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Analog SFF, September 2004

by Dell Magazines

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Copyright (c)2004 Dell Magazines

Dell Magazines

www.dellmagazines.com

Science Fiction

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NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Duplication or distribution of this work by email, floppy disk, network, paper print out, or any other method is a violation of international copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines and/or imprisonment.

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*CONTENTS*

NOTE: Each section is preceded by a line of the pattern CH000, CH001, etc. You may use your reader’s search function to locate section.

CH000 *Editorial*: Is There a Doctor on the Planet?

CH001 *An Old Fashioned Martian Girl* by Mary A. Turzillo

CH002 *Trophies and Treasures* by Jerry Oltion & Amy Axt Hanson

CH003 *Viewschool* by Rajnar Vajra

CH004 *The First Martian* by Joe Schembrie

CH005 *Unbound* by Dave Creek

CH006 Science Fact: *The Fifth Biorevolution* by Stephen L. Gillett, Ph.D.

CH007 *The Alternate View*: Problem Is…?

CH008 *The Reference Library*

CH009 *Upcoming Events*

CH010 *Upcoming Chats*

CH011 *Brass Tacks*

CH012 *In Times to Come*

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Analog(R)

Science Fiction and Fact

September 2004

Vol. CXXIV No. 9

First issue of _Astounding_(R)

January 1930

Dell Magazines

New York

Edition Copyright (C) 2004

by Dell Magazines,

a division of Crosstown Publications

Analog(R) is a registered trademark.

All rights reserved worldwide.

All stories in _Analog_ are fiction.

Any similarities are coincidental.

_Analog Science Fiction and Fact_

_(Astounding)_ ISSN 1059-2113 is pub-

lished monthly except for combined January/February and July/August double issues.

––—

Stanley Schmidt: Editor

Sheila Williams: Managing Editor

Trevor Quachri: Assistant Editor

Brian Bieniowski: Assistant Editor

Victoria Green: Senior Art Director

June Levine: Assistant Art Director

Abigail Browning: Sub-Rights & Mktg

Scott Lais: Contracts & Permissions

Peter Kanter: Publisher & President

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––—

CH000

*Editorial*: Is There a Doctor on the Planet?

Two streams of recent news stories have revived one of the old debates about the exploration of other planets in general and Mars in particular: Is it better done by manned or unmanned missions? Or do we need both?

Last winter provided a flurry of thought-provoking incidents involving unmanned craft to Mars. At least one European probe simply failed, getting all the way there and then going silent, permanently and without definite explanation. The American rover _Spirit_ made a fine landing but then gave its creators and operators a scare by going through a period of returning only gibberish and failing to respond to commands. The problem turned out to be one of software, fixable (an astounding thing in itself, when you think about it) from Earth — though not without considerable difficulty — and as I write this, the rover has been doing its intended job commendably. _Spirit_’s companion _Opportunity_, arriving a bit later, has been doing just fine right from the start.

The exhilaration of getting good results from those two rovers tends to crowd out of memory the fact that the _Spirit_ scare was quite real, and could easily have been much worse. In many previous cases, it has been; a high percentage of exploratory craft sent to Mars have failed. With _Spirit_ we got lucky: a purely software problem can, at least sometimes, be remedied by radioing “medicine” from Earth. Hardware problems can be a very different kettle of fish. It’s all too easy to imagine a situation where, for example, a rover like _Spirit_ has gotten one wheel wedged tightly in a deep hole that wasn’t noticed or recognized in time to be avoided. Alone, it has no way to extricate itself from a simple but embarrassingly terminal situation — and its useful life is ended.

Because there is no doctor on the planet. If there were, a remedy might be as simple as one or two astronauts physically pulling it out of its predicament. Many such situations could be easily remedied if a human being were present, yet are completely irreparable without one. The robots available now and in the easily foreseeable future can do quite remarkable things, but they’re highly specialized. The specialty in which humans still excel is our nonspecialization: the ability to look at a situation completely outside any anticipated parameters, make an intuitive leap to something seemingly unrelated in our accumulated experience, and concoct a solution that works but could not have been planned. The fact that such situations have occurred and will undoubtedly continue to occur is one of the best arguments for sending humans to explore other worlds.

It is not the _only_ such argument, and some find it an inadequate one. Some scientists whose only interest in Mars is Mars itself — that is, collecting and analyzing physical data about the planet — say that equipment to send humans, and research to develop it, is excessively expensive and siphons off money that they would rather see spent on more unmanned probes and rovers. Sending humans is so _much_ more expensive, they maintain, that even with a high failure and loss rate, unmanned probes and robots give a better return on investment — i.e., more information returned per dollar spent.

They may be right, at least in the short term, if all you care about is collecting physical data about Mars — but some of us see that as a narrow and shortsighted view. Mars itself is certainly a big and important field for research, but academic knowledge about it is by no means the only reason for studying it — or for sending people there to do so. Some “unmanned-only” advocates say all you learn from sending people into space is how to let people survive in space, as if that were a trivial or useless thing. In the long run, it may be one of the most useful and important things we need to learn, if only as insurance.

Planetwide disasters can and do happen. To give just one example, the question is not _whether_ another ecology-wrecking asteroid will hit Earth, but _when_. It could be so far in the future that it needn’t concern anybody living now; it could just as well be next week. The longer we sit here with all our literal and figurative eggs in one small and fragile basket, the greater the risk that human beings and all they have accomplished could be wiped out in one swell foop. If we want to make (relatively) sure that doesn’t happen, we need to get some of us planted far away. That means learning not only to get humans across those distances, but to enable them to live in intrinsically hostile environments.

Yes, that’s difficult and expensive — which is a reason to start working on it now, not a reason to keep procrastinating. Occasionally I hear someone say we should wait until the technology is ready, but such suggestions show a clear lack of understanding of how progress works. Better technologies are developed because they’re needed to do a job; rarely, if ever, does an expensive and elaborate technology get fully developed purely for its own sake, with the hope that someday somebody will decide it’s ready to use for something. New technologies typically develop by steps, perceived needs leading to new developments, and those in turn suggesting new steps — but we’re talking about _steps_, not leaps across chasms. There’s no reason to expect human exploration and colonization of space and other worlds to be any different. First we’ll send a few individuals, at considerable cost and with occasional deadly accidents along the way. But we’ll learn from the experience, and the cost of unmanned trips will go down, and the safety and success rate go up, as we get beyond the learning phase — especially if we take the goal seriously enough to incorporate such ingenious long-term economizing ideas as those of Robert Zubrin.

In the other news stream I mentioned, President Bush has announced his support for an ambitious manned space program. Naturally we heard the predictable nonsense reactions such as “We should spend this money here on Earth instead of throwing it into space” (as if even one cent had ever been thrown into space, instead of paid to Earthly contractors and engineers who buy cars and houses, go to doctors and dentists, etc.), and “We can’t afford this when people are hungry and schools are in trouble” (as if the space program had ever been more than a tiny part of the national budget, and all those other problems exist solely because not enough dollars have been spent on them). Skipping over all that, how seriously should the Bush space initiative be taken?

Some have criticized it as just an election-year political ploy, an attempt to garner Kennedy-like popular support by transparently Kennedy-like means. That’s certainly an understandable suspicion, and there’s plenty of reason to suspect that visions of reelection are at least one of the motivations for the Bush plan — but that’s hardly a reason to reject it. Earlier space successes came from less than pure motives, too, but we needed them and it’s good that they were done even if they were done largely for the wrong reasons. For reasons I’ve already discussed, consideration of the big picture suggests that we really need manned as well as unmanned ventures. We’d better latch onto whatever support we can get for them, whether it’s driven by the same priorities we have or not.

But we should remember, while doing so, that the “first” space program, culminating in Apollo, eventually ran aground in large part because of the shortsighted motivations that launched and, for a while, drove it. Getting to the Moon was a truly major accomplishment, but it should have been just a first step toward far bigger things. Instead it was seen by too many as the end point of a race with the Russians. When that was “won,” and especially when the Soviet Union collapsed, the motivation evaporated and the program ceased to grow in anything like the way it should have done. If we do get a new round of serious exploration launched now, whether by the present administration or a new one, we must try hard to make sure everyone remembers the real reasons for doing this. We must keep as many eyes as possible looking far down the road, and not just as far as November.

— Stanley Schmidt

––—

CH001

*An Old Fashioned Martian Girl* by Mary A. Turzillo

Part II of IV

Some people plan big — and don’t necessarily consult everybody involved.

––—

_NANOANNIE CENTIME is in the worst trouble of her young life. She remembers that she and little KAPERA SMYTHE were attacked by invaders who were ransacking — and destroying — Kapera’s family pharm. And Kapera’s parents, harmless biology researchers at a remote pharm in the far northern wastes of Mars, have vanished after leaving a mysterious message telling Kapera to stay away from the pharm._

_Kapera! Where is that preadolescent runt? The invaders had let Nanoannie go — pushed her out of a Marsplane near her parent’s pharm — but Kapera was taken away. What will happen to the poor kid? She had a ticket to Earth to treat her leukemia, but now, how can she make the launch?_

_ At Cydonia, meantime, Kapera is a “guest” of a secretive cult, the People-of-the-face-on-Mars, who wear face bindis, tiny 3-D faces, on their foreheads. They claim to have rescued her from her abductors — but they treat her more like a prisoner than a guest. At Cydonia, Kapera meets two possible allies: E. CAYCE JONES, a young punk, and CRYSTAL SPIRIT, a Face-on-Mars nun. The Facers are building a starship to make a 100,000-year voyage to colonize a planet, Yggdrasil, that they say orbits Eta Cassiopeia. Kapera also meets the Facer leader, DR. SPHYNXEYE, who thinks Kapera’s parents have a secret to help him with his generation starship. While Kapera is undergoing “pyramid therapy” for her leukemia, a rebel Facer faction, the Renegade nuns, attack. In the confusion, Kapera sends an S.O.S. to Nanoannie._

_Nanoannie, safe inside her parents’ habitat, decides to rescue her half-pint buddy. Her motives are mixed: her family’s pioneer lifestyle is lonely, and she’s seen that Kapera spends a lot of time talking letters into her wrist puter to her brother, SEKOU SMYTHE, who must be about Nanoannie’s age._

_So, secretly hoping to hook up with Sekou as well as play the hero to her friend, she steals her family’s Marsplane, the _Origami Firefly,_ and flies to Cydonia, where Cayce helps Kapera escape and board the hybrid plane._

_The two girls fly to Smythe Pharm, where they find a cairn of rock piled over two bodies. But the bodies are Asian, not Kapera’s parents at all. Nanoannie’s parents manage to contact her at this point. A corp official, ELVIS DARCY, has come looking for Nanoannie, saying that an Asian couple is missing and Kapera’s parents are suspected of murder for having fled the scene._

_Kapera’s parents must be innocent! But if Nanoannie and Kapera go back, they’ll never find them._

_So Nanoannie and Kapera take off to Plantation Centime, her family’s experimental pharm in the far south._

––—

Chapter 14: _Escape Plan_

_In the sky, near Alpheus Colles, over Hellas Planitia, Summer-April 16, 2202:_

Dear Sekou,

This was the sol we Smythes had tickets to catch the shuttle to the Down Escalator.

It’s a disaster crying in an environment suit. Your nose runs and snot tastes nasty running onto your upper lip. So I’ll grit my teeth and keep on keeping on. Things can only get better.

At least Daddy and Mother aren’t dead.

After we flew for a while, I said, “My folks wouldn’t kill anybody.”

“They don’t seem like killers.”

“Thanks for the compliment!”

“Look, Kapera, we’re friends. You may be the best friend I’ve ever had, even though you’re younger than me.” Her voice got hard. “I think Utopia is pressuring my parents to stop me from helping you. I’ve been thinking. Utopia wants to buy my contract when I turn ten, and they want it cheap. They don’t want me out having broadening experiences. But that’s not the point. The point is I just can’t believe your parents would hurt anybody. Your family is too nice.”

“Who’s Elvis Darcy?”

“Huh? He’s this corp geek from Utopia Limited that comes snooping around our pharm sometimes. He’s — the guy with no smell.”

No smell? Only Nanoannie would describe somebody this way. “Do you think he’s a robot or something?”

“No, no. I only mention that because I was afraid he was going to be the only man I’d ever meet in the flesh. You know how lonely it is on a pharm. I heard people are attracted to their mates because of pheromones. I know what _I_ smell like. You know, sort of sweat and dirty hair and crotch odors and so on. But him? I followed him up a ladder once so I could sniff his butt.”

She couldn’t see my expression, thank heaven. “And?”

“No smell. Like he took baths fifty times a sol. No pheromones.”

“So you figure you won’t marry him.”

“Be serious.”

“You figure he wasn’t interested in your pheromones.”

“He’s a snoop. Probably wants to arrest me, not mash lips.”

We flew on. South, I noticed, not toward Centime Pharm. “Look, Nanoannie, I for true want to find my folks. And I really need to get to Earth Orbital Hospital. But I don’t want to get you on any more ice. Maybe we should go back to your pharm. Maybe those missionaries will take me back to the Mormonite Jesuits.”

“Nah. I don’t even know if they’re still there.”

“You’re a boss true friend,” I said.

She jabbed a switch. “I’m not sure I’m doing this for you.”

Whatever that meant. “Where are we going?”

“We might have to do some vertical takeoffs. The plane needs magnesium stuff for those engines. My family has a plantation where we’re breeding bioengineered plants to concentrate magnesium.”

She mentioned this before. “Plants? How do you protect them from the sky?”

“Big huge sheets of monofilm. They’re weighted down on the edges and they’re so huge the respired gas doesn’t escape as fast as it builds up, so there’s a mini atmosphere underneath. Enough to keep the plants warm and alive. We’re talking hectares and hectares, Tunnel-rat.”

“That’s pretty slick.”

“It would be, if it worked. But the plants don’t concentrate the magnesium as much as my parents hoped. Still, there’s a small experimental fuel plant. We can refuel the rocket engine of the plane. It’s faster than flying with the fuel harvested by the solar-cell wings.”

* * * *

And now we’re almost to Plantation Centime. When the fields of sheeting came into view it looked like a humongous, round, shimmering quilt: the edges were weighted down, and every couple meters, the sheeting was fastened to the ground. It glistened in the sunlight, and you could see plants, thousands of hectares of them, under the quilt.

Wow. It almost made me forget our family’s problems.

“It’s the biggest human-made structure on Mars.” She sounded proud enough to bust. “At least in terms of square kilometers.”

She mentioned once her family comes here in the winter to run the plantation and also to get away from the long arctic dark. But I didn’t realize the size of it.

Wait.

Something’s happening.

Nanoannie is turning the pilot’s com so I can hear.

“Aircraft M2997-1003, land immediately. If you do not land, we have ground-to-air weapons and will shoot to disable your aircraft.”

Whoops. Just when I was getting cheered up.

––—

Chapter 15: _Welcome Committee, With Gun_

Nanoannie sat up so straight her helmet banged the cockpit roof. _Who the bloody dust had invaded her plantation?_

Kapera was furiously fingertipping, computer-enhancing the cam image. Nanoannie glanced at it: four guys in white suits.

Kapera said, “Look, back at that ambient shack. Can that be a rocket launcher? The guy furthest north has the targeting gadget in his arms, I think.”

“What the dust do they need heavy firepower for? They think we have missiles?”

“Can’t we run for it?”

