“Look, you didn’t have a state before; the Republic was formed quite recently. How did you ensure its management?”
“The Valleys for a long time were a set of private settlements, gradually merged into a single entity. The backbone of each settlement is a group of like-minded people: it’s something more than a family, because this group can be built people with different backgrounds. It's more like a clan. There was no such thing on Earth long ago, but on Mars, it’s a common thing. We call ourselves a House. If you come here as a simple settler, the first thing to do is join one of the houses, so you will get a guarantee of survival, a guarantee that you’ll not die of hunger or lack of oxygen.
Of course, in exchange for these advantages, you’ll have to work hard where ordered and be committed to your house, truly devoted, and ready to defend your new homeland. Houses are not equal in strength; there are poor and rich ones. Our family was fortunate to join one of the richest, the House of Texas. On a new place, it was necessary to start with rank-and-file positions, which was difficult, considering that on Earth we were rich and had servants. But over time, thanks to hard work in our greenhouses, we managed to raise our status significantly.”
Emily shows Olga a red and yellow chevron design on her sleeve.
“It's a sign of my belonging to the House of Texas, plus an indication of my high place in its hierarchy.”
Olga thinks for a while and then asks, carefully choosing the words, “This system probably prevents you now, when you are at war?”
Emily immediately becomes serious.
“You're right. The war requires a unity of command, and here a problem arose. Many rich houses didn’t want to give up their independence, even for the sake of the common cause. Honestly, it's a miracle that we managed to create a united command.”
“What about the army?”
“This is the second miracle. The number of citizens is now just over five million, united in 2,302 houses. The water found by Patel gave us all independence, but, unfortunately, not everyone was ready to defend their freedom with weapons in their hands. Many, especially the emigrants of the last wave, decided to wait until more powerful people solve the common problem.
“You see, Olga, we didn’t have an army before—there was no need. The militia and a Special Forces company were enough to maintain order inside the Valleys, despite all the problems. A foolish rumor has gone around about our lands that it is one more gangster state like Freeport, Tartar, or Kosovo. And the gangsters, coming from Earth and the Moon, have tried several times to establish their own reign here. There were a couple of wars, and many smaller conflicts, even before our arrival, and as a result, the growth of crime was curbed by mass executions.
“But the war against Supernova’s mercenaries requires much more than a Spetsnaz company. We need an army and a navy; people are needed. The House of Texas tried to mobilize, but nothing happened—immediately, a howling rose about the restriction of freedom and the impending military dictatorship. As a result, only young, foolish volunteers like me join the army. Young volunteers and veterans of the First Space War decided to remember their youth. It’s funny when one unit serves former enemies; we have veterans on both sides.”
The stony desert ended; now the road winds through the small hills and huge boulders that cast long, dark shadows. Olga takes a couple of sips of real grapefruit juice, frowns, and then continues.
“And how do you finance your war? If all don’t join the army, it means that not everyone has invested money?”
“It's a hit below the belt, girlfriend. Yes, not everyone wants to contribute a share. All that we managed to achieve is to introduce a special defense tax, which isn’t enough. The rest of the money had to be found independently, conducting complex negotiations with each house; as a result, not all were invested. We ourselves must buy weapons and hire military specialists, while some irresponsible ignorant individuals just sit on their bums, wait, and do nothing. If we lose, no one will help us, but if we win, everyone will demand their share. It's a shame that we have to fight for such cowards, too; I don’t even know what can be done here.”
“Then you take these entire defeatists hostage, and don’t let go until you get everything you need. Russian national hero Minin did just that—maybe it would help here,” suggests Olga, and both girls cheerfully laugh.
“An interesting idea; we'll have to try.”
The road turns into a series of steep descents and ascents; their journey is coming to an end.
“Just in case—the road is mined. We are traveling on controlled mine fields, and without identification codes, it’s better not to stroll here.”
