by Allen Steele
“Your guns … check ’em here.” He cocked his head toward a booth the three of them hadn’t noticed when they’d walked in; an aresian within it sat before a row of cubbyholes containing firearms of all kinds. “Not allowed in the bar.”
Curt hesitated, then nodded and turned toward the booth. “Actually, it’s kind of a relief,” Otho said quietly as he removed the particle-beam pistol he’d purchased at Port Deimos and handed it over. “If no one is allowed to carry guns in here, the less likely we’ll have any serious trouble.”
“So you’re saying we’re safe?” Curt asked.
“No. I’m just saying that no one will be able to shoot us. We can still get in a fight.”
“Don’t listen to him. He doesn’t know what he’s talking about.” As she surrendered her IPF-issue pistol, Joan nodded toward the ceiling. “See those? Motion-activated stunners. They’re controlled from the bar. First sign of a brawl, the bartender flips a switch and anyone who isn’t perfectly still gets knocked down.”
Curt looked up. Every few yards along the ceiling were small, trackball-mounted barrels resembling the business ends of stun guns. “I’ve seen vids where bar brawls—”
“Don’t believe what you see in vids. In real life, the management wants everyone to drink and be happy. Nothing’s going to happen here.”
“No … they’ll wait until we leave,” Otho quietly added. “Then they’ll come after us.”
The man at the gun-check booth raised an inquisitive eyebrow when Curt unholstered his plasmar and placed it on the counter. Like everyone else, he’d never seen a weapon like it before. As he placed it in the cubbyhole behind him, Curt coiled up the gun’s power line, and without disconnecting it from the battery pack on his belt, surreptitiously slipped it beneath his parka. He then accepted the claim ticket and let Joan lead him away. The jovian grunted and stepped aside, and the three of them sauntered the rest of the way in.
They were not the only offworlders here—Curt spotted several aphrodites gathered around a billiards table, while another jovian was huddled with a pair of aresians—but they were the only terrans. The reason why was obvious. A black tapestry hanging from a rock wall was embroidered with the Starry Messenger symbol, an indication that there was little love for Earth or the Solar Coalition to be found in the King and Queen of the Desert.
Curt did his best to ignore this as they approached the bar. There were quite a few aresians on this side of the room; they grudgingly parted to make way for them. The bartender gave Curt an inquisitive look, and for the moment Curt was stymied. He’d never ordered a drink in a bar before, and didn’t know what to ask for.
Otho moved closer to Curt. “Order a beer,” he murmured. “You don’t have to drink it, but it’ll look strange if you don’t get anything.”
“A session ale is the best if you don’t drink much,” Joan quietly added. “I recommend a Lost Planet Lager.”
He followed her recommendation, and the bartender silently nodded and walked over to the taps to fill a ceramic mug with an amber liquid. Curt felt as if every eye in the room was on his back as the mug was placed before him. “How do you drink with these on?” he whispered to Joan, pointing to his mask. His familiarity with aresian respirators didn’t extend to wearing one under social circumstances, particularly while visiting a drinking establishment.
“There’s a little valve in the middle, see?” She tapped her mask with her finger. “The bartender will bring you a straw—or at least he should—and you can sip your drink through it.” She paused. “Or you can try pulling down your mask and drinking while holding your breath, but I wouldn’t recommend it. If you do it wrong, you could get the hiccups, and then you’ll pass out. I don’t think that would go down well in here.”
“I’ll take the straw.”
“Beer isn’t good when you drink it that way,” a woman’s voice said from behind him.
Curt turned to find N’Rala materializing from the crowd around them. With her hood raised, it wasn’t surprising that he hadn’t spotted her earlier. She’d probably been there the whole time, quietly observing him and the others as they entered the tavern. Now she emerged from the aresians surrounding them, pushing back her hood to give Curt a smile that managed to be both warm and predatory at the same time.
“Perhaps it’s just as well.” Curt tried not to seem surprised by her sudden appearance. “I’ve never had much of a taste for alcohol.”