“Then they’ll shoot us down. Duh. Anyway, we don’t have enough fuel for either propulsion system to go far. I counted on stopping here, getting more magnesium fuel, and collecting solar fuel during our stopover. Life support, too. Water and oxygen collectors, dedusters, food.”

“So — “

“If I don’t land here, no place within range offers magnesium refueling, okay? Plus, the fuel here is free, because my folks own the plantation. The plane could land prop-mode off away from settlements, I guess, and we could wait for solar refueling, but our life support would give out before we were fueled up.”

The com said, “Acknowledge or we will shoot.”

Nanoannie snapped back, “This is Nanoannie Centime. You are trespassing. I’m landing, all right, and I want you gone by the time my wheels touch down.”

The voice sent back, “Wrong, M2997-1003. You are under arrest by the bylaws of Adamas Labyrinthus Enforcer Subcorporation.”

To Nanoannie’s surprise, Kapera said, “Like that means anything. We aren’t your hires.”

Nanoannie cut Kapera’s com. “Shut up, you little brat! They’re _more_ likely to shoot us because we aren’t their hires.”

Kapera hunched down in her seat. “I didn’t think of that.”

Nanoannie felt embarrassed that she’d called her a little brat. But that was the least of her problems. She broadcast, “Hold your fire. We’ll land. But my parents’ corp is going to sue the sanitary packs off you.”

“You’re going to _give up_?” Kapera said.

“Got a better idea?”

The plantation had a long airstrip, an area cleared for further planting of magnesium-refining plants.

She landed half a kilometer from where they had spotted the white-suits. She remembered a small, unpressurized cellar only about twenty meters from where they had landed. Could they hide there?

They’d run out of oxygen for the environment suits fast enough, but they might have time to plan an escape. After all, she knew the layout of the plantation, other hide-outs, and where consumables were stored.

The _Origami Firefly_ rocked gently with the impact of landing. Everything seemed sharp, clear, cold and super scary. She was in deep shit. She had never expected this kind of trouble. Should she call Escudo and Krona? What could they do, half a planet away? The southern hemisphere was notoriously wild and unregulated.

She flicked on the plane com and started a nine-eleven beacon.

She could just make out the faint outline of the cellar’s trap door, slight indentations in the fines.

Soundlessly, she pointed to the trap door. Kapera nodded.

Nanoannie muted her com, put her helmet up to Kapera’s, and mouthed, “It’ll take them a few minutes to get here. Run for it.”

They bolted out of the plane, down the ladder, and onto the surface. Nanoannie reached the trap door, wrenched and wrenched and wrenched —

— and it opened. She looked back.

Kapera lay on the ground at the bottom of the _Firefly_’s ladder.

“Mars smash you!” she yelled. Not to Kapera. To the whole situation. She let the door fall shut and dashed back.

Kapera lay on her side.

Blood smeared her faceplate.

“Holy rocks, they shot you!” Nanoannie screamed. But Kapera was breathing. She grabbed Kapera’s legs, hauled her down the sandyfoam steps into the cellar, let the door fall shut, and propped Kapera against a wall.

Her skybit hand stung with the exertion of hauling Kapera’s weight. With her thumblight, she examined Kapera.

The suit seemed perfectly tight, helmet still pressurized.

Kapera’s nose leaked blood. Her eyelids fluttered. “Did I trip?”

“I thought they shot you.”

“I went all weakish, so I knelt down and — ” She looked around wildly at the dark of the cellar. “Uh-oh! Are they out there?”

“Don’t know. They must have seen us climb in here. Help me think.”

“I don’t feel super. I’m not sure I _can_ think. Are there tunnels from here?”

“No. This is just a storage cellar. Keeps dust off supplies.”

“Is that thing an oxygen-extractor?” Kapera was looking at a system of tubes and heaters.

“Yes, but it’s fed by atmosphere. Pressurizing takes forever.”

“Then you better start it up now. Let me hunker down a minute.”

Nanoannie looked around for a pillow, a blanket, anything to make Kapera comfortable. “If you’re shot, we have to give up. We’ll need to get a robosurgeon right away.”

Kapera curled up on her side. “It’s just the leukemia, girl.”

“What?”

“I told you before. You weren’t paying attention. The cosmos got me. Does that door lock?” She coughed weakly.

Nanoannie tried to think. She needed Kapera awake, because she personally had run out of ideas. Her one idea, hiding in this hole, was super stupid.

_Of course_ the whitesuits had seen Kapera and her run to the hole. The trap door to the cellar wasn’t bright blue, but it wasn’t camouflaged, either.

Still. The _Firefly_ had kicked up a lot of dust when it landed, so maybe the whitesuits wouldn’t see the trap door. Also, it would take them a few minutes to get here.

If the door had a lock, and if the lock held, they could hide here as long as their breathables held up.

Nanoannie let Kapera’s head slide gently to the ground, and, standing on the second step, reached up to the trap door. She pushed it up slightly with relative ease.

Something rattled, and she realized there was a padlock on the outside. Stretching, she reached around and pulled the padlock inside, letting the door clank shut again.

She examined the padlock with her thumblight.

“Kapera,” she said softly.

A little cough. “Yeah. I’m here.”

“How bad are you? Should I give up right now, or shall we try to hold out until dark? I know this plantation like the back of my hand. If they don’t find us until dark, we could run for the main hab.”

“I can’t run. I’m sorry.” Then: “Did you feel that? They’re shooting at us. That thing they had; it looked like a twentieth century rocket launcher.”

Nanoannie shut off her thumblight and rested her helmeted head in her hands. Her hand hurt. Her brain hurt.

Kapera said, “The stuff in that vacuum jar, it’ll keep me perking a while longer, I bet.”

“We should surrender.”

“I bet they want just me. You could run for it.”

“Kapera, think. They probably framed your parents. Or killed them!”

“My folks are not dead. Just missing.”

“Why do you say they want just you?”

“I told you. Something about extremophile research.”

Nanoannie turned on her thumblight and shone it into Kapera’s helmet. Blood oozed down her upper lip. “Shit! You’re still bleeding!”

“It’ll let up. I’ve had nosebleeds before.”

Nanoannie said, “We’re in trouble. I think they want to kill us.” She felt like her mind was running a complicated math program that came up all zeros. “Kapera, can I tell you something?”

Kapera grunted almost inaudibly.

“I wish, before I die, that I could have met your brother Sekou.”

Kapera was silent.

“Kapera, is there any way I could talk to him? I mean, could you get him on com?”

Kapera laughed weakly. “I keep this diary to him. Talk away.”

Nanoannie cleared her throat. “Sekou, this is me, Kapera’s friend Nanoannie. I’m — oh, crap, I was going to tell you how nuke I am. That’s so feeble. I saw your picture and did an age progression, and I think you’re a nuklear guy, if my software did you right. Not much time, so hello, goodbye. If things had been different, we could have met, and had some great times. I could take you in the _Origami Firefly_. Kapera told you about that, right?”

“Sort of,” said Kapera. Nanoannie couldn’t see much in the light of the thumblight, but Kapera sounded awful.

“Anyway, Sekou, this just can’t be the end for me and your sister. She’s a nuke kid. She’s smart and she’s brave, with that disease. When we get out of this, we can get together and have a great time. If my parents don’t underground me forever.” She started to cry, forgetting the salty, slimy mess that crying in a helmet caused.

Kapera sighed. “I wish I could see your kitten before I die. I never saw a cat. They had one in the Borealopolis zoo, but it was hiding. The holos of them are cute, though.”

“Lions. They showed vids of lions, too.”

“Lions. Sometimes you look like a lion. Mars alive, I’m raving.”

“If we get out of this, I’ll show you Fuzzbutt,” Nanoannie said. “Fuzzbutt is the kitten’s name. Shitfire, I’ll _give_ you Fuzzbutt.”

Now even Nanoannie could feel the shocks of explosions outside. She turned her com on and sent, “We’re ready to — “

Kapera slapped the side of Nanoannie’s helmet with surprising force. “Don’t give anything away! Bargain!”

” — bargain,” finished Nanoannie.

No more shocks.

The com said, “We just want to talk to you.”

“Yeah, sure,” muttered Kapera.

“In a minute,” Nanoannie sent. “I have to stop my friend from bleeding to death.”

She shone her thumblight in Kapera’s helmet again. Kapera’s eyes were closed. Her mouth was open, lips dry and cracked, and she was breathing quickly. “Kapera, please, wake up. You’re frightening me!”

Kapera’s lips moved, but Nanoannie couldn’t pick up what she said. She ordered her com to play it back amplified.

“I need my Hyper-K,” was what Kapera said.

Nanoannie’s upper lip itched from unwiped snot, and she felt like tearing her environment suit off. Why couldn’t the stupid cellar be pressurized?

She took two deep breaths. “What is Hyper-K, anyway?”

But Kapera said nothing.

Nanoannie pressed helmet against Kapera’s and stared at her, willing her to survive.

Sekou would hate her forever if she let Kapera die.

What was she thinking of? She would hate _herself_.

How could she feed the Hyper-K to Kapera without removing her helmet? Not only that, the Hyper-K was in the plane, she was pretty sure. In a vacuum jug. She had seen Kapera stow it.

Kapera’s lips moved again. “Tell them they can take me, but they have to let you go.” A bubble of blood inflated from one of her nostrils.

“Kapera — “

“Tell them.”

Nanoannie tried to think. The cellar could be pressurized, she was sure of that. It used some stupid experimental method with Mars atmosphere, refining oxygen out with a small nuclear power unit, which also supplied heat. There must be a sealing system for the door.

But how could she get the Hyper-K?

She had landed the _Origami Firefly_ half a kilometer from where the whitesuits had set up their rocket launcher. They probably had a rover, but it would still take a few minutes. She looked at her chronometer. They’d arrive soon.

She remote-accessed the camera on the _Firefly_, to see where the whitesuits were. The image was blurry, from the dust raised by the landing.

Think! Suppose she sent a command to fire one of the magnesium rockets, just a little burst. Just enough to scare them off. Maybe they’d think somebody was still inside the _Firefly_. Was there enough fuel left to do this? She accessed her instrumentation. Maybe, maybe enough. Certainly not enough to take off again. In any case, the _Firefly_ was horizontal, not in vertical mode.

The _Firefly_’s nose was pointed thirty degrees off from where Kapera and she were hiding. Would they be better off inside the plane? If she fired the magnesium rocket just a pop, it would roll closer. Unless it tipped over and smashed, of course.

The whitesuits would be here in seconds.

No time to think.

She fingertipped the remote’s code, and the ground trembled.

––—

Chapter 16: _Sekou, my Brother_

Dear Sekou,

This is wacky. I’m most likely to be dead myself in a minute or two, and here I am talking trash to a soul who has passed over. I need somebody to talk to, but the somebody is just me, because if you read this, it will be at the end of time. I reckon you’ll understand, being that you had a disease caused by cosmic rays, too.

What a sorry joke — writing a diary to my brother who died when I was just a baby.

––—

Chapter 17: _Suits_

A brilliant flare lit the crack around the trap door.

_Now_!

Nanoannie pushed the trapdoor up and scrambled out as dust flew around her. In the dark haze, a shape loomed about ten meters in front of her. She sprinted for it. The _Origami Firefly_’s access ladder was down; it had caught on a rock and was badly bent.

She’d have to fix that later, if she could. She yanked her body up the ladder and pulled the hatch open.

Lights on. Yes! Vacuum jug, behind the seat: the Hyper-K!

She locked the hatch, then flipped on the _Firefly_’s cam and radar.

Four figures trudged toward the plane, two carrying a huge tubular object. It looked heavy; had to be some projectile weapon. Like Kapera had said, an antique rocket launcher. Would its Earth technology work in Mars atmosphere?

The white suits themselves looked clean, new, and well maintained. She bet the people inside them had checked out their evil toy most carefully.

“Kapera,” she said. “Kapera, can’t you hear me?” The channel was private, although the whitesuits might have super good decryption.

Anyway, what could Kapera do?

Should she fire another burst from the rockets? Suppose she rolled it over the trap door so the _Firefly_’s weight rested on the trap door? She would be trapped outside, Kapera inside. The _Origami Firefly_ was light, but not light enough for her to lift.

Wait! If the _Firefly_ was on top of the trap door, and she was in the plane, the whitesuits couldn’t get either of them.

A fruity female voice came on her com. “We only want to help you.”

The hair on Nanoannie’s neck erected. “If you want to help, why that big old gun?”

Silence. Then, “It’s not a gun. It’s a robotic field surgeon.”

Nanoannie didn’t know anything about rocket launchers. She’d only seen one robotic field surgeon, and it had been a squat cylinder on wheels, with many appendages and cables.

With the _Firefly_’s instrumentation, she looked at the IR image of the tube. What kind of heat signature would a robotic surgeon have? Warm; they had nuclear power sources. But the image of this machine lit up the screen. What was that old saying? Hot as a pistol.

If it was a weapon, it had been fired recently.

And if it wasn’t, what else could it be?

The whitesuits were approaching from the side. Could she spin the _Firefly_ with short bursts? Give them a burst directly in their rotten faces?

Kapera’s voice came on, weak and tired. “Nanoannie, they don’t want you. They want me. Take the plane and bail.”

Just up and leave Kapera?

_No._

“Put the big gun thing down,” she told the whitesuits. “Point it away from the plane.”

The fruity female voice sounded amused. “Who are you to be giving us orders, Martialle Centime?”

A high, raspy male voice cut in. “And it isn’t a gun. It’s a robotic surgeon. For your friend. She needs help.”

Nanoannie fired the tiniest blip she could from an orienting rocket. The whitesuits scattered.

The raspy male voice came on. “Do that again, little girl, and you’re out the lock without a suit. We saw your friend and you go into that hole, and we’re hauling her out. Then we’re going to cut the legs out from under you.”

The female voice said, “Your landing gear, for example. Or how about those pretty wings?”

Shitfire. The wings were extended, of course, because Nanoannie just automatically, whenever she landed, thought in terms of gathering solar energy. She fingertipped rapidly, and they folded inward.

The whitesuits answered by blasting a small crater a meter from the forward landing gear.

Nanoannie froze, unable to think of a countermove. “Kapera,” she sent softly. “Kapera, help me think.” The whitesuits had probably broken the private encryption by now, but maybe Kapera could think of something devious.

Could Kapera claim she was infected with some awful, super-contagious disease? No. That wouldn’t work. They’d just kill Kapera and leave her body outside to be sterilized by UV.

“If you kill us,” she screamed, “you’ll never find out what you want to know.”

The fruity female voice chuckled. “If we kill you, we haven’t lost a thing. You don’t know fines from fruitcake, kid.”

Nanoannie suddenly remembered the vacuum jar. “Oh yeah? What if I dump the Hyper-K?”

Was the hesitation a tad too long? The raspy male voice said, “What the dust is Hyper-K?”

She could hear Kapera breathing, quick and shallow, like trying to extract oxygen from carbon dioxide by sheer lung-power.

She thought about drinking the Hyper-K. If it could cure Kapera’s leukemia, maybe it would give a normal person super strength.

Nah.

Her parents. Had they heard the nine-eleven beacon?

What if they had? They could only call their corp. Which might take sols to get here.

This was worse than just missing Zloty’s birthsol. They were going to go totally global when they heard this.

“Got it,” said the raspy male voice.

She focused on the _Firefly_’s displays. They were all dark. Panicked, she flipped to the virtual displays in her helmet, but they confirmed the plane’s status: blank, dead. The nine-eleven beacon, too, was dead.

They’d broken into the _Firefly’s_ computer.

The port snicked open.

