by Eric Flint
As they began to slip down past the upper fringes of the northern canyon walls, the humming and vibration in the keel-following gallery increased and their descent slowed even more. Now they seemed to be floating downward—and heading directly toward the center of what appeared to be, at this range, a gyre of immense, multi-colored leaves, spinning slowly up or down as the drafts might take them.
“Damn Martians and their twice-damned balloons,” groused the man next to Conrad in the direction of what no longer looked quite so much like an airborne clutter of swirling leaves. “Fifty million miles from London, and still there’s no escaping the bloody traffic.”
Conrad stole a careful look at the man. His bowler, conservative suit, mustaches and accent identified him no less certainly than his business card would have: John Bull, Esq.; Senior Representative of any London Bank You Cared to Name. A stout fellow of the Old School who didn’t care a whit for nine-tenths of the modern rubbish being peddled by stores, at schools, around the hearth, or in the bedroom. At his club, he was a dauntless Champion of Christian Charity, White Man’s Burden, Social Darwinism and all that rot. At his office, he was a sharp-eyed New Imperialist who was proud of his signed photograph of Cecil Rhodes, proud of his Anglo-Saxon heritage, and proud that he could squeeze every last tuppence of concessions from any member of the Lesser Races, no matter their particular color, continent, or planet of origin. In short, he was one of the new masters of the British Empire, whose propensity for ruling abroad through force had begun to increasingly inform the means of maintaining order at home. Goodbye John Stuart Mill; welcome back Loyalty Oaths, bills of attainder, and oubliettes.
His traveling partner—a lean, dapper man who was nonetheless a cultural twin of the first—smiled faintly at the loud gaiety the appearance of the Martian dirigibles occasioned in the other passengers. Then he glanced down the brass railing at Conrad. “Pardon the intrusion, but have you been out to Mars before? You do not seem to be afflicted by the gushing enthusiasm of so many of our fellow travelers.”
Von Harrer almost started. He had sat down next to these two fellows precisely because he wanted to minimize his contact with any of the other passengers. He had therefore conjectured that insinuating himself into the ranks of the infamously reserved English would be his best armor against social interaction. But some of the English could be damnably social, and in that easy, affable way that made any rebuff so unwontedly boorish as to be surprising. And surprise—any reaction that was likely to call attention to itself or be remembered—was exactly what Conrad wished to avoid.
He looked into the second man’s patient, pale blue eyes and shook his head, deciding against trying to conceal his accent: his English was not good enough to assay it. Not with native speakers. “No. It is my first trip.”
The huskier, irritable Englishman looked up sharply. “You sound to have an accent, sir.”
Conrad longed to point out that the liner they had just left was as thoroughly international an environment as could be imagined, and, from that perspective, everyone had an accent. But Conrad suppressed that retort and merely nodded. “Yes. I am from Switzerland.” Which had regions where the enunciation was similar enough to his Bavarian accent—sibilant and with more relaxed slurring than Hoch Deutsch—to ensure safety from further suspicion.
The one with the blue eyes smiled with his mouth, but his eyes opened a bit, as if he was mildly surprised. However, the first Englishman underwent a considerable change: his glowering frown melted, gave way to a slight, sardonic smile. “Ah, well, that’s all right then. Sensible folk, you Swiss. Your accounts are always to the penny. And you stay out of fights that aren’t your business. Not like those damned Germans and Austrians, boarding troopships in Hamburg and Trieste so eagerly you’d have thought they were going to fight for their own colonies, not the bloody Boers. I don’t envy you, having the Kaiser for a neighbor: one day you might wake up and find his spike-helmeted Huns marching through your streets.”
“Tut, tut, Reggie,” commented the other. “You know as well as I do those Germans were volunteers. The Austrians, too.”
“Volunteers, eh? Whole regiments, ‘volunteering’ to a man? Quite a uniform show of unsolicited fellowship, I must say.”