“Pity. I’m sure there’s any number of people here who’d like to show you an old aresian drinking game.” N’Rala’s eyes moved to take in the local men standing about, all of whom were taking an interest in the tall, darkly beautiful woman in their midst. Or perhaps they knew her already.
“Maybe some other time.” Curt gestured to Otho and Joan standing beside him. “Let me introduce you to my friends. This is—”
“I already know who they are.” N’Rala’s smile widened as she turned to his companions. “Vol … or should I call you Otho?… I have a friend who’d very much like to meet you. Perhaps you shall before long.” Otho stared back at her, not saying anything. “And you”—she stepped a little closer to Joan—“I think it would be better if I didn’t let on who you really are, don’t you?”
Joan’s face colored above her mask. “Do whatever you want,” she retorted, staring back at her. “I’m not afraid of you.”
Some of N’Rala’s self-assured arrogance disappeared, to be replaced by anger barely under restraint. Her hand started to rise from her side, and she seemed ready to strike the IPF inspector before her. Seeing this, Curt stepped between her and Joan.
“You said that if I came here, you’d introduce me to someone who could lead me to Ul Quorn,” he said, speaking so that only she could hear him.
N’Rala stopped. The smile reappeared and she relaxed again. “Why, yes … yes, I did, didn’t I? And in fact, they’re here now.”
“‘They?’”
“Surprise.” As she said this, her gaze traveled past Curt’s shoulder to the aresian men standing behind him. “Take him,” she said. “Take them all.”
VII
“Duck!” Otho shouted.
Curt didn’t need the warning. Even before N’Rala finished speaking, he was in motion, collapsing his legs at his knees to drop his head and shoulders beneath the blow he’d anticipated would come from behind.
The beer mug an aresian attempted to bring down on his head barely missed its target before smashing to pieces against the bar. Still crouching, Curt whirled about and kicked sideways; his assailant’s breath woofed from his lungs as Curt’s boot slammed into his stomach.
Even as the aresian doubled over, though, another Mars native was taking his place, rushing forward to hurl a wild roundhouse blow at Curt. He easily dodged the fist and stuck out his right ankle to trip his opponent as he blundered past. Sharp punches to the liver and kidneys sent the second man crashing into N’Rala, who’d by then turned on Joan.
From the corner of his eye, Curt caught a glimpse of Joan sidestepping the taller woman only to fall into the outstretched arms of the aresian behind her. Caught in a bear hug, Joan threw her elbows back into his ribs, then whirled about and smacked the heel of her hand against his nose. Blood spurted from his nostrils and he lurched back as N’Rala moved to attack her again.
Curt darted forward to protect Joan, only to be blocked by an aphrodite who made a grab for his face mask. Curt swatted aside his hand, and since turnabout is fair play, he snatched off the aphrodite’s airmask and the tube leading to his pack. The Martian atmosphere was too thin for Venus natives as well as terrans; gasping and clawing at his breathing gear, the aphrodite was desperately trying to put everything back where it should be when a hard punch to the solar plexus knocked the air from his lungs. He folded in upon himself and toppled to the floor.
Curt was about to turn again to the first aresian to attack him, who’d by then regained his feet and was rushing him again, but Otho saved him the trouble with a jujitsu b
low to the native’s lower back. As the aresian collapsed, Otho ducked a haymaker thrown by another patron, then delivered a sidekick that sent him flying against a nearby billiards table. A pool cue clattered to the floor; Otho snatched it up and, holding it sideways with both hands, assumed a staff-fighting pose even as other opponents threw themselves at him.
Hearing a scream, Curt looked around to see Joan locked in combat with N’Rala. The aresian woman had grabbed a handful of Joan’s hair and was using it to wrench her head back, but Joan threw a fist straight into the other woman’s face. With a harsh curse, N’Rala let her go and staggered backward, eyes blazing as she clutched her mouth with her hands. Another aresian took up the attack, but N’Rala instead shoved a couple of people aside and, placing her hands on the bar, made an agile leap over the counter, pushing the bartender out of her way.