A whitesuit climbed in. Nanoannie reacted a split second too late to push the whitesuit back down the access ladder. Another whitesuit pushed in, and the first one unrolled two meters of tape. She backed away, cornered.

The second whitesuit held her arms while the first one taped them behind her back. Pain flared in her skybit hand.

“Get the Smythe girl,” said a third voice. “Careful. She’s a bleeder. We’ll have to work on her before we quiz her.”

The man tossed the thermos to the woman. “This goes with the smaller hellcat.”

They prodded Nanoannie toward the ladder. One tied a rope around her chest and the two of them lowered her to the surface.

* * * *

The whitesuits had dug a trench in the Plantation Centime’s grand entryway and erected an inflatable hab over it. Her family had landscaped that entry with exquisite rock arrangements and sand-raking. Nanoannie’s rage welled up when she saw it was all wrecked.

They took her helmet off. They had an override code. They seemed to have override codes for everything.

The whitesuit with the raspy voice proved to be a lithe white-blond man with tight curls and small, bright eyes. His breath smelled like licorice. “Shall I cut the suit, Tinquesta?” he asked the woman. _Tinquesta._ What kind of name was that?

“Get her out of it in one piece. The suit, I mean. We might need it later. We’ll probably just send her home, if — “

They noticed Nanoannie was listening and turned off their translators.

Was the babe the one in the plane that dropped her near Centime Pharm? The translator had masked that voice. This babe had a sweet, deep, sneaky voice. Her hair, thick and dark as her voice, looked clean. Unlike Nanoannie, she hadn’t spent the last two sols in an environment suit. The babe was even wearing designer perfume, something that smelled like burning plastic flowers. Nanoannie wrinkled her nose. What was it called? Ah. Thujone. A high-fashion salesbot had waved a sample of it under her nose at a Borealopolis boutique.

Just as Nanoannie was closing her eyes and spacing out, the insinuating Thujone fragrance was overpowered by the salt-piss smell of cheap ramen. She took the cup cautiously from the woman, remembering that on Earth, where the habs had high air pressure, boiling water would scald you super bad. What if she threw it at the babe? But she was outnumbered.

“We don’t need to hurt you,” said the woman.

Uh-huh, sure.

The guy came back. White hair, but not old. Hair bleached from lots of time outside. His baggy suit liner did not show his skinny physique to advantage. It would be yucky if he touched her.

“Who are you?” she asked.

The woman smirked. “One way to put it is that we’re from a corp that enforces Face-on-Mars contracts.”

“This is my parents’ plantation, and you’re trespassing.” Yeah, she thought, but who was going to stop them? Corporate invasions did happen. On Earth, police or lawyers could protect small pharmers. But here — nobody even noticed these guys had wrecked their landscaping with their ugly inflatable.

She finished the soup and wished for more. She was used to fasting when she was flying, but two sols — “I’m not afraid of you. My parents’ corp will find out about this and cancel your contract.”

Except they wouldn’t. Utopia Limited might even fine Escudo and Krona for letting it happen.

“We aren’t going to hurt you,” said the woman, an edge to her voice, “unless you or your friend are part of the conspiracy.”

Nanoannie stopped breathing. Conspiracy? What had she gotten herself into?

“We have other fish to fry, but we believe you are implicated in Dr. Sphynxeye’s murder.”

“Who?”

“Percival L. Sphynxeye. Head of the Institute for the Face on Mars, president of Cydonia University.”

“Facers? Somebody is attacking Facers?”

“Evidently somebody injected Percival L. Sphynxeye with an exotic meningeal virus, possibly a hybrid of Mars fossil RNA with Earth pathogens.”

“What does that have to do with me?”

“Please don’t insult my intelligence. Your plane — it’s called _Origami Firefly_? — was at Cydonia ten minutes this morning. It picked you up after the murder — “

“I flew the plane there! The plane doesn’t fly itself!”

“It’s our understanding that it does.”

“Are you crazy? I went directly from Cydonia to Smythe Pharm. I didn’t have time to do any murders.”

“Yes. You may have been only an accessory. Smythe Pharmstead is the logical place to look for the assassin.”

She remembered the Smythe’s research. They did work with Martian fossil DNA. She felt sudden doubt. Maybe Kapera had been a dupe. Maybe she was sick because she was carrying the virus that infected this Sphynxeye character. Maybe somebody — surely not the Smythes, they seemed so nice — had used Kapera as a human delivery system to carry the virus to Sphynxeye.

The ramen felt nasty in her stomach. What was true, what was false?

Wait a minute.

“There was this guy, about my age, name Cayce. He acted suspicious.”

“You think he was working with Kapera?”

“Didn’t you hear me? No! Kapera is just a kid!”

“This surly tunnel-rat doesn’t know anything,” said the man.

The woman tossed her hair out of her eyes. “But she’s chauffeured the Smythe brat all over Mars this last week. Be serious, Raddol.”

“She’s a tool.”

“I don’t think we can send her back home again.”

“Lock her up in the work hab. We’ll work on reviving the Smythe brat.”

The woman looked down at her hands. “I don’t know if we can.”

“Well, since we can’t find her parents — “

“Yes. Okay, Martialle Nanoannie Centime, get back in your suit.”

* * * *

Nanoannie’s suit was scratchy and uncomfortable and she was sure it would leak from all the dust.

They took her to the greenhouse hab. The plants were dormant, and the foreman’s own animals — pigeons, iguanas, and a pair of cuy which refused to breed — had either been moved or slaughtered. The air was thin, almost down to Mars ambient, so they turned on the auxiliary oxygen generators.

“Take your suit off,” said the man. His name was Raddol, she was going to remember that.

She folded her arms. “I can’t. The atmosphere isn’t high enough.”

“An exaggeration.” Raddol grabbed her arm and she felt the sudden sting of deadly cold.

She looked down. He’d slashed the sleeve of her suit.

She shuddered and pressed down on the slit. The sleeve sealed off, but by creating a tourniquet around her arm.

“Do I have to do the other sleeve? The legs?”

She thought about the suit. Without it, she had no hope of escaping.

They watched her unsuit. For a moment that she thought she saw lust in Raddol’s eyes, but unsuiting is not undressing, she told herself.

“Thanks.” The woman draped the suit over her arm. The helmet she kicked into a corner and Nanoannie winced even though she knew it was impervious to damage. Luna-made, good quality. Her parents had transferred a lot of credit for it. Part of their debt, like the _Origami Firefly_.

“Do I have to lug this heavy suit?” the woman said, and Nanoannie felt a rush of hope.

“Just take one of her boots. She’s not going anywhere barefoot,” said Raddol.

* * * *

When Raddol and the woman were gone, she went to the console that monitored air manufacturing. In a few hours, serious night cold would settle in. The nuke that powered the oxygen plant shunted its coolant to this room, so she’d be warm eventually. But the air was dry and thin, and she began to cough. Her hand smarted, too. She needed to be somewhere warm and humid and rub lotion onto it to let it heal.

The charge on her helmet battery was way down, and wouldn’t come up again until the sun hit the cells on her suit.

Still, she could try using her com.

“Anybody out there?” she sent. “I’ve been kidnapped. I’m the daughter of two important hires of Utopia Limited. These guys hijacked my parents’ plane and dug up the rock garden in front of our plantation.”

Fat chance anybody could hear her. Even if her com had enough power to transmit past the perimeter of the plantation, the whitesuits would jam her signal.

She sent a message to them.

“Look, you guys,” she said, “this won’t look good to your own corp. I know what goes on in those super-secret corp meetings.” She didn’t, but she figured she’d wing it. “Utopia Limited is a major corp, and they can enforce embargoes on other corps if they get mad. You can’t just kill me. My parents will trace me through APS.”

Was that true? The _Origami Firefly_ had a locating beacon. But only corps could access the signal, and would Utopia Limited do the trace for her parents?

“Let me go!” she screamed. Then, realizing she had lost it, she sucked a deep breath of dry, thin air.

Tears came. She wondered, stupidly, if they would freeze or boil.

––—

Chapter 18: _Last Will and Testament_

_Draft. Uploaded to Marsnet storage. No date, no place specified._

I, Kapera Smythe of Smythe Pharm and Laboratories, Vastitas Borealis, Mars, being of sound mind and all that gum-bumping, reckon I better write a will.

Hm. I don’t have much to will. But here goes:

_To my beloved father, Marcus Smythe:_ This diary. Maybe he can sell it, since I have interesting adventures, and all this mess won’t be wasted.

_To my mother, Zora Smythe:_ Any pictures I took in the hab computer. But she has to give my father copies. And tell her this: I forgive her for loving you more. I know it’s because of all she’s lost. But she should think of the whole family. Not just you, Sekou.

_To my grandfolks, Beatrix and Henri-Claude Smythe and Taj Picotte_: Any pictures they can download of me and my older sibs. The other dead ones.

_To my friend Nanoannie Centime, unless the whitesuits off her, too:_ My science books and a picture of you, Sekou, since she seems so interested. My toys, real, holo, and virtual. The ones she doesn’t want, give to the Mormon Jesuit Children’s Fund.

If there is a refund on my ticket to Earth orbitals, that goes to my daddy.

I want an on-line funeral with my school friends, Nanoannie, Qadir, Abebe, and Hoshi. I want my ashes mixed up with Martian fines, from the Pathfinder site.

That’s it. Until the Omega Point, if you believe that. Me, I just don’t know.

Sekou, brother, it’s me. Kapera Smythe, over and out.

––—

Chapter 19: _A Very Bad Place_

Nanoannie had never been in trouble like this. She reconsidered. It couldn’t be happening. Ha ha. Not to her. Except, well, it _was_ happening.

_So, let’s wake up and inventory our resources._

_Suit com_: dead. No reply to her pleas for help. Not even a reply to her message to the whitesuits.

_Kapera:_ no longer a resource: very, very sick, and probably being tortured by the whitesuits.

_Nanoannie’s suit:_ damaged, maybe repairable, but no good for an escape now. And without her right boot —

She remembered how peaceful that nice Japanese couple hadn’t looked.

_Forget that!_ Except she couldn’t. They had apparently been shot with a projectile weapon. To kill somebody in an environment suit (a project she hadn’t previously contemplated, despite her lurid vid tastes), you either have to poison them, cut off their life support, or pierce the suit. The Naguchis looked freeze-dried, like ham shipped from Earth. So it had to be a pierced suit.

She figured if they had died slowly, like over a period of a couple minutes, from slashed suits, they would be more tortured-looking, like with their tongues all out and blood from their lungs spattering their faceplates.

But they didn’t look tortured. Suggested an old-fashioned projectile weapon.

The whitesuits had projectile weapons.

She wanted to sit down. Very, very bad idea. But maybe it would be okay if she put her suit on a low bench and sat on it. Then she started to shake.

She was probably in shock. _Calm down. Breathe slowly!_

Back to her resources.

_Contents of this hab: _Pretty primitive. Duct tape? The hab atmosphere was getting thicker, warming up enough that she could smell animal cages and acrid dust, but still way too cold.

She could put the suit back on, for warmth, even though it wasn’t airtight anymore. No, better recharge in case she found a way to repair it and escape.

Her breath made white plumes, and dryness bit into her lungs like ice needles. Dust, too. Mars fines, alkaline, bad for your insides.

She spread her suit out in a patch of late afternoon sun, then shuffled in her bootliners over to the heat exchange pipes. Deliciously hot. She spread her arms out to reap the radiant heat, and nearly burned her chin. Her feet were frozen, while her face glowed, almost broiling.

She shifted from one foot to another, warming alternate feet at the pipes.

The heat cleared her head, and she turned her back to it, to warm her butt and shoulders, and to survey the room.

_Com hookup_: but no actual com equipment attached. Cheap electronics, not cold-hardened, so somebody who worked for her parents — Cayenne or Aldo — had taken it back to the main hab, which was always heated.

Cannibalize her own suit com, try to jack it into the hookup? No. The receptacle wouldn’t be compatible, and as far as hot-wiring it, her hands were shaking too badly. Her hurt hand ached and tingled with little licks of pain as if she had stuck it in liquid nitrogen.

When she stopped shaking, she did some dance steps to get her circulation going. She pretended she was in a club. It worked, sort of. Once she was warm enough, she went to scope out a cabinet on the other side of the room.

Everything in this little greenhouse was cobbled together from available local stuff. Cayenne and Aldo, workmen she had known since babyhood, fabricated furniture from foamed sand. They used carbon dioxide and Martian plastic to make bubbles, then mixed the foam with available fines. This mess could be formed into tables and benches, then UV-fired to solidify it. Exposed to the low pressure atmosphere, the foam burst. When she was little, she got excited watching the furniture fizz and pop and even dance around bursting its bubbles. Sometimes a piece popped too many bubbles, and fell apart. No big deal — foam was cheap and the fines free. They’d just laugh and make another piece.

Nanoannie had once made a little desk and stool for herself, but Escudo and Krona wouldn’t let her bring it into her bedroom. When foam-fines furniture fell apart, it made a mess. So her handiwork languished out in the front yard.

The whitesuits had smashed it completely when they ruined the entry rock garden. She hated them. Hated them!

Two foam-fines benches and a table were left to winter in this room. She recognized Cayenne’s doodles on the table top. The fiberglass cabinet was locked, and Nanoannie made a mental note that if she found nothing else useful, she’d break into it. That took too much effort right now.

Fiberglass shelves with actual metal uprights held three empty cages, a deflated cuy transport ball, a dry aquarium, pots, and plant chemicals.

The work-hab was half underground, to conserve building materials. But standing on the bench, she had a view of the plantation, dark and familiar in the low sun. The entry rock garden and the main hab were just over that hill, where she couldn’t quite see them. Off to the south were fields of magnesium plants, under billowing monofilm. She got her helmet and used its telescopic function to look for signs of activity in the rest of the abandoned plantation. Of course Cayenne, Aldo, and the four other workers had gone back to Equatorial City now that the growing season was over.

Where were the whitesuits? She scanned to see if light was leaking out from one of the mirror mazes.

Nothing. Shivering, she went back to the heat exchange pipes.

What did they want out of Kapera? Surely they didn’t believe she murdered that Sphynxeye guy. Was Kapera dead? Don’t think about that. Kids did die, sometimes. Adelaide Krintx, from her school, died in an explosive decompression accident at her parents’ pharm. It happened just seconds after she had logged off school.

Benson Rabotchik got leukemia, like Kapera. He used to log onto school even after he got sick, but Nanoannie stopped writing to him and then he died. She felt guilty, but superstitiously felt as if his bad luck would be catching. Sometimes babies died. The corps downplayed it because it discouraged new hires from Earth. Little sibs of her classmates sometimes died. The religious said it was Mars’ will. Some parents tried for another baby; some sold out and went back to Earth.

Kapera was Nanoannie’s friend, and therefore she’d figure a way not to die. Friends are not supposed to die.

How could Nanoannie get them both out of here?

The whitesuits and their fake subcorp had to be super evil. Raddol acted nasty, and Tinquesta, reeking of that expensive perfume, was too much of a babe to have any tenderness in her. Suppose they weren’t investigating the murder, but trying to find somebody to pin it on. Suppose they were the killers?

Her face was roasting, so she turned her back to the heat-exchange pipes.

Her eye fell on the cuy ball.

Was it still airtight?

She pulled it off the shelf and smoothed it out. It smelled like scared animals, all piss and musk.

