The Aethers of Mars

by Eric Flint

  “Besides, Ilya”—Alexander waved his hand impatiently—“we know Luff’s travel arrangements. You were the one yourself who bribed the purser’s assistant to find out.”

  “That just tells us where their luggage is supposed to go.”

  “So? Terrorists need to change their clothes on occasion just like anyone else. Especially since on Mars they’ll find precious little in the way of garment shops or laundries.”

  That was purely a guess on Alexander’s part. He had no idea how native Martians handled such matters. But it didn’t matter. The notion that Edward Luff might be Savinkov was so outlandish that Alexander saw no reason to waste his time and mental energy trying to come up with detailed and careful rebuttals. Drezhner himself wasn’t that stupid. He was just being pigheaded.

  He was still glaring at him, too. What an insufferable man!

  This was a waste of time. “Just do as you’re told,” he commanded Drezhner. “After we land, you follow Underwood. There’s a radio station at our embassy in Crenex which you can use to report to me.”

  “Report to you where? You said yourself that Jelinek will be moving about.”

  Alexander managed to restrain himself from responding angrily. It was a legitimate question, after all, even if he was sure Drezhner had only raised it to be obstreperous.

  Unfortunately, radio communication on Mars was difficult, and could only be done at all by using large transmitters—which meant there weren’t many of them. The problem, he’d been told by the technical expert at the Paris office, was the planet’s ionosphere. Unlike Earth’s, it was ill-suited to transmit long-range radio signals. Even the powerful radios at the Russian embassies and consulates on Mars had poor and erratic reception if the signal came from any great distance.

  “We have a consulate at one of the cities of the Octad Gentillus in the Vallis Agathodaemonis. Mooktar, it’s called. It’s less than thirty kilometers from the city of Coprates, where we’ll be landing. You can send a message there as well as to the embassy at Tryddoc Aru.”

  Tryddoc Aru was located in the Sinus Aurorae region. With the embassy at Crenex and the consulate in Coprates, the three radio stations made a roughly equilateral triangle with each other. In the event Drezhner had to communicate with him, Alexander should be able to get the message soon enough no matter where he went.

  Soon enough, at least, given that he didn’t think his subordinate was going to encounter anything that required an urgent response. The likelihood that Underwood was Savinkov was quite low, in Alexander’s estimate. He was almost certain that Jelinek was the assassin—if Savinkov was on Mars at all, which he might well not be. The longer the voyage had lasted, the less confident Alexander had become that the Okhrana’s intelligence was accurate.

  He was not dismayed by the prospect that their mission might turn out to be completely pointless, however. Blind alleys and fruitless expeditions—what the English called a wild goose chase—were simply part and parcel of the life of an Okhrana agent. One might as well be dismayed by the sunset or the tides.

  * * *

  Chapter 9

  “So where will you go first, Vera?” asked Edward Luff. The voyage was almost over and he’d long been on first name terms with the Duchesne widow. “Vallis Agathodaemonis or the mountain?”

  “I’d do Nix Olympica, for sure!” exclaimed his son. “It’s not only the solar system’s greatest mountain—it’s a volcano.” A moment later he added, “Not active at the moment, though.”

  He sounded quite disgruntled, as if having a gigantic volcano erupt in their midst would be some sort of splendid adventure. Charlotte rolled her eyes.

  Madame Duchesne just smiled at the boy, however. She had the patience of a saint.

  “For you, perhaps, Adrian. But I’m a creaky old woman.”

  “Oh, I’d hardly say that!” protested Edward. No token protest, either. It was by now obvious to Charlotte that her father had become attracted to the woman in the course of their voyage. To the point where Charlotte herself was beginning to reconsider her previous assumption that the age difference involved was an insurmountable obstacle.

  Smiling more widely now, Duchesne fluttered the fingers of her left hand. “Well, perhaps ‘creaky’ is overstating the matter. But I’m still of an age where sightseeing among the exotic cities of the Octad Gentillus is more enticing than climbing up the side of a mountain that is approximately the size of Iceland and three times higher than Mt. Everest.”

