by Devin Hanson
“I’ve got to get back to the farm,” Dr. Bannister said. “When Eric is done with you, drop by. I’ve got a project for you.”
“So you’re from Earth?” Eric asked once Dr. Bannister had gone.
“Yeah, that’s right.”
“Okay. Don’t take this the wrong way, but I’m going to assume you know nothing at all about the Womack Process. God only knows what weird ideas have cropped up on Earth about it.”
“It’s hard to find any information about it at all, to be honest.”
“Not surprising. Even on Mars, being a wujin has a certain stigma to it. I can only imagine what it’s like on Earth.”
“Really? I hadn’t noticed anything. People seem to respect Dr. Bannister.”
Eric waved his hand in a vacillating motion. “Eh. What you might see as respect is probably fear. Dr. Bannister is a good sort, don’t get me wrong, but most people see the wujin as monsters.”
Marcus started to laugh until he saw that Eric wasn’t smiling. “You’re serious? How come?”
Eric coughed a laugh devoid of amusement. “You’re from Earth, Marcus. Why do you think?”
“Kidnapping is a problem?”
“Let me put it this way. How much did you pay for your treatment?”
“Dr. Bannister handled it. I understand it’s around a thousand credits.”
“Yes. A thousand credits is about what an unskilled laborer makes in a month. There is an incredible amount of money being moved around in relation to the Womack treatments. The women who donate their eggs get paid handsomely for it, often enough that they don’t have to work for many years. Wherever there is that much wealth being generated, there are people who try and take a slice off the top.”
“I guess human nature hasn’t changed.”
“You got that right. But enough of that. You’re here now, and there will be plenty of time to work out your new place in the world. My job is to make sure you survive to enjoy it. Listen. I can’t stress this enough. You must get your treatments on schedule. The Womack Process might just be an injection, but it is extremely invasive to the body’s systems. If you miss a follow up treatment by even a few hours, you will die.”
Marcus nodded. That much he had known. “How is the treatment schedule set?”
Eric snapped his fingers. “Excellent question. For each person it lasts a different amount of time. Generally speaking, it’s about a month, give or take a few days. Most people fall within a twenty-eight to thirty-two day cycle. Usually we want people in the clinic from day twenty-five onward, closely monitored to catch when the withdrawal begins.”
“Withdrawal?”
“You felt the serum take hold. That euphoric rush starts in again, only in reverse.”
“Oh.”
“Don’t worry, we catch it starting long before it gets to that point. Once we know your cycle, then we set up an appointment with you to come in next time, a day in advance. That’s to verify we’ve got the timing down right. The withdrawal almost always starts right on time, but we don’t like to take chances. After that, you come in for your treatment the day of, get the injection, and you’re on your way again with minimal wasted time.”
“That sounds reasonable.”
“We think so. Okay, I know you feel fine, but I want to do a quick scan of your chest to see if there is any lingering scar tissue.”
“I have to say,” Marcus commented as he followed Eric to another room and lay down on the scanning table. “I’m amazed at the speed of healing.”
“The human body replaces its cells rather quickly. The fastest organs replace themselves entirely in only a day or two. The Womack Process accelerates that and triggers cell replacement in tissue that wouldn’t otherwise regenerate. But it wasn’t as fast as you think. You were unconscious for over a full day.”
“How is that even possible? What about nutrient requirements? Waste management?”
Eric laughed. “I’m just a technician. If you really want to know all about it, look up Dr. Havarti. He’ll explain it to you. Now hold still for a moment while I run this scan.”
Marcus arrived at the hydroponic farm in high spirits. He felt reborn; perhaps, in a way, he was. His muscles seemed to hum with energy and he felt stronger than he ever had.
His new life was only just beginning and he found himself looking forward to what the years would bring. It seemed impossible that he could be alive, let alone immortal. He would live forever. He couldn’t wrap his mind about that concept, no matter how hard he tried.
