The December Protocol

by Devin Hanson

  “What are you ladies drinking today?”

  Angeline looked up from the wood into the smiling face of the bartender. “Oh. Sorry.”

  “Vodka with cranberry,” Jasmine said. “For both of us.”

  The bartender lifted an eyebrow. “That’s a sophisticated drink for a young woman,” he said. “Unless you have sophisticated credit to go with that taste…?”

  Jasmine handed over the credit chip they had been buying things with all afternoon. The bartender retreated to scan the chip and Angeline leaned over to her friend and said in a whisper, “What is vodka? And cranberry?”

  “It’s a drink my mama says is delicious.” Jasmine’s brassy surety seemed to falter a little bit. “It’s imported. And very expensive.”

  The bartender returned and handed the chip back to Jasmine. “My apologies, young lady. Vodka and cranberry it is.”

  Angeline watched in fascination as the bartender mixed the drinks. The scents stung at her nose. He set the completed drinks down, one in front of each girl and moved off to take care of another customer.

  “What is this?” Angeline asked, touching the small wedge of green on the edge of her glass.

  “It’s… lime?” Jasmine pulled it off and licked it, then made a face. “Sour. Are you ready?”

  Angeline picked up her glass, mirroring Jasmine. Carefully, the two girls sipped their drinks as one. Angeline felt the liquid rush down her throat, cold as ice. Immediately her throat burned and warmth rushed through her body. She coughed, taking care to set her glass back down. The fumes running up the back of her throat made her eyes water. The sour and bitter flavor made her lips pucker.

  Jasmine tried to hide it, but the drink had had the same effect on her. “It’s…” she coughed. “Different than I expected. I like it!” The last she said as a challenge to Angeline, daring her to refute it.

  In Angeline’s family, everyone cleaned their plates of all the food, regardless of the lack of seasoning. Unprocessed yeast paste was unpleasant, and there had been too many days when that was all they’d had to eat. The serving of vodka and cranberry was probably worth more than her father made in a month. The drink was painful to consume and rough on her tongue and throat, but she could no more walk away from it than she could stop breathing.

  “It’s nice,” Angeline agreed, her voice hoarse, and took another sip to prove it.

  Jasmine hurried to follow suit. Sip by sip, they drank down their glasses, daring each other to be the first one to stop.

  Motion from the door drew Angeline’s attention when she was nearing halfway down her glass. She turned to look and felt blood rush to her head. She put an arm out on the bar top to steady herself and almost knocked her glass over.

  She felt a rush of horror that she had almost wasted nearly half a glass, then a wave of giddiness that disaster had been averted. She giggled and tried to stop, then snorted. Jasmine was giggling with her, which made everything worse. She felt lightheaded, and for the first time since ducking out of line she completely forgot to be worried.

  “My, my. What have we here?”

  Angeline started. She had completely forgotten the people entering the bar that had made her turn to look in the first place. Pale red eyes in a face that was pasty-white met hers and she blanched. It was a ghost! Then her mind caught up with what her eyes were seeing and she realized no, it wasn’t a ghost, it was a wujin. There were three other men behind him with the telltale paleness and light-colored eyes that spoke of the gradual change.

  “Good afternoon,” Jasmine said, pulling the wujin’s gaze from Angeline.

  “Aren’t you a little young to be drinking alcohol in a bar?” the wujin asked. He had a lazy smile on his face that seemed a little threatening to Angeline.

  “You’re showing your age, Anton,” one of the wujin’s followers said. “There are no drinking laws on Mars.”

  “My mistake.” Anton smiled broadly at Jasmine. “These girls are far too lovely to be drinking alone. What are you having, anyway?”

  “Vodka and cranberry,” Angeline blurted. There was something edgy and dangerous about this wujin that made her want to know more about him. She was scared of him, but she wanted those pale red eyes to be fixed on her again.

  Anton favored her with a slightly incredulous smile. “You’re drinking a Cape Cod? That’s no drink for a girl. Bartender!” he waved and spun a credit chip down the length of the wooden bar top. “Get these girls something. If you like cranberries and vodka, sex on the beach would go down far easier. And I’ll have bourbon, neat.”

