by Kage Baker
Heart pounding, Alec gulped down the cocktail and scrambled into his seat, just managing to get his safety restraints buckled as the stasis gas began to fill the air. He had time to catch a glimpse of the green blockade ships before they vanished in the yellow fog. Then the roar and the impact came, and when the gas dissipated he saw that Mars was suddenly a good deal closer, presenting a different face, crossed by many more of the green and yellow lines.
Bull’s eye, said the Captain. Look at that chronometer, boy! 24 October, 2351. And there’s Mars One smack below us.
Alec gave a howl of incredulous delight. You mean it really worked?
Of course it worked Ain’t you my bloody little genius? Let’s drop this cargo and go grab yer lady friend.
Alec sent a hail in the code commonly used by the Resistance when contacting Mars One. When at length he had received a wary acknowledgment, he transmitted:
BALKISTER SENDS HIS BEST. PERMISSION TO VISIT?
The reply was a series of numbers, directions to a hangar within Mars One’s airspace. Alec grinned and the shuttle dropped down into the thin atmosphere.
He waited impatiently as they went through the airlock, thinking it was a shame Balkister couldn’t be with him. Mars itself, a new world! He half expected to find Noel Coward and Marlene Dietrich waiting for him with a band. And the oxygen would be fresh.
The airlock let Alec out at last and he maneuvered the shuttle to a landing pad. By the time the hatch popped he was already poised at the threshold, eager for his first glimpse of the Red Planet.
What he saw was a wall of coral-pink cinderblock. Well, all right: that was to be expected in a hangar. He stuck his head out and gulped in Martian air, then sneezed and shook his head. Moisture, the sour smell of agricultural chemicals, a distinctive bouquet of broccoli and cabbage, and …
Shrack! That’s funky.
Well, now, son, what did you expect? These folk have to recycle everything..
He stepped out and the wet heavy air fell on him like a blanket, balancing somewhat the giddy lightness he felt. He looked around at the interior of the hangar. It was all concrete molded from the soil, every conceivable shade of pink and orange. He found himself thinking of the ancient city of Petra, where he’d been once to pick up a consignment. Instead of a hot blue sky overhead and sunlight, though, there was the glitter of unfamiliar stars through the transparent dome, and the yellow globes of the methane lamps.
There were only two men waiting for him in the hangar, rawboned, narrow-eyed, suspicious. One of them was carrying a crowbar.
“You’re from Ed Balkister?” said the other one.
“Giles, you mean,” said Alec, and the men nodded in satisfaction and unison.
Alec, they got surveillance cameras in here.
“What about those?” Alec pointed at the tiny swiveling cameras, and in the light gravity found himself almost jumping up to touch them. The older of the men snorted.
“Those are ours. Come on, what’s Balkister got for us?”
Alec had planned on making a rather theatrical presentation, but he realized it would be wasted on these men. He jerked a thumb at the hatch. “Lots of boxes, guys. Help me unload ’em.”
They followed him into the shuttle, staring around surlily.
“Somebody’s private pleasure craft, eh?” sneered the older man. “Phew! Stinks, though, don’t it?”
He should talk, thought Alec, but all he said was, “Yeah, well, freedom gets a little ripe sometimes.” He lifted a box easily and thrust it into the man’s arms. “Have some.”
The man’s knees buckled slightly and he stared. “What’s this, then?”
Alec leaned close and said: “Guns.”
“No shit?” The younger man looked delighted. He bent and forced open a crate with his crowbar. When he saw the contents he gave a cry of glee.
“Like to see the goddam Areco running dogs’ faces when they get a look at these!”
“It’s not going to come to that, you idiot,” protested the older man.
“Oh, yes it is, pal,” Alec said. “Trust me. Balkister’s got inside information. You’re going to need weapons to show Areco you can’t be pushed around. Here they are. Okay?”
The older man paled. “We’re never going to lose the case to Areco. We’re in the right.”
“And they’re in the money. They’ll win.”
“We’ll appeal!” A red flush of anger spread up the older man’s skinny neck.