Curt had no time to wonder what she was doing. He, Otho, and Joan were holding their own, but the entire bar was against them; for every person they knocked down, two or three were ready to take their place. Joan had been wrong, and so was Otho. N’Rala had never intended to lure them out of the bar and into a trap; the trap was here, in this very room. And while it was evident that Joan was as well trained in hand-to-hand combat as he was, and Otho was nearly tireless in a fight, the numbers were against them.
He’d barely realized this when he heard an enraged roar, and turned to see the huge jovian bouncer rushing at him from the front of the room. The crowd parted for the jovian, and Curt waited until the giant was close enough before jumping on top of the nearest table. The bouncer had no time to react before Curt grabbed a ceiling lamp with both hands and used it to swing himself feet-first at his foe.
His heels caught the jovian within his dense black beard. The bouncer’s chin snapped back as he lost his balance and fell, but he wasn’t out of it yet. Curt let go of the lamp and landed neatly on the floor before him, and was about to take on the behemoth before he could fully recover when an agonizing pulse swept through his entire body.
His nerves on fire, every muscle paralyzed, Curt gasped as he collapsed to the floor. All around, everyone else was doing the same. In a moment of clarity, Curt realized what N’Rala was doing when she went over the bar: she’d been going for the ceiling stunners.
Then cold darkness closed upon him.
VIII
Consciousness returned to him as a slow awakening to intermittent flashes of light and a gentle but persistent swaying.
His body ached and the inside of his skull throbbed with a headache that seemed to reach all the way to his eyes. The air he breathed still had the faint chemical aftertaste of a rebreather, though, and when he exhaled there was the familiar sensation of being inhibited by an airmask. Whatever else may have happened, at least he knew he was still on Mars.
Curt slowly opened his eyes. The light flashes were coming from luminescent panels rigged in sections along a rock ceiling; the motion he felt was from the vehicle he was in passing beneath them. He was being carried down a tunnel, apparently a long one at that.
He tried to move and discovered that his wrists had been tied together behind his back. His legs hadn’t been similarly secured, though, so he was able to push his heels against the padded cushion upon which he lay and sit up a little. He discovered that he lay across the backseat of a small, open-top rover, the sort of utility vehicle used on farms and construction sites. And, yes, it appeared to be traveling down a lava tube; it was safe to presume it was the same one he’d spotted earlier at the bottom of the Ascraeus tolou.
Two aresians were sitting up front: one of the men he’d fought in the bar, who was driving the vehicle, and N’Rala. Neither appeared to have noticed that Curt had regained consciousness; they gazed straight ahead, not glancing behind them. Curt decided to play possum for a little while longer, if only to give himself a chance to get his bearings.
The lava tube looked like the inside of an immense blood vessel, an artery deep beneath the rocky Martian skin. But it was not empty. Along the sides of the central passageway, boxes, cartons, and containers of all sizes had been carefully stacked. White labels identified their contents, but the rover was moving too fast for him to read any of them. It was obvious, though, that someone considered them worth guarding. Every once in a while, the vehicle passed an aresian standing watch amid the stacks, a particle-beam rifle cradled in his or her arms.
Curt raised his head in an effort to identify one of the boxes. When he did, there was a sharp beep from somewhere close behind. Too late, he realized that his rover was being followed by another. Its driver had seen him move and was alerting the people in the front seats that their passenger was awake.
N’Rala looked around, then smiled a little when she saw him. “Oh good, you’re awake. How are you feeling?”
He decided not to tell her. “Where are we?” he asked, even though he’d already figured it out.
“About halfway to where we’re going. Don’t worry, this is the longest part of the trip.” She gave him a concerned look. “Come on, Captain … your head must be hurting. Stunners will do that to you. Your people have used them enough on mine for me to know how painful a good shot can be, and you caught one at point-blank range. I have some painkillers on me … all you have to do is ask.”
