by Jaine Fenn
Assuming she was what she sounded like. As I walked to the final meeting of the day, I considered the likelihood that Ana and possibly Mr P were not real people at all, but constructs voiced by a LAI. Then again, why use a Limited Artificial Intellect when I might suss I was talking to a machine? Just use masking software on a real human, as appeared to be the case here. And obviously they weren’t Unlimited AIs. Not even the Deimons in their little bit of orbital semi-anarchy had managed – or perhaps dared – to recreate the perfect storm that led, briefly, to the only true AI. I doubted they’d be foolish enough to try, given how that worked out last time. But I was over-thinking this. All that mattered was that everyone played their part and the job went off smoothly.
The third team member who Ika had already vetted was Nico. His role fell somewhere between Xiao-Fei and Ana’s, though he’d be working locally, on the ground. We met in one of the larger plazas, where drones flew delicacies from the nearby food court to diners’ tables. Nico was there before me. We both ordered iced tea. He had mixed Malaysian and African heritage; he came across as laid-back and friendly, though his file said he was ex-military, an early experience as a conscript in southeast Asia he wasn’t proud of. ‘I’m here now, living a new life on Mars,’ he said with a smile. My only concern was that he might have exaggerated his skills, as he struck me as a little too eager to please. Then again, much of his work would be done in advance of the job. Plus, I was looking for a mix of competencies hard to find in this environment and though I might have covered all the bases with two people taking on this role, I wanted to keep the numbers down.
The following day I met up with the final team member; our late addition, doing the job Shiv would have done, had he lived long enough.
The individual in question wished to be known as Gregori. He was Marineris-born and to go by the quality of the hotel he was staying at he wasn’t in this for the money. I suspected Gregori was the rebellious playboy son of one of the old Russian families. I wondered at this, given the uneasy relations between China and Russia here and on Earth. But, though he was Martian-born, as a first-time visitor to Olympus he fulfilled Mr P’s preference for using non-locals where possible, and nothing Ika managed to turn up gave us cause for suspicion.
We met in a coffee bar which, in the way of such offworld establishments, mainly sold over-priced coffee substitutes. He was late, which was a strike against him, and when he arrived he threw himself into the seat opposite me with a grin.
I tried to hold onto the fact that he was tardy, arrogant and might have dubious connections but mainly I tried to remember to breathe. He was in his early twenties, with sharp yet asymmetric features and immaculate blond hair. I have a thing for blonds. He’d look fantastic in Russian traditional costume, on the back of a black stallion. Were Cossacks blond? Who cared? He could ride across the steppes and pillage my village any time. Yes, breathe. I looked away from those lovely sapphire eyes and started the interview, only to have him interrupt as I was asking how long he’d been in Olympus.
‘I get to drive and to pilot, yes?’
‘Yes, you’ll need both skills.’
‘Good, good. Do you like to drive fast Ms C?’ I’d taken a leaf out of Shiv’s book and insisted my team used my title and first letter of my surname; hearing even part of my name from this young man made me feel a certain warmth. Stay focused, and breathe.
‘We’re not talking high performance vehicles here, Gregori.’
‘No? But it’ll still be fun.’
I managed to keep to my script for the rest of the interview. He flirted outrageously the whole time. I wasn’t sure if this was an act for me or his default setting. Frankly, I didn’t care.
I did ask one direct question I’d avoided with the others, it generally being considered bad form amongst career criminals. ‘Why do you want to do this job?’
‘Like I said, it’ll be fun, da?’
I believed him. He really was that shallow. How charming. ‘Let’s hope so. I’m guessing, given where you’re staying, the money is not the issue.’
‘It is a good hotel. Spacious rooms.’
‘Really? I’d be interested in seeing that for myself.’
‘You like to see my room? I would love to show you.’
‘Lead on.’
Two hundred or so years ago, back when humans first ventured into space, the idea of zero-gee sex used to be a Thing. It was meant to be exotic, special, out-of-this-world. Another example of how dumb our ancestors were. Leaving aside the chance that one or more partners would spend the session trying not to throw up, the laws of the universe do not bend just so a girl can get herself the right level of friction and degree of thrust to really hit the spot.
Low-gee sex with someone who knows what they’re doing is, however, a-maz-ing. And Gregori knew what he was doing. Part of me wanted to stay all night – or what was left of it when I finally surfaced long enough to check the time – but that’s not how I operate. Gregori, bless him, appeared genuinely surprised and sorry when I left.
Two days later myself, Nico and Gregori took a trip into the tunnels. Another key to success in a job like this, besides compartmentalisation, is diversion. Lifting the Eye was the simple part of the job; getting away with it would be the real challenge, and doing so without being caught was the reason we were being paid so much.
The final factor for any hands-on job is practice, although we were limited in what could be practiced in advance.
Ana, the team member with the fullest picture – including details on the target, so Mr P had better be right to trust her – would be doing whatever prep she needed on her own, high up in her orbital castle.
I was confident that Xiao-Fei knew how to deal with the on-site security we’d run into on the night. And before we went in I’d give him the full low-down on what was required, including the additional and rather unexpected part of the snatch.