Even the Helix Rebuild didn’t offer true immortality. The Matriarchs would only live so long as they had eggs. They would live for tens of thousands of years, but even so, their life was on a clock just as surely as an untreated human. Marcus, on the other hand, had no such limitations. Assuming he played his cards right, he would still be alive when the sun cooled.
The damp humidity of the farm felt thick in his lungs, but he breathed it in deeply, reveling in the ability to just breathe without needing to cough. The last time he’d been here, he had been too far gone and swamped with painkillers to really experience the hydroponic farm properly.
The scent of greenery and rampant plant growth was a rush. It was vastly different from the sterility of the cluster’s hallways. Marcus walked down the first row he saw. He felt like a child, awash with wide-eyed wonder at even the smallest things. The way a pepper plant branched, the curve of a flower’s petals, the humming efficiency of the mechanical pollinator wands.
“There you are Marcus,” Dr. Bannister called. She stood at the top of the row and waved when he turned to her. “How is the universe’s newest immortal?”
“Wonderful!” Marcus grinned. “I don’t know how anyone would ever get bored living this way.”
Dr. Bannister smiled indulgently at him. “It’s just euphoria. In a few days it will fade. I still get echoes of it when I get my treatments, but they never last long. Enjoy it, is what I say.”
Marcus pulled his attention away from the rhythmic dripping of a hydration nozzle. “You wanted to see me?”
“Yes. I’ve been thinking of our conversation a few days ago. You mentioned how you found particular fulfillment in the organization and execution of getting your cargo assembled and shipped to Mars.”
He nodded in agreement. “I did. Do. I mean, yes. It is something I quite enjoy.”
“An acquaintance of mine has need of an urgent package delivery. She requires someone to escort the crate to its destination and ensure everything goes smoothly. Delays would mean damage to her enterprise, something she is keen on avoiding. I assured her you were the perfect fit for the task.”
“I am?” Marcus asked dubiously. “I’m not really familiar with customs law on Mars, nor do I know any people who could help me if I run into trouble.”
“You’re a smart man,” Dr. Bannister encouraged him. “You found your way to a Womack treatment in record time despite being half dead with cancer. I’m sure you’ll be able to work out any setbacks before they delay the delivery.”
“Oh, that reminds me. I need to pay you back for the Womack treatment.”
Dr. Bannister waved a hand, dismissing it. “Consider it paid for. Assuming you accept this charge?”
“You want to pay me a thousand credits for escorting a crate? What’s in it?”
“Does it matter what’s in the crate? Could be solid gold, could be old socks. Either way, your client’s confidence is what is important. And really, credits aren’t the issue. Favors, Marcus, are the real specie among wujin. Any fathead dune scratcher can earn credits. By doing this, you earn some recognition, I pay off a favor, and my acquaintance gets her package delivered. Everyone is happy.”
Marcus nodded. “I guess I need to start finding my place in my new community.”
“Quite so. Come with me, I’ll introduce you. You’ll like her, another Earth-born like yourself.”
Marcus shook Grendal Crade’s hand. That she was wujin was obvious despite her hai
r dye. It took some getting used to: skin that lacked any pigmentation and eyes whose only coloring was the blood in the iris folds. Self-consciously Marcus touched his own face, wondering how long it would take before he took on the albino traits.
He had been raised to loath albinos. He had never seen one before coming to Mars, but every school child was carefully taught the signs of those who were receiving the Womack Process. Taught the signs, and taught what to do if ever he saw one.
Marcus smiled a little, remembering. Cross to the other side of the street. Call the hotline, 666, give the location and description of the albino, and wait on the line to keep the authorities updated in case the albino went anywhere.
He wondered what would happen on Mars if he called 666.
To Marcus’ eyes, the extravagance of the Redstone Lounge was somewhat lost. Intellectually he knew it must have been expensive to import the hardwood and the silk, but he saw the wood paneling as kitschy and quaint. Maybe when he had been on Mars for many years, he could come back to the Lounge and be properly impressed.
