Champion of Mars (10 page)

The cliffs are the city’s glory. A myriad waterfalls descend from the high plateaus, some disappearing into lights in the roofs of the palaces leaning out from the walls. The water collects in pools cupped against the cliff-faces, resting placidly, before spilling out to the city. In the wet season, the waterfalls run red and the city rings with their thunder. Now, at the height of summer, they are clear, cutting quick and clean through the choking air. The flitter flies through one rainbow cascade, and cool vapour fills the airboat’s cabin.

The sounds of the city come in through the flitter’s portals, the engines of the ancient aircraft no competition for the clamour of humanity. War is closing on the Imperial Palace, but the city is unperturbed. The cries of hawkers and children mingle with the sound of flitter wings. A snatch of song rises from a townspire garden. Somewhere off to the left, voices are in argument, while from below comes shrill laughter, and from the east come the carillons of the sybarite temples summoning the faithful to evening excess; and everywhere the smell of hot, summer air and the sharp tang of Martian dust.

Within his mind, Yoechakenon experiences the Second World of the Great Library. Its unreal halls and world-rooms are thronged by men and spirits. Some go hastily, others unhurried, as if time is but an entertaining diversion. The architecture of the Great Library is ever-changing, adapting to the forms of the beings within it, which are shaped in turn by the forms they hold in the First World. Shoals of the whispers of minor devices dart cautiously away from the larger beings that animate complex devices; the spirits of the machines sit below the souls of the companions, and all are beneath the watchful eyes of the deacons of the temples and the Spiremothers. The commanding minds of the Spirefathers are set over them, and above those are several more degrees of spiritual nobility until the Triunes of Kemiímseet themselves, lords of the Quinarchs, or so they maintain; second only to the absent Librarian of Mars. So on upwards and downwards, the hierarchy of the spirits of Mars as abstruse as the rankings of angels.

Yoechakenon is watched in the Second World, but this is as nothing to the all-pervasive malice of the Door-ward, and it perturbs him not at all. From far off, he senses a message wending its way through the immaterial Second World to caress his mind, a kiss from me, informing him that I am well, and that I watch with him; a favour from Andramakenon’s companion.

Satisfied that I am safe, Yoechakenon sinks deep into the sensations of both worlds, denied him these past two years, and sleeps.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Dinner

H
OLLAND WAS INTRODUCED
to the rest of the base personnel, perfunctorily so. Commander James Orson, a huge eugene who insisted everyone call him Jimmy, said a few words welcoming him to Ascraeus Base. He grinned his big, shiny, genetically perfected grin, rattled off the names of the seven other people in the room, then ploughed right on into the day’s business. Mostly he spoke about the work of a maintenance team he’d been overseeing: he read a long list of improvements, additions and repairs, although they hadn’t had enough parts to repair both malfunctioning airlocks. This meant a long walk to get to the drone bay, and drew a groan from several of the scientists. “I said that we needed the parts for that in my last report,” said Jensen. “We won’t have it repaired until storm season is done.”

Holland had little idea if that were a big issue or not. The last twenty hours had been something of a whirlwind. He’d not even known there was a maintenance team on the base, until he’d seen them. They’d pushed past him in the corridor, coveralls dirty and worn, without a word. The team had gone back to Canyon City that day.

“And there has been some damage to the south observation tower, as Dr Van Houdt, and I mean Mrs Doctor here” – the Commander flashed his too-white teeth – “noted. A good spot. That’s all fixed now. We’ve had the solars all cleaned up. And I think that’s it, or at least it better be; as Dr Jensen pointed out, there won’t be another Marsform maintenance team here for four months.” And he went on to detail the work rotations for the various subdivisions of Marsform who visited the base for the coming year, presumably so the scientists could begin petitioning for supplies, equipment and support.

Stulynow leaned forward on his chair and spoke into Holland’s ear. “Not like the old days. Back then we were all real cosmonauts, no one to help out if anything went wrong, no one to ride to the rescue. We had to do everything. Not like this...” He searched for the right word; up here there was not sufficient Grid width to support on-tap translation, and he’d had to squeeze his English out the old way. “Picnic.”