The cuy ball was used for transporting small animals short distances. Inflatable. The airlock here had a spring-loaded elevator that shot it up to the surface and outside. This particular cuy ball was a meter in diameter and would hold about forty cuy. The cuy hated tumbling all over one another as it rolled. In Earth gravity, they would have been injured. But on Mars, they just had their little feelings hurt. The manual advised against doing it with chickens, because their beaks could pierce the ball.

You could roll it fifty meters, tops, before the animals would freeze. Made of semitransparent CO2 plastic, it wasn’t sturdy. She’d never seen one break, but if it did, it was cuy for breakfast, lunch, and dinner for a week.

She warmed herself by the heat exchange pipes and hoped nobody was watching. In a few minutes, she’d have to get busy.

She suddenly realized she’d fallen asleep, standing up, leaning against the wall next to the heat exchange pipes. No question, she had blanked out. Dust storms, static, and little sand imps!

_Get going, girl!_

If she could only mend the suit. Just a tad of duct tape.

She eyed the cabinet. Locked. Silly old Cayenne. That’s where he’d hide the tape.

If she had a rock, she could break the lock. But she didn’t. And it was metal, so it wouldn’t melt.

She’d have to kick the cabinet in. The moves in the Rocker Bogie Boogie looked just like martial arts kicks in Psyche Leptonne vids. Nanoannie practiced dancing a lot. Given a chance, she could be like those feline-slinky, panther-strong dancers of Earth, with their big Earth-g muscles.

She could kick that cabinet to splinters.

But only with a hard boot on.

She thought hard about uncoupling her remaining boot from the suit and putting it on. It’d get dusty and hard to seal again. She was counting on that duct tape.

Without duct tape she couldn’t use the suit anyway. Not with a big slash in the sleeve.

Fingers clumsy with cold, head buzzing with fatigue and maybe oxygen starvation, she uncoupled the one boot they had left her, the left one, and pulled it on.

The big weight on her left foot unbalanced her. She took it off and warmed up with high practice kicks. Then she practiced with the heavy boot on.

Dancing was just like martial arts. Absolutely.

What did those martial arts guys say? Kee-up!

_Kee-up! Kee-up! Kee-up?_

The kicks bruised her foot. On her third try she nearly dislocated her knee.

Dizzy with hypoxia, she gave up and glared at the cabinet.

She went back to the hot pipes and rehearsed every curse word she had ever heard, in all different languages.

About the time she was contemplating the risk-benefit ratio of a good, all-out cry, her eye fell on her helmet.

The helmet was nearly indestructible, at least that’s what the catalog had said.

If she cracked it, of course, she was vacuum-pizza.

She held the helmet high over the cabinet and slammed it down with all her might.

The cabinet door flew off.

Revealing a stack of Utopia Corp Blue Stamps.

Useless! Not even good for bribing the ugly whitesuits!

Dust, global storms, dead chickens, and broken recyclers! Father Mars and Little Stars, curse this shitty pile of worthless money! She threw pile of Utopia Corp Blue Stamps against the wall.

Some of the money settled on the cuy transport ball.

Hm.

Might work. Might.

How to inflate it? Lacking a spare tank, she’d have to take the screen off the room ventilator, turn it up high, and jam the cuy ball nozzle on the ventilator outlet. She’d seen Aldo do that.

The air in a cuy ball wouldn’t hold long. Maybe five minutes.

Where could she go in five minutes?

Well, how about the low pressure greenhouse, where Krona grew frostflowers in season? She could roll that far. Sure she could. Could she get the greenhouse airlock open? She’d use her com to key the access code.

Her hands were shaking. She couldn’t be in this much trouble, could she? I mean, this was _home_. _Stop panicking!_

Easy now. Easy.

The ball would be a tight fit. She wriggled back into the suit, hoping those gorgeous babe-style hips and tanks hadn’t grown so much since last summer that she was too big to get into the cuy ball.

She took a deep breath and shivered. Mars, Phobos, and little Deimos, was it cold. She put on her left boot, sealing it to her suit. A little gritty, but maybe it would hold. A deep breath, and she put her helmet on. The inside smelled like sweaty hair.

Not a good idea to activate the life support on a leaky suit, so she overrode that (the batteries seemed a little dim) and tried to figure out how she was going to inflate the ball from inside. A thick hose was provided for inflation. She figured she could connect the hose to the generator first, but she’d need some way to pull the open end of the hose toward her.

Ah. She pulled a thread from the sleeve of her suit liner, tied one end to the hose, and threaded it through the vent into the ball. Once she was in the ball through the regular opening, she could pull the hose up to the ball and hope it would engage.

Stupid low-tech gadgets that weren’t even remote-control accessible! If she had more energy, she’d really enjoy screaming and throwing things.

But her idea would work. It would have to.

First, program the sling mechanism to pitch the cuy ball out in — what? — three minutes.

She dragged a bench over close to the generator and shook the limp cuy ball out. She pressed her helmeted head against the opening and pushed. _Like being born, only in reverse_.

Her shoulders went in one by one; one arm, the other, then twist. Her hips caught, but she pushed and gritted her teeth, and they popped in. She was bent double and when her left knee popped in, it hit her in the chin and smooshed her chest.

But the boot wouldn’t quite make it. Her position, like that of a sleeping cuy, made it hard to breathe. Her brain’s insistent screams for oxygen were making her crazy. She focused on a spatter of cuy crap separated from her nose only by her helmet. _Breathe, breathe slow._

No. That boot was just too much.

Take the suit without the boot? Try to pull the boot inside and curl around it? Scream very loud?

_Breathe calmly. Calm!_ The feeling passed. She’d have to lose the boot. Stretching her foot out of the ball, she managed to unlatch it.

She closed the ball lid and pulled the air hose. It mated with the ball. As air inflated the ball, the sides eased away from Nanoannie’s back and head and neck. Her knees stopped grinding her chin.

She rolled off the table — thump! — and rocked until the cuy ball rolled to the base of the ladder. With a galactic-size lurch, the automated sling mechanism pitched her up and out onto the surface into the darkening pink of the sky. She couldn’t hear it, but knew the airlock slammed shut behind her.

_Now you can’t change your mind, girl_.

She hadn’t remembered a steep incline here, but she started to roll, _was_ rolling, faster and faster. Her head rolled over her butt, over and over, uncontrollably, banging her shoulders and heels against rocks. It made her so dizzy she couldn’t recognize anything.

Where was she? Lost!

_No!_ she told herself, _this is my home!_ And sure enough, after a few rolls, she figured out how to shift her weight so she could pause every few rolls and study and her surroundings.

A few rolls, and she was at an airlock that opened the winter greenhouse, and thence into the main hab.

She rolled against it, but it was unyielding.

Cuy piss! She got HIC! hiccups. Was she HIC! running out of oxygen? Her helmet display said, no, just the HIC! opposite — breathing too fast. She was glad she’d brought the helmet. She HIC! uttered the passkey and rolled back, ready for HIC! the airlock to open.

But it didn’t.

She was in HIC! trouble. Could she roll back to the cellar where HIC! she’d started out before HIC! her oxygen ran out?

No. She couldn’t open it HIC! manually, and besides, her exit had exhausted most of the HIC! atmosphere.

She was stuck out in the environment with HIC! hiccups and only a few minutes of air.

What would Kapera do?

What would HIC! _Sekou_ do?

Sekou would be devastated that she had HIC! died before they even met. Sekou would know all about her, would realize they HIC! were fated for one another.

She must find a way HIC! to safety. For Sekou. For her mother and father. For Mars!

For Mars? She was losing her tiny mind.

Twenty meters beyond HIC! the greenhouse entrance was the field of magnesium plants, protected by a vast sheet of HIC! monofilm super cold-hardened plants. Might make oxygen HIC! even in winter.

Naw. Who was she kidding? Those plants were dead. Krona and Escudo HIC! would replant the whole field next spring.

Except: a few plants always survived. They always took cuttings from those for the next mear.

She’d have to HIC! try it.

The hiccups stopped as she rolled. She brightened, then realized that was probably because she was now seriously low on oxygen. Dimly, she knew she could just go out, like a light.

Woozy, she rocked to a stop at the edge of the field. How to get under the film? The film wasn’t actually cemented down, just anchored under a layer of rocks and sand.

Like an idiot, she crooned “Sekou, help me think!” into the suit com.

_Just let the whitesuits find you. They’ll have nice high-pressure air. If you’re still alive._

No! She had to rescue Kapera.

She had to help Kapera and Sekou find their parents. And prove they were innocent.

Super, super cold. The cuy ball was not designed to travel way far.

_Crawl out and get under the monofilm. How? Open outlet, use hands. No. Too cold. Use suit heat? No, no, no, drain battery, bad. But she had to. Save the battery and you die. Battery useless if you’re dead, stupid. Kick your way out. Air whooshing out — the ball deflating, sagging against her back — careful, lift the monofilm_ —

Lucky! Here the vast sheet of monofilm was held down by only a few centimeters of pebbles. It came loose and flapped sullenly as — yes! — plant-generated gasses vented. She crawled under the monofilm.

No way to seal the edge of the monofilm back down. She pulled the deflating cuy ball in back of her, hoping it would plug the gap and slow the escape of gasses. Her right foot and the arm with the slashed sleeve burned from sky bite.

She crawled a few meters. Yes! She felt pressure fighting back against the sleeves of her suit. Did she dare crack open the helmet? If the pressure was too low to breathe — and it probably was — she’d lose all the air from the suit and not get enough oxygen to stay conscious.

A gamble. She pushed all the suit air into her helmet, and sealed off the rest of the suit, hoping that the slight gas pressure under the monofilm was enough to keep her from swelling up and exploding.

She crawled, not thinking about skybite, hoping the knees and elbows of her suit would not tear. The wrecked rock garden was a dark shape ahead. Thirty meters, maybe. Beyond that, the main airlock. Crawling under the monofilm, she could see little but desiccated stalks and heaps of dirt, but now she knew her way.

She didn’t need the passkey to that entrance. Her voice would always open it, no matter what. It was home.

A few more meters. Was she losing consciousness? Of course not. Ha ha.

The airlock swooshed open, and she crawled into darkness.

The whitesuits had made a mess of the rock garden, she saw, as she looked back through the transparent walls. She hated them some more, and then went through the rest of the airlock. Was the hab pressurized? Yes. Of course: the whitesuits must be using it as their operations base. But where were they? The room sensed her presence, tried to turn lights on, but she told it no. She opened her helmet, lay on the floor, sucked huge breaths of air. Gradually the warmth came back into her arms and feet.

She nearly fell asleep, lying on the floor, inhaling the comfortable faint smells of cooking and cleaning, and wondering if Phobos was high enough to shine through the skylight.

The whitesuits were somewhere in the hab, and they would hurt her.

She staggered to her feet and shuffled to a house puter. The whitesuits had destroyed the link to Marsnet. Jerks! They had the place powered up — it had a big nuke. But none of the room sensors indicated motion. Could they be gone?

No. The sensors showed CO2 usage sometime in the past hour in the clinic.

During growing season, the staff was large enough to need not just a clinic, but a food programmer, puter stroker, and a human nurse to help the robotic surgeon. Nanoannie glided toward the clinic.

There, oblivious to the sickroom stench that still hovered from last summer, a small figure lay on a cot. A life support carapace concealed the chest and head. But Nanoannie recognized Kapera’s dainty arm, with its antique wrist puter. On a table nearby was the thermos. Nanoannie hoped it still contained Hyper-K.

She tapped on the carapace. “Kapera, wake up! We’ve got to get out of here!”

The small arms did not move. Nanoannie peered at the displays, but they meant nothing to her. She hated blood, and never went near Zloty when she was sick, which she was, a lot. She never wanted to be a robotic surgeon programmer, like some of the dumb heroic kids in her on-line school.

Get Kapera out of the carapace! How to get it open? Was Kapera still alive? Suppose when Kapera was taken out of the carapace, Kapera stopped breathing? Suppose Nanoannie pulled something loose and Kapera bled to death.

Bled to death?

Sand vampire victims in Nausicaa Azrael stories always had a gray tinge to their skin. Kapera’s hand looked small, gray, and limp. Did Kiafricans’ skin look that way when they were dead?

But if she wasn’t dead, why had the whitesuits left her here?

She pulled off her glove and felt Kapera’s hand: soft and cool. She had never felt anybody’s hand before outside her family. Her mother’s hand was calloused and warm; her father’s bigger, and also hardened from work: comforting hands. Zloty’s hand was even softer than Kapera’s. Her mother was always putting lotion on Zloty’s skin. Nanoannie used it too, when she thought of it.

Was Kapera’s hand soft and cool because she was sick? Or just because her parents hadn’t made her work super hard since she got leukemia? Or maybe it felt like that because she was Kiafrican. Or maybe because she was dead.

Nanoannie clasped Kapera’s hand to her cheek. After a moment, she realized she had gotten tears on the hand. She awkwardly placed it back on the cot, next to the carapace.

Then she focused on the wrist puter.

The puter Kapera was always entering data into. Composing letters to Sekou, she said. Unsent, probably: she had never seen Kapera upload them to Marsnet.

_I must make sure Sekou gets those letters_, she decided.

She unbuckled the puter from Kapera’s wrist. Kapera still didn’t wake up.

_Where were the whitesuits?_ They had left Kapera to die. Probably they used truth drugs, or tortured information out of her and left her behind to run down some secret they extracted.

_The whitesuits were gone._

“Kapera, I’m taking your wrist puter. I promise you, whatever happens, I’ll get it to Sekou. And I’ll find your parents.”

She fiddled with the wrist puter’s tiny display. Kapera’s files were passworded. Not that she would snoop, of course. She was just thinking of uploading them to Sekou.

“Kapera, maybe you can hear me. I’m going to refuel the _Origami Firefly_. I can do it without blowing anything up. Then I’m going to find your family.” _Clues. Had to be clues. But where?_ “Kapera, please get better. You’re my best friend.”

The carapace continued its unreadable displays. Kapera’s hand did not move.

Should she stay with Kapera, try to repair the link to Marsnet, and call for help?

What if the whitesuits came back? They might kill her, and Kapera too.

She had to go for help. But where?

“You’ll be better in no time. I can tell. Your hands look — really healthy.”

Plantation Centime was silent except for winter machine noises. Nanoannie turned and ran.

––—

Chapter 20: _Nanoannie to Sekou_

_Somewhere over the equator, Summer-April 17, 2202_

oDear Sekou:

This is to inform you

Gee, Sekou, I don’t

To Mr. Sekou Smythe, Esquireo:

Dear Sekou,

You don’t know me — yet. I’m a friend of your sister, oand I think I’ve falleno and I always wanted to meet you.

First, I hate to tell you, but your sister Kapera is deep in iguana shit. Oh, man, it’s my fault, too.

Let’s start from ignition. I’m Nanoannie Centime. My name has nothing to do with nanotech or being eensy teensy.

Centime is a fake name. My father’s original name was Bangkok Sam, and my mother’s was O’Hare. My father is dark, but even though it’s not supposed to be possible, I’m blond like my mother, with blue eyes. They came from somewhere on Earth. Adelaide? Sydney? I could look it up. They lived on Luna for awhile. Ran out of money on Luna and sold their contracts to Utopia Limited. We have a hab in Vastitas Borealis, and also a big plantation — hectares — in Hellas Basin. Actually, we don’t _own_ them. We’re not freemen like you Smythes.

I’d like to be a freeman. I know it’s hard, starting out with no credit, no corp to back you. My parents keep nagging me to sell my contract to Utopia. That would be like being dead. I want to be an independent pilot, running my own flight line.

