by Eric Flint
Alexander wasn’t clear on the reason for that attitude. It might just be superstition. But he didn’t press the matter. He could use a night’s rest—not to mention the services of the consulate’s laundry.
Tomorrow would be soon enough, he figured. Not even Ilya Drezhner could get into that much trouble in just a few days.
* * *
Edward Luff stared down the long corridor that had been carved out of stone below the edifice in Ghlaktora that served Martians as the analog of a human library. Analog, not equivalent. Repositories of ancient texts seemed to have a religious function on Mars, not simply a secular one. But Edward couldn’t place the function exactly, since Martian religions seemed to operate on different principles than those of any human religion Edward was familiar with.
“How far does it go?” he asked, his tone hushed.
The Martian who was serving as their combined guide, text analyst and spiritual adviser—or perhaps that should be, metaphysical councilor; it was hard to tell—made the wrist-rolling motion that seemed to serve Martians as a shrug. “No one knows,” he said.
Joedheg’s English was surprisingly good, if not quite fluent, but Edward had to strain a bit to understand the fellow. Martians, at least in this region, spoke English with a pronounced accent. It reminded Edward somewhat of the way a German spoke English, but with a sibilant undertone quite foreign to any German-speaker he’d ever known.
“These halls are ancient,” the Martian continued. “We believe some of them date back as far as the Second Epoch.”
That would place them in a time of pre-history rather than history, properly speaking. The Second Epoch was the period in Martian history when the planet was conquered by the Old Ones, according to their legends. The identity of the Old Ones was not clear, although the texts seem to agree that they came from somewhere else in the solar system.
Somewhere other than Mars—and other than the Earth, as well. The same legends generally agreed that Martians had founded colonies on Earth during the Second Epoch, and it was from those colonies that the liberation of Mars from the Old Ones was finally achieved.
So who were the Old Ones? The most common theory posited a race emerging on Europa, or possibly Titan. But no one really knew, because Martians had lost whatever capacity for interplanetary travel they might once have possessed, and no human aethership had ventured farther into the outer reaches of the solar system than the asteroid belt.
That was assuming any of those ancient legends were true at all. Edward was a bit skeptical himself, but tried to keep an open mind on the subject. Seeing this immense complex of tunnels and chambers was making it much easier to do so. The labor involved made the construction of the Egyptian pyramids seem like the work of children on a beach building sand castles. It was a labyrinth that dwarfed anything of the sort ever constructed on Earth. At any moment, Edward almost expected to hear the distant bellow of a minotaur.
Only the first few miles of the corridors were used to house texts and other relics and artifacts. Thereafter, the tunnels fell into darkness and went … wherever they went, and however far that might be.
Smiling, he turned to his companion. “And what do you think of all this, Vera?”
* * *
What she thought didn’t bear speaking aloud, at least not to Edward—and certainly not in front of his children.
What I think is that Grigory Gershuni was right. We can forge a revolutionary movement in this vast labyrinth that no human regime will ever be able to eradicate. With the right alliances with other human movements and good relations where needed with Martian authorities, we will be indestructible.
That had been Gershuni’s hope, and one of the reasons the SRP leader had sent Duchesne on this mission. A Quixotic mission, she’d thought, and had only agreed because of the imperative logic of the other mission he’d given her on this voyage. But now that she had seen the reality for herself, she was fully persuaded.
And deeply relieved. Reconciling her missions with her growing sentiments for Edward and his children had seemed a well-nigh insurmountable challenge. Now …
It would be quite possible, she thought. Not easy, perhaps, but definitely possible.
As if seeking comfort from the vast solitude of the tunnels, her hand found its way into Edward’s. And stayed there.
* * *
“This is so marvelous,” enthused Adrian Luff. “I bet there are monsters somewhere down here. Just think, Charlotte! Minotaurs. Well, Martian versions, anyway.”