  Adrian rubbed his hands gleefully. “Not to mention that at its peak, Nix Olympica sticks up out of Mars’s atmosphere! That’s how tall it is!”

  Charlotte was startled—enough, in fact, to express herself out loud, something she tried never to do in response to one of her brother’s inane factoids.

  “You’re joking!” she exclaimed.

  “I am not!”

  “Not joking perhaps,” said their father, in a tone of mild reproof. “But you are exaggerating. I believe at the very top of Nix Olympica that the atmosphere still exists, although it’s only ten or fifteen percent of the planet’s normal atmospheric pressure.”

  Madame Duchesne made a face. “Either way, much too thin for me. I’m a creature of bistros, not barometers. I can only hope that bistros—or some reasonable equivalent—exist on Mars. But if they do, I think my best chance of finding them would be somewhere in the Octad Gentillus.”

  They were all sitting at a table which they shared with Vijay and Sumati Shankar, as well as Mrs. Smith. The rest of the Hindu group was seated at three adjacent tables. Outside the windows that surrounded the observation deck, the stars wheeled by. The magnificent view of Mars which they’d enjoyed for the past few days was no longer in evidence, however. The Agincourt’s crew had carried through the reconfiguration of the ship the day before. The planet they were nearing was now located beneath the floor of the observation deck; not visible unless one was standing at the railing.

  A choking sound came from the other end of the table from where Charlotte was seated. Leaning over and looking to her left, she saw that Mrs. Smith had her hand on her throat. Her eyes seemed to be bulging a little. She seemed quite pale, too; more so than usual.

  Again, the woman made that peculiar choking sound. As if something were lodged in her throat, although her mouth was open and she was breathing normally. Well, perhaps not normally—but she was breathing. She couldn’t be choking on something.

  “Are you quite well, Mrs. Smith?” asked Charlotte’s father. He was frowning slightly, as a man does when he’s concerned but not yet really alarmed.

  Mrs. Smith looked at him. A bit desperately, Charlotte thought. And, again, she made that choking sound.

  “Something is wrong,” said Madame Duchesne. Her tone was firm; even decisive. She rose from her chair and went around the table to take Mrs. Smith by the shoulders.

  “Come, dear. We must get you to the infirmary.”

  Madame Duchesne shifted her grip under the woman’s arms and lifted her up out of the chair. She did so with complete ease, from what Charlotte could tell. The German widow’s ample figure obviously included quite a bit of muscle.

  By now, Charlotte’s father had risen and come over as well. “She’s absolutely right, Mrs. Smith. We must get you to the infirmary at once.”

  The governess gave Charlotte’s father an apologetic grimace. She then tried to take a few steps away from the table, with Edward Luff’s hand under one arm and Madame Duchesne’s under the other.

  And promptly collapsed.

  Fortunately, Charlotte’s father caught her before she fell to the floor. As he held her up, Madame Duchesne inspected her face.

  “She’s breathing but she’s unconscious, Edward. We need to hurry.” Charlotte’s father picked up the governess and cradled her limp body in his arms. He was a large man, and rather strong despite his sedentary occupation.

  Vera was already moving toward the infirmary. But within seconds, three stewards arrived. One of them offered to carr
y Mrs. Smith, but Charlotte’s father shook his head.

  “I’m fine. Just clear the way to the infirmary.”

  * * *

  Edward Luff returned to the table half an hour later and resumed his seat.

  “What’s wrong with Mrs. Smith?” Charlotte asked.

  “They don’t know. Something, clearly. She’s still unconscious. Fortunately, all her vital signs seem … well, adequate, at least. She’s apparently not in any immediate danger. But …”

  He seemed a bit lost. “But …”

  “But she won’t be able to resume her duties tomorrow. When we land on Mars.” That came from Mr. Shankar.