Conrad felt heat rush into his face as Reggie concluded his uncomfortably accurate observations on the German involvement in the Boer War. Conrad’s regiment, like the others, had been “asked” for volunteers—but it was understood that two times their regular pay was to be provided as “a token of appreciation” by contributions from German industrialists, many of whom had Dutch partners in Amsterdam. It was also understood that those who fought in South Africa would be first in line for promotions and decorations when they returned. Which, given the anti-British sentiment that the press had been drumming up for years, was all it had taken to induce over 95 % of the six regiments to report en masse to the troopships in Hamburg. And Conrad, looking back, felt a cold, gnawing shame at not only his gullibility, but at his callow belief that war might earn some measure of the respect and public distinction that would have accrued to him had he become the doctor that it was now quite obvious he was never going to become.
“I say, you’re looking rather unwell.” The Englishman with the blue eyes was surveying him carefully. “First flushed, now pale. Haven’t been suffering the mal d’espace on the journey, have you?”
“Some,” Conrad lied. “I spent much of the trip in my cabin, I’m afraid.” Which was, conveniently, quite true, but not because of space-sickness. By the time he had reached Alexandria, the symptoms of opium withdrawal had been upon him like a rabid animal. It had taken a whole day just to walk from the train station to the aerostation, due to the debilitating fevers, chills, nausea, diarrhea, and convulsions. By the time he got to Fort Napoleon, he had to detour to the bay, and, in the dark of the night, he disposed of his much-soiled clothes and cleaned his reeking body: there were no public facilities to speak of in Alexandria, and he had no knowledge of where to find those that existed.
Once at the entry gate to the grounds of the aerostation, garbed in an admittedly seedy set of Western clothing, he encountered the stony stares of the blackcoats who presumed him to be what, in fact, he was: an ill or addicted vagrant, most of whom came to seek alms. Had it not been for the contrary evidence of his luggage and funds, they would no doubt have shown him the street with the same brusque indifference that they expelled the native beggars. In that one regard, the King’s Own were truly blind to race, color, and creed. No matter one’s origins, appearances had to be maintained and decorum preserved: civilization depended on it.
Once inside the station, merely purchasing a ticket had been akin to climbing a sheer-faced mental mountain. The numbers—costs, departure, arrival, freight and parcel charges—kept bleeding out of his mind. It did not help that he almost started responding in German: it was extraordinarily difficult to keep track of language choices, when remaining fully conscious required almost more of an effort than he was capable of.
In the end, von Harrer bought a more expensive ticket than he had wanted, forgot to leave enough of a cash reserve to have meals delivered to his stateroom (not having the attire or health to take his meals in the dining room), and did not have enough presence of mind to have his rifle and other weapons crated beforehand (which would have sealed them away from overly curious eyes). However, he did remember to put his remaining pounds sterling and other provocative but comparatively light possessions into an inexpensive form of safekeeping: a parcel mailed to himself, under an alias.
The trip that followed had been even more awful than the booking of it. The first half of the journey had been a misery of withdrawal and insufficient food, since he was not yet well enough to be seen in public without attracting undue attention. As he began to recover, he also began habituating the small cafes on the observation deck and at the head of the hydroponics promenade. But only during their off-hours, and only when the staff was inattentive enough that he coul
d fill his pockets with the fruit and loaves that were set out on the tables as complimentary enticements to prospective diners. After each such provisioning, he fled back to his berth, where he shivered, ate, and then slept as much as possible. Which, fortunately, had been a fair amount.
“Feeling better now, I hope?”
It took Conrad a moment to remember where he was, and then nod at Reggie’s curt inquiry after his immediate health. “Much better, thank you.”
“And what line of work are you in? Not another one of these carping professorial types, are you? Telling us that Mars once had culture and machinery that we would have envied.” He puffed out his chest, did not wait for a reply. “To which I make the learned answer of ‘bollocks.’ Seems to me that they never got much beyond the Romans. Well, Romans with gunpowder and balloons. And so what’s to envy about that, I’d like to know?”
His traveling companion smiled indulgently. “Perhaps you should have volunteered to give one of the after-dinner talks, Reginald.”