  Angeline flushed. Sex on a beach! Belatedly, she realized Anton was talking about the drink, not the act. Fortunately, the wujin had turned back to Jasmine and missed her discomfiture.

  “So, what brings you to this corner of Mars?” Anton asked Jasmine.

  Jasmine blushed prettily, looking up through her lashes at the wujin. “Me and my friend are just trying to have some fun.”

  Angeline bit off what she had been about to say, that they were playing hooky from a school field trip to the algae vats. Jasmine’s version sounded so much better.

  The bartender arrived with their new drinks on a tray, and set the tall glasses of riotously colored liquid down on coasters. Angeline took a hesitant sip of hers and was astonished at the delightful burst of fruit that swept her mouth. There wasn’t even a hint of yeast in it. The bite of alcohol was still present, but she could almost ignore it. Fruit, or even fruit flavors, were very rare to come by on Mars as most everything had to be imported from Earth.

  “Drinking is fun,” Anton said, taking a sip from his glass. It held perhaps an inch of deep amber liquid, and his face didn’t twist as he drank it. It showed a familiarity with alcohol that demanded an incredible amount of disposable income. “But dancing is more fun. Do you know how?”

  “I know how,” Jasmine said and slid from her stool. She took a deeper swallow of her drink and set it carefully down on the bar.

  Anton offered Jasmine his hand and Angeline realized with some surprise that he wasn’t very tall. The wujin carried himself with such assurance that he seemed larger than he was, but he had to be less than six feet tall.

  “Would you like to dance, ma’am?”

  Angeline turned away from watching Jasmine to find one of the wujin’s companions offering her his hand. She blushed. “Oh, I don’t know…” Angeline hesitated, waiting for her usual bout of shyness to sweep over her, but instead all she felt was a light lack of concern. “Oh okay,” she said, grinning. “But I don’t think I’ll be very good at it.”

  “There is nothing to worry about,” the man assured her. “Just follow my lead and you will have a wonderful time. My name is Lucien, by the way.”

  “Angeline,” Angeline said. She left her drink on the bar and let herself be drawn onto the dance floor. The music was loud enough to be heard clearly, but not so loud as to make conversation difficult. Angeline felt light on her toes and slightly dizzy in a pleasant way.

  Following Lucien’s prompts, she put one hand on his shoulder and the other in his hand. Lucien was almost a foot taller than she was, and while he was narrow-chested, his shoulders were broad and well-muscled. Her long-fingered hand felt delicate in his, and his other hand burned against her waist.

  Gently, he guided her in a simple dance, stepping to the beat of the music. After an awkward few minutes, she figured out the flow of the dance and stopped having to pay attention to her steps. Lucien gave her a twirl and she laughed out loud. Dancing was fun! She could get used to this kind of life, she thought, drinking alcohol in expensive clubs and dancing with handsome strangers.

  The song came to an end and Lucien led her back to the bar. The sweet fruit flavor of her drink was perfect for quenching her thirst. The bite of alcohol in it reminded her of its price and she resisted the urge to drink it in large swallows.

  Jasmine was leaning on Anton, laughing at a joke he was telling. Angeline thought she looked beautiful, more in her element tha
n Angeline could ever be. Another dance song started up, this one with a slightly quicker beat. Anton drew Jasmine out onto the floor again, and another one of the wujin’s friends offered to dance with Angeline.

  Angeline found the quicker beat more difficult to dance to, but she forgot to be awkward or shy. The man she was dancing with didn’t have the same broad shoulders of Lucien, but he was quicker on his feet and Angeline soon started enjoying herself again. She was having a hard time thinking clearly, all her thoughts seemed distant and as if padded with foam. But she found she didn’t care. She only cared for the moment, and the moment was enjoyable.

  Time seemed to slip by in a blur of dancing and drinking. Angeline lost track of the number of songs she had danced to. Was it five? Six? She thought she was becoming quite good at dancing, though.

