Losing Mars (Saving Mars Series-3) (5 page)

“Well, the clan’s full of entrepreneurial souls,” replied Brian. “Guess me brother’s lad figured there wasn’t much future in the tellurium-for-ration-bars-trade, for him, anyway. The Clan Chief’s being at present none too friendly with anyone closely related to
Brian
of Clan Wallace.”

“She’ll forgive you eventually, won’t she?” asked Pavel.

Brian Wallace shrugged. “I violated the Clan Wallace’s most sacred principle: draw no governmental attention to the clan.” Wallace sighed. “But that’s neither here nor there.” Turning to Jessamyn, he said, “Do say as ye’ll accompany me to the manufacturer, won’t ye, me dear?”

Jessamyn rolled her eyes. “Harpreet’s the negotiator, not me.”

“In the Republic of Chicago, a pretty face will get us farther,” said Brian.

“Fine,” said Jess. “I’ll go. But I’m not winking or smiling.”

“Wherever did ye get the idea I’d ask such a thing of ye, me dear?” asked Brian, attempting to look surprised by the suggestion.

They pulled the ship closer to the facility, and Jessamyn and Brian made their way back to the office where half the agreed-upon amount had been paid three days earlier.

“Ah, yes,” said the man behind the counter. “Your part will just be another twenty minutes, thirty minutes. So sorry for the delay. Tricky, those modifications you asked for. We’re just testing one or two last things.”

“Hmm,” intoned Brian Wallace, a grim expression on his face. “Yer delays are costing us, ye know. And I’m not made of money, much as yer lot seem to think. It’s not cheap, marryin’ off a passel of daughters, I’ll have ye know.”

Brian continued on in this vein until he’d shaved off several hundred credits from the originally agreed-upon price.

“You do realize how heavy your equipment will be?” asked the man behind the counter, frowning at Jessamyn’s thin frame.

“Aye,” said Brian Wallace. “I’ve rented one of these.” He patted the hovercart beside him. “Have ye seen one before? Clever gadgets. Ye might contact the manufacturer and see about stocking them for internal transportation.”

Jessamyn swallowed her laughter as Brian Wallace convinced the office manager to further investigate the hovercarts.

“And how can I help you?” the manager asked a new arrival into the office.

Jessamyn turned to observe a well-dressed threebody.

“I’m here to inquire as to certain irregularities in payments processed by this facility,” said the threebody. “I contacted your head of operations earlier this morning. I believe I am expected.”

Brian turned to stare at the new arrival, as well.

“Right,” said the clerk behind the counter. “I’ll just see to you in a minute, once we get these customers on their way.”

“My time is valuable,” said the well-dressed gentleman, attempting to attract the clerk’s attention with a flashy badge.

Jessamyn felt a tingle running along her spine as she glanced at the man’s badge.

“Here we are, then,” said the clerk to Brian, “If I can just obtain your authorization mark here and … here and … here.”

A pair of burly threebodies brought the part out and Jessamyn indicated they should deposit it on the hovercart.

“Excuse me,” said the well-dressed man. “My business is urgent. I really must insist—”

“Yes, yes,” replied the clerk. “Just give me a minute.”

Brian thanked the men who had carried the transmitter out to him, thanked the clerk behind the desk.

“Enough already,” muttered Jessamyn. “Let’s go.”

“Play it calmly, now,” replied Brian, his voice so soft only Jess could hear. “I saw the badge, too. But we don’t run until we clear the corner.”

With the hovercart in tow, the two rounded the corner and then took off, flat out running toward the waiting ship. Jess could hear Brian speaking to Pavel over his earpiece, telling him to open the hatch
now!

“Do you have our course laid in?” Jess panted as she dashed aboard.

“Yeah,” Pavel replied. “Nothing better to do here.”

“Good,” said Jess. “Strap in and hold on.” She pulled the ship out along the narrow streets at speeds that made Pavel uneasy.

“You do realize there are rules about how fast you can travel in the city?” he asked.

“We’re in a hurry,” snapped Jess.

“Then keep your speed down,” replied Pavel, his own voice raised. “Or you’ll get us all arrested.”

