Jessamyn rose and began pacing. If there was any chance that Nurse Cassondra and Kipper were the same person … Jess had to do something.
15
THERE’S THE RUB
Cassondra Kipling marched steadily in the direction of the Danube River with only the Terran moon to light her way. Of her destination, she was certain. Of her intentions, less so. The ache pulsing through her right temple and eye hampered her decision-making less than it had initially, but there were still moments of such pain that she doubted the reliability of her brain’s executive functions. Especially during the rare times she found herself alone.
Nearly three Terran months had passed since the fateful night she’d told Communications Specialist Ethan Jaarda to continue hacking—that she would draw the attention of the secures who’d discovered them at the satellite communications facility. She had drawn the secures’ attention and their fire. She didn’t know what had become of Ethan or the others.
Her temple throbbed painfully. Remembering the event seemed to make her pain worsen. To remind her of the blinding heat of the shot which had felled her. The shot that had saved her, if her doctor was to be believed.
“Your body, unharmed, would have been placed into a lottery with those valuable extra years,” he’d remarked upon her first day back to full consciousness. “But a body riddled with inoperable pain? Not worth anything to anyone. Except, apparently the Chancellor. She wants you for questioning. Or we can discuss an alternative you might prefer.”
Cassondra shuffled forward, noting the way moonlight dimmed Dunakeszi’s pinks and ochres, coloring the buildings gray. She felt gray herself tonight—as though all the color had seeped away from her life until the only shades that remained were pewters and blacks, charcoals and ghostly whites. Perhaps it was time.
Time to admit defeat. To admit mission failure. To admit that she no longer lived a life that resembled in any way one that was worth living. Lines from Shakespeare’s Hamlet drifted through her mind:
To die, to sleep; to sleep, perchance to dream: ay, there’s the rub; for in that sleep of death what dreams may come …
She did not fear death. She did not even fear the process of dying. The pain inside which she lived out each day was surely a cause of greater suffering than such deaths as she might procure. No, she did not fear death. Rather, she feared departing life while any hope remained that she might complete her mission.
So, then, was there any hope that she might yet carry out Mei Lo’s instructions? How far had Ethan progressed in his attempt to disable the lasers pointed at anyone trying to leave Mars? Had he escaped with Harpreet? Brought rations to her home world? Or was Mars even now caught in the spiral toward slow starvation?
She knew what those like her uncles and her brother would do back home—hoard rations and steal rations and attempt to contact Earth. She knew all too well that there were those on Mars who would bargain Marsian independence in exchange for Terran aid. If things grew desperate on Mars, Cavanaugh would surely sell out MCC for the assistance tellurium could buy. Terrans needed the rare metal to complete the consciousness transfers that kept peace on Earth.
Kipper laughed bitterly as she walked toward the river’s edge. Her own transfer seemed every day less likely. And for that she ought to be glad. Dr. Ruchenko had not officially given up hope of finding a way to remove the small bullet that caused Kipper’s pain and rendered her first-body unsuitable for being given in transfer.
But Kipper knew he was content that she should remain in perpetual servitude to the small hospital he oversaw on the outskirts of Budapest. Ruchenko was not a bad man. She even liked the work, such as it was. If she’d had no fears for her planet’s safety, she might have been content to live out her days tending to the hospital’s assortment of children with brain injuries.
She stood upon the river’s edge now, gazing at the dark water, her eyes catching now and then on something which bobbed along the Danube. The pain struck her again and she crumpled to the ground, simply focused on breathing. In and out. Breathe. Just breathe. The worst passed and it was like a small sunrise in the darkened regions of her mind.
Who would choose to continue such a life? She was a fool. A fool who believed that impossible things could be done by those whose will was strong enough. She shook her head. Impossible things were just that: not possible. She’d captained a crew of the foolhardy.
Crusty, did you make it back? she found herself wondering once more.
In Crusty’s shoes, she’d have used Brian Wallace’s contacts to pay someone to pilot the ship back to Mars. She felt certain Crusty would have done the same. Perhaps none of the four crew members who’d traveled to Budapest had made it back to Skye where Crusty waited. But there were billions of Terrans. Surely one pilot could have been found who would have made the one-way trip for some reason or another. The tellurium in the final hold would have spelled untold wealth for the family of anyone who left Earth to take the ship back to Mars.
She allowed herself the hope that her world continued because of the sacrifice the Mars Raiders had made.
Another nauseating wave of pain. Focus on your breath. She heard the words she’d spoken to so many at the clinic. Focus. The pain always passed, now. When she’d first awakened from her coma, the pain had been nearly constant. She’d lain in a trauma-induced sleep from which it was nightmarish to wake. Not that waking had lasted long—she simply passed out as the pain grew too great. Ruchenko had found a way to reduce the severity of her pain—to make intermittent what had been constant. She did not think he was motivated to do more.
He’d given her a decision to make when she’d awoken from her coma: Work secretly for me as a member of the nursing staff or I’ll follow my orders to hand you over for interrogation by the Terran Chancellor.