The ATV passes through a narrow ravine, punched in a giant cliff by directed explosions, and goes out onto mountain road running along a gorge so deep that the bottom can’t be seen.
“Is this the country of the canyons?”
“It's not a canyon, it's a hollow. Soon we’ll leave on a viewing platform and you’ll see the real canyon.”
Five minutes later, they stop on a flat hilltop.
“Another convoy will join us here. While we wait, we can get out, if you don’t mind.”
“You bet!”
Mars waits right outside the lock chamber. “In fact,” Olga thought, “this is the first time I’m entering another planet. The Oven doesn’t count; the underground prison isn’t the best example. The Moon is a special case. I was only inside the city, and that means that Mars is the first planet I have actually come in contact with. Congratulations!”
They stand on the edge of the observation deck. The sun is relentlessly rolling over the horizon, and in its long rays, the Mariner Valleys lie before them in all their splendor. A hundred meters below begins the greatest known canyon, so deep and wide that they can’t see the far edge. Olga thinks that the canyon resembles a crack from the impact of a giant ax.
At first, the motionless landscape seems completely untouched by man; however, having looked more closely, the girl discovers many traces of the long-standing presence of the colonists: separate buildings, molded to the walls of the canyon, villages on small plateaus and hills below, monorail racks, multi-kilometer elevator shafts, and much, much more. At the bottom, the metropolitan city of Alamo stretches across neat squares, the huge domes of the greenhouses gleam in the sun, and hundreds of flying vehicles hover in the sky.
After a long look, Olga kneels and scoops a handful of light red sand, rubs it with a glove, and looks on thoughtfully as the sand trickles down.
“There, in the crevice—it's a Martian thorn?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
At thirty meters from a crack in the rock, a discreet plant can be glimpsed, a small, twisted, brown bush without leaves. This is the Martian thorn, the fruit of twenty years' labor of the best geneticists and agronomists, a plant specially created to grow in Martian conditions without human help. At the heart of this bush are the genes of the most resistant Earth plants in combination with several local microorganisms discovered by the first expeditions. First planted at the colonies, the thorn began to gradually move deeper into the planet, giving very little oxygen and slowly processing the soil. It was believed that for three full millennia, they could make the Mars atmosphere suitable for breathing; it was necessary only to have patience and wait.
“By the way, Olga, since we started talking about plants, they are much respected in our city, for obvious reasons and can’t be harmed. In the city, you’ll see a lot of green plants, from grasses to the largest trees. In no case should you trample, break, or tear any of the vegetation. The colonists won’t kill you for it, but they may beat out your teeth. If the locals offer you a flower or a vegetable marrow from the garden, don’t refuse—this is a terrible insult.”
“Roger, thanks for the warning.”
By the time they descend into the canyon, it's already night. A small caravan is walking along Alamo’s deserted streets, bypassing octagonal houses with flat roofs and sloping walls, reminiscent of the Spanish forts
in South America. The little Martian moons haven’t yet risen, and the black sky is full of stars. The outlines of the constellations haven’t changed.
“We’ll make a short stop at the People's Palace. There, Mayor Johnson, First Chief of the Republic and part-time head of the House of Texas, sits. Papa Johnson is a great man, and you’ll be presented to him. He wants to personally reward you for saving Antonina. In communication, Papa appreciates simplicity, but I still recommend that you observe subordination.”
“I can handle it,” Olga replies, examining the massive building, a strange hybrid of the Capitol and the White House. “What did you say about rewarding?”
Passing the double lock chamber, they find themselves in a spacious lobby, the walls of which are covered with portraits of famous Mars conquerors. Under the ceiling hangs a huge flag of the Republic—the ancient US flag, with one single red star on a blue background. After showing the passes for a pair of military robots, the girls walk along the red carpet to the elevator, climbing a dozen stories to the reception of the First Chief.
Captain Klimov greets the girls with a short nod, as if they parted a mere hour ago. He stands in front of the Johnsons’ table, discussing something with the First Chief.