Flying slowly went against everything Jess wanted at the moment, but she kept her speed legal, pulling the craft gradually west and then southwest toward home. As densely populated areas gave way to suburbs and then prairie, Jessamyn concentrated on the changing terrain and keeping the ship low to the ground.

“What happened back there?” asked Pavel as they cleared the boundaries of the Republic of Chicago.

Brian was uncharacteristically silent.

“Someone showed up asking questions,” replied Jess. “What does an RSF badge mean to you?”

“Red Squadron Forces,” replied Pavel, voice grim. “Did you see someone flashing an RSF badge?”

“At the manufacturing facility,” she said. “In the same office where Brian and I picked up that part.”

Pavel turned to Brian Wallace. “I thought you said you could keep your transactions untraceable. What gives?”

“We’ve no way of knowing if that had anything to do with us,” said Brian, morose.

“Could my aunt have traced your payments?” asked Pavel.

“Well, anything’s possible, now isn’t it, lad?” the Scot replied grumpily. “I suppose ye can ask her yerself, if ye’re so sure the fault’s mine, then.”

Pavel took a slow breath. “Sorry, Wallace. I’m sure you did everything you could to … lessen the possibility.” Turning to Jessamyn, he said, “I strongly suggest you fly low and slow all the way back. If my aunt was tracking the movement of tellurium, we might have just made a very lucky escape. No sense giving anyone watching the sky something to track.”

Jessamyn nodded. “Low and slow it is, then.”

~ ~ ~

“Imbecile!” shouted Lucca, loudly enough that she saw Johnston wince and step back from the holo-transmitter. “How is it that your ground personnel failed to recognize these persons?”

Johnston swallowed as he looked at the images of the Chancellor’s nephew and five others, one of whom bore a scowl and striking red hair.

“My operative
did
say one of the persons in the facility had red hair. The girl, I believe.”

“Yes, of course it was the girl. Whom you should have made certain any ground personnel would recognize
on sight
. You fool! You’ve cost me—” Lucca cut herself off. There was no reason to go into further detail with this idiot.

“We’re finished. Chancellor out.”

Lucca swore loudly as she cut communication. She had no doubt that if Wu had been in charge, the plainclothes Red Squadron Forces official would have been properly briefed so as to identify the girl before visiting the manufacturer. Even if the girl had bothered to disguise herself, which apparently she hadn’t.

Once again, Lucca had nothing. After several days on a very promising trail, this was agonizing.

“Idiots!” she shouted to her empty office.

But she
did
have something. She knew that the Martian had acquired a very powerful radio transmitter. The Martian must be planning to communicate with home. Lucca scowled. Transmissions from Earth to Mars would be nearly impossible to identify. Still, it was better to know what your enemy was planning than not to know.

So, the girl was stuck here and wanted to contact home. Only home was a very long way away at the moment. And Lucca would find Jessamyn long before Mars could send anyone to rescue her. Or there would be hell to pay.

Lucca gazed out her window at the night sky and the two or three heavenly bodies bright enough to be seen from downtown Budapest. She took several calming breaths. Then she made the call to terminate Johnston’s employment.

Vladim Wu would sort out what to do next.

10

ALL THE DIFFERENCE

Miroslav Ruchenko had known he would be a doctor from age five. His parents were doctors. His grandparents had been doctors. And all his greats back as far as anyone had bothered to search out. What was more, his progenitors had all been
Budapesti
physicians. But Miroslav had besmirched the family name, having in his youth committed indiscretions which resulted in a lesser rebodying than what was required to practice medicine in the world’s capital city. Still, Dunakeszi was within easy reach of Budapest. It was almost a good position.

Almost.

Miroslav sighed, rubbing his hand back and forth along his forehead. The
Dunakeszi Hospital and Clinic for Brain Injury
had been passed over again this year for needed funding. It was almost, he thought, as though the Ministry of Medicine didn’t want positive patient outcomes from the Clinic.

Miroslav glanced about him as though fearful the Ministry might have overheard his thoughts. Of course the Ministry wanted positive outcomes. Funding was tight everywhere. The destructive acts of inciters meant the needs of his tiny hospital were bumped down several pegs on the scale.