  Lucien was Angeline’s partner again, and she giggled as he spun her round and round. Then, abruptly, nausea swept over her. Before she could say or do anything, she threw up. Horrified, Angeline saw Lucien’s suit was stained all down the front, and it was puddled on the polished dance floor.

  “Oh my God,” she whispered, brushing futilely at Lucien’s jacket with her hands. Her head was spinning, she felt like Lucien was still dancing in circles with her but her feet weren’t moving on the ground. The room tipped over and she lost her balance, falling to her knees in the middle of her sick.

  She had never felt more embarrassed in her life. The smell of bile stung her nose and she vomited again then burst into tears. She had ruined everything. Lucien would hate her. Nobody would ever dance with her again.

  A gentle hand on her shoulder made her look up, tears running down her face. It was Lucien, in his shirt sleeves now, offering her a warm, damp towel. The gesture made her cry even harder. She wasn’t worth the sympathy.

  “Don’t fret, Angeline,” he said kindly, his voice low and comforting. “It happens to everyone eventually.”

  “I’m so sorry,” Angeline said in between sobs. “I just got so dizzy all of a sudden and I couldn’t help it.”

  “There now. Really, it’s nothing to be ashamed of. There’s no harm done.”

  Lucien helped her get to her feet. It felt like someone had yanked the padding from around her thoughts, leaving her head throbbing.

  “I must apologize,” Anton said, joining Lucien at her side. “I forgot how young you two must be.” Louder, he said to someone else, “No, no need. I’ll escort them home.”

  Angeline wrapped her arms around herself, feeling sick and miserable. They were being thrown out of the club and it was her fault. Jasmine stared daggers at her and turned to say something to Anton, her tone wheedling. He laughed and said something reassuring. Angeline felt like she should have heard what was said, but the blood thundering in her ears made it hard to understand.

  “Here,” Lucien said, offering her a small metal flask. “Take a sip of this, it will help settle your stomach.”

  With hands that trembled slightly, Angeline accepted the flask and tilted it back to drink. It tasted fresh and minty, and washed the lingering sourness from her mouth. The rush of cool liquid soothed her roiling stomach. A wave of lassitude swept over her and she found her head no longer hurt. Her eyes sagged shut and she felt Lucien catch her in his strong arms as she wobbled on her feet.

  Then a warm darkness crept over her and she fell asleep.

  CHAPTER

  THREE

  WANTED!

  $3000 reward

  The Free State of Texas is offering a $3000 bounty for information that leads to the capture of individuals showing traits of non-genetic albinism. Wujin are a violation of the December Protocol and are a plague upon our society. Do not allow this cancer to spread within your neighborhood!

  Do your duty. If you know of someone with albinism who is not a registered genetic albino, do not hesitate to report them.

  Min Yang checked his oxygen levels again. He still had half a tank left, which gave him a few hours before he had to start worrying about getting back inside an airlock. The carbon dioxide scrubbers were holding up, but they did little to remove the stink of stale sweat from the inside of his suit.

  He fought the urge to sigh. Three days of fruitless wandering about the surface had resulted in nothing but wasted air and a profound desire to be deep underground again. There had been a time when the open skies of Earth had been natural, and living underground had felt claustrophobic. He wasn’t agoraphobic, not really, but he had lived on Mars long enough that wide open spaces made him uncomfortable.

  Min swiped a gloved hand across the console of his buggy, knocking loose the accumulated dust. He was driving between the water mining camps on the southern pole searching for someone. The camps were temporary, operating in the windows when the axial tilt of the planet kept the daylight hours short. As the days grew longer, the sheets of dry ice that formed during the cold months evaporated and built up into katabatic winds. The winds were so strong that the temporary shelters would be ripped from their moorings in a moment.

  The mining camps attracted a rough sort of people. They worked outside the safety of the clusters in barely habitable conditions. For around a hundred days once every Martian year, the miners worked like mad dogs at their pneumatic hammers, collecting as much water ice as possible before the winds picked up again and made it impossible to work for the remaining five hundred days of the Martian year.