“Hey, hey! Leonid,” said Orson, whose hearing was as sharp as his cheekbones. “Leave it, would you? I’ve got a lot to get through, Leo. Save it for dinner, then we can all join in.” He was firm but friendly, all that eugene smarm coating whatever irritation he had. Holland wondered if eugenes got irritated at all. It probably depended on what the parents decided their kid would be like.

“Sorry, Commander.” Stulynow held up his hand and gave a less than sincere smile.

Holland tried hard to memorise the names of the others, but in the end he gave in and turned to his cerebral augmentation, flicking through the personnel files of each: Maguire, Jensen and Vance he’d met. Vance’s first name was Edith, and she, like Orson, was a fellow USNA citizen. Orson had cracked a joke about her preferring to be designated Honduran, although her skin was so pale that that had taken Holland by surprise. Then there were the Van Houdts, Hermanius and Suzanne; married, and Dutch, she a soil expert and horticulturalist, he a soil and atmosphere man. Ito Miyazaki was back from his expedition, he smiled a lot but didn’t say much. A typical Japanese science guy, although there were so few Japanese now Holland supposed none of them could be considered typical. There wasn’t much to read. Like his file, large parts of theirs were off limits to the other station staff. He wondered what secrets hid at the end of those unresponsive links.

He realised that the room had gone quiet. He pulled himself out of his musings to see Commander Orson looking at him meaningfully. “Sorry,” he said, shifting around on his chair. “It’s the implant... I got engrossed. All work stuff, I promise.”

Orson guffawed a good, hearty, old-time cowboy laugh. “At least you’re honest! Y’see, I’ll just bet you’re one of those eggheads back home that refused a direct link, eh?”

Holland smiled, but there was nothing unusual about that. A lot of people didn’t have them. They were expensive, the surgery could still be risky, and there was that awful feeling of becoming like the AIs.
It probably doesn’t affect the eugenes the same way,
he thought,
what with them already being fakes
.

“And now you’ve had to have one, you’re finding it mighty useful, I’ll bet!” He boomed his words. Holland had an uncle like that, all tolling laughter and
hail-fellow-well-met
. Far too fond of the alpha male power hug. He annoyed the fuck out of him.

He smiled weakly. “Yeah, sorry.”

“I was just asking to see if you’d like to say a few words, son.”

Son
?
He’s less than ten years older than me.
“Er, well, hello!” He cleared his throat. Everyone was looking at him with expectant smiles, and that made him antsy. “I’m really happy to be here, and I hope we can do some great work together.”

“Is that it?” said Mr Dr Van Houdt. Holland felt himself colour.

“Oh, stop that, Kick,” said his wife, and kicked him.

“Sorry, man!” Mr Dr Van Houdt grinned and rubbed at his ankle. “Welcome to Ascraeus.”

“Hear, hear,” said Maguire. “You’ll be a real asset to the team. Let’s give him time to get used to it, eh? Before we ask him to start making speeches.”

“Sure. You know how I like to put them on the spot, Davey,” said Orson.

“Aye, I do.”

“Well, it’s nice to have another American here,” said Orson. A ridiculous thing to say, really; Holland didn’t sound American or behave like it, despite his dual citizenship.

“Well, thanks, but my mother was English, and I grew up in Essex.”

Orson nodded in earnest comprehension, but clearly didn’t have a clue where that was. “Half-American is American enough for me.”

“Come on, Jimmy, leave him be. Perhaps we should have dinner?” said Maguire.

Orson nodded and closed up his tablet.

“Perhaps we can loosen your tongue with a little wine?” said Suzanne. She was a very attractive woman, thought Holland. He felt himself colour again.

Jesus, I’ve been out of the loop too long. I’m behaving like a damn adolescent.

She came and put her hands on his shoulders, and long blonde hair brushed his face as he twisted in his seat to look at her. “First Martian pressing. I grew the grapes here on Mars in the greenhouse.”

“It tastes like piss!” shouted Stulynow. The others, Suzanne Van Houdt included, laughed. “But don’t you worry. We have far superior vodka, made by me.”

“Hey, Leonid,” said the commander. “You leave that Russian genie in its bottle until after we’ve all eaten, okay? I don’t want another seventh November ‘party.’”

“October Revolution,” said Stulynow. “Very important day.”

“That’s an order, Dr Stulynow,” said the commander.

“Sure, sure. As you wish.”