Leave it to her brother to take glee in the prospect of seeing someone devoured by a carnivorous quasi-bovine.
With any luck, if such a creature existed down here, it would choose Adrian for its first meal. Charlotte could make her escape while the monster shredded her brother’s flesh and plucked bone from annoying bone.
* * *
Chapter 13
The food was …
Interesting. That was the term Charlotte settled upon, after trying out a number of others. It seemed a more productive way of becoming accustomed to Martian cuisine than such terms as revolting and nauseating.
It helped not to consider the exact source of the provender. Vegetable, animal, fruit—who could say? The course they were dining upon at the moment, if Charlotte were foolish enough to analyze it, seemed to be a cross between an African horned melon she’d once eaten on a dare and some sort of arthropod. Most likely a lobster equivalent, she told herself, thereby avoiding such terms as giant cockroach.
She could stand to lose some weight. She was a bit distressed at the way her body was developing of late. Given its location, the adipose tissue she’d been acquiring was aesthetically acceptable—even pleasing, apparently, to men—but she felt increasingly awkward. Madame Duchesne was a hefty woman in all proportions, so her bust was counter-balanced by her abdomen. Charlotte, on the other hand, retained her slender girlish figure everywhere … except.
She felt top-heavy. As if she might topple over due to a minor stumble.
Her brother was starting to make stupid remarks on the subject, too.
She decided not to finish the meal. She’d eaten enough for propriety’s sake, she figured. Besides, the two Martian dignitaries seated at one end of the table didn’t seem to care much whether humans enjoyed their food or not. They were every bit as engrossed in the scholarly discussion/debate/dispute taking place at the table as her father, Joedheg, and the Shankar couple. They probably wouldn’t even notice when the servants took the plates away.
“—can’t refer to the indigenes of the tablelands,” Mr. Shankar was insisting. “None of them is in the least bit blueish, and even their reddish coloration is more in the way of a brown ochre than anything which can properly be labeled ‘red,’ or even ‘brick-colored.’”
The larger of the two Martian dignitaries leaned forward, gesticulating vigorously. That seemed to be a common characteristic of the red planet’s natives. It was as if they viewed gestures as necessary auxiliary verbs.
“But you are overlooking the obvious, Vijay,” said Th’taba. “The tableland natives are most likely devolved from their earlier forms. As you’d expect of a declining species, their coloration has changed to enable them to blend more easily into the landscape.”
Charlotte’s father cleared his throat. “Assuming these ‘native indigenes’ exist at all. You said yourself, Th’taba, that reports of their sighting are few and sketchy.”
Th’taba made the Martian wrist-rolling gesture. “Yes, yes—but that just further buttresses my argument. If the indigenes are a figment of the imagination, then obviously they are not the beings referred to in various passages of the Vedas.”
He gave Mr. Shankar a look that Charlotte would have called “beady-eyed” if a human had bestowed it upon him. But she had no idea what that expression signified on a Martian’s face.
“Not to mention that Vijay is but playing at the devil’s avocation.” The Martian paused for a moment. “Is that how you say it?”
“Yes, that. I don’t think he believes any more than I do that the references in the Vedas are to anything but the Old Ones.”
Mr. Shankar smiled. “Well, no, I don’t. But someone has to put the squeeze on notions to make sure they aren’t—”
He was interrupted by a great crashing noise. A moment later, the door to the dining hall was flung open and two men barged in.
The one in front had a fierce look on his face and was brandishing a revolver. Charlotte recognized him as one of the passengers she’d seen on the Agincourt, although she hadn’t taken much notice of him at the time. The man just behind him was wearing some sort of uniform and was carrying a rifle, but seemed uncertain of himself.
The smaller Martian rose abruptly to his feet. That was Jhu Klagna, the owner of the building they were dining in. “Jhu” was a title, not a name. He was one of Ghlaktora’s officials; something between a magistrate and a tax assessor, as near as Charlotte could figure out.