“We’ll be appealing from Luna if we can’t keep the bastard marshals from evicting us, Dad,” the younger man said, hefting a crate and stepping down out of the hatch with it. “Wake up. The law’s been bought. Might’s the only right those corporate pigs respect! Thank the man or shut up, but let’s get these offloaded.”
The older man clamped his grim mouth into a white line and stalked out of the hatch with his crate.
Nobody said anything much after that, so the three men got the crates unloaded in a very short time. Alec had forgotten about the box with the brass skull; it had been packed in one of the offloaded ammo boxes, out of sight and out of mind.
He didn’t remember it until he was heading out into space again, and kicked himself mentally, because he had wanted to explain about the inscribed curse. Probably just as well he hadn’t, he decided. It didn’t seem like something the council representatives of the MAC would appreciate. They weren’t a particularly fun bunch of guys.
All set for the jump back, lad? I’d rather do it now, whilst you’ve still got the drug in yer system. Save you taking a second dose.
Alec shuddered. Go for it. Let’s blow this dump.
The gas swirled around him again, and he realized with a brief pang of regret that all he’d seen of Mars, once he’d finally got there, had been the inside of one poky little hangar.
With a roar and a shove, he was abruptly back on 27 Christmas, 2351.
Setting a course for Earth, son. We’re free and clear. The blockade ships never even caught a sniff of us.
That’s hard to believe. Maybe we can get this thing fumigated before we go after Mendoza, huh? Alec scratched his stubbly chin.
I’ll see what I can do, lad Wouldn’t want to spoil yer romantic mood, now, would we?
Within the console of the shuttle the INTERCEPT program ran its course, ticking out its final sequence of numbers. It waited expectantly for the detonation that would tell it its program had been fulfilled. The seconds went by, and no explosion came. The INTERCEPT realized it had been rendered pointless and, because no failure in its execution had ever been anticipated, it quietly expired, and no one—not even Mendoza—knew that it had been set to go off after Alec had delivered his payload.
The pattern of destiny swirled and set again, in a new shape, because Alec had not died that night. He had been supposed to; he ought to have been blown to airy powder, a drifting film of ash against the face of heaven and a tiny black box emitting a signal to enable Dr. Zeus to retrieve it at some convenient later date.
But Alec had not died.
Kingston was a sparkle of colored lights between the black hills and the black sea. As the shuttle came down, smaller clusters of light appeared, smaller outposts of civilization: vacation villas miles out of the city. They dotted the coast road like beads on a string, each one with its own exclusive bay, white sand, green mangroves, big fences and privacy.
There was a rambling stone house on a hill, overlooking a sheltered cove. It was one of the few houses Alec kept that he actually lived in, from time to time. The old place had belonged to a plantation owner once, and was paneled and floored in beautiful mahogany. Alec had had all the latest entertainment conveniences put in, stocked the bar and wine cellar, and sailed away. He liked it as well as any other house on land. It seemed like a good place to rendezvous.
The New Year’s Eve party was pretty well advanced by the time night had fallen. It had started when the Resistance heroes had spotted the Captain Morgan slipping into the cove below th
e house, keeping her appointment with minutes to spare, and no uniformed men with gas guns came boiling out of her hold. A security scan by Krishnamurti showed that she hadn’t a living soul on board, which was just as it should be, and in their relief the heroes popped the cork on the first bottle of Perrier-Jouet.
So, some time around ten o’clock, Binscarth was able to do no more than hoot drunkenly and wave an arm when he observed the blue light dropping down from the stars toward the deck of the Captain Morgan.
Balkister ran out on the balcony. The cargo hatches of the Captain Morgan were opening in majestic silence, receiving the shuttle with perfect timing.
“Oi, lads, he’s made it,” Balkister screamed. The other members of the Resistance came stumbling out to see, overturning a tray of party dip and chips and a couple of half-empty bottles as they came. A drunken cheer was raised and Binscarth began to sing “For I Am a Pirate King,” very much out of tune.
They saw the cargo hatches swinging down and a moment later a dark figure ran up on deck. It poised on the railing and leaped overboard into the bay.