“Maybe I should have, Bertie. You’ll not find me making apologies for a planet-full of spindly shirkers. ‘Lost Martian greatness,’ my little finger. We’ve heard the same tripe about India, too, I might point out. And see what practical experience has taught us in both those places and countless others: the lesser races don’t have the discipline—the strength of mind or character—to build a durable empire.” He huffed, stared down through the great glass panels in the belly of the aetherboat at the scene below. “India, China, Africa, Mars. All the same. The names may change but they’re wogs, every one of them.”
“Bertie’s” smile was undiminished—but Conrad noted that the amiability signified by the curve of his lips was rarely reflected in his ever-watchful eyes. “I believe Reginald’s enthusiasm for his own expertise in matters of areology deprived us of your answer to his question. What line of work are you in, Mr. …?”
“Kuhn, Klaus Kuhn.” It was the alias Conrad had adopted from the moment he booked his ticket to Mars. The name was his maternal grandfather’s. Easy for him to remember, impossible for any Cairene authorities to have traced yet. Assuming that they had ever established the identity of the person (or, they would probably presume, persons) who had killed all the occupants of Al-Aftal’s combined residence and black market emporium. “I am in pharmaceuticals, Herr—?”
“Oh, pardon me,” exclaimed the dapper one. “How rude of us! Allow me to introduce myself: Bertram Stans, at your service, sir.”
The other one nodded curtly. “Reginald Barnes. Bank of London. Pleasure, I’m sure. Pharmaceuticals, eh? So you’ll be poking around those rat-warrens they call cities, chasing down their supposed alchemists?”
Conrad shook his head, thought carefully: in case anyone had noticed his rifle and other less-than-pacifistic equipment being off-loaded, this was an excellent opportunity to slip in a logical explanation for it. “No, Herr Barnes, my job will take me well beyond the cities. Probably into the fringelands or beyond. It is suspected that the fauna of Mars may have very useful chemicals in their bodies.”
“Eh? Based on what?”
“Based on Herr Rhodes’ own amazing recovery, sir. Since arriving on Mars, his life-threatening respiratory and coronary ailments have all but vanished, we are told. Indeed, the pictures of him bear this out. And his last return to Earth—where he rapidly relapsed—largely eliminates the possibility that his recovery here was a matter of unrelated serendipity. Because upon returning to Mars, and remaining, his health has evidently become more robust than ever.”
Bertram Stans’ eyes were not simply very interested; Conrad could see that they were also very shrewd. “So you are seeking the source of Mars’ salutary effects upon tuberculosis, asthma, and heart strain? How interesting. Tell me: what company are you working for?”
Von Harrer felt the eyes watching him carefully, but without betraying any clue as to the intent behind that scrutiny: was he hoping to learn about new investment opportunities? Was he suspicious of Conrad’s story? Or was he a spider-like predator who feigned enthusiasm and encouragement in another’s ideas, only to steal them? But worst of all, Conrad did not have a ready fabrication with which to answer the inquiry. And he could not refuse to answer, nor fumble after one, lest that call exactly the kind of attention to himself that he wished to avoid. “I am not working for a company—yet,” Conrad answered.
“Yet?”
“Let us simply say that in my time working for other firms, and at the University of Heidelberg, I saw what happened to persons—like me—who put forth revolutionary ideas to their corporate superiors. They rarely received a reasonable measure of credit, and they never received any share of the financial rewards that their work brought to the company. So I contacted interested parties who are funding my research. And if I am correct in my hypotheses—”
“Then you will be one of the owners and receive both the acclaim and compensation you deserve. Well done, Mr. Kuhn, very well done indeed.”
Barnes’ interest had snagged and settled on an earlier point, however. “So, you were at Heidelberg?” He growled like a distempered dog with a vexing bone. “Wouldn’t have thought you’d be happy spending time up to your armpits in treacherous Huns.”
“Herr Barnes, a man must go where education—and opportunity—afford themselves. Surely, as a man of the world, and of business, you have found yourself in all manner of places that you would not otherwise have chosen to visit?”
Barnes shrugged and grunted sourly, but both gestures seemed to express rueful affirmation rather than irritation. He waved away the porter who was approaching with a tea-pot and stared down through the mural-sized windows beneath them.
