Green Mars m-2

by Kim Stanley Robinson

  For her part, Jackie seemed inclined to dismiss Art as a factor in the organizing of a general meeting, as if she would take it over herself. But then they visited a small neomarxist sanctuary in the Mountains of Mitchel (which were no more mountainous than the rest of the southern highlands, the name being an artifact of the telescope era) and these neomarxists proved to be in communication with the city of Bologna in Italy, and with the Indian province of Kerala — and with Praxis offices in both these places. So they had a lot to talk about with Art, and they obviously enjoyed it and at the end of the visit one of them said to him, “It’s wonderful what you’re doing, you’re just like John Boone.”

  Jackie jerked her head around to stare at Art, who was sheepishly shaking his head. “No he’s not,” she said automatically.

  But after that she treated him more seriously. Nirgal could only laugh. Any mention of the name John Boone was like a magic spell to Jackie. When she and Nadia discussed John’s theories, he could understand a little why she felt that way; much of what Boone had wanted for Mars made excellent sense, and it seemed to him that Sabishii in particular was a kind of Boonean space. For Jackie, however, it went beyond a rational response — it had to do with Kasei and Esther, and Hiroko, even Peter — with some complex of feelings that touched her on a level that nothing else did.

  They continued north, into lands even more violently disarranged than those they had left behind. This was volcanic country, where the harsh sublimity of the southern highland was augmented by the ancient craggy peaks of Australis Tholus and Amphitrites Patera. The two volcanoes bracketed a region of lava flows, where the blackish rock of the land was frozen in weird lumps, waves, and rivers. Once these flows had poured over the surface in streams of white-hot fluid, and even now, hard and black and shattered by the ages, and covered with dust and ice flowers, the liquid origins were completely evident.

  The most prominent of these lava remnants were long low ridges, like dragon tails now fossilized to solid black rock. These ridges snaked across the land for many kilometers, often disappearing over the horizon in both directions, forcing the travelers to make long detours. These dorsa were ancient lava channels; the rock they were made of had proved harder than the countryside they had originally flowed over, and in the eons since, the countryside had been worn away, leaving the black mounds lying on the surface somewhat like the fallen elevator cable only very much larger.

  One of the dorsa, in the Dorsa Brevia region, had recently been turned into a hidden sanctuary. So Nadia drove their rover on a tortuous path through outlying lava ridges, and then into a capacious garage in the side of the largest black mound they had seen. They got out of their car, and were greeted by a small group of friendly strangers, several of whom Jackie had met before. There was no indication in the garage that the chamber beyond it was going to be any different from any other they had visited, and so when they walked into a big cylindrical lock and out the other door, it was a great shock to find before them an open space that clearly occupied the whole interior of the ridge. The ridge was hollow; the empty space inside it was roughly cylindrical, a tube perhaps two hundred meters floor to ceiling, three hundred meters wall to wall, and extending for as far as they could see in both directions. Art’s mouth was like a cross-section model of the tunnel: “Wow!” he kept exclaiming. “Wow, look at this! Wow!”

  Quite a few dorsa were hollow, their hosts told them. Lava tunnels. There were many of them on Terra, but the usual two-magnitude scale jump obtained, and this tube was in fact a hundred times bigger than the biggest Terran tube. When the lava streams had flowed, a young woman named Ariadne explained to Art, they had cooled and hardened at their edges, and then on their surfaces — after which hot lava had continued to run through the sleeve, until the flows had stopped, and the remaining lava had emptied out onto some lake of fire, leaving behind cylindrical caves that were sometimes fifty kilometers long.

  The floor of this particular tunnel was approximately flat, and now it was covered by rooftops and grassy parks, ponds, and hundreds of young trees, planted in groves of mixed bamboo and pine. Long cracks in the roof of the tunnel had served as the basis for filtered skylights, made of layered materials which gave off the same visual and thermal signals as the rest of the ridge, but let into the tunnel long curtains of sunny brown air, so that even the dimmest sections of the tunnel were only as dim as a cloudy day.