That decision had been simple. She touched her face, still becoming accustomed to the surgical alterations the physician had made at Kipper’s insistence. Her eyes were the same, her hair color unaltered. She’d even kept her own name, reasoning that no one on Earth knew her true name and that “Nurse Cassondra” would be easier to answer to than an invented name.
But what use was a disguise if she was in too much pain to attempt to complete a dangerous mission? The pain kept her dependent upon the hospital and its ready drugs. Drugs she would have no access to if she ran away. No, she was trapped. Death alone could bring an end to her agony.
Which was what had set her upon this midnight stroll. The Danube flowed silently before her, inviting her, calling her. Perhaps it was time. How she wished she knew whether or not either of the Galleon’s two missions had succeeded. She thought back to that night watching Ethan as he hacked into the satellite controls. Busy at work, Ethan had entered a state of being entirely different from what she’d seen aboard the Galleon. That anyone so hindered by the body holding his intelligence could accomplish so much—it boggled her mind.
Kipper paused, wondering how Ethan, back on Mars prior to the mission, had found the will to keep living. If anyone was not meant for life on Mars, it was Ethan Jaarda. Marsian life was lived in confinement of one type or another, and by his own admission, this left him in a state of discomfort that most would have called painful. She regretted that she had not been kinder to Ethan aboard the Galleon. Suffering had changed her. She wondered, if she had been trapped inside a body like Ethan’s on Mars, would she have persevered? Or would she have ended her life?
As she gazed into the black water, deep and swift, she felt cowardly. Ethan had not turned away from life because it was painful. Ethan had voluntarily undertaken a mission which he knew would heighten his discomfort. The rocking, moaning young man curled into the fetal position had not chosen to end his life. He’d chosen to endure.
What would she choose?
16
OBSEQUIOUS
The latest of the prisoners to be released from New Timbuktu and restored to sunlight of Lucca’s favor, Gaspar Bonaparte was an impersonator of considerable skil
l. Lucca had plucked him from a life of crime where he had, for large fees, rebodied and pretended to be someone he was not. Of course, even in her employ, he’d eventually gone too far, demanding too great a sum for the last assignment Lucca had given him. Hence his imprisonment. But as Gaspar had confessed to Harpreet when they’d met, he would do anything to leave New Timbuktu. Anything.
A knock upon her door brought Lucca back to the present.
“Mr. Bonaparte is here to see you, Madam Chancellor.”
A small, fair-haired man entered the room and made an obsequious bow.
“Let us dispense with niceties,” said Lucca. “You disappointed me the last time we met.”
“I’ve had time to consider the error of my ways,” replied Gaspar. “I will not make the mistake a second time.”
“You will not make any mistake this time,” said Lucca dryly, “Or it will be your last.”
“I understand.”
Lucca brought up pictures. “I want you close to these two persons,” she said, indicating Jessamyn and Pavel. “I need to know everything about their plans.” Which required of Lucca that she share the secret that Mars Colonial had survived—had, in fact, sent the girl to Earth with a large amount of tellurium. There was no sense in holding anything back from Gaspar—not when Lucca hoped the red-haired girl would tell him all this and more.
And Lucca knew how to make certain her spy would be motivated to keep the information to himself. Gaspar had no record of disappointing her in this way. It was the chief reason she had kept him imprisoned instead of un-bodying him. He was, quite simply, the best operative she’d run across in hundreds of years.
Gaspar spent several minutes consulting the information Lucca’s spies had gathered. He frowned. “The data is quite incomplete. You are asking me to infiltrate a community with no prior knowledge as to its inhabitants?”
“It is a cluster of renegades without scan chips. We know considerably less about them than we would like. That is why I’m sending you.”
“If I might make a suggestion?” queried Gaspar.
“Yes?”
“A two-step investigation is often more successful in a case such as this one,” replied Gaspar. “First, I become someone on the periphery—someone who can observe for a period of several days without drawing undue attention. Someone elderly usually works well.” Gaspar did not say aloud that if he made mistakes as an elderly person, he would be considered confused rather than suspicious. Better to not bring up mistakes with the Chancellor, although they were a natural part of his work.
“As a peripheral member of a community,” continued Gaspar, “I can ascertain who has the best access to the individuals in question.” He tapped a narrow forefinger upon the images of Pavel and Jessamyn.
“That’s an excellent suggestion,” admitted Lucca. “Major Vladim Wu will brief you on what we know of the community thus far. He may be in a position to suggest an appropriate personage as well.”
“A challenge!” Gaspar Bonaparte rubbed his hands together. “At last, a challenge. You have given me a great gift, Madam Chancellor.”
“See you do not disappoint me, Bonaparte,” said Lucca, fixing her ice-blue eyes upon the grinning man before her. “You know how I dislike disappointment.”
17
ACTING THE PART
Gaspar Bonaparte realized, as he walked in the direction of the desert village that would be his home for the next few days, that he had never actually indwelled a body this old before. Bodies weren’t allowed to age this far in the ordinary course of rebodies. Well, he was on his way to an enclave that didn’t follow the rules.