Mars—or at least the Vallis Agathodaemonis—had changed dramatically. They were now descending past the level of the pocked and fissured plains of rust that were the Uplands. In the valley itself were long, verdant swaths fanning out from the canals and waterways that spread and twined across its floor like thick blue arteries and capillaries. Holding pools—miles across—shone up at them. Newly introduced rice paddies checkerboarded away into the distance. And slightly to the west—beyond a city of towering rose and lavender spires—was a body of water many miles wide, white triangular sails chasing across its deep azure sheen like so many pieces of purposefully moving confetti.
“It’s—it’s beautiful,” Conrad breathed, before he could think the better of it. Do not speak—do not share anything—more than you absolutely must.
But Barnes seemed oblivious and Stans seemed to join in Conrad’s appreciation of the view. “Yes, it’s quite spectacular. Hard to believe this dusty old world actually still has a few seas.”
“That’s not a sea: that’s a lake,” muttered Barnes.
“Reg, old boy, whatever else it is, it is called the Sea of Coprates.”
“Yes, and whatever it’s called, it’s less than 100 miles long, not quite 15 miles wide at most, and barely 500 feet deep. Lots of Russian and Scandinavian lakes bigger than that. And the damn thing would disappear without a splash into one of the Yanks’ Great Lakes.”
“All true, Reggie, but here on Mars, it’s a sea—called so simply because it has water in it all year round. Which is why almost all the major cities are here—and why the biggest one controls access to it and the agricultural regions that run away in both directions.”
“Coprates, you mean?”
“Actually, I think the Martian word for it is Q’oodpryxos. Which just happens to sound a little bit like ‘Coprates’ and so even the locals are starting to use that name.”
“Bertie, you’d better watch yourself or you’ll become another of those hand-wringing areologists. And then there’ll be no suffering you. Don’t know how I put up with you, as it is.”
“Because of your large heart and tolerant nature, Reggie. Mr. Kuhn, you seem to find all this information rather novel. Tell me: didn’t you have time to familiarize yourself with Mars before undertaking your mission—or at least, while you were clos
eted in your stateroom?”
Damn it. Stans saw me gawking. “My familiarity is mostly with the fauna—what little we know of it. As to knowledge of the wealthy, more populous regions—I was going to familiarize myself on the voyage, as you say. Unfortunately, my reaction to space made it singularly hard to concentrate.”
“Ah,” said Stans. He peered out the mural-like windows again.
Glad for the silence, wondering if he could concoct some excuse that would allow him to disentangle himself from the unnerving pair, Conrad stared down along with Stans.
They approached Coprates—first city of the Octad Gentillus—while descending directly through the slow-motion aerial ballet of Martian dirigibles they had seen from afar. Most of the airships had long, underslung gondolas, while others appeared to be—impossibly—shaped like airborne canoes or longships.
Upon closer inspection, though, von Harrer discerned that what looked like the clinker-built “hull” of these latter vessels was actually a collection of long, thin tubes, clustered together. The tubes seemed pliable, almost like gas-filled sausages—which, von Harrer realized, is probably exactly what they were. According to one snippet he had read, one of the larger creatures of the Martian Uplands had intestines which were completely impassable to hydrogen, and retained that property almost indefinitely if they were not cut and, therefore, became dry. So the Martians evidently filled them with hydrogen and then set them one atop another, like the planks in the hull of a ship. Or, he realized a moment later, they could also be configured as wings, or saucers, or kites: he observed just such variform airships floating around them now. Conrad had the momentary impression of their own aetherboat shuttle as a stolid grey submarine, wending its ponderous way through an aquarium of strange, wondrously shaped and colored fish. Up ahead, the spires of Coprates glistened in the midday sun, the sky a deep blue behind them, the green skirts of the fertile lowlands wide around their bases. For a moment, it was easy to forget that Mars was an unforgiving, cold, desert planet. Or that it was a planet at all: it seemed more akin to an impossibly detailed, otherworldly opium dream …