“Well, we are just waiting for you. Dinner will be served now; sit down, girls.”
The First Chief turns out to be a tall, dense black man with a thick mustache and a broad beard, dressed in a snow-white suit and a dazzling white Stetson, wearing a wide belt holding two holsters for the Peacemaker Colt and the Howdah pistol. Johnson speaks with a thick bass.
Olga descends into a low chair and takes a minty cocktail, waiting for Johnson and the captain to finish the conversation. While the First Chief is talking with the hologram, she looks at the reception. A round room with a diameter of fifty meters, the floor in the center is concave; the wide windows are covered with long, heavy curtains. The walls are made up of wide shelves with an incredible amount of the most diverse things that Voronov ever saw.
There are a lot of weapons, both firearms and knives. She sees racks of musical instruments and shelves with soccer balls, hockey sticks, boxing pears, and other sports equipment; a squadron of aircraft models; and battalions of soldiers. There are also massive wardrobes, stacks of vinyl records, rolls of film, VHS cassettes, paper books and magazines, and tables with randomly scattered award cups, among which are several Oscars, plus a huge bar, a massive billiard table, a film projector, typewriters, a lemonade machine, and a tube TV, so ancient that she doesn’t immediately recognize it. A dozen slots, a shooting gallery, arcade machines, and a Vurlitzer jukebox playing Eddie Cochran fill up the rest of the room. Olga soon realizes that the entire spectrum of twentieth-century American cultural heritage stretches before her.
The captain and the First Chief speak for a little more than three minutes. They talk about a squadron of merchants awaiting dispatch from the Enterprise station. A dozen powerful tugboats are ready to load huge cargo containers and go on a long journey to Jupiter under the protection of a cruiser.
“Roger, over and out.”
Johnson symbolically shakes hands with the hologram, and Klimov disappears.
“Lieutenant, I ask you to report on what happened on the Ticonderoga.”
Johnson complacently smiles and directs Emily to the red circle in front of his desk. Emily stands in the circle, and Olga realizes that this is the center of the next-generation interrogation system. Inside the circle, it’s impossible to lie. Multistage lie detectors, hypnotic systems, and scanning devices will ensure the absolute truthfulness of answers to any questions.
The shuttle on which Emily's platoon flew was shot down in the final phase of the flight. A laser broke a thin board, killing one third of the personnel, but the mortally wounded pilot managed to land the crippled shuttle at an external cargo port. The surviving Republicans got inside to fight the hopelessly superior number of rebels. Losing people, occupying one compartment after another, they fought until all were killed or taken prisoner. Emily was the last. She managed to break into the boat deck and leave the captured station.
“Thank you for your service, Lieutenant. Tomorrow you’ll receive a new appointment. The death of your platoon is a huge loss; they were good Martians. Comrade Olga, I am extremely glad to see you. Welcome to our small town.”
Olga comes to the table and shakes Johnson's huge palm. She worries that the First Chief will point her to the circle of truth and arrange an interrogation in a soft form for unknown reasons, but her fears aren’t confirmed—Johnson offers her a tall wooden chair next to his throne.
“Olga, you managed to save Antonina, and we had already written her off when we found out about the explosion on the Libra. With your work, you have rendered our state a great service—we need a powerful AI to lead our defense. We can’t build such a machine ourselves, and it's unrealistic to buy another, as an embargo has been imposed on the export of such systems.”
The First Chief remains relaxed and at the same time exudes an air of worthy importance, not intending to hide his pride in this moment.
“If we lost Antonina, it would be impossible to find another artificial intelligence. And you have saved her for us—that deserves genuine respect and a reward. What are your thoughts on this matter?”
“Well, this one Fender Stratocaster would be a great reminder of this work. I’ve always dreamed of such a guitar.”
The red guitar on a glass table immediately caught Olga's eye among the collection of musical instruments.