“S‘havin’ a little swim. Le’s go welcome the conquerin’ ’ero,” said Johnson-Johnson. This seemed like a great idea, so they crowded back inside and ran down the stairs to the beach, grabbing a few more bottles of champagne as they went. On the way down Magilside fell with a squeal of alarm and rolled, but he landed harmlessly in the powdery sand, and so was only a little way behind the others when they raised a cheer as Alec came staggering out of the surf, gasping and pushing his lank wet hair back from his forehead.
“Hipiphurrah Hipiphurrah Hipiphurrah!” said Balkister. He danced about in the sand, tripping and falling at Alec’s feet. “You did it! You did it, ugly guy. Future generations will bless your name.”
“What can we do for you?” Binscarth asked. “Food? Wine? Gowgeous women?”
“You can deodorize that damn shuttle,” Alec wheezed. “You have no idea. I want a shower, okay? And a shave. And some fresh food.”
“All yours, noble scion of an ancient house,” said Balkister, rising to his knees and salaaming. “Justice will prevail. Come on up to the house, Checkerfield, we’ve been keeping a bottle well iced just for you.”
“Great,” said Alec as he strode across the sand, peeling off his wet sweater. His soaked pants were hanging low, threatening to trip him. He hauled at them grimly and kept going, compelled by the dream of hot running water and soap.
When he finally emerged from the bathroom in a cloud of steam, he found his bathrobe coyly laid out beside a tray with a single glass of champagne, sending its quiet steady stream of bubbles upward. Pulling on the robe, he took the glass and stepped into the den.
He was met by the Resistance blowing little tin horns and whirling noisemakers.
“Here’s to the hero of Mars One,” said Balkister, clapping him on the shoulder and slopping his champagne. Alec grinned good-naturedly and raised his glass in a toast to them. For once he didn’t feel the usual crushing sense of desolation that these were his only human friends. In the morning he’d make his farewells and then he’d be gone, back to the station in that foul shuttle for Mendoza.
“Have some onion dip, deah boy,” slurred Binscarth. “Jus’ about to watch the ball dwop in Times Squaw!”
“Yes, it’s nearly midnight,” Magilside said. “Happy bloody New Year to Areco, eh?”
“Yeah,” Alec said, tasting his champagne. “Should we turn on TWN to see what happens when the Martian lease expires?”
“Oh, we know how tha’s gonna turn out now,” said Binscarth. “Tomowwow. I wanna see Times Squaw. Can’t miss the ball dwop!”
“Turn on the holo, then, it’s almost time,” said Johnson-Johnson. Binscarth groped unsteadily and switched on the holoset.
But where were the crowds in New York? Where were the balloons and streamers?
Alec and his friends stared in silence, not understanding what they were seeing at first. Gradually the meaning of the stammered narration sank in.
“ … nearly three thousand men, women and children. The outlying stations are being evacuated. They don’t face any danger from the lava flow but they do risk freezing to death. Mars One, which had maintained independent use of wind-powered generators, is safe at the present time …”
“Maws?” said Binscarth.
“Oh my God,” said Magilside.
“ … and appears to have been an act of sabotage by extremist elements in the MAC. The MAC has promised full cooperation with the authorities, though it seems certain that the terrorist who planted the bomb in the geothermal plant was killed in the explosion.”
“Bomb?” Johnson-Johnson gasped. “We didn’t send them any bombs! Did we?”
Alec, get out of there. Run.
Alec remained stock still, unable to take his eyes from the footage being shown. It had apparently been transmitted from the main surveillance camera mounted over Commerce Square in Mars Two. People loping along in the funny stride everyone walked with on Mars, shopping, going to jobs, families out for a stroll on a starry evening.
Then the BANG, loud enough for some people to turn their heads in the direction of the geothermal plant, you could see them turning in alarm, but not really loud enough to prepare the viewer for what came next: a flash that turned the night to day, then to blazing red day, and tiny people were being swept away like leaves in the pyroclastic blast as the side of Mons Olympus blew open. There was nothing after that, thank God, the picture flared out as the camera was destroyed.
Binscarth put his fingertips in his mouth and began to rock to and fro, making a high wailing sound.