Did Kapera tell you what happened at Plantation Centime? They locked me up and sealed Kapera in a life-support carapace. But she’s okay. She looks really good, almost like she was alive.

I can’t get into the other files on this puter, so I don’t know much about you.

Except, I feel I know you. I talk to you in my sleep sometimes.

Well.

I had to go get help!

First off, I figured I’d fuel up my airplane. I shouldn’t brag, but honest, man, I’m the best girl pilot on Mars. Kapera told you that, right?

I was pretty sure the whitesuits had pulled out. I patched my suit with skinfilm and tape, then copped some boots Cayenne, our mechanic, left behind. Stop visualizing how stupid I looked. I had to wear _something._

My suit smelled like something crawled up its butt and died. Hadn’t been dedusted for three sols, or was it four? And I kept stumbling over my toes. Cayenne’s feet are about the size of Phobos.

I trekked over to the fuel shed to get the oxidizer and mag tubes. We have a tractor. Lucky the whitesuits hadn’t wrecked it or stolen the fuel. The tractor’s nuke had kept it warm, although I had to replace two hoses. Cold rot. Not easy in a glove wrapped up with duct tape, but I did it. I always do what I have to. Yes!

I figured I’d load Kapera onto the tractor and haul her teensy butt onto the _Origami Firefly_. (That’s our plane.) The tractor doesn’t have a cabin, but I hoped the whitesuits had left her suit behind.

We could go to Sagan City. Your sister knows some Mormon Jesuits there. I used to think they were all shady, but Immaculata and Abish, these girl missionaries that came to our pharm, were all right.

I just rounded the corner into the front courtyard, when I saw a plane parked there, right on top of my sand sculpture of a lion. Smashed it, the creeps.

I threw the tractor into reverse and hid behind a corner, hoping they weren’t using motion sensors. I slipped off the tractor saddle and ran for one of the other house airlocks.

This airlock let me into the hab, and I turned on an intercom so I could listen.

I heard this:

_Him:_ — had a pulse when we found her, right? Please tell me she isn’t dead.

_Her:_ It wasn’t like I could feel her wrist while she was in her suit.

_Him:_ What about her suit functions?

_Her:_ She cryptoed them somehow. Anyway, I didn’t think of looking. I was just happy to find the brat.

_Him:_ The corp will have our heads.

_Her:_ We’ll get the information some other way.

_Him:_ The corp doesn’t like us killing kids.

_Her:_ Raddol, give me a break. These kids are tough. They were born on Mars.

_Him:_ You don’t feel the slightest guilt over this?

_Her:_ The cuy-crapping carapace is malfunctioning. The only one they’ve got at this Mars-forsaken plantation.

_Him:_ We’ve got a sick kid on our hands, and we don’t call for help? Never mind. Go get the Centime kid.

_A pause._

_Him, again:_ What are you waiting for? You’re not afraid of her, are you?

_Her:_ Of course not. I could break her in two. But if she has a complete suit she might try to get away.

_Him:_ Yeah? Where would she go?

_Her:_ Raddol, this is her parents’ plantation. She grew up here.

_Him:_ Do I have to do everything? Use your zapper on her or something.

_Lucky I got out of that shed! They went on:_

_Him:_ The cuy-crap —

_Her:_ Don’t be vulgar.

_Him:_ That’s what you called it. Anyway, the carapace was working when we put her in it. Why is it dead now?

_Her:_ Maybe it’s her that’s dead.

_So even they weren’t sure if Kapera was dead. I had to do something go get help, something!_

_Her:_ Take her back to Utopia, wire her up, let the machines decide. We can’t question her if she can’t talk. And bring that can of stuff she had with her. Sure as suitsweat, her parents stuck their proprietary junk in there.

_Him:_ But we can’t leave the other brat here.

Utopia? They were from Utopia? My parents’ own corp?

Noises. What if they were moving the surgical carapace, with Kapera inside? It didn’t sound like they were going to leave again so I could grab her and run.

I could stow away on their plane. It must be pressurized. If it wasn’t, my suit now had some charge.

But if they found me, they’d throw me out the cockpit door. They’d tell the corp I fell.

I could follow them in the _Origami Firefly_, staying in their sun so they couldn’t see me.

It would be hard to stay between them and the sun. And fifty-fifty they’d see me take off.

I ran for the _Firefly_. I’d figure out what to do once aloft. Hoping they were still distracted, I fueled, fired it up, and flew east.

Hey, Sekou. When this is over, after we find your sister and your parents, who did _not_ murder anybody and who are _not_ dead, let’s you and me go party in Equatorial City.

I mean, I’m not saying I’m the nukest chick on the planet, but I’m not hamster gizzards, either.

I’d send you a graphic, except this thing doesn’t do holo.

And I’m not looking my finest right now, what with having lived in an environment suit for four sols.

Sorry I misplaced your sister.

Your future really close friend,

Nanoannie Centime

Martialle of Planet Mars.

––—

Chapter 21: _Chasing Whitesuits_

Nanoannie touched the wrist puter to the front of her helmet and blew it a kiss. She ran the band through a utility strap over her heart, vowing it wouldn’t leave her body until she gave it to Kapera — or Sekou.

She put the plane on autopilot. Her body itched in ten places. Her nose was sore from not being wiped and from peroxides that accumulated in her suit. Her injured hand burned, and she didn’t like to think about the condition of her sanitary pack.

But she had to find Kapera, and then Kapera’s parents. They weren’t murderers. Kapera was much too sweet to be the daughter of killers.

What about that lunch Cayce had packed for them back at Cydonia? Her stomach growled. She’d had nothing since that nasty ramen. The plane was charged; she pressurized the cabin. When it was up to 30 kilopascals, she opened her helmet and her ears popped.

She reviewed the facts.

1) The Naguchis were dead, buried in an illegal grave at Smythe Pharm.

2) The Smythes had run away, leaving their rover behind, smashed all to Olympus and gone.

3) Invaders had been at the pharm. They were the killers. Maybe they killed the Smythes, too. Maybe the Smythes were buried _under_ the Naguchis. And that red stuff on the floor when Kapera took her there the first time? Kapera said it was just bacterial dye. But —

4) The invaders had kidnapped her and Kapera. Were they Facers? Or Vivocrypt corpgeeks? She remembered Vivocrypt was the corp that originally owned the Smythe’s contract.

5) Who murdered that Sphynxeye guy? Renegade Facer Nuns? They were the ones that wanted to launch a starship right away, instead of waiting fifty mears until the big generation starship was built. So maybe they offed Sphynxeye, like a palace coup?

6) Sekou — how did he fit in? He was a hunk, and she suspected she had fallen for him. He _wasn’t_ the son of killers. His sister _wasn’t_ an assassin.

7) And what did the research at Smythe Pharm have to do with all this?

The iguana jerky turned to salty slime in her mouth, but she chewed and swallowed.

Her small inner voice told her she should go home and face the music. She actually missed her parents, Luna on her ceiling, Fuzzbutt’s antics, even Zloty’s cute baby giggle. Zloty’s birthsol party might have been fun, even if it was just the four of them. Maybe it would be okay: she’d settle in, finish school easy, get a contract, find some corp geek to romance her.

But no. She was on a mission. She could not throw Kapera out the proverbial airlock. Nor let Sekou down.

Whenever she activated her com, icons of her parents capered in a corner of the screen, trying to get her attention. They were wrong in many ways, but she needed information.

She’d pinged Centime Pharm’s house com. “Mom! Hey, Krona!”

The image switched to real-time. Krona looked wild, as if she’d been screwing Escudo by hanging from the seal of the skylight. Nah. Probably just involved in a cooking experiment.

Krona said, “What have you done? Why on Mars did you — “

“We were forced down and some corpgeeks tortured us.”

“That Smythe girl.” Escudo appeared beside Krona. “She’s dangerous, Nanoannie. I know she’s young, but she’s involved in a plot to destroy Utopia and Vivocrypt. And Cydonia, too!”

“That’s all lies, and you know it is. Who do you believe, me or them?”

Their scowls were ugly enough to send a wave through the net and fry her com.

“Anyway,” she said, “I need Elvis Darcy’s com code.”

Krona’s eyes widened. “Why on Mars do you want that?”

_Because he’s a Utopia corpgeek, and Utopia’s got Kapera_. “Maybe I’ll turn myself in.”

Both tried to jump through the virtual screen at her. “No!” shrieked Krona. Escudo sat with his mouth open until Nanoannie was afraid a meteor would land in it.

“Just give me his com code and I’ll smooth everything over. He’s our friend, right?”

“Friend?” Krona looked uncertain.

“Yeah, you said he liked me.” She added, as if an afterthought, “Also his home base coordinates. Just in case.”

Krona fingertipped code and coordinates in Utopia Planitia. Of course! Utopia Limited _would_ be in Utopia Planitia.

“Thank, guys.” And Nanoannie switched off.

Their icons, in the corner of her vision, pranced ever more frantically.

* * * *

She accessed weather warnings, sealed her helmet, and reset automatic pilot. Utopia Limited might have flight robots looking for her, but she needed a nap, and the plane would wake her up if anything weird happened.

She mulled over the murder of that Sphynxeye guy. It must have happened after she rescued Kapera. That right there proved Kapera’s innocence.

* * * *

She gave up worrying about the murder and tried to rest, weaving, as was her habit, a love fantasy. Hm: Sekou was trapped in a lava tube; she landed to investigate his nine-eleven. As in many of her daydreams, she headed a rescue agency.

Inside the lava tube, Sekou showed her a Major Discovery. A fossil? A clue in a murder investigation? She’d make that up later.

Sekou’s rover had been stolen, leaving him kilometers from his base. Toxins in the lava tube were dissolving their suits. Fortunately she had brought a human-sized cuy transport ball. But they had to take off their suits and liners to squeeze in.

She happened to be wearing a red silkee and panties from Angela’s Intrigue —

Nanoannie woke up. The autopilot was screaming that the _Firefly_ was only minutes from the coordinates of Utopia Limited’s headquarters.

The plane’s com sprang to life.

A voice. “Who the hell is she, then?”

She was eavesdropping on Utopia Limited’s flight control center.

The field was huge — a kilometer wide and half again as long, marked with blue and green lines. What kind of money it must have cost to pave!

Beyond was a huge structure she recognized from holos, a transparent dome strong enough not to explode from the inside pressure of breathable atmosphere. Smaller buildings, connected by tramways, honeycombed the area east of the field. They led to a huge launch vehicle. This must be part of the gen starship Utopia had been building for just about forever. Waste of money, which they could have lent to her parents for living expenses.

“Well, she’s not some little missionary with tracts to peddle,” said a laconic voice.

“I know. But she’ll probably land anyway. So let’s not shoot her down.”

Nanoannie was so relieved she almost cried.

Then the concussion hit her, and the back of the _Origami Firefly_ disappeared.

Nanoannie was strapped in and fully suited, as required when on autopilot. Otherwise, she would have been ripped out of the remaining half of the plane and catapulted to ground. The _Origami Firefly_ did not have airbags. Escudo had been meaning to put them in, but he hadn’t really expected his daughter to be shot down over Utopia Planitia.

“I told you not to shoot her down!”

_Terrain! Terrain! Terrain!_ announced her autopilot.

“I didn’t! The corp triggered the defense system!”

Nanoannie grabbed the stick and held on like an aquarium leech. She no longer felt her seat cushion under her. She was holding the stick, detached from the plane, and flying backward.

_My lungs are coming out my ears!_ she thought. The seat under her tore away from the front of the _Firefly_, and she was flying without a plane.

Below, coming up fast, robots swarmed the field, spraying pink foam. They whipped their nozzles back and forth, back and forth, spewing froth like an endless flood of whipped creme mixed with blood.

The foam expanded like a giant crawling carpet, throwing up spouts of pink foam that Nanoannie, in her terror, imagined she could hear popping and fizzing.

SPLOOOSH!

_I’m dead,_ she thought. _At least I don’t have to worry what Escudo and Krona will do when they find out I wrecked the plane._

Spread-eagled on her back, she watched effervescing foam dance, climb, fall, build up and collapse in fractal clouds.

“Get her out!” shrieked somebody. “The corp has gone crazy!”

“Stop the damn foambots! Get them to spray the detergent on it. No, wait, that’ll clog her suit and she’ll suffocate.”

Nanoannie’s vision was blocked by a sea of tiny, sticky bubbles that endlessly grew and exploded. The pink grew darker, darker. She was sinking into a quicksand of foam. She tried to wipe the foam off her faceplate.

Her arm wouldn’t move.

“Don’t burn her! Mars’ balls, I knew something like this would happen.”

Light.

Pink still fuzzed her vision. _And she still couldn’t move._ The foam clasped her like rock holds a fossil.

She felt herself lifted, dragged away.

Within her glove, it was still possible — just barely — to fingertip, so she tried to access suit health, environmental conditions, and positioning. The suit health was going down and down, and the environmental conditions readings made no sense.

Darker, darker.

“Please,” she sent, “I’m a Martian Martialle, and I have rights.” She didn’t know what those rights were, but she figured she must _have_ some. “My parents are Utopia Limited corp hires, and I’m innocent.” Yeah, she was innocent. Except for stealing her parents’ expensive plane, which was technically Utopia corp property.

Grating. Chipping. Her suit health monitor sent an alert; it wasn’t getting solar energy. Instead, it was being torched. The burning smell made her cough.

Nanoannie’s left leg felt hot. The boots she’d borrowed from the locker at Plantation Centime had some autonomous function, heat and pressure adjustments, for example. Maybe they were malfunctioning.

Then her right leg warmed, and suddenly she could move both legs. She kicked, wildly.

A voice. “Hold her legs, stupid! She’s having a convulsion.”

“No, I’m not!” she bellowed. She stopped being afraid. Now she was enraged.

She almost got a leg free. But somebody sat on it.

Her left and then right arm warmed, and she could move.

“It’s melting the tape on her hand. Duct tape! How do these mole-rats think of these things?”

“Her sleeve is mended with skinfilm. Hold her arms! God, she’s strong. You’d think she was an Earther.”

“Let’s do her helmet. Maybe she’ll calm down.”

Nanoannie saw shadows moving across the surface of her faceplate, squishy negative shadows of light rather than darkness. Then scrubbing.

“Can’t get the stuff off. Why did the corp have to — “

“We can take the helmet off now.”

_Not while I’m conscious,_ thought Nanoannie. They couldn’t take it off without her giving release passwords. And she wouldn’t!

“Let go, you little wildcat!”

But did she want to be trapped in the suit? The suit was recovering its sensors. The outside air, it said, was at 46 kilopascals, and properly oxygenated.

So she fingertipped passwords, and the helmet came off. She squeezed her eyes against the rain of tiny pink particles, left over from the foam. Her ears hurt. The suit had been at only 40 kilopascals.

Her senses were flooded with the fragrance of plants and warm, moist air.

She opened her eyes.

She was lying on her back, looking at a hazy pink sky through the ceiling of a greenhouse. In the periphery of her vision were flowers, weird ones with a single broad hairy petal like a tongue, and a deep throat coated with yellow fuzz. Flowers were hard to cultivate on Mars. What were these? _Orchids_, she remembered.

She also smelled licorice and Thujone.

Raddol and Tinquesta were watching her like pharmers waiting for their nuke to melt down.

“You like to do things the hard way, don’t you?” Raddol asked her.

She sat up, enraged.

He continued, “If you had stayed put back in Hellas, we would have bundled you into a nice hopper and landed you here without a crash landing. But no! You needed to be the macha muchacha. Tinquesta! Is there more of that duct tape?”