“This is irregular!” Klagna exclaimed. “Grievances must be—”
He got no further. The man in front struck him in the forehead with the revolver butt, knocking him to the floor. There, the official moaned softly and rolled over on his side. He seemed semi-conscious at best.
“Everyone sit still—and be silent!” commanded the man wielding the revolver. “Or I’ll shoot!”
He waved the revolver about in a menacing manner. Then, lowered it to point at Charlotte’s father.
“Get up, Savinkov—or whatever name you go by.” He made a jerking motion with the weapon, as if to pull Edward Luff to his feet by sheer force of will. “Get up, I say!”
Slowly, Charlotte’s father came to his feet, his fingertips spread out on the tabletop. “What is this all about, if I might ask?” His tone was mild. “I believe you’ve mistaken me for someone else.”
The man with the revolver began to reply but was distracted by Th’taba, who was now rising to his own feet.
“Sit still, I said!”
“I am not bound by irregular conduct,” the Martian replied, with great dignity.
Snarling, the man glanced at the soldier and jerked his free hand toward Th’taba. “Keep your weapon on him, Kapral Baranovsky. If he makes a threatening move of any kind, shoot him.”
“Yes, Captain Drezhner.” The soldier did as he was told, holding his rifle against his hip and pointed in the direction of Th’taba.
At least the madman now had a name. Charlotte clutched at that fact as a way to keep from panicking. Seated next to her, out of the corner of her eye, she saw that Vera had lowered her gaze and placed her hands in her lap. She looked to be praying. That surprised Charlotte a bit, since the woman had never indicated any religious sentiment previously.
Drezhner turned his attention back to Edward Luff. “Here’s how it will be,” he said coldly. “You will accompany me and Kapral Baranovsky to the plaza—whatever it’s called—where we have an airship waiting. We will take you to the embassy at Crenex, since that’s the nearest. There—”
“Whose embassy?” her father asked, still in that mild tone of voice.
Drezhner’s face tightened with anger. “Don’t play the fool, Savinkov! Whoever you are. The Russian embassy, of course.”
Suddenly, Charlotte’s brother erupted from his chair. “You leave Father alone!” he cried, picking up a Martian utensil that was a cross between a spoon and a butter knife and hurling it at Drezhner.
Adrian’s aim was good. The utensil would have struck Drezhner in the face except he brought up his arm in time to deflect it away.
Not the arm holding the revolver, though. Whoever he was, Drezhner was no stranger to violence.
Adrian was now coming around the table, snatching up another utensil and brandishing it as if it were a sword.
“Adrian!” their father cried.
It was an insane thing to do, but Charlotte felt a surge of admiration for her little brother. Followed instantly by a still greater surge of fear.
Drezhner’s face was still, cold. He aimed the revolver and fired.
Blessedly, he was not shooting to kill. The bullet struck Adrian in the meaty part of the upper thigh, just to the side of the bone. Her brother was sent flying, his leg a bloody mess.
Now Charlotte’s father, his own face filled with fury, began coming around the table on the other side.
“Stand, Savinkov!” Drezhner shouted. “Stand or I’ll shoot!”
His attention was entirely fixed on Edward Luff. Charlotte was paralyzed, not knowing what to do.
The matter was taken out of her hands. Vera’s hand seized her by the shoulder and dragged her down, the chair coming with her. Dear God, the woman was strong!
BOOM! BOOM!
Half on her back, Charlotte stared up. Duchesne was now standing, a revolver in her own hand which she had pointing forward. Her face was like a carven idol; not quite human. Her eyes were fixed on something or someone Charlotte couldn’t see.
Drezhner, of course. Again, Vera fired the revolver. BOOM! BOOM! Two shots, quick but not hurried. Dimly, Charlotte realized she was observing someone quite familiar with the use of sidearms.
She heard a muffled thud, a sigh, as if a body had fallen in a heap to the floor. Then saw Vera swivel slightly to bring the revolver to bear elsewhere.