“The girl has good taste. Do you know that Stevie Ray Vaughan played on this instrument?”
“That's why I would like to take it. I would take Leopold Stokowski's Steinway piano too, but unfortunately, it won’t fit in my cabin.”
The First Chief leaves his massive chair, takes the Stratocaster, and hands it to the girl.
“Comrade Olga, for your work, you are honored with this high award. Long live rock ‘n’ roll!”
“Keep on rocking!”
Olga takes the guitar and carefully examines it, her fingers touching the strings. The Stratocaster is more than a hundred years old, but it’s in excellent condition and still ready to give hell. According to her estimates, such a guitar is worth three of her apartments. If the First Chief was telling the truth about Stevie, it is worth more than thirty apartments.
Johnson takes a thick cigar, casually bites off the tip, and lights up.
“How long will it take to install Antonina?”
“Give me ten hours. This business doesn’t permit haste. Where is your computer center?”
The First Chief dismisses her question like a nonexistent Martian mosquito.
“The location of our computer centers might be known to the enemy, and we don’t need one more diversion or sabotage. We can’t install Antonina in an ordinary laboratory for her own safety; we need a special secret shelter, just like for military systems on Earth. We have a similar shelter, but it has none of the necessary equipment. You have to assemble everything in it. What do you think?”
The attentive glance of the First Chief doesn’t bother Olga.
“That changes the timing. Basically, Antonina is ready, but her integration will require at least two days if I get everything I need. I can handle it, but I’ll need a wide range of equipment, work robots, and the cooperation of your technical specialists. Can this be arranged?”
“You bet! We will start tomorrow morning. You need to rest after a long journey and put yourself in order. I’ll appoint one of my best men to help you, a generalist. You can rely on him completely; he’s an exceptionally responsible young man.”
The exceptionally responsible young man appears thirty seconds later. Olga turns to him and doesn’t immediately recognize him but then involuntarily laughs at this cosmic coincidence—in front of her stand the New York Winner.
* * *
At the same time eighty-five million kilometers away, another meeting is happening. A tall blonde in a l
uxurious business suit with a deep neckline pushes open the wooden door and looks into the room with suspicion. Her nostrils frown at the unusual smell—strong tobacco.
“Mrs. Lincoln, what an honor. Are you surprised by our meeting? And I waited for you.”
The blonde enters a dark room, peering at the silhouette of a girl sitting on a windowsill. The only source of light is a narrow moon outside and the red light of a cigarette in the girl's fingers.
“Why are we having a meeting in this junk yard, Jenna?”
“For your information, this isn’t a junk yard. This place is called a closet. A hundred years ago, when people were cleaning up, they stored mops, buckets, and other equipment here. You, of course, wouldn’t understand this. You have never worked at such a low hierarchical level, but I like it here. It is a pity that this closet is no longer used for its intended purpose. I have always experienced an irrational weakness for manual labor. In addition, there are no listening devices, which, in this case, aren’t unimportant.”
Her voice is calm and melodic, her pronunciation is extremely clear, and she speaks in perfect American English. Lincoln can’t escape the feeling that behind this bored calmness lays mockery. A girl with red hair is taunting her. The blonde mutters “little bitch” through her teeth, and then she continues the unpleasant conversation, trying to control herself.
“Jenna, I hear bad rumors that you are complaining to the leadership. If so, then we have big problems. Or you do.”
Jenna releases a few rings of smoke and continues, still not honoring her companion with a look.
“You were incorrectly informed. Judge for yourself, Mrs. Lincoln. Why should I complain when all of the interested parties already know about your failure? I just suggested an alternative action, which, of course, was rejected.”
“Capturing the Ticonderoga is your job?”
“And my money, Mrs. Lincoln. Since my option wasn’t accepted, I had to act independently at my own expense, handing out bribes left and right, which is very difficult, because I have very little cash.”
The Blitzkrieg Page 12