Tinquesta had a vacuum cleaner. She labeled the bag on it in black ink — Nanoannie imagined the pink landing foam would be recycled. “The corp doesn’t let us use duct tape to tie people up,” she said. “The corp would rather shoot them out of the sky.”

“We can — “

“We don’t have any bleeding duct tape!” Tinquesta snapped. “The corp doesn’t do kluges!”

Nanoannie was too furious to be scared. “Who do you think you are? I’m the daughter of two Utopia hires. You can’t just shoot me down and tie me up!”

Tinquesta softened, “Listen, kid, it was Utopia Limited that shot you down. And spread the foam so you wouldn’t be killed. And my guess is that if you try to get away, Utopia Limited will cut your suit or send out tanglefoam or something. The corp wants us to _question_ you.”

Nanoannie got to her feet. She looked down at the pink mess still clinging to her almost-new suit. It was ruined! Then she remembered the _Origami Firefly_, in pieces all over this part of Utopia Planitia.

That was _really_ ruined.

“You might as well sit down,” said Tinquesta. She still looked like she had just taken a bath. Her hair was so shiny-clean that Nanoannie wanted to yank handfuls of it out of her head.

Nanoannie looked down at her suit, which looked like some pink velvet teddy bear you might win at an Equatorial City tube fair. With the helmet off, she could only access suit readouts aurally, but a brief try suggested that the suit was now useless, unless she wanted to make a funny-Earthling sculpture out of it.

She went through the suit-doffing codes, and unsuited, defiantly, in front of them. She felt Raddol’s eyes on her and in the back of her mind wondered if she could use her babe status to confuse him. She was sweaty and covered in dust, but she had seen the look in Sekou’s eyes —

— wait a minute. She hadn’t really met Sekou yet.

She shrugged. Sekou was _going_ to give her that look. She cut her gaze at Raddol, who looked down at his hands.

She was about to let the chest plate slide to the floor, when she remembered Kapera’s wrist puter.

Tinquesta snatched at it at the same time Nanoannie closed her fist — her good fist — around it.

Tinquesta snarled, “Don’t you have any respect for your elders, you little hellcat?”

Nanoannie laughed. “I don’t answer to anybody, except maybe my parents!”

A hard, blunt object poked her armpit. Raddol said, “I should just drop you with this thing, sweetie. But I’ll give you a chance to let go of that little toy.”

Nanoannie waited for the sting of the zapper. When it didn’t come, she said, “It’s Kapera Smythe’s, and you _can’t have it_.”

Tinquesta relaxed her grip reflexively, and Nanoannie yanked the wrist puter free. She stepped back and darted her gaze from one of her captors to the other. She clutched the puter to her chest. What could she do? Stick it down the front of her suit liner? Swallow it?

Tinquesta said, “Zap her.”

Raddol said, “If we zap her, we have to carry her. I’m tired of lugging underage criminals around.”

_Lugging — _”Kapera’s here! Is she okay?”

Tinquesta shifted her weight slightly, maybe thinking to jerk the puter away from Nanoannie. “You want to see Kapera? We’d rather you walk than have to carry you.”

“Why can’t Kapera come here?”

Tinquesta and Raddol exchanged glances.

“She’s fine,” said Raddol. “Come look.”

“I’ll give the puter to her. Not to you.”

Tinquesta said, “Fine. Follow us. Raddol, keep the zapper on her.”

* * * *

The corp headquarters was ostentatious, but empty. Though ultra-hardened glass revealed a stunning sky view, and gigantic ficus towered over orchid gardens, the tunnel floors were cold. Nanoannie was shivering by the time they reached a small room with one-way windows. Raddol’s zapper jammed into her side, she looked down into a bright medbot center.

Kapera lay draped to the chin, while a robotic surgeon probed her mouth and eyes, then scuttled back to an analysis module.

Nanoannie clutched the wrist puter. “She’s dead, isn’t she? You killed her and now you’re squeezing information out of her brain.”

Tinquesta said, “Even Utopia Corp doesn’t have that kind of technology. Although they’re working on it in Earth Orbital laboratories.”

Nanoannie turned on her. “You killed my friend!”

Raddol said, “Kapera was a very sick girl. Don’t accuse us of what nature was achieving on its own.”

Nanoannie felt as if the sky fell on her and the moons exploded around her ears. Delirious with rage, she threw herself against Raddol.

Raddol lost his grip on the zapper, and Nanoannie grabbed it and stuck it in his armpit. She didn’t know much about weapons, but that was where he had held it on her.

They could make all the excuses in the world, but they had kidnapped Kapera’s parents, kept them from their flight to Earth, and now they had killed Kapera. Her anger erupted.

Raddol was smaller than she was, but she figured the setting was okay for him too, so she pulled the trigger twice. He jerked, then slumped to the floor.

Tinquesta’s eyes went wild. Out came her own zapper.

Terror augmented Nanoannie’s fury and spurred her mind. Zappers only worked if you land the harpoon in the person, Nanoannie was pretty sure. Tinquesta might miss. But the zapper Nanoannie held might miss too.

Think! What would Tinquesta expect least? Nanoannie dodged to the right, charged Tinquesta, then spun her around and shot her in the neck.

Not stopping to see if Tinquesta was down, she ran. She took a tunnel leading a different direction, then another turning. _Think_! Raddol would be out for at least an hour. Had she zapped Tinquesta square on? She froze for an instant and strained her ears, trying to hear Tinquesta chasing her. In her boot liners, her own steps were almost noiseless.

Tinquesta still had a zapper.

Nanoannie ran, taking different tunnels, twice backtracking at dead ends. Her heart pounded so hard they could probably hear it everywhere in the complex. What had she done? What was she going to do now?

_Keep moving!_ The corp’s health-and-motion indicators could certainly give her away — no help for that. But to track her that way, Tinquesta would have to stop to access the corp main com.

And suppose they used that anesthetic gas?

She’d be meteor sploosh.

Think! Think! Where could she run where they couldn’t follow? Out an airlock? She was suitless!

The tunnels had service access, for hot water pipes and power lines. Dangerous, but she could hide long enough to plan something.

The corp could trace her even there. Damn the corp! Her own parents’ corp didn’t realize it should be on her side.

They wanted that wrist puter. Could she hide it somewhere to retrieve later?

Nanoannie didn’t have Kapera’s super-hearing, but she did have a super good sense of direction. As if she could smell her way around.

Oh Mars. Was that cold little corpse Kapera? Kapera was too lively, too much of a nuisance, to be dead.

No matter how, she couldn’t get out of the corp hab. So she might as well go back and take a look. Most likely Raddol and Tinquesta had cleared out from there anyway.

No, that was crazy. They’d expect her to come for Kapera.

Could she maybe sneak up and zap them?

Think! What else could she do?

She squinched her eyes closed and recollected her turnings. She had a good memory. The tunnels all looked the same, but symbols marked each junction for Utopia corpgeeks to find their way around.

Taking a way back, through different tunnels, she could maybe evade Tinquesta.

She sure hoped Tinquesta was still zapped.

She made a mental map, looping up a level, down a level.

She wanted the room where Kapera lay, not the room where Raddol and Tinquesta had tried to shake her down. It was a floor _below_, she was sure. Up, down, reorient.

_Don’t let terror scramble your brain_.

* * * *

She found a door marked CLINIC. Nobody was around. She leaned against the door, exhausted by her flight.

Trouble was, the CLINIC door seemed to be keycard locked.

_Stupid! How do medbot assistants get in?_

How about the medbots themselves, inside the room with Kapera? Because of the isolation of Mars habs from one another, bacterial contamination from a different hab was potentially dangerous. Medbots were always self-sterilized. Something to do with IR pulses; she didn’t understand it, or want to understand. They were scary. She hated them! Long ago, medical work was done by humans, like that Doctor Pinkerton they consulted about her skybit hand. Some work was still done by humans.

Human assistants.

Corp headquarters was spooky. The corps, they said, didn’t actually like humans, but tolerated them for cross-task work. Corps were not very creative, so they let humans do research. Since they were programmed by humans, they wouldn’t actually hurt you unless it was necessary to get profits for their shareholders, most of whom lived on Earth or in Earth Orbitals.

The few human assistants might be wandering around or asleep, waiting to be paged.

Kapera was on the other side of that door. Her friend, her brave cute little friend, Sekou’s sister. Future sister-in-law, maybe.

Stop fantasizing!

Back up the tunnel, she found another door. This one was marked STAFF ONLY, but when she pushed, the door swung open.

She held her breath, expecting some rough voice to ask her who the Phobos she was. But the room was empty except for a shower and a row of eight lockers.

She cat-footed over to the lockers. They emitted a smell of dirty socks, but inside were lab coats.

Hands shaking, she searched pockets and found a keycard.

_Careless_, she gloated, slaphappy with terror. _Corp’ll have your ass, little corpgeek_. She closed the door and went back to the CLINIC door. The keycard slid in and the door opened.

Tubes and wires extended from Kapera to a robotic surgeon, drinking data like a sand vampire drinks blood. The ozone odor from the disinfector made Nanoannie’s nose twitch. The robotic surgeon detached and rolled toward her, wheels hissing on the cold floor.

“Kapera,” she whispered, forgetting her fear. “Please, please, if you hear me, wriggle a finger, do _something_!”

Kapera lay motionless. What were they _doing_ to her?

Nanoannie tried to get closer, but the medbot whistled an alert. The alarm probably wasn’t high level; kidnapping wasn’t a situation the bot would recognize. But the human it called would catch on.

Nanoannie backed into a wall of shelves laden with bottles and devices. The robot lost interest. It went back and reconnected to Kapera.

Even if Tinquesta was still zapped, other humans in the Utopia complex would soon come to investigate.

Nanoannie had to know. Had to! If Kapera wasn’t dead, were they treating her leukemia? Or giving her truth drugs to pry her parents’ secret formula out of her?

The stuff on the shelving meant nothing to Nanoannie, but she noticed a glass jug about a half meter tall, containing brown liquid and a floating mass.

Something to do with Kapera?

The label read, “Hyper-K Culture. Origin: thermos carried by Facer Renegade agent Kapera Smythe.”

Nanoannie jumped back, almost losing her balance. Hyper-K had something to do with Renegade Nuns?

What had they done with the thermos? They couldn’t just steal it.

Or could they? Law on Mars wasn’t really law. The corps enforced their own laws and defended their own hires. Theoretically Intercorp police enforced the rights of others. Religious and educational institutions, like Cydonia and the Mormonite Jesuits, had small police troops, or hired an enforcer corp.

So Kapera, her thermos, Nanoannie, the Smythes, and even Sekou could just disappear —

No. The newsnets would get word of that, and other corps would react. Earthers might even get involved and shut off supplies to them.

So they couldn’t just steal Kapera’s thermos.

Then where was it? Had they drained it and thrown it away?

Nanoannie moved closer to Kapera. The robot blocked her way. How to get the robot to disconnect from Kapera? _Think, think!_ She went back to the shelving and hoisted the big jar of Hyper-K. When the robot approached, she held it out as if to drop it.

Glass was cheap. And they could grow another sample, if they hadn’t destroyed Kapera’s original. But the robot wouldn’t like a wet floor.

How did it find its way around the clinic? Probably a laser and cameras, like most robots. She backed away, brandishing the jug.

The robotic surgeon disconnected from Kapera.

She dashed past it, and grabbed the sheet off Kapera, then threw it over the robot. The robot emitted a piercing alarm. Nanoannie suddenly realized she couldn’t escape. But she had to find out everything she could —

The robot started after her, dragging the sheet, which caught in its wheels and made it gyrate wildly. She wrenched the lid off the Hyper-K and threw the jug at the robot.

Splash! A sweet, rotten-fruit odor burst forth.

Robotic surgeons, which deal with blood and urine, are waterproof. But they can’t deal with five liters of fluids soaking a sheet over their sensors.

The robot pirouetted helplessly, shrieking so that Nanoannie staggered from the noise. _Stupid robot! Your patients’ poor ears!_ It rolled forward, wound the wet sheet in its wheels, and toppled. It lay on its side, whistling deafeningly.

Now! Fast!

Kapera’s body, under the sheet, looked childlike and painfully thin.

_You evil, evil people! Evil corp! Evil robots!_ Torturing this small, helpless girl for information.

Unless she was already dead, in which case they were humiliating a corpse or whatever they call it.

Tubes trailed off the table, connected to Kapera but not to the robot. And Nanoannie saw, tucked between Kapera’s upper arm and her narrow chest, the thermos. Trying not to disturb Kapera, she pulled it away.

_Disturb her? If she’s dead, she won’t care. If she’s alive, maybe I can wake her up._

Nanoannie felt Kapera’s cheek. Was it warm or cold? Her own sense of touch was anesthetized by danger.

She opened the thermos. The odor of rotting fruit and Earth-tea wafted out. Smelled tastier than the stuff in the big jar. The whitesuits hadn’t got the formula just right.

She took a bigger sniff. It bubbled up her nose and into her brain, like the Phobos-shine her parents brewed, only not as nasty. She tipped a little of the Hyper-K into Kapera’s mouth — it might revive her, if she wasn’t truly —

The robotic surgeon had wound down and was rocking back and forth, trying to get upright. Nanoannie darted past it and grabbed a sterile glove. She unbuckled Kapera’s wrist puter and shoved it inside the glove, tied it like a balloon, then poked it into the thermos. She hoped her body shielded the action from the room cams.

She screwed the top back on and tucked it next to Kapera.

She was covering Kapera with a fresh sheet when Tinquesta and crew burst into the clinic.

“Oh_ no_,” wailed Elvis Darcy. “How in bloody Deimos did _you_ get involved in this?”

––—

Chapter 22: _Nanoannie to Sekou, Again_

Deer Sekou,

(that8s how you spell your Name, I hope?)

did you evur get a Papur Lettur before? I nevur did. Nevur rote one eithur. Online skool started us rite up with Voys Recog.

I did find Kapera at Yootopia Limitud Headkwarturs. But thay hav hur in a Torchur Chambur. I hate to admit I coodnt reskew your Sistur, Sekou, but thay captchured me before I cood figyur owt how.

this guy Elvis Darcy, a corpgeek for Yootopia, arrived on the seen. He must ov found Tinquesta and Raddol. Despite my Litening-Kwick Reflexes, he tyed me up in Tangulfome. He had sum othur corpgeeks with him. I didunt hav a chans. altho I _am_ Planning how to eskape frum heer.

He sed I cood go willingly, with my arms tangled and my legs just free enuf to shufful. Othurwise he8d zap me. I figyur I8d be more used to Kapera if I wuz conscious, so I went with them.

* * * *

thay put me in a big hyooj preshurized Rover, and took the hole thing throo the airlock out into the envirument. When we got outside, I cood see across a Big cratur.

Inside the cratur wuz the Biggest rocket I evur saw. Like, I had to crane my neck to see the top.

“C that?” Elvis Darcy sez. “that8s what yoor interfearing with.”

I didunt say a thing. I reelize its the Generation Starship, but I hav no idea how Im “interfearing.”

“thats going to launch just the hab modool for _Chrysalis_.”

“So I Reelly Care,” I sed. I figyur thay8re akchoolly planning to yooz it to go attak Earth or Luna or sumthing. If thay evur finish it.

“You _shood_ care,” he sez, “because your friend Kapera8s buddies the Facers want to yooz it to go to Etta Casseeopeea.”

“You got that Wrong,” I say. “Kapera izzunt buddies with the Facers.”