“Do. Not. Move. Kapral Baranovsky. Be assured I will shoot to kill. And as you can see, I am an excellent shot.”
There was a moment of silence. Vera seemed to relax a bit. “Edward, if you would be so kind, please disarm the corporal. I believe he has seen reason.”
Charlotte couldn’t stop herself from giggling. If Drezhner was in the condition she suspected he was—with four bullet holes in him and dead, dead, dead—she didn’t doubt herself that the corporal was now the very font of logic. He seemed quite young, no more than twenty or so. And probably repeating to himself over and over: I’m too young to die.
A few seconds passed. Then Vera stretched down her left hand to Charlotte. That was the one not holding the revolver, of course. The revolver itself stayed level and steady, as if it were held by a machine.
Charlotte took the hand and Vera lifted her to her feet. Displaying, again, that rather incredible strength of body.
Now able to see the whole room again, Charlotte immediately spotted Drezhner’s body, lying sprawled against the far wall.
Drezhner’s corpse, rather. There was no question that he was dead. His whole shirt was soaked in blood from the collar down. Every bullet fired by Madame Duchesne seemed to have struck him squarely in the chest. At least one of them, quite possibly more, must have penetrated his heart.
Charlotte felt no grief for the man. He’d been a ghastly brute. Still, she was shaken. She was trembling, in fact.
Where had Vera Duchesne learned to shoot like that? Charlotte hadn’t even known the woman possessed a gun. Yet, she must have had it hidden somewhere on her person. True, it was a very ample person and the revolver did not seem like an especially large one. Still …
She shook her head, trying to clear it. A yelp of pain from a different part of the room drew her attention from Drezhner’s bloody corpse. She saw that her father was now attending to Adrian.
Trying to, rather. From the helpless look on his face, it was apparent that the skills of a scholar did not extend to emergency medicine.
Madame Duchesne headed toward him, glancing toward Kapral Baranovsky on the way. It was a brief glance. The young soldier had been disarmed and was looking even more helpless than Edward Luff.
Vijay Shankar had taken the man’s rifle and was holding it in the very gingerly manner that someone who has no familiarity with guns does such a thing. But Shankar wasn’t the one holding the corporal at bay—if the term “holding at bay” applied at all. That was being done by Th’taba, who had drawn a very wicked-looking dagger (dirk? Charlotte had no idea) from somewhere on his person. He seemed to be looming over Bar
anovsky in a most threatening manner, despite being several inches shorter than the rather tall young soldier. Joedheg was there also, although he did not seem to be armed.
Seeing that Baranovsky no longer posed any danger, Vera turned all her attention to Charlotte’s brother and father.
She began with the father.
“Edward, you obviously have no idea what you’re doing,” she said, sinking to her knees next to Adrian. “Please move back a bit and give me some room.”
Still looking helpless, Charlotte’s father did as she bade him. Vera then went to work immediately on Adrian.
Charlotte had no idea what she did, exactly. For one thing, she wasn’t standing at close hand. All the blood in the room was now making her feel ill and she wanted to keep her distance.
There was some tearing of cloth involved, probably from Madame Duchesne’s own dress. Adrian yelped several more times, but then grew quiet. Duchesne murmured what sounded like encouraging words to him.
Charlotte’s sentiments veered wildly back and forth. She alternated between wanting to hug her little brother and scream furiously at him. What had the little maniac been thinking?
After a short while, accepting his own inefficacy in the matter, her father came over to her and placed his arm around her shoulder.
“You are unharmed, yes?”
She shook her head. Then, burst into tears. It was rather mortifying.
She wondered if Vera Duchesne had ever burst into tears, even once in her life. At first, she didn’t think so. But after a time, with further thought, she realized that she must have. Somewhere, completely hidden beneath the iron-mask face and the deadly precision of the shots, must lie a monstrous amount of pain.