“ … set off the chain reaction that caused the eruption. The terrorist may have disguised himself as one of the plant workers reporting for the night shift. His apparent motive was to disable the economy of Mars Two in retaliation for the ruling evicting the MAC from Mars One …”
“You damned idiot!” Magilside turned on Alec. “You gave them bombs.”
“You stupid fool,” shrieked Binscarth. “You—you upper-class mowon! We’ll be awwested!”
“ … how the weapons were obtained, but the MAC spokespersons have released the following surveillance footage taken in October, showing an as yet unidentified shuttle being unloaded in Hangar Twelve …”
Alec closed his eyes. He knew what the others were seeing. He opened his eyes again and, yes, there he was, blurred but unmistakable.
That tears it. We’re weighing anchor, son.
“Alec,” said Balkister very quietly, “You’d better go now.”
“He can’t go,” said Johnson-Johnson. “He’s our only chance! If we call the authorities now—if we confess and explain it was him did it, we had no idea what he was going to do, don’t you see—”
Alec wasn’t sure how or when he left the house, but he found himself walking down the beach stairs in his bathrobe, carrying his glass of champagne. There was still shouting going on above. Something was floating toward him, blowing up a cloud of sand: the agboat, piloted by Billy Bones. It touched down just in front of him and Billy Bones tilted its head to look at Alec.
For Christ’s sake, get in, boy.
Alec stepped inside and sat down, tossing aside his champagne glass. He heard the faint tinkle as it broke on the stairs. The agboat rose, and soared across to the deck of the Captain Morgan. She was already tacking about to sail off into the night as the agboat settled into its davits. Alec climbed out and went into the saloon.
Listen to me, boy. This weren’t yer fault. There’s things you don’t know, there’s things I’ve only just found out. There’s a load of orders given by somebody in the Company named Labienus, setting you up. They did allow you to steal the shuttle! If I’d had time to analyze all that new data, instead of chasing across the damned solar system for the past week—
Alec swept the saloon with a blank crystalline stare. His gaze rested on the door to the galley. He took a few steps in that direction.
None of tha
t, boy. Coxinga appeared in the doorway, rising up on two of its hind legs to block Alec’s way. Alec stared past it at the array of cutlery on the wall. He turned away to the armory cabin door, but Billy Bones rose to block that as well. Alec started across the saloon.
Son, listen to me. Dr. Zeus knew about this.
Alec stopped in front of the bar. He looked up at the array of bottles. There were six of them ranged there, full. He hadn’t been drinking much in the last few months. He reached up and took down a bottle of rum.
All right, get drunk, but you got to pay attention first. You were set up, do you hear me?
Alec grabbed three other bottles and strode away to his stateroom, cradling them in his arms. Coxinga and Flint scuttled after him as the Captain realized what Alec was doing, but he got inside just a second ahead of them and slammed the door in their skeletal faces. He set down his bottles and locked the door. The Captain unlocked it at once and after a moment’s struggle Alec took a chair and wedged it under the knob.
Alec, for God’s sake.
He ignored the scraping and thudding at his door. With a set face he broke the seal on the first bottle and lifted it to his mouth, tilting back his head. In approximately thirty seconds he gulped down most of a liter of rum.
Alec, don’t do this. Boy, please.
By the time he had choked back the contents of the third bottle his hands were trembling and the room had begun to sway. Some human pain was showing on his face at last; but he doggedly took up the fourth bottle and drank its contents down.
Alec.
The drumming on the door was a thunder now, and there was a high whining sound as well. Screams of the men, women, and children of Mars Two? The chair was leaping, jolting. He gagged. Why hadn’t he died yet? This was harder than he’d thought it would be. He groped blindly for the chair, meaning to hold it in place, and fell down. He was unconscious when he began to vomit.
SON!
THE YEAR 2352:
MEETING IN THE NEW WORLD
Rutherford sat alone in the parlor at No. 10 Albany Crescent. He had been crying for hours; his eyes were swollen nearly shut. There was no fire in the fireplace. There were no holo images flickering in midair. The room was as silent as he could make it, but there was still a noise coming in through the dead air from outside. It was a queer massed sound. It seemed to be coming from every direction, because in fact it was.