“Maybe not with the sect in powur until 2 sols ago, Doctur Sfinx-I’s party. But it seems she turned coat and helped assassinate Sfinx-I, so now the _Chrysalis_ is basickly Worthless. Our ohnly hope is that the renagade Nuns may want it.”

Huh? “that8s the Ship the Facers are using to find the bildurs ov the Face? Exkooze me all to Heck, but I hurd that wuzn8t doo to launch for at leest 50 mears.”

“Stop playing innosent.” He yanked my arm and Shoved me ahed ov him.

I got a Cold Feeling, Sekou my Man. this guy thinx I8m onto sumthing. I may wind up taking a walk outside in my underware. Breething sky. and I don8t even no why.

“I don8t undurstand enny ov this. Honest. Yootopia Limited holds my parunts’ contracts, so you shood be on My Side. Plus, I no Kapera didunt do anything. She’s just a Little Kid.”

“A danjurus Little Kid.”

“do you think I8m danjurus?” I askt.

He _Laffed_ at me.

thay took me to this undurgrownd wing “Guest House.”

“Guest House,” ha! Thay rekeyed my Room to open only frum outside. then thay skwirted asetone on the Tangulfome — a smell I liked, until recently, sort ov like Bananas. It felt good to hav my Arms Free.

“at leest giv me my com back! I want to call my Parunts.”

“Your Parunts,” he sed, “hav been trying to get you to return home for 4 days. And wut happened to your com?”

“It8s in my Soot, wich is rooinned.”

“And whoos fault is that?”

“At leest giv me sumthing to rite with.”

“okay.” I wated, wile he talked on his com, ignoring me. suddenly a Robot delivured a weerd Metal Box. Elvis Darcy sed, “Heer. Rite them a lettur.”

“Holy Aquifurs,” I sed. “this looks so Old you hav to plug it into the Wall.”

“It8s so old you _don8t_ plug it into the Wall. its a totally dumb turminal.”

I tuched the S key. Nothing.

“Press hard,” he sed.

“You meen it8s _mekanical_?”

“Yuppur. A cenchury ago, a 100 ov theez were imported from Earth in case ov powur failyurs. kool, huh? thay go for 300 franks on the net.”

“I can8t rite with this!”

He smurked. “Not strong enuf?”

the corp geeks folloed him away, leeving me with this _Thing_.

I am Strong Enuff, ov cors. But my fingurs R supur Tired.

I just thot. How will you evur get this? I wish I cood put it on Kapera8s Rist Putur, so you get it in order with Kapera8s Letturs and my othur Lettur I rote.

but now I8ll hav to Delivur it myself in Purson.

Your fyoocher reelly good frend,

Nanoannie Centime

––—

Chapter 23: _The Ship that Launched a Thousand Facers_

Writing the letter made her angry all over again.

She had shaded the truth a bit. Sekou didn’t have to know everything.

She had heard that corpgeeks were naive about the opposite sex. Elvis Darcy was a disgusting creep who picked on women and children, but maybe she could use her babehood on him.

“Do you think I’m dangerous?” she had asked, fluffing her hair and licking her lips.

“Dangerous?” He looked at her as if she had grown booster rockets.

“Like you might like to get to know me better?”

“Get to know you — ?”

Nanoannie smirked at him sidelong. “I’m not afraid of _you_, Martial Darcy. Aren’t you bored, working all alone for the corp?”

He laughed at her.

Just as well. If he’d approached, she would have ripped his lungs out.

* * * *

She nibbled some sort of dried shrimp snack she found in the mini-kitchen. She couldn’t just sit here. These corp geeks underestimated her. What could she use as a weapon?

No stove, not even one with safety burners. One of the corpgeeks had gone into the kitchen when they arrived. He removed the knives and heavy frying pan.

Not even pepper or alcohol to throw in their faces. Salt? Vinegar? Where would she go, even if she escaped? Steal an airplane? They had wrecked hers, so it was only right for her to borrow one.

Sure, she could fly it. Why not?

But first she had to find Kapera. Could she carry Kapera? If Kapera was dead —

She shuddered. Sekou wouldn’t like that thought. She didn’t like it, either.

How could her parents’ own corp do this to her? Weren’t they supposed to be protecting her?

They treated her like — _property._

A sudden thought. Her parents — would they detect that her suit com was dead? Or was it lying on the floor, covered in pink dust, with icons of her parents flailing their arms. Tears welled up. Surely Escudo could do _something_.

But even if Escudo could get her out, how about Kapera? She was alone, defenseless, the daughter of fugitives. Her brother — if only she could contact Sekou. But how? He could be anywhere, even on Luna or Earth.

No use moping around. She had to find out if Kapera was dead. She had to escape.

She made a list of items she’d need:

— environment suits for her and for Kapera.

— new coms, preferably with advanced features to access security-protected files and find the Smythes. If she could steal a suit belonging to one of these corpgeeks —

That was it! It would have a good com, and the suit itself would be a disguise!

She did a few steps of the Rocker Bogie Boogie.

Steal a suit. How?

She threw herself back on the bed, depressed.

The kitchen. A jar of condensed yam broth in there had a screw top. The microwave couldn’t heat water hot enough to scald — a trick you could use on Earth, where they kept the air pressure high — but suppose she heated water in a jar, so it would be under pressure? She’d throw it at Elvis Darcy.

Soap in the bathroom. She could made a nice thick foam in front of the door. Make him slip, scald him, run away before he knew what hit him.

Did the room have surveillance cams? The bathroom wouldn’t. Visiting dignitaries wouldn’t like to be spied on, even by a corp computer. “Smart enough to watch, smart enough to snicker.” That was from _Laughbots and Lachrymose AIs: a Psychology of Robotic Perversity, _a book her history teacher told her not to read.

She put the jar under the top of her suit liner, took it to the bathroom, filled it with water, then sneaked it back to the kitchen.

How hot could she get it before it would explode? She punched in a setting, then put it on the end table where it would be easy to grab.

After the soap she had put to soak got slimy, she smeared it on the threshold. But wait — when would Elvis Darcy come back? Suppose he sent some flunky corpgeek instead?

So she started breaking things.

The lamp. Crash! A handsome ceramic bust of Jeffrey Allen, possibly early Borealopolis Craft Guild. She heaved it and it shattered. The noise alone would draw attention. _Release all that pent anger and, yes, terror._ This was fun.

Then she regretted breaking the lamps; they might have burned hot enough to start a fire if she put a pillow over them.

Two minutes, and the door burst open.

Tinquesta and Elvis Darcy, plus another corpgeek. They didn’t enter.

She lobbed the hot water at Elvis Darcy. He dodged, and it splashed against the wall. Tinquesta darted forward and slipped on her ass.

_Three_ opponents! She needed another hot water bomb. She threw the bedspread over Tinquesta and stepped on her hand. Tinquesta shrieked and Elvis Darcy lunged for Nanoannie.

“Turn off the room cams,” Elvis Darcy hissed. The corpgeek stepped outside.

_Turn off the room cams?_ Excuse me? Something inside her snapped. She lobbed the typewriter at him.

He took it high in the chest and slumped against the door frame, gasping, breath knocked out of him. Nanoannie stepped on Tinquesta’s other hand and grabbed Elvis Darcy’s tanglefoam gun. She shot him first, gluing him to the wall.

Tinquesta came up with a roar, and Nanoannie shot her, gluing her arms and legs to her body.

The corpgeek was back. Nanoannie shot him in the face. While he was clawing tanglefoam out of his mouth, she shot his legs. He fell full length.

She shot Elvis Darcy again, but the stupid gun was out of foam. The corpgeek drew the zapper, but she danced out of range.

She threw the typewriter again, and knocked the zapper out of his hand. He went for it, but tripped, and Nanoannie got it.

She zapped him, then Tinquesta.

Elvis Darcy eyed her with burning malevolence.

She hesitated. Should she zap him? He was glued down, and the tanglefoam would last for sols.

What had she done? She had never before so much as hit anybody.

“Look, I’m super sorry,” she said, “My friend and I, we just want to get out of here and find her parents. She didn’t kill poor old Mr. Sphynxeye, or the Naguchis, either.”

“The Naguchis? Somebody killed the Naguchis?” Elvis Darcy looked suddenly perplexed.

This commotion was going to draw attention. Best get out of here. She zapped Elvis Darcy.

She took some keycards she found in Elvis Darcy’s pocket, plus all their coms. Nice coms. They’d come in handy, sure.

Once out in the hall, she closed her eyes and sobbed. What was she doing? She was a good old-fashioned Martian girl. Her parents hadn’t raised her to be violent. She had just thrown a heavy metal antique at two men and zapped three adults. Had she lost her mind? Did she have criminal genes?

She shook herself. She was in danger. These were bad people and she just acted on instinct, to defend herself, before they —

_Turn off the room cams_, Elvis Darcy had said.

— before he did something he didn’t want recorded.

Had he called for help before she zapped him? She darted down the hallway, and used one of Darcy’s keycards to unlock a guest room on another corridor.

The door opened to world of elegance and grace. The sound of a shower came from the bathroom, and fresh orchids on the bedside table breathed sweet moisture.

A wiry Asian woman wrapped in a towel sauntered out of the bathroom. _Think fast!_ Nanoannie said, “Hi. I’m here about the rats.”

The woman clutched the towel around her. “Rats? They have rats on Mars? And could I see some identification?”

Who could this woman be? A new-arrived Earther? “Sure, rats. Big ones. They imported some cats, but cats don’t do well here. I came right away, because they’re bigger than Earth rats, super nasty. Here’s my ID.” She held out one of keycards she’d stolen from Elvis Darcy.

The woman looked confused. “Excuse me, but I thought Utopia Limited maintenance people would look more professional. You look like you’ve been in a fight, plus you’re way too young for a job like this.”

“I’ve been fighting rats all morning,” said Nanoannie.

A loud, insistent knock on the door.

“I’ll look in the bathroom,” Nanoannie said. “They like water.”

She locked the bathroom door behind her and sat on the toilet seat. She rejected a wild idea of trying to escape through air vents — it would take forever to unscrew those panels, and she had no tools except for a zapper, which was registering _low charge_, an empty tanglefoam gun, and three stolen coms.

True, she could probably get into the coms — they probably weren’t passworded, because they were personal. With them, she could access maps of the whole Utopia Limited headquarters. But she was trapped! The guesthouse was underground with no windows. The air vents — maybe —

She opened Elvis Darcy’s com, fingertipping frantically. It ignored the fact that her fingertipping patterns, let alone fingerprints, weren’t correct. Careless security.

In the room outside, a deep male voice said, “Sorry to disturb you, Madame Shareholder Chung-Cha Hang, but are you all right? A guest in 0011 reported a domestic disturbance.”

“No, I’m fine, if you people would leave me alone to bathe. Your maintenance people are taking care of the rat situation right now.”

“Rats?” the deep voice asked.

“Yes. Your exterminator is in the bathroom right now.”

“We don’t have rats. Or exterminators.”

Nanoannie looked around wildly for a weapon that still worked. She overcome her captors once with soap; maybe she could spray deodorant in this guy’s face.

If he was alone.

What would Kapera do?

Invent some role?

Nanoannie held the com against her throat and keyed Security. “This is Tinquesta,” she said. She couldn’t imitate Elvis Darcy’s voice.

A wary dispatcher answered. “Tinquesta? I thought you were with the CEO, containing damage from the assassination.”

“I was,” said Nanoannie, soft as she could. “One of the girls escaped. She’s headed toward — “_ think fast_ “toward the power plant. She’s going to sabotage it. Send everybody available to intercept her. Everybody!”

Outside the bathroom door, the deep voice said, “Let me look at this maintenance person. We don’t need exterminators here.”

“Power plant? Which power plant?” said the dispatcher into Nanoannie’s ear.

“Which one do you think? The one near the guest house. Hurry!”

Outside, the deep voice said, “What? They did what? I’m with a guest.” Then, “I’m sorry, Madame Hang. An emergency call. Could you please ask the exterminator to report to personnel the minute he gets out of there?”

Nanoannie took the top off the shampoo, ready to squirt it in the guy’s face.

Madame Shareholder Chung-Cha Hang said, “You said there were no rats on Mars.”

“Only in badly maintained city habs,” said the deep voice. “I’ve got to go. And please, tell that maintenance worker to report.”

Nanoannie waited until he was gone. She combed her hair, put on deodorant and sprayed a little of Madame Shareholder Chung-Cha Hang’s perfume on her bare neck. As an afterthought, she grabbed a kimono hanging inside the bathroom. Like most things people brought with them from Earth, it was skimpy and light. She wadded it up and slid it down the front of her suitliner, then emerged from the bathroom smiling. “No rats, Madame Shareholder. Sorry to have alarmed you.”

* * * *

The power plant had to be to the south, so Nanoannie headed north. If she ran into more security in the hall, maybe she could pass for a guest.

She patted the lump made by the kimono in her suitliner. A little red silk number, a tiger embroidered on the back. Yes, yes. In a dark alcove, she shucked out of her suitliner and slipped it on. Cool and slinky. She longed for a mirror. Maybe she’d be wearing it when she met Sekou.

She’d find some way to return it when this was all over. She wasn’t a thief.

She folded her suitliner pants into a turban, and rolled the coms and weapons in the jacket of her suitliner. She hoped they looked like towels.

She’d look okay in the guest house, but she needed to get back to Kapera. Deserting Kapera was not an option.

* * * *

The clinic was in a distant wing. How could she get a ride on the huge rover that had brought her here?

Glancing right and left, she used Elvis Darcy’s com again to access the corp network.

A map on the network indicated she could travel from the guest house to the clinic by tunnel. A long way around. She hoped the corpgeeks were all at the power plant, looking for her.

* * * *

At the clinic, she found the locker room open and filled with human medicos. One of them was telling jokes. As they roared with laughter, she was able to read one name badge: Chikamatsu Ransetsu.

She retreated and keyed into Elvis Darcy’s com. “Dispatcher, could you please give me a real-time connection to Chikamatsu Ransetsu?” She hoped she had pronounced it right.

“Sure,” then, “Mister Darcy? You sound funny. Something wrong with your throat?”

She knew Elvis Darcy’s com would soon be reported stolen. It would surely have an APS locator on it.

“I was assaulted a few minutes ago. My larynx is injured.” _Larynx? Was that the word? Or was it larnix?_ “Please tell Chikamatsu Ransetsu that the watch on the clinic is no longer top priority. Tell him to get to — my office right away. And bring everybody in the clinic. Everybody.”

She watched from a distance while medicos, some in white coats and others in sleek black jumpsuits that probably passed for hab casual, streamed out. Their various perfumes teased her nose.

When they were gone, she looked at the stolen coms. They had been useful, but would get her in trouble.

She darted to the clinic door. Locked.

One of the keycards she had lifted would maybe open the locker room door.

The third one she tried worked.

Inside the locker room, she hid in one of the dank toilet stalls and fiddled with Elvis Darcy’s com. She was shaking. Adrenaline roared like rocket fire in her blood.

The coms were of course attached to APS transmitters, so when they were reported stolen, the corp could track them. That kind of limited their further use. She dropped them one by one into the toilet and flushed.

They’d assume Elvis Darcy and company had gone underground? No, Darcy would tell them she had the coms. They’d think _she’d_ gone underground.

She redressed in her suitliner, added the cleanest-smelling lab coat she could find, and stuffed as much other stuff in her pockets as she could. Especially the red silk number.

* * * *

The keycard let her back into the clinic. She figured she had a few minutes before the medicos discovered they’d been sent on a wild goose chase. In the lab coat, she might pass for a medico by surveillance cams.