“Great!” said Orson with unmoderated enthusiasm, as if his
bonhomie
had been turned back on by a switch. “Let’s eat.”

S
TULYNOW WAS RIGHT.
The wine was pretty poor, and the base staff teased Suzanne for it, but she took it in good grace. After all, thought Holland, it was produced on Mars, and that was pretty impressive in itself.

He sipped at it.

“I know it tastes bad, Dr Holland...”

“Call me John,” he said. “No one else seems to stand on ceremony around here, why should I?”

Suzanne smiled. She was a tall woman – the Dutch were known for it, after all – and her hands and feet were big, but there was a delicacy to her, and a raw sexiness. It surprised Holland, partly that it shone through her veneer of slight mumsiness – she was forever leaping up to make sure everyone had enough bread or potatoes – but mostly because
he
had noticed it. He’d felt ill-at-ease since the split with Karen; hell, since before then, that’s why they’d split.

“It must be the air,” he said. His body gave an involuntary shake. He didn’t want to be a dick. They’d gone to a real effort with the meal, nice table set with crisp linen and candles. They couldn’t do that all the time, surely?

“I’m sorry?” she said.

“Oh, nothing, I’m the one who’s sorry. I’ve been on my own rather a lot recently, I think I’ve become a bit odd.”

“I wouldn’t worry, you’ve come to the right place. You’re in good company!” said Maguire from down the table, catching what Holland had said. The independent conversations down the table halted for a ripple of laughter, then resumed.

“How do the vines fare then, up here?” asked Holland.

“Oh, the vines do just fine. The soil is very good for them, adequately fertilised – there’s a lack of certain organic compounds, but all the minerals are there and it’s very alkaline, just the way they like it. They’re highly mutagenic; already the adaptations they’ve made on their own are amazing, we’ve not had to alter their genomes much at all, they’ve done it themselves...”

“I’m sure he knows all this already, Suzie, he’s a biologist,” said her husband, waving a fork of mashed potato around. He didn’t speak much. He was a watcher, sharp eyes glittering, ready to leap in with a putdown that was
just
on the side of acceptable. Some of the scientists at the table found him funny, Holland was among the minority who didn’t.
How much of that’s down to me wanting to screw his wife?
he wondered. And then he wondered about actually bedding Suzanne, and he felt his colour rising again.

“No, really, my specialisation is in tiny microbes that live on other planets, not multicellular terrestrial tipple bushes,” he said, attempting to disarm the situation, and himself.

Suzanne smiled. “See, Kick?”

“Why do you call him Kick?”

“Why not?” said Kick.

“Because he thinks Hermanius sounds stupid,” said Suzanne.

He’s right, it does,
thought Holland,
it’s the name of a seventeenth-century alchemy-dabbling twat.
Kick grinned, like he was about to spit out some more acid.

“May I take some more potato?” said Holland, before the Dutchman could speak. “All grown here, too?”

“Haven’t you seen the greenhouses yet?” she said. Holland shook his head. “Oh! You must let me show you round.”

“I would very much like that,” he said, and he would.
Jesus, John, what the hell has got into you?
No doubt he’d spend the night wrestling that one through his mind. He didn’t see many easy nights here ahead of him.

The kitchen, dining and recreational area was at the heart of the base, in a large bubble. Purposefully designed without any work facilities, Maguire had told him, after three whiskies the night before, so the scientists would “just sit the fuck down and put their feet up.” A good sentiment, thought Holland, but it didn’t stop virtually everyone poring over their tablets and phones at breakfast. Holland had seen that and become half-relieved and half-worried that he’d condemned himself to a monkish existence. Relieved, because he’d been hiding in the same kind of lifestyle on Earth, and part of him didn’t want to abandon it. Worried, because the rest of him was desperate to escape.

Dinner, thankfully (or not, he still couldn’t make his mind up) had an entirely different atmosphere.
If this is a monastery, it is one where St Benedict’s wine rations flow freely
, he thought
.
Up and down the length of the table his new companions spoke, jumping in and out of each others’ conversations, gently – and sometimes not so gently – teasing each other. Their chatter ranged from the mundane, to scientific discoveries that ten, twenty years ago would each have rocked the world, and yet here arose every day. The personalities of his base mates came out, accentuated by alcohol, and he found himself – mostly – liking them.