“So you’re the new guy Andrea has been on about. Take a seat. We have time for a drink.”
Marcus sat, trying not to stare. He had grown accustomed to Dr. Bannister’s appearance, but for some reason, Grendal’s hair made the paleness of her skin stand out even more. “Thank you for this opportunity,” he said carefully.
“Andrea vouched for you,” Grendal said, nodding to Dr. Bannister. “I have my doubts about using someone new to Mars, but I understand you’re eager to fit in.”
“If I’m going to be living here forever, I want to be on good terms with the people I’ll be sharing eternity with.”
Grendal smiled. “Keep up that attitude and you’ll fit right in, my dear.”
A waiter arrived at the table and carefully laid out mugs and a carafe.
“Is that coffee?” Dr. Bannister asked, sniffing the air. “I tried to grow a crop a few years back. I got them to fruit, but the beans were sour. I must be lacking something in my soil. One of these days I’ll figure it out and you won’t be the only one with coffee, Grendal.”
“Until then,” their host smiled, “I’ll keep charging extortionate rates.”
Marcus sipped his coffee when the waiter poured for him. He was pleasantly surprised to find whiskey had been added.
“That’s for you,” Grendal said, marking the look on his face. “May you bring us booze for years to come.”
Marcus raised his mug in acknowledgement. “I plan to.”
“Excellent. And perhaps when you have produced your first batches of vodka, you and I could enter into an arrangement for selling your product.”
“I would like that,” Marcus said with a smile. This was how he had always dreamed of doing business. The old boys club, doing deals and making money. The fact that both the women were significantly older than he was, and, well, not boys, didn’t retract from it. Through whatever twist of fate, he had found the perfect entrance to life on Mars. All he had to do now was not screw things up.
“I understand you have a package for me to deliver,” he said.
“I do. I need it delivered to Acheron Cluster. Do you know where that is?”
“I have seen it on maps,” he allowed.
“Good enough. I’ll give you the location where the package needs to be picked up. You’ll make the transfer to Acheron and deliver it into the hands of a man named Anton Engel, who will be at a certain address.”
“Is there anything I need to be aware of while transporting the package?”
“The contents are delicate,” Grendal said with a smile. “Other than that, the less you know, the better.”
“You can count on me, Ms. Crade.”
“Please. Call me Grendal. If you’re ready to begin, my doorman, Charles, will give you the directions you need.”
Marcus got up from the table, knowing a dismissal when he heard one. “Oh. One last thing. Is there a way to contact you in case of an emergency?”
Grendal’s face froze. “There won’t be an emergency. The reason I have someone escort the package is to prevent an emergency from occurring.”
Marcus winced. “Of course. I look forward to reporting my successful delivery.”
“And I to hearing it.” Grendal smiled, but her eyes remained flinty and cold.
Marcus dipped a short bow and hurried away to find Charles. He was good at this, he reminded himself. Delivering a package is simple. Everything is already arranged, I just need to make sure nothing unexpected happens.
Nothing will happen, he told himself firmly. His future on Mars depended on his success. If he could do this, he would prove himself to the wujin community in Vastitas. He would have friends, allies that he could develop business relations with. If he failed somehow, if the package didn’t arrive, then he would lose all that. Grendal wouldn’t do business with him. He would embarrass Dr. Bannister and she would cease being so helpful.
No. He would not fail. No matter what happened, that package was going to arrive at its destination.
CHAPTER
SEVENTEEN
During the years after the announcement of the Helix Rebuild and leading up to the December Protocol, Dr. Annette Everard, was, unsurprisingly, one of the few people who had any real grasp on what was happening. And nowhere else did that understanding make itself felt as clearly as in the Matriarch Manifesto.