  “Ah … no. I don’t imagine there’s any chance of it. In fact …”

  “She may not recover for some time,” Mr. Shankar said. “Days, possibly weeks.”

  Charlotte’s father sighed. “Yes. Exactly. There is a hospital—for humans, I mean—at Coprates. Where we’re landing. It’s in the city itself, of course, not out at the aerodrome.”

  “I think it’s ‘astrodome,’ Father.” That was her brother Adrian’s utterly useless contribution to the crisis.

  “Yes, yes,” her father replied distractedly.

  “Where’s Madame Duchesne?” Charlotte asked.

  “She’s staying with Mrs. Smith for the moment. I told her I’d be back as soon as possible.”

  He still looked distracted. Charlotte saw Mr. and Mrs. Shankar exchange what seemed to be a meaningful glance. Then Mrs. Shankar leaned over and said softly, “Charlotte, why don’t you and your brother go see to Mrs. Smith yourselves, for a short while.”

  Charlotte might have protested, but she was fairly sure she understood the purpose behind Mrs. Shankar’s suggestion. She’d given the matter some thought herself, over the past few weeks, and while she hadn’t come to any definite conclusion she was inclined toward the positive.

  “Come along, Adrian,” she said, rising to her feet.

  Naturally, her brother—oblivious as boys were—put up a protest. But their father seconded Mrs. Shankar’s suggestion. Rather firmly.

  * * *

  After the children left, Sumati got straight to the point. “I hope Mrs. Smith will recover soon, and suffer no permanent ill effects. But I have to tell you honestly, Edward, that I think of this as something of a blessing. Given”—here she looked very stern—“that you’ve been incapable thus far of making what seems to both Vijay and myself a clear and simple decision regarding a clear and simple matter.”

  Edward smiled crookedly. “Leave it to a woman to call such a thing ‘clear and simple.’ I think it’s anything but that.”

  He looked to Vijay, seeking support from another male.

  But the Brahmin scholar shook his head. “I am an Indian, Edward. On this subject I share my wife’s hard-headed and practical attitude, not the phantasmagories of you Englishmen.”

  “I don’t think ‘phantasmagories’ is a real word, Vijay,” Luff said.

  “Perhaps not in London. But I assure you that in my native Punjab it comes quite trippingly off the tongue of those Indians who speak English at all, after they meet their first Englishman in the flesh.”

  “Ours was an arranged marriage, as you know,” said Shankar’s wife. “I think it’s turned out very well. Vijay and I met for the first time at our wedding. He was a seventeen-year-old virgin and I was the nearest thing possible, being the widow of a first husband who was sixty-three when I married him and not in good health. So what are you complaining about? You’ve had weeks to contemplate the subject of Vera Duchesne. Weeks. In close and constant proximity, to boot.”

  “Is it her age that concerns you?” asked Vijay. He smiled at his wife. “Sumati is almost ten years older than I am. Trust me. It’s never been a problem. To the contrary—there are many advantages to having an older wife.”

  Luff shook his head. “No, it’s not that. To tell you the truth, I never think about Vera’s age any longer. She’s … ah …”

  “Quite attractive.” That came from Sumati. Stated firmly, flatly—something not to be disputed.

  “Well. Yes.”

  He sighed and ran fingers through his hair.

  Hair which was beginning to grow a bit thin. Edward was still in good health, but he was no longer a young man.

  “Your children are already fond of her, you know,” said Vijay.

  “Yes, I know. Don’t think I haven’t thought about that. Especially in terms of Charlotte. It’s hard for a girl her age, not to have a mother to turn to for advice when … well. When she needs to.”

  A throaty little laugh came from Sumati. “And when it involves matters she’s not about to raise with her father.”

  “Well. That. Yes.”

  Again, he ran fingers through his hair.