  The water miners made a killing upon their return to the nearest cluster. If their equipment didn’t break down, necessitating repairs and delays. If their temporary habitats didn’t collapse or burst. If they weren’t shot in the back and their load of ice stolen. If nothing went wrong, a miner could make enough money to pay for a year of very comfortable living. Or enough money to pay for another year of Womack treatments.

  A disproportionate number of miners had the pale skin and pink eyes of the wujin, desperate men who knew their lives depended on the size of their ice haul. People who were that desperate were one equipment failure away from turning criminal. Out on the ice face, who could say if someone died from a cave collapse or an ice pick to the back of the head?

  The buggy’s satellite uplink gave Min a navigation marker to the next mining habitat, along with a suggested route marked in red. Red routes meant the software’s best-guess mapping algorithm couldn’t make out enough terrain detail to guarantee a safe passage. Still, a red route was a better option than traversing the landscape blind.

  To someone who had lived in Earth’s gravity, Min’s buggy would appear ludicrously unsubstantial. Enormous balloon tires supported a chassis that was little more than a network of trusses. The chassis was open to the elements offering the driver only a leaded-glass canopy to protect from harsh solar radiation. Each tire was powered individually by a compact, yet powerful electric motor. Having the motive drive on the wheels freed the buggy from the necessity of having axles and drive chains, which gave it a spidery appearance with the chassis lifted high off the ground.

  Min got the buggy turned around to start following the suggested route and switched the navigation over to the AI. This part of Mars was a maze of canyons carved into the red rock by the katabatic winds. The canyons were fractal: the surfaces of the large canyons were carved with smaller canyons, which in turn were carved with even smaller canyons, until even the dust coating everything was arranged in ridges and valleys.

  Here, the buggy’s design came into play. The bottom of the chassis, with each long leg supporting a wheel at full extension, was nearly eight feet off the ground. Each leg was individually articulated and extensible, to the point where it could, at times, lock the wheels from rotating and walk over the most difficult terrain.

  The buggy could be manually controlled, but the batteries could only provide so much power. The complexity of the terrain made wheel placement complicated, and a human driver’s best attempts at conservative driving fell far short of the AI’s control. Even a skilled driver couldn’t hope to get thirty percent of the AI’s mileag
e.

  Min’s role in steering the buggy could go from precision control of each articulated leg, to fully automatic with only a GPS coordinate as instruction. Time was an issue, though, and Min didn’t have all day to reach the next habitat. The AI might decide that taking a meandering path around a ridge might consume less power than going in a straight line over it, but it would take an extra twenty minutes to do so. Min had power to spare, so he instructed the AI to prioritize speed over conservation.

  With his navigation set up, Min leaned back in the driver’s hammock. After watching the buggy’s progress for a few minutes, he laid his head back, darkened his visor, and took a nap.

  He woke to a chime in his earpiece and the calm voice of the buggy’s navigation AI informing him that he would reach the destination in one minute. Min slapped blindly at the controls, muting the voice before clearing his visor and lifting himself into a sitting position.

  The habitat was visible, nestled in the crook where two ridges met. Above the ridge, the dirty red wall of ice loomed. The habitat was one large dome, with a half-dozen smaller domes connected to it in a radial pattern. As the ground flattened out on the final approach to the habitat, the buggy automatically drew in its legs and collapsed down.

  Min’s nav computer shrilled and chattered at the habitat’s automated vehicle airlock, establishing Min’s identity. With a small puff of lost pressure, the airlock slid open and the buggy trundled inside, nosing up to an open charging station and powering down.

  The garage had a score of charging stations, perhaps a third of which were occupied. Most of the temporary inhabitants of the habitat were out on the ice. The miners here were either sleeping or busy getting drunk. Min unholstered the pistol at his belt, verified that it was loaded and the safety was on, and then put it back. He examined the rifle strapped above the buggy’s hammock next, checking that the maglocks were secure and the trigger locked out. Satisfied the weapon couldn’t be stolen or discharged into the habitat’s walls, he left the buggy behind and entered the airlock.