  Dorsa Brevia’s tunnel was forty kilometers long, Ariadne informed them as they walked down a staircase, although there were places where the roof had caved in, or plugs of lava almost filled the cavity. “We haven’t closed off the whole thing, of course. It’s more than we need, and more than we could keep warm and pumped anyway. But we’ve closed off about twelve kilometers now, in kilometer-long segments, with tent-fabric bulkheads between them.”

  “Wow,” Art said again. Nirgal felt just as impressed, and Nadia was clearly delighted. Even Vishniac was nothing compared to this.

  Jackie was already near the bottom of the long staircase that led from the garage lock to a park below them. As they followed her Art said, “Every colony you’ve taken me to I’ve figured has to be the biggest one, and I’m always wrong. Why don’t you just tell me now if the next one is going to be like all of Hellas Basin or something.”

  Nadia laughed. “This is the biggest one I know of. Bigger!”

  “So why do you all stay in Gamete, when it’s so cold and small and dim? Couldn’t the people from all the sanctuaries fit into this space?”

  “We don’t want to all be in one place,” she replied. “As for this one, it wasn’t even here a few years ago.”

  Down on the floor of the tunnel they appeared to be in a forest, under a black stone sky rent by long jagged bright cracks. The four travelers followed a group of their hosts to a complex of buildings with thin wooden walls and steep roofs upturned at the corners. In one of these they were introduced to a group of elderly women and men in colorful baggy clothing, and invited to share a meal.

  As they ate they learned more about the sanctuary, mostly from Ariadne, who sat beside them. It had been built and occupied by the descendants of people who had come to Mars and joined the disappeared in the 2050s, leaving the cities and occupying small refuges in this region, aided in their efforts by the Sabishiians. They had been heavily influenced by Hiroko’s areophany, and their society was described by some as a matriarchy. They had studied some ancient matriarchal cultures, and based some of their customs on the ancient Minoan civilization and the Hopi of North America. Thus they worshipped a goddess who represented life on Mars, something like a personification of Hiroko’s viriditas, or a deification of Hiroko herself. And in daily life the women owned the households, and would pass them on to their youngest daughters: ultimogeniture, Ariadne called it, a custom of the Hopi. And as with the Hopi, men moved into their wives’ houses on marriage.

  “Do the men like it?” Art asked curiously.

  Ariadne laughed at his expression. “There’s nothing like happy women for making happy men, that’s what we say.” And she gave Art a look that seemed to pull him right over the bench toward her.

  “Makes sense to me,” Art said.

  “We all share the work — extending the tunnel segments, farming, raising the children, whatever needs doing. Everybody tries to get good at more than just their specialty, which is a custom that comes from the First Hundred, I think, and the Sabishiians.”

  Art nodded. “And how many of you are there?”

  “About four thousand now.”

  Art whistled his surprise.

  That afternoon they were taken down the tunnel through several kilometers of transformed segments, many of them forested, and all containing a large stream that ran down the floor of the tunnel, widening in some segments to form big ponds. When Ariadne brought them back up to the first chamber, called Zakros, almost a thousand people showed up for an open-air meal in the largest park. Nirgal and Art wandered around talking to people, enjoy
ing a plain meal of bread and salad and broiled fish. The people there appeared receptive to the idea of a congress of the underground. They had tried something like it years before, but had not gotten many takers at the time — had lists of the sanctuaries in their region — and one of the older women said, with authority, that they would be happy to host it, as they had a space large enough to handle a great number of guests.

  “Oh, that would be marvelous,” Art said, glancing at Ariadne.

  Later Nadia agreed. “It will help a lot,” she said. “A lot of people will be resistant to the idea of a meeting, because they suspect the First Hundred of trying to take charge of the underground. But if it’s held here, and the Bogdanovists are behind it…”

  When Jackie came over and heard of the offer, she gave Art a hug. “Oh, it’s going to happen! And it’s just what John Boone would have done. It’s like the meeting he called on Olympus Mons.”