Which left me, Nico and Gregori to run through the getaway, insofar as we could. We visited a part of Olympus most tourists avoided, the barely-used maze of first-generation tunnels dug by the original tunnelworms – the LAI-brained excavators invented by the Levi-Mathesons – along with so much we take for granted today, from spidersilk digesters to brain-deplaquing. Whatever I, or anyone else, might say about the LMs, they were the only non-corporate entity who got rich enough to buy a moon. And for all their high ideals, they kept their fortune by use of expedient cut-outs on their biotech which activate, rendering said tech useless, unless it gets regular catalytic boosts or similar tailored updates. These are sent out free from the Deimos labs… provided you’d paid the patent fees back to the founders’ descendants.
Amusingly, the practice vehicles were rentals. Resources were limited here. All I could do was make sure they were as a close in spec as possible to the ones we’d be using on the night. This part of the run-through was more about getting familiar with the route than pulling fast stunts. You can’t pull fast stunts in a tunnelbug. Not that this stopped Gregori trying. And though Nico was a competent driver, I needed a bit of practice. I’d driven various vehicles on Earth and Luna but my previous experience hadn’t been underground. We ended up paying a damage excess on two of the ’bugs, thanks to Gregori’s over-enthusiasm and my inexperience.
Halfway through our four days’ of driving practice the Rainfall comet started final braking ready for insertion into Mars orbit. It looked unreal in the footage, a spiny black ball like some giant gothoid kid’s toy. The black was the nanoweave coating, another LM special, necessary to keep the irregular ball of dirty snow intact until Everlight were ready to sell it off by the tonne. The news was cooing about this latest near-impossible feat by the corp. How had they managed it? A good question, but not one that bothered me much at the time.
By now we were only a week away from the start of the New Year celebrations, and Olympus’ tunnels, plazas and shops were awash with red and gold décor and ingeniously constructed dragons ranging from the cute to the disturb
ing.
The day after Project Rainfall entered its penultimate phase I had an odd encounter. I was taking a narrow alleyway back to my doss-house – having seen inside Gregori’s accommodation, I couldn’t call it a hotel any more – when a man with an oversize backpack hurried out of a side turning. We ran into each other, and bundles of incense and lucky banknotes spewed from his backpack in Martian slo-mo. I reached out to help. Although the encounter had made me jump, he was old and bearded. Harmless. Probably. ‘So very sorry,’ he muttered as he pulled himself upright on me.
‘No, no, it’s my fault.’ This kind of stunt could be a diversion, and I put my back against the slimy wall even as I helped the old man to his feet. Looking past him the alley appeared empty. ‘Can you manage? Your stuff I mean?’ This could still be a ploy, and I didn’t want to get jumped while crouched down with hands full of ritual offerings.
‘You hold my pack?’
I couldn’t really refuse. I propped the pack against my leg, keeping my head up, while the old man gathered his gear up and re-packed it, fussing and muttering under his breath. As I lifted the pack onto his back he said, ‘You like Olympus?’
‘Er, yes. It’s a great city.’ He could guess I was a visitor; that was easy enough.
‘So you stay for a while?’
‘A while, yes.’ I let go of the pack. He teetered for a moment, then turned to me. ‘And you behave while you are here?’ He actually waggled a bony finger at me.
I nodded. Not sure what else I could do.
He turned and bustled off.
Another film I remember, in fact I’m sure I’ve seen this trope more than once, is when the harmless old man who the stupid gwailo disregards later turns out to be the Grandfather of the local Triad family.
We couldn’t practice with the second vehicle we’d be using. We were in the hands of Mr P and Ana for that part of the job. All we could do was make sure we got to it safely.
External airlocks aren’t remote hackable any more – humans learnt by that mistake in the Selene City disaster. You have to be physically present to deal with them. Hacking one in situ is possible, but if you’re in a hurry, or you don’t have the skills, you need something a little more… primitive.
And that was how the three of us came to take another rented vehicle, this one a rover rather than a tunnelbug, on a day-trip to the outside slopes of Olympus Mons itself.
Given what had happened to my brother, I went armed with the most impressive weapon Ika had procured, an ancient-looking concussion pistol, firing actual slugs. Not at all legal, so I couldn’t wear it openly in the domes. It wouldn’t be wise to let off a shot in the rover either, but I felt better knowing I had a weapon to hand. Once we were outside the city proper, I strapped the holster on my belt. Nico gave me a dark look, but said nothing. Gregori raised his eyebrows at the chunky sidearm, before smiling and commenting that he found girls with big guns very sexy. Breathe, and focus, Lizzie. Breathe and focus. I kept both my accomplices in sight as far as possible. That way, if one of them tried anything, the other might, hopefully, intervene.
It took most of the day to reach the target area, as we were practising on long-disused and semi-depressurized tunnels far enough away from any habitation that our activities would remain undetected. We also had limited materials for this dry run, as we had to save enough for the job itself.