Curt hesitated, then nodded. There was no point in suffering if he didn’t have to, and he’d need a clear head if he was going to attempt to escape and rescue the others. And come to think of it … “Where are my friends?”
“Behind us, in the other rover.” N’Rala pulled aside her cape to reach for a pouch on her belt. “They’re probably waking up right about now,” she went on as she opened a flap and dug into the pouch; her hand came out a second later with an analgesic patch. “Don’t worry, they haven’t been harmed. Probably just sore the same way you are.”
“I don’t know why you’re bothering.” The driver eyed the patch as N’Rala tore open its foil envelope. “The master will—”
“There’s no reason to let a prisoner suffer unnecessarily. We’re not barbarians.” N’Rala unpeeled the patch back, then turned in her seat toward Curt. “Please hold still. My companion is armed, and I’m sure he wouldn’t appreciate any stupid moves on your part any more than I would.”
There was little Curt could have done even if he weren’t surrounded by armed aresians, so he turned his head and let her fix the patch to the side of his neck. There was a cool rush as the drugs entered his bloodstream, and almost immediately the headache and body soreness began to subside. “Thanks. You’re very kind.”
“And you’re very handsome.” N’Rala favored him with a coy smile as she settled back in her seat. “So sad that we can’t be friends … but maybe that can change.”
“Maybe.” Curt shrugged noncommittally. “So where are you taking us?”
“You’ll see, Captain.” She turned away. “You’ll see.”
This was the second time she’d called him that. She knew his real name; why was she doing this, other than to show that she was aware that Captain Future was his nom de guerre? He wondered how she’d learned that until he then remembered again that his private meeting with President Carthew in Corvo’s home hadn’t been quite so private after all. So if she was in league with Ul Quorn, this was more proof that there was a link between the Magician and Corvo.
Curt just had to hope that he’d live long enough to use that knowledge.
Because Curt had no idea how long he’d been unconscious, he also had no idea how far he’d already traveled. Nonetheless, the rovers continued onward for what seemed like a couple of more miles. They left most of the crates and boxes behind, and after a while even the light panels became intermittent; the driver turned on his headlights, as did the rover behind them. Looking back, Curt caught a glimpse of Otho and Joan in the rear rover. They were both awake and sitting up, but he had no way of communicating with them. Although his ring contained its own Anni node, the neural implants they wore were dependent upon external nod
es; this far underground, there was no way for them to link with one. Curt also had little doubt that their arms were probably bound just as his were, so getting free was out of the question.
All they could do was wait until they reached their final destination.
As N’Rala promised, it wasn’t long before they did just that.
IX
The tunnel gradually began to rise, its floor sloping upward toward some unseen point. There were no ceiling panels now, only a pair of battery lamps affixed to the walls some distance ahead. The lava tube abruptly came to an end just in front of those torches, where an accordion gate had been rigged across the tunnel. Nothing could be seen beyond this point except darkness.
The rovers slowed to a halt in front of the gate. The driver climbed out, picked up a rifle from where it had been lying on the floorboards between his feet, and turned to point it at Curt. N’Rala got out and offered Curt an outstretched hand.
“Be good,” she said. “I won’t hurt you, but my friends will if you misbehave.”
Curt ignored her as he squirmed out of the backseat. The headache was gone, and the only pain he felt now was that of humiliation. The driver and guard in the other rover helped Otho and Joan get out; they led them over to where Curt and N’Rala were standing. Curt gave his companions a silent nod. Otho responded in kind, but Joan was busy studying their surroundings.
“What is this place?” she demanded. “Where have you taken us?” Then she walked closer to the gate, saw what was on the other side, and gasped as she instinctively shrank back in fear. Wondering what she’d just seen, Curt stepped past her. No one tried to stop him as he approached the gate. There was no need to do so, for on the side was … nothing.
