron added, “As me satellite relays are unfortunately compromised at present. No CCMP at all.” She smiled, disingenuous. “And I’m certain ye wouldn’t wish to disregard the international laws governing air traffic.”
“Of course not,” replied Wu. “Oh, but I’ve just remembered. My own vehicle is licensed to fly under any circumstances.” He smiled as well. “However, I have no wish to find myself stranded. My officers will travel by boat. See that your harbor master provides them with a vessel.”
Having given those orders, Wu seemed to have nothing further to say to Cameron. He clasped his hands behind his back and marched to one end of the hall, where he stood observing everything with dark, knowing eyes.
~ ~ ~
The red–armored officer waved a weapon threateningly at the group of kilted musicians lining the corridor. Jessamyn readied herself to defend Kipper, if need be; she didn’t think her former captain was in any fit state to defend herself.
“No one will be leaving the castle,” the officer repeated.
The Pipe Major, leader of the group, answered, “Dressed like this? I should think not.”
“Where are you going?” demanded the officer, focusing all her attention on the leader.
This gave Jess the chance to examine Kipper more closely. Kip’s face remained pale and her skin looked clammy, but Kip’s breathing was steady and regulated.
“As it is the noon hour, we are attending her ladyship in the forecourt of the castle,” said the Pipe Major.
The two officers conferred for a moment, and Jess felt a stifling heat building in the stuffy corridor. Her costume itched fiercely. Maybe her kilt would make a better weapon than her pipes. She could itch her enemies to death. A moment later one of the secures departed the hall.
“I’ll accompany you to your destination,” said the remaining officer.
A line of sweat ran down the curve of Jessamyn’s spine. She hoped she looked like she knew what she was doing. It was too late to back out now. Minutes later, under the eye of an officer in red armor, the assembly circled in the castle forecourt for a luncheon serenade.
~ ~ ~
Cameron Wallace looked up as the silence of the Great Hall was disturbed by a gentleman, evidently approaching the end of his twobody, who shuffled his way to her side.
For a brief moment, the clan chief was utterly puzzled by the appearance of this elderly personage. Did she employ such an individual? Then her eyes landed on the embroidered toque he wore. This unknown twobody had evidently filched Zussman’s new cap, one which Cameron had been at pains to obtain after Zussman spoke of his wish for “native headdress.”
Wu regarded the twobody momentarily before turning his gaze to the forecourt.
Cameron’s eyes narrowed as she inspected the hat’s embroidery—there it was, bright threads upon a black felt cap, the characteristic spelling of “Madeira” in all capitals with the exception of the lowercase “i.” Who was this stealer–of–hats? She met his eyes, which were darkly inscrutable. And then her breath hitched in a stifled giggle. It was her butler. In extravagant disguise. If not for the hat, she would never have recogni
zed the gentleman before her, sporting lens–darkened irises, a full and graying beard, and a hunchback to give pain to any observer. She waited to see what he would communicate.
“With permission, yer ladyship,” wheezed the aged man. “Dinner is served.”
“Oh, aye?” asked Cameron, her eyes focused on her butler.
“It will not wait,” said Zussman’s much–transformed voice.
Cameron nodded. Best to play along.
“Mr. Wu, perhaps ye’ll join me for our midday repast?”
When Wu gave no indication that he intended to be seated, Cameron addressed the elderly twobody.
“Mr. Macgregor, if you would do the honors.”
At Cameron’s word, the butler shuffled to a gong beside the fireplace and struck it with a wool–covered mallet. As the last echo faded away, a new sound replaced it: a lone piper, playing in the castle courtyard outside.
“All rise for the Flower of Scotland,” Cameron said with solemnity.
The old man, meanwhile, shuffled from the room, as if too deaf to realize his mistress had announced anything of moment.
~ ~ ~
By the time a second musical number seemed imminent, Vladim Wu decided he’d had enough. Thanks to his internal auditory enhancer, he could barely hear himself thinking with the infernal racket outside. He strongly suspected this was his host’s intention.
“Lady Wallace, would you be so good as to ask your musicians to refrain?”
Cameron looked affronted, but she rose to address the pipers in the courtyard.
Wu was a fan of schedules, and the search of the castle was behind schedule, Lady Wallace’s abode having evidently been modeled after the construction of a rabbit warren. He checked his chronometer once again. Seconds later, his head of guards came to report to him.
“We have completed a thorough search, sir,” said the guard. “The fugitives do not appear to be within the castle grounds.”
Wu glanced to watch the clan leader as she leaned out the window, thanking the musicians gathered in the courtyard.
Mars Burning (The Saving Mars Series-) Page 6