  Sumati leaned over and placed a hand on his arm. “Edward, you don’t have to propose to the woman within the next hour. You need simply ask her if she’d be willing to forego her tourist plans in order to accompany us to our destination. Because with Mrs. Smith being ill, and you committed to your work—you have no leeway in the matter, given that the Meredith Foundation is paying for it all—you desperately need help with the children.”

  “And what if she declines?”

  Sumati sat back and shrugged. “Then that is the answer to your unspoken question along with the spoken one.”

  She left unsaid the obvious corollary. If Vera Duchesne said yes, she’d also be replying to an unspoken question as well as the one spoken aloud.

  Edward wasn’t sure which made him the most nervous. But he wasn’t actually obtuse, despite being a male, a scholar, and an Englishman. The very fact that he was nervous about both outcomes made it clear he needed to ask the question.

  * * *

  “Yes, Edward. Of course I’ll come with you to Ghlaktora.” Vera Duchesne waved her hand airily. “My own plans were simply those of a bored, well-to-do widow. I can always be a tourist again. If need be.”

  * * *

  The English governess had had a worse reaction to the poison than was normal. The waiter who’d placed it in her food came to Savinkov’s cabin in a panic late that night.

  “You said she wouldn’t die!” he hissed. He was quite agitated, but trying to keep his voice down. His gaze shifted nervously back and forth, scanning the corridor for passersby.

  “And she won’t,” the assassin replied confidently, trying to soothe the fellow. “She’s just having a bad reaction. A few people do. It will pass, in a few days, and she’ll be fine again.”

  “They’ll investigate. Suspicion will fall upon me.”

  The waiter’s anxiety was excessive. If all the people at his table had been affected, he might indeed come under suspicion. One person falling ill could be caused by anything. But there was no point wasting time in an argument.

  “Wait here.” Savinkov went back into the cabin and emerged perhaps ten seconds later, with a small vial in hand. “Take this. Place a bit of it in the food of … let’s say four people, at breakfast. Make sure most of them are seated at tables served by other waiters.”

  The waiter took the vial and stared at it, wide-eyed. His expression was apprehensive—but also, at the edges, hope was emerging.

  “The symptoms will be the same, but milder. The ship’s doctor will conclude that some sort of illness was spread around. Food poisoning of some kind, most likely.” Savinkov’s soft laugh had an acid tinge to it. “At that point, of course, the BEPC will squelch any further investigation. The last thing they want to get bruited about is that their precious Agincourt had problems of that nature.”

  The waiter still looked uncertain. “But … the port authorities …”

  “In Coprates? Because of the spaceport, the city is practically an outright fiefdom of Cecil Rhodes. In case you’ve forgotten, he’s the man who owns the BEPC in the first place. The largest shareholder, at least. The authorities in Coprates will do exactly what Rhodes instructs them to do.”

  After the waiter le
ft and Savinkov retired back into the cabin, the assassin spent the first half hour in bed considering the best way to handle the situation.

  What most people would assume to be the natural inclination of an assassin was more likely to cause problems than solve them. In any event, Savinkov had strong ethical principles and was unwilling to kill anyone except in self-defense or if they were legitimate political targets. Killing the waiter would be murder, pure and simple.

  And there was no need for it. Another bribe, passed to the waiter just before leaving the ship, should do the trick. When in doubt, in Savinkov’s experience—very extensive experience—the humble bribe was usually the most reliable option. The terrorist’s equivalent of Occam’s Razor, you might say.

  * * *

  Chapter 10

  Alexander wanted to make sure he was one of the very first passengers to disembark from the Agincourt. That required a bribe to the head steward, which he explained to the man as being due to vaguely defined commercial competition, but the steward didn’t really care anyway.

  As the favor asked was a small one, it didn’t need to be a large bribe—thankfully, since Alexander’s funds were starting to run low. He was hoping he’d be able to replenish his purse once he made contact with the Russian embassy at Tryddoc Aru. Prince Vorontsov was a wealthy man, and given the nature of Alexander’s mission here on Mars—which began with protect Prince Vorontsov—he was fairly confident the prince would be reasonable.