The doctor sighed again. It was past ten at night. He’d missed the last hover back to the city. Again. His wife would be angry. She might leave this time.

“I need staff!” he shouted to the empty room. No one replied. Which was fortunate. He did not need to add mental instability to his own problems.

“Never mind,” he muttered, rubbing a hand along the beard stubble he’d not found time to remove all day.

After sending a message of apology to his wife, Dr. Ruchenko tugged at a handle set at knee height into the wall. A narrow bed extruded from the wall. He thought it had been designed to be less comfortable than the hospital beds, if that were possible. “Never mind,” he said again, sinking into the bed, dimming his office lights.

The shouting began moments later. As it did most nights. There were simply too many children in the Clinic. He needed another nurse. Just one additional nurse would have made all the difference. He sighed, rolled over, and kicked off the bed.

“Never mind,” he said to himself, slipping into the corridor to offer what assistance he could to his understaffed hospital.

11

ADDED TO THE STRAND

Days had passed since the Chicago incident, and the Martian eluded Lucca Brezhnaya still. Which meant the Chancellor was as much in the dark as ever as to Mars’s plans. It was so unfair.

Lucca should have destroyed the petty
rat
colony upon the ice planet when she’d had the chance.

It made her wonder if it would be possible to destroy them now. Perhaps, she thought. Just perhaps …

She pinged one of her secretaries. “I want the Head of Global Satellite Operations.”

Perhaps the Martian satellites could be coaxed into producing deadly force capable of reaching the surface of the red planet. The little rats had few enough nests in which to hide. Their cities were paltry affairs cobbled of mud and ice and glass. All fragile. They couldn’t even survive out on the surface unassisted.

Yes. Adapt the lasers to target the planet’s surface. Was it still possible? It might be costly. But less so than sending an armada. Few would ever know. And
few
were easily disposed of. Lucca smiled.

But disappointment met her here as it had with the tellurium tracing.

“What do you mean there’s only one scientist with this field of expertise? It’s a satellite system. We operate thousands of satellite systems,” shouted Lucca.

In spite of her raised voice, the Chancellor was unable to convince the woman on the other end of the call that there must be more than one expert able to communicate with the outmoded satellites. Lucca cut the call short. Well, one expert wasn’t as good as two or ten, but one expert could
train
ten others. Lucca pinged her secretary again.

“I want Dr. Kazuko Zaifa brought to me from New Timbuktu,” she said. “Immediately.”

Here, the result was even less palatable. Dr. Zaifa, it would appear, had been kidnapped during the little affair that had lost her the other inciter:
Harpreet
. Lucca berated herself for not having paid better attention at the time. But she had been deeply wounded by her nephew’s actions. It was further proof that she ought not to engage in relationships. People always disappointed you, in the end—even if you called them
family
.

The fact that her relationship to her nephew was manufactured, owing nothing to either blood or marriage, did little to lessen the sting of the blow. As far as
Pavel
knew, she was truly his aunt.

A few more beads were added to the strand telling the tale of Martian plot to bring down Earth’s government. It now appeared that the inciter named Jessamyn had lured Pavel to her side following the attack on the Scottish Isle. From thence, the Martian girl had convinced Pavel to kidnap the last scientist on Earth capable of writing in the programming language spoken by the Mars Containment Program satellites. Although, it seemed likely the girl had been off-world at the time of the kidnapping. Lucca frowned.

It made no material difference. The satellite specialist was lost to the Chancellor.

Which was maddening
, thought Lucca, pacing. It would slow her considerably. But programming languages had manuals and files that could be studied by others. These, she would locate. The destroyed facility, she would rebuild.

And as for the problem of Mars? Its destruction was a necessary step toward stability and control on Earth. Lucca would figure something out. There was more than one way to poison a colony of rats.

Her secretary pinged her again.

“What is it?” demanded Lucca.

“Madam Chancellor, it’s Major Wu for you.”

“Put him through at once!”

“Good news, Chancellor Brezhnaya. I believe we’ve located a colony of dissenters harboring both your nephew and the Martian. I have a few ideas as to how we ought to proceed next.”

“As have I,” said Lucca, smiling.