It took Nico half an hour to do this stuff out at the chosen airlock. Gregori and I had nothing to do but wait, back in the rover. This vehicle, being somewhat more expensive than the tunnelbugs, had internal cameras, one covering the cab, one looking out, so we’d parked facing downslope with a panoramic view of red rubble sweeping down towards the distant plains below. If it wasn’t for the clause saying we’d lose our deposit on the rental if we took our skinsuits off, Gregori and I might have given anyone who reviewed the internal footage something interesting to watch.
The time ticked by. If Gregori wasn’t the vacuous and cute creature he appeared to be then now, with Nico out of sight, would be the time to make his move. The camera coverage wasn’t perfect; a gun drawn behind the pilot’s seat, pointed forward, might not even be recorded. And cameras could be tampered with.
I told myself that these paranoid fantasies weren’t helping and indulged in some more healthy, if filthy, ones. Given he hadn’t shot me, I’d be going back to Gregori’s when we were done here.
Finally Nico commed, summoning us out to witness his handiwork. We donned breathers and went outside. This was the first time I’d stood on the unprotected surface of another planet, and I tried to savour the experience, but it was a lot like a technicolour version of the Moon, though with splashes of sulphur and grey hardy-lichen on some of the sunnier rocks. Nico had found one such rock, which he now suggested we stayed behind, ‘just in case’. This did not reassure me.
The charge was on a timer, but being monitored from his suit. He counted it down over the comm, as a courtesy. ‘Three… two… one.’
The ground kicked. A plume of rock, dust and bits of metal airlock spurted out the side of the mountain. A lot more rock, dust and metal than I’d expected. Despite the thin air, the accompanying bang was loud enough to hurt the ears. If anyone was listening in Olympus, they’d have heard that.
I took a deep breath to calm myself, then turned to Nico.
‘You’re only supposed to blow the outer airlock!’
Nico smiled, and shrugged apologetically. Behind him, debris began to rain down on the Martian landscape.
When we got back to the domes, I half expected Nico’s over-enthusiasm to have got us in trouble. The tunnel he’d breached had been sealed further in so we hadn’t caused a blow-out, but an explosion that size could register on seismic sensors and as Mars wasn’t prone to earthquakes that could have raised questions. When no one asked about our little trip I concluded we’d been far enough out that no one had noticed.
But that evening did bring some bad news. Ika called to say Xiao-Fei had been arrested.
‘What for?’ I demanded.
‘My sources didn’t say. We have no reason to suspect it relates to the current endeavour.’
No reason to assume it didn’t, either. I had a sudden urge to check escape routes. My options for leaving Mars were limited, not least by lack of funds. If I wanted to use my budget return I’d need to wait a week.
Late morning the next day the news got worse. Xiao-Fei had suffered an ‘incident’ while in police custody, and was now in a coma. His health hadn’t been good and it might just be that, an accident, maybe even a reaction to stress. Or he might have been interrogated, with prejudice. I hated myself for hoping he was just ill, as opposed to a victim of police brutality, but he was in no position to have an opinion right now.
Two flights left before New Year, one to Phobos (affordable) and one back to Earth (not). Or I could head out to Marineris, let Gregori show me the sights there. Then again, if Xiao-Fei had squealed, they’d be watching the ports. Or I could call off the job, leaving me broke and in bad favour with Ika and our patron. But also alive, and out of prison. Perhaps I should hope for bad weather, as that would scupper the job without pissing anyone off. Act of God, and all that. But the forecast was for a fine and dust-free New Year.
I’d got to know a few locals around my doss-house over the last couple of weeks. Relationships varied from polite but distant through to the kind of street camaraderie I sometimes found growing up with Mum and Shiv; in order to end up here I must’ve had at least as crappy a time as they had, and that made me okay. One of the friendlier locals, an ever-cheerful sex worker of variable gender called Wu, asked if I’d heard about old Mr Feng.
‘Not sure I know who you mean.’ The street camaraderie came with an assumption that you knew what they knew, but I’d hadn’t had much chance to get a feel for the neighbourhood.
Wu waved a rainbow-nailed hand. ‘Had a fall, and he’s in the Charity. Such a miser, he wasn’t poor you know, he could have afforded a trolley, or hired
help, but no, he had carry his business on his back.’
‘In a backpack?’
‘Yes! So you do know him. Silly old coot.’
Some coincidences are just that: coincidences. Not enemy action. And some harmless old men really are harmless old men, not venerable crime-lords. Being cautious to the point of paranoid compulsion can be counter-productive.
I called Ika, and asked if she could get hold of anyone with Xiao-Fei’s skillset in the time we had left.
Her name was Paula McIntyre and she was a genuine American. We met at a different tea-house to the one where I’d spoken to Xiao-Fei. Give how tight the schedule was, I considered not meeting her at all, but everyone else had been interviewed and if this last-minute replacement for Xiao-Fei didn’t pan out, the job wasn’t happening.
She was older than any of us, mid sixties at least, with an easy-going smile and a gaze that didn’t miss a trick. She’d only arrived in Olympus recently, from Earth, and her profession was openly listed as ‘security consultant’. As with the others, our chat was mainly small talk. When I commented on her strong US accent she said, ‘My parents saw the Small War.’