He held a withered hand out before him. The hand curled with what had to be arthritis, a condition he’d never experienced before. It hurt. He ought to have gathered a better supply of medicinals than the handful of sleep enhancers he’d stuffed in the old woman’s pockets.
Well, if he felt her pain, he could play the role better. You know this, Gaspar, he told himself. He remembered the old woman’s last words: “Gran’s not afraid of death. Go on, then, you great coward. Set me free from these aching bones.” She’d surprised him. Gaspar was used to outrageous promises and rather a lot of groveling when those whose bodies he required realized their deaths were imminent.
The old woman had neither groveled nor bargained. Accustomed to acting the part of a brave person, it rather startled Gaspar to encounter a brave person in the wild. He had filed it away, though, and would be able to incorporate this important character trait as he pretended to be Gran Odessa.
The old woman had been the perfect target: given to solitary walks at hours when others were safely abed. Gaspar had sent compliments to Major Wu for singling her out and suggesting her as Gaspar’s initial mark.
Gaspar supposed he ought to get used to gripping her pipe between his lips as well. It was the small things that could give you away, he knew. And the old woman had not removed the pipe to speak. Gaspar reached into the pocket where the pipe rested. Placing it between his teeth (or gums with stubs of teeth, really), he began to practice speaking whilst keeping the pipe properly in place. It was difficult. He had to catch at the pipe repeatedly as his grip loosened during some of the broader vowels. Of course, his reflexes were appalling in this aged body. He failed to catch the pipe twice and had to squat in the dirt to find it, his vision requiring a closer look to locate the tan clay pipe on the tan soil.
Speaking aloud had made him thirsty. How could he have forgotten to pack water? He patted the old woman’s clothing, smiling when he located a water-skin—she hadn’t forgotten. This time, he didn’t drop the pipe from her mouth when he smiled. But he couldn’t figure out how to drink while holding the pipe in her mouth, so he placed the pipe in an upper pocket and drank slowly. He had a recollection from his research of desert life that it was best to take small sips.
Gaspar felt very proud of himself for having a bit left still in the skin, when at last he came upon the edges of Yucca and could spot the first of the hummocks that he supposed must indicate underground dwellings. Intel on the area had been sparse, but he knew they all lived underground. Like ferrets or badgers or ground hogs. How very odd a way to live. Another wondrous experience to be savored.
Gaspar smiled. He had the best job in the world.
18
SOMEONE WHO GETS ME
Jessamyn was awakened the next morning by a loud discussion outside her bunk room. She pulled her hair into an approximation of the bun she’d seen Kazuko wear and wandered into the central room.
“Oh,” she said upon seeing Gran conversing with Pavel. “Merry morn.”
“Merry morn,” repeated the old woman. Her clay pipe was wedged as usual between her remaining teeth.
“Good to see you, Gran. I’ve been meaning to talk to you, actually,” said Jessamyn. She struggled to find the right words. “I know you meant to do me a great honor by picking me for your mystery-ingredient gatherer, and I’m, um, honored. A lot. But I don’t want the job.”
“You don’t want the job?” asked the old woman.
Jess shook her head. “Nope.”
“Remind an old woman: what job was that, pretty?” asked the old woman.
Jess frowned. “The lichen. I don’t want to be in charge of it.”
“Hmm,” responded the old woman. “And what would you suggest?”
Jess looked to Pavel for help. He shrugged. “Well, how about you pick someone else and teach them instead?”
The old woman nodded, removed the pipe, and chewed her gums for a moment. “How about you pick someone else and teach them instead?”
Jess hesitated, uncertain if the old woman was mocking her or actually making a suggestion. It didn’t sound like mockery. Jess nodded. “Okay, then. How about I pick Renard? He’s a citizen already.”
The old woman nodded. “Very well. Let’s find Renard together, shall we?” She rose and swayed a bit as she stood. “Let me lean on you, pretty.”
Jessamyn didn’t appre
ciate being called what she felt was a demeaning name, but she decided she’d offered enough offense for one day and held her tongue.
The two found Renard, who was very pleased indeed at Gran’s decision to make him Guardian of the Herb in Jessamyn’s stead.
Gran shrugged. “She said she didn’t want the job.” The old woman demanded next that Jessamyn show Renard the location of the lichen. As they approached the rocky outcropping, Renard spoke out.
“Gran, it’s getting pretty warm already. Are you sure this is a good time?”
“A good time?” asked Gran, chewing her gums.
“I mean, there’s bound to be snakes by now,” said Renard. “I know your circulation’s bad, but believe me, it’s hot enough for rattlers to be active.”
“Right,” said Gran. “Nasty critters. Perhaps we ought to return later.”
“Tomorrow morning, early, Gran,” said Renard, winking at the old woman.
“Tomorrow morning, early,” repeated the old woman, turning and shuffling back the way they’d come. “I’m bored, pretty. Why don’t you take me to see that young man of yours?”
Jessamyn looked at Renard who shrugged innocently. “She knows everything about everyone,” he murmured quietly.
Jess frowned, but she took Gran to see Pavel, joining him on a series of patient visits. Gran observed, nodded, and chewed her pipe.
Losing Mars (Saving Mars Series-3) Page 6