The development of the Helix Rebuild was the most significant course of research in human history, but in Dr. Everard’s eyes, it paled in comparison to her creation of the Matriarchs. Creating immortality was not a solution in itself. Designing an entire society that functioned around the presence of immortals was just as necessary. Failure to include that structure is what made the Womack Process fail on Earth.
The Matriarch Manifesto laid down the rules of a society containing immortals, and the first women chosen to rise to that status were taught the importance of the Manifesto. It was a lesson hammered home by the destruction brought about by the Womack Process. The newly formed Council of Matriarchs watched as Dr. Everard’s predictions came to pass, and their belief and devotion to the manifesto deepened to a religion.
Min Yang disembarked from the tram at Acheron Cluster. The tram terminals were decorated in a way that reflected the civic pride of the cluster. Olympus had a big statue of Anatoly Richardson, the founder of Cydonia. Vastitas was decorated with gears and bare girders, representing (and Min was stretching here) the manufacturing role that cluster played.
Acheron’s call to fame, if it could be called that, was a humongous hunk of uranium ore smack dab in the middle of the concourse, surrounded by thick panes of leaded glass doped to spark whenever a decaying particle impacted with the glass. Sometimes the ore was so active with decay that the glass was almost too bright to look at.
Acheron was a mining cluster. Originally, Acheron was slated as a sort of overflow extension to Olympus, but a vast deposit of uranium and other valuable minerals changed that. Acheron itself had been built to one side of the open pit uranium mine. It was the sort of violently eco-unfriendly strip-mining operation that drove the environmentalists into frenzies back on Earth, but this was Mars and nobody gave a shit.
While the uranium lasted, Acheron would continue to be the most productive source of ore and raw minerals on Mars. Maybe when the deposit ran dry, some enterprising engineer would throw a dome over the pit and turn it into Eden. Maybe Min would live long enough to see that happen.
Today, Geiger Rock, as the uranium ore was affectionately called, was throwing off enough decaying particles to make the glass sporadically sputter with light. Min tore his attention from the mesmerizing display. There would be plenty of time to sight-see after Angeline was no longer in danger of being vivisected.
Escaping from Olympus had been nerve-wracking but ultimately uneventful. After a few hours spent in the back tunnels cooling his heels, Enrique had called him back and sent him on a winding course through Olympus’ underbelly. I
t had been stressful, but tedious, and he had gotten to the tram terminal without being recognized.
According to Enrique, the marshals were searching for him like he was public enemy number one, but were unwilling to spread the manhunt to the local forces, lest the police get the idea that marshals couldn’t take care of their own. Enrique had said the orders were conflicting: to find Min at all costs, but withholding any logical explanation. The death of Yahzu Hong was cited most commonly as the underlying impetus for the search, but Min couldn’t be tied to that death directly without opening up the question of why Yahzu had been in Min’s flat in the first place.
Enrique had sent Min one last email before declaring himself ill and going home.
The email was an office joke circulation email, with several dozen people CC’d. Min had almost deleted it on reflex, but had held off in case it was some subtle way of Enrique passing him information.
Min wandered about Acheron, trying to get a feel for the cluster. He had visited a few times, but there wasn’t much that happened in Acheron that drew official marshal attention. Most of the time, he had only stopped briefly for a meeting before getting back onto the tram again.
Right away, the first thing he noticed about Acheron was the air quality. Much of Cydonia was pushing the population limits, and there was only so much the air could be recirculated without causing a noticeable breeze. There were times in Olympus when the air pumps had to work overtime to deal with the number of visiting people and the long corridors had a breeze strong enough to set your clothing flapping.
In Acheron, the air tasted fresh and clean. That meant this cluster had an underworked algae bay and a population that was significantly smaller than the architects had planned for. Everywhere else in Cydonia was overpopulated. So, either Acheron was the best-kept secret on Mars or, more likely, there was a reason for a population decline. Perhaps digging an underground city right next to an open-pit uranium mine hadn’t been the best idea.