  They left Dorsa Brevia and headed north again, on the east side of the Hellas Basin. During the nights of this drive Jackie often brought out John Boone’s AT, Pauline, which she had studied and cataloged. She played back selections from his thoughts about an independent state, thoughts disorganized and rambling, the reflections of a man with more enthusiasm (and omegendorph) than analytic ability; but sometimes he would get on a roll, and ad-lib in the manner of the famous speeches, and that could be fascinating. He had had a knack for free association which made his ideas sound like logical progression even when they weren’t.

  “See how often he talks about the Swiss,” Jackie said. She sounded like John, Nirgal noticed suddenly. She had been working with Pauline extensively for a long time, and her manner had been affected by it. John’s voice, Maya’s manner; in such ways they carried the past with them. “We have to make sure some Swiss are at the congress.”

  “We’ve got Jurgen and the group at Overhangs,” Nadia said.

  “But they’re not really so Swiss, are they?”

  “You’ll have to ask them,” Nadia said. “But if you mean Swiss officials, there are a lot of them in Burroughs, and they’ve been helping us there, without ever even talking to us about it. About fifty of us have Swiss passports now. They’re a big part of the demimonde.”

  “As is Praxis,” Art put in.

  “Yes yes. Anyway, we’ll talk to the group at Overhangs. They’ll have contacts with the surface Swiss, I’m sure.”

  Northeast of the volcano Hadriaca Patera, they visited a town that had been founded by Sufis. The original structure was built into the side of a canyon cliff, in a kind of high-tech Mesa Verde — a thin line of buildings, inserted into the break point where the cliffs imposing overhang began to slope back out and down to the canyon floor. Steep staircases in walktubes ran down the lower slope to a small concrete garage, and around the garage had sprung up a number of blister tents and greenhouses. These tents were occupied by people who wished to study with the Sufis. Some came from the sanctuaries, some from the cities of the north; many were natives, but quite a few were newcomers from Earth. Together they hoped to roof the entire canyon, using materials developed for the new cable to support an immense spread of tent fabric. Nadia was immediately drawn into discussions of the construction problems such a project would encounter, which she happily told them would be various and severe. Ironically, the thickening atmosphere made all dome projects more difficult, because the domes could not be floated by the air pressures underneath them to the extent they once had been; and though the tensile and load-bearing strengths of the new carbon configurations were more than they would need, anchoring points that would hold such weights as they had in mind would be almost impossible to find. But the local engineers were confident that lighter tent fabrics and new anchoring techniques might serve, and the walls of the canyon, they said, were solid. They were in the very upper reach of Reull Vallis, and ancient sapping had cut back into very hard material. Good anchoring points should be everywhere.

  No attempt was being made to hide any of this activity from satellite observation. The Sufis’ circular mesa dwelling in Margar-itifer, and their main settlement in the south, Rumi, were similarly unconcealed. Yet they had never been harassed in any way by anybody, or even contacted by the Transitional Authority. This made one of their leaders, a small black man named Dhu el-Nun, think the fears of the underground were exaggerated. Nadia politely disagreed, and when Nirgal pressed her on the point, curious about it, she looked at him steadily. “They hunt the First Hundred.”

  He thought it over, watching the Sufis lead the way up the walktube staircases to their cliff dwelling. They had arrived well before dawn, and Dhu had invited everyone up to the cliff for a brunch to welcome the visitors. So they followed the Sufis up to the dwelling, and sat at a great long table, in a long room with its outer wall a continuous great window, overlooking the canyon. The Sufis dressed in white, while the people from the tents in the canyon wore ordinary jumpers, most of them rust-colored. People poured each other’s water, and talked as they ate. “You are on your tariqa(,” Dhu el-Nun said to Nirgal. This was one’s spiritual path, he explained, one’s road to reality. Nirgal nodded, struck by the aptness of the description — it was just how his life had always felt to him. “You must feel lucky,” Dhu said. “You must pay attention.”

  After a meal of bread and strawberries and yogurt, and then mud-thick coffee, the tables and chairs were cleared, and the Sufis danced a sema or whirling dance, spinning and chanting to the music of a harpist and several drummers, and the chanting of the canyon dwellers. As the dancers passed their guests, they placed their palms very briefly to the guests’ cheeks, their touches as light as the brush of a wing. Nirgal glanced at Art, expecting him to be as goggle-eyed as he usually was at the various phenomena of Martian life, but in fact he was smiling in a knowing way, and tapping his forefinger and thumb together in time to the beat, and chanting with the rest. And at the end of the dance he stepped out and recited something in a foreign language, which caused the Sufis to smile and, when he was done, to applaud loudly.

  “Some of my professors in Tehran were Sufis,” he explained to Nirgal and Nadia and Jackie. “They were a big part of what people call the Persian Renaissance.”

  “And what did you recite?” Nirgal asked.

  “It’s a Farsi poem by Jalaluddin Rumi, the master of the whirling dervishes. I never learned the English version very well—

  ‘I died from a mineral and plant became,

  Died from the plant, took a sentient frame;

  Died from the beast, donned a human dress—

  When by my dying did I ever grow less …’

  “Ah, I can’t remember the rest. But some of those Sufis were very good engineers.”

  “They’d better be here too,” Nadia said, glancing at the people she had been talking to about doming the canyon.

  In any case the Sufis here proved to be very enthusiastic about the idea of an underground congress. As they pointed out, theirs was a syncretic religion, which had taken some of its elements not only from the various types and nationalities of Islam, but also from the older religions of Asia that Islam had encountered, and also newer ones such as Baha’i. Something similarly flexible was going to be needed here, they said. Meanwhile, their concept of the gift had already been influential throughout the underground, and some of their theoreticians were working with Vlad and Marina on the specifics of eco-economics. So as the morning passed and they waited for the late winter sunrise, standing at the great window and looking across the dark canyon to the east, they were quick to make very practical suggestions about the meeting. “You should go talk to the Bedouin and the other Arabs as quickly as possible,” Dhu told them. “They won’t like being late in the list of those consulted.”

  Then the eastern sky lightened, very slowly, from dark plum to lavender. The opposite cliff was lower than the one they were on, and they could see over the dark plateau to the east for a few kilometers, to a low range of hills that formed the horizon. The Suf
is pointed out the cleft in the hills where the sun would rise, and some began to chant again. “There is a group of Sufis in Elysium,” Dhu told them, “who are exploring backwards to our roots in Mithraism and Zoroastrianism. Some say there are Mithraists on Mars now, worshipping the sun, Ahura Mazda. They consider the soletta to be religious art, like a stained glass window in a cathedral.”

  When the sky was an intense clear pink the Sufis gathered around their four guests and gently pushed them into a pattern against the windows: Nirgal next to Jackie, Nadia and Art behind them. “Today you are our stained glass,” Dhu said quietly. Hands lifted Nirgal’s forearm until his hand was touching Jackie’s, and he took it. They exchanged a quick glance and then stared forward to the hills on the horizon. Art and Nadia were likewise holding hands, and their outside hands were placed on Nirgal’s and Jackie’s shoulders. The chanting around them got louder, the chorus of voices intoning words in Farsi, the long and liquid vowels stretching out for minutes on end. And then the sun cracked the horizon and the fountain of light exploded over the land, pouring in the wide window and over them so that they had to squint, and their eyes watered. Between the soletta and the thickening atmosphere the sun was visibly larger than it had been in the past, bronze and oblate and shimmering up through the horizontal slicing of distant inversion layers. Jackie squeezed Nirgal’s hand hard, and on an impulse he looked behind them; there on the white wall all their shadows made a kind of linked tapestry, black on white, and in the intensity of the light, the white nearest their shadows was the brightest white of all, tinged just barely by the colors of the rainbow glory, embracing them all.