The robotic surgeon wasn’t fooled. She did a little avoidance dance with it, then yanked one wheel and tipped it on its back again.

The cams would pick that up. She wrapped all Kapera’s tubes and the sheet around her body and hoisted her over her shoulder.

The poor kid was almost as light as Zloty and her lavender scent had faded. What had they done to her? Surely the leukemia hadn’t ravaged her to this extent. She might be dead, after all. She wasn’t going to leave Kapera’s corpse to be dishonored by corpgeeks.

Where was the Hyper-K? It had rolled off the table. Hoping it hadn’t broken, she grabbed it.

She had memorized enough of the headquarters map to find the space launch. But security geeks would be everywhere. Certainly they’d expect her to rescue Kapera; she’d evaded them so far only by speed, tricks, and luck.

She was so scared her mouth was dry as fines, but the fear had raised her into euphoria, like some drug, better than caffeine. Her terror-trance made Kapera’s body seem light as sunlight. She had never done anything remotely like this, including that escapade with the net pimp.

Now what? She couldn’t ride the big pressurized rover back to the guest house.

Or could she?

Consulting what she remembered of the headquarters plan, she followed a scent of machine oil and cold air. She had a feeling that she was being followed, that they were going to catch her at any moment. If she could just get to a plane —

She found the rover in an immense, sky-lit room filled with scurrying robots, personnel, and machinery. Nobody seemed to notice her. These people were so disorganized! Then she realized they had problems of their own. It appeared that a launch was imminent.

Several rovers like the one she had ridden to the guest house wing and several outside in the environment rolled toward other wings, or to the launch vehicle. The rovers were big enough to be pressurized, but the personnel climbing into them were wearing environment suits.

Environment suits that seemed _different_.

Space suits! They were wearing space suits.

If she could get herself and Kapera into a couple of those suits, they’d look just like the other corpgeeks.

She spotted a rack of suits. They were labeled with corpgeek names: AMEN IBYCUS was quite short, and QUINTUS OKIGBO was quite tall. Just right! Of course, Kapera, being maybe dead, might not even need a suit.

But it would be a good disguise, and almost stiff enough that she could walk her into the rover so she looked alive and awake.

Were Elvis Darcy’s corpgeeks hot on her trail? She had the horrid feeling that they were about to burst into the chamber at any moment with their zappers and tanglefoam guns drawn. If only she could listen in on com traffic, see if the Utopia AI was successfully tracking her.

Disguise might save Kapera and her.

She hoped she could get Kapera into the suit. It had functions she hadn’t seen before. Stuffing Kapera into it might be a real trick, judging from the difficulty she’d had getting an uncooperative Zloty dressed.

She put Kapera down gently on the floor and covered her with the sheet. A small, limp body might draw suspicion even in the last-minute frenzy of a launch.

As she eased onto the floor, Kapera sighed deeply and opened her eyes.

“Mars’ farts, you stink,” Kapera said hoarsely. Then, “I think I can crawl now.”

––—

Chapter 24: _Back to the Cold Cruel World_

_Utopia Limited Headquarters, Space Port, Utopia Planitia, Summer-April 18, 2202._

Dear Sekou,

What has Nanoannie gone and done to my diary? I see she dropped some lines on you — facts, I hope.

Her raggedy old perfume makes my head ache. Plus the bad guys will smell us coming.

So much has happened, Sekou. I’ll try to get everything in.

Back when Nanoannie left me at Plantation Centime, I could hardly move. When the whitesuits came back, I was scared, but what could I do? They started in quizzing me about the Hyper-K. They wouldn’t believe it came from those Mormonite Jesuits. They thought it had some sort of secret ingredient.

“Please, tell me where my folks are,” I begged them.

They ignored me.

I kept telling them I needed medicine. I hoped they could help me. They were from a big corp — the one that owns Nanoannie’s parents’ contract, Utopia Limited.

“The corp says you have information we need,” the woman said. “So we’re not going anywhere until you talk.”

I begged them to let me have a little Hyper-K. I lied and said it was symbiotic with me, like if I didn’t drink some every sol it would go bad.

I was still in my environment suit, so I thought, _I’ll get over on them. I’ll mess with my suit readings, so they can’t tell if I’m alive or dead._

That was my last thought for a long time. I was ailing for real, and passed out.

Next thing I knew, I was in a cold room, with nasty tubes stuck in me. I peeped my eyes open just a slit, and saw a robotic surgeon right beside me, and the other ends of all those tubes attached to it.

I hate all kinds of medbots. That doctor at Borealopolis, Pinkerton, attached me to one and that’s when they found out I had leukemia. So I have a right to hate them.

Just as I closed my eyes against the glare, I heard somebody come in.

“Still not responding,” said this woman’s voice, a kind of deep, throaty voice, like a computorchestra playing scary music.

“Look, though,” said this squeaky man’s voice. “A blip. Just now.”

“Just a reflex,” said the woman. “See, it happened when we came in. She was startled.”

“So she’s not dead.”

“I never thought she was. Just comatose.”

I know what _comatose_ means, and I thought that comatose was a good way to stay until I figured out what was going on. Could the robotic surgeon tell if my brain was working? I tried to think of nothing at all. About the deep sky at night above Smythe Pharm, all pretty with glittering stars. About flying in Valles Marineris in Nanoannie’s _Origami Firefly_, diving down, down, down the canyon walls.

I reckon I hypnotized myself.

Next time I woke up, the robotic surgeon was buzzing. Maybe it knew I wasn’t in a coma, and it was calling the medicos. I didn’t want to talk to them, so I pulled the wires loose a smidgeon, so it would look like I’d flatlined. I felt somebody reattach the wires with cold, sticky stuff.

You’d think that I would get hungry or thirsty or have to use the bathroom , but the tubes seemed to take care of all that. Plus, I hadn’t been hungry much ever since I got sick.

I thought about trying to get loose from the surgeon and escape from the clinic, maybe do a little spying. But I was so tired. And what could I learn? These people were so ignorant, they thought they could get information from _me_.

Still, if they killed the Naguchis, I wanted to find out. And maybe they knew where Nanoannie was. Was she here? Did they take her home? Or had they done something awful to her?

After a while, I got to crying, and that called the medicos again, so I played like I was still in a coma.

“Puzzling case,” one of them said. Then he tried to tickle my feet. I saw that coming, and thank heaven I’ve never been very ticklish. I held my breath like mad. The tickle raced straight from my toes to my stomach, like an electric shock.

“I think she’s awake,” said another. “I’m sure I saw movement. What does the robotic surgeon say?”

The first one snorted. “Just that her signs are poor. Did that EEG monitor come loose again? Maybe she’s thrashing around.”

“Coma victims don’t thrash.”

They left, talking about a “psychocoercive” drug they wanted to give me. Had side effects, but the corp needed information bad. I caught the word _interrogate_.

* * * *

You might think it was hard staying still so long, but I was tired. Something in the IV kept me from bleeding too much or puking. Still, twice a human came back to put pressure on my nose so I wouldn’t bleed all over the table.

Awake, I thought about a getaway. Was the robotic surgeon programmed to heal me, or was it drugging me so they could “interrogate” me? Could I walk? Even if I could, I was way too dizzy to move fast.

I smelled Nanoannie before I heard her.

I perked up when I recognized her footsteps.

Then I thought, _oh boy, what is that stench?_

Perfume! I put two and two together. Nanoannie is such a fashion freak, she probably got dressed up to come and rescue me. Maybe she thought we’d go off and have a good time at one of her “clubs.”

She stood over me, breathing fast. But my eyes wouldn’t open. And my voice was sort of all glued together.

I heard crashing and smashing and she grabbed me and put her shoulder in the pit of my stomach. I would have puked if I’d had anything to puke. Then she lifted, and I was dangling way high above the floor. Nanoannie is tall, Sekou!

I tried to talk, but nothing came out but a tiny cough.

The tubes and wires were pulling and catching all over the place, but she lugged me about a zillion kilometers. I opened my eyes in this humongous room with sunlight pouring in from the ceiling.

Whoa! Who could build a big hall like this? It’s not easy keeping transparent materials from falling apart when you’ve got fifty kilopascals on the inside and Mars sky on the outside.

_Bodacious tricknology!_ was my first thought. Along with _lots of money._

She dumped me on the ground. And that’s when I dropped it on her I could move.

Her eyes bugged out. “You’re alive!”

She unscrewed the thermos and gave me a taste of Hyper-K, then as an afterthought pulled out a soggy mess, and inside — my wrist puter. Ta-DAH! She put it on my wrist and said, “Yes!”

Suddenly I felt like Nanoannie is my friend. Like having a family member by adoption.

She seemed as happy to give me my puter as I was to get it back.

“Ouch,” I said, as she was tugging out an IV line.

“Sorry!” she whispered. Then: “We have to be quiet.”

“Where are we?”

“In the launch vehicle control area, I think. Everybody’s running around like meltdown nukes, but still, we shouldn’t advertise ourselves.”

“I mean, _where_ are we?”

“Oh. Utopia Limited Headquarters. Utopia Planitia.” Now she was stuffing my legs into a suit. “Darn. Way too big for you. I don’t suppose you’re strong enough to help me with mine.”

I squinted. “Who the heck is Quintus Okigbo?”

“Beats me. He should have watched his suit closer if he didn’t want it stolen, though.”

“What will we do if these guys report their suits missing?” I was still dizzy and confused, though I had convinced myself this was real and not some raggedy dream.

“I’ll think of something.”

I figured that meant she wanted _me_ to think of something. “How are we going to get away?”

“Maybe there’s a plane out there. They wrecked mine, I figure they owe me a ride home.”

“Say what? Your plane is wrecked?”

“In pieces all over a couple hectares. Shut up and let me connect your com. Can you fingertip it? It’s not passworded, is it? Link private channel with me.”

I struggled to a sitting position. “Nanoannie, I can’t stand up.”

“Stupid suit! It’s too heavy?”

“Nah. I’m too weak. Let me think.”

She didn’t say anything. All of a sudden I’m the brains of the gang again. Sekou, I’m two full mears younger than she is! Oh well, she did manage to figure out how to rescue me. But it looked like we were _really_ on ice now.

I finally said, “Could we somehow peep into their central information?”

“I had their coms, but they could use them to trace me, so I tossed them.”

I thought about our daddy, Sekou. He would say, “Keep on keeping on.”

I said, “Okay, let’s steal a plane. Give me a minute and maybe I can crawl. You can fly any plane, can’t you, not just the _Origami Firefly_?”

No answer. That worried me.

Right then, a white light stabbed my eyes. I wondered if that was the white light you see at the end of your life. But then a boom shook the floor.

“Facer nuns!” I screamed.

When my vision cleared, dozens of people in red suits were dashing around, gathering up pieces of equipment, prodding white-suited Utopia workers with guns.

I figured we should bail, and fast. I rolled over and crawled toward the exit, but a pair of red boots blocked my way.

“Where are you going, Amen Ibycus?”

Who was he talking to?

“Can’t you talk, Martial Ibycus? Or is it Martialle?”

Playing dumb worked for me in the past, so I clammed up.

“You! Quintus Okigbo? What’s wrong with your partner here?”

Before Nanoannie could screw things up, I said, “My suit malfunctioned and gives me a shock when I try to stand up.”

“And so what’s wrong with your voice? You sound like a cuy pup squeaking for its mother.”

I realized that even if Amen was a girl’s name, my voice sounds kiddish, not womanish.

“The suit malfunction messed up my com, too,” I said. “The translator function makes it sound squeaky.”

“Well, you two get in line with the others. We’ll fix the suit as soon as we get everybody briefed.”

Nanoannie yanked me to my feet. The blood rushed from my head. I hadn’t been upright in — a week? Spots danced before my eyes.

Nanoannie sent a private message to me. “What should we do? It looks like some sort of armed takeover. You think they’ll shoot us?”

“Humans are too valuable to shoot.” Well, that was just a lie. Sure, it’s expensive to bring humans to Mars, but Martians die all the time, even in stupid bar fights. But I had to keep on keeping on. Nanoannie tends to get hysterical.

She said, “What are they going to do? How did you know it was Facer nuns?”

“Never mind. You make a run for it. You’re not even a Utopia hire.”

Nanoannie said, “I can’t leave you! What would I tell your family?”

Like Nanoannie ever cared what grownups think.

I told myself even in corp wars, they don’t kill many people. But these were Facer nuns, and Facer nuns are crazy.

They dragged us into the center of the chamber. Still dizzy, I risked looking up. The beautiful transparent ceiling now had a big crack. Looking around, I saw people lying on the floor gasping and holding their faces, while Facer nuns stuffed them into rescue bubbles.

“Where’s your thermos?” Nanoannie commed me.

“I thought you had it.” Did we leave it on the floor where we stole the suits?

A woman whose suit bulged as if she was pregnant started broadcasting. “Congratulations! You are now hires of the Human Diaspora! Free men and women! Free! Free to colonize the galaxy and reunite with the mother race. Your transfer of indenture will be recorded in the pan-corporate netchives as soon as we pay your contract fees, at one cent on the frank. Enjoy your new status!

“Your first assignment: enter the habitat module atop the launch vehicle you have been working on. We will reschedule the launch as soon as you are aboard.

“And then: wonderful news.”

Sekou, I recognized that voice.

A few people made a break for the doors back into the Utopia headquarters, but stopped right away. They clapped their hands to the sides of their helmets and fell down. They weren’t broadcasting on an open channel, but I could swear they were screaming.

Then I figured it out. I could hear the screech from inside their helmets even through Mars ambient, or maybe through the ground. The redsuits had broadcast sounds into their coms, sounds so loud they _hurt_. Like a million cuys getting their necks wrung. Some tried to turn the coms off, but a team of redsuits went around and zapped them.

A zapper does something beastly to your suit electronics.

But you knew that.

Two redsuits lifted me by my arms.

One said, “This suit is a bad fit for you, Amen Ibycus.”

He took a long squint at me. “You aren’t Amen Ibycus, are you? I don’t know who Amen Ibycus is, but this suit is way too big for you. You’re a little kid. And your friend — “

I willed Nanoannie to get her sass on the road, but she took a swing at the bigger of the two redsuits.

* * * *

The trek to the rover, which took us to the launch vehicle, would have been interesting if I hadn’t been scared spitless. Nanoannie got excited and kept pointing at things. As we got closer, the launch vehicle loomed up into the sky. You had to crane your neck to see the top. The people at the base looked like particles in a dust-devil.

They made the other people climb ladders, but the redsuits took Nanoannie and me in an elevator.

Once we got aboard, the loudspeaker ordered us to take our helmets off.

“You might as well do it,” said the redsuit that had my left arm. “We already know you’re not who you say you are.”

The broadcast voice said, “The big surprise is that all the ladies present are going to be happy mothers! That way, when we arrive at Yggdrasil, we’ll have a bigger population to colonize our dream planet.

“Naturally, this won’t happen by virgin birth. We considered giving you all artificial insemination, with genetic optimization. But we believe that pair-bonding is essential creating a new world. Think what it’s done for Mars!”

Say what? Nanoannie and I both came from man-woman couples, but there were plenty of other successful styles on Mars. The NeoAmish, for example, live in polyandrous families (_polyandrous_ was in our vocabulary list last month) because of the scarcity of women. Same with Land Ethic nomads. And think of the Pink Mars colony.

The speaker went on. “The good news is that you will all be matched up and married tomorrow morning in a beautiful People of the Face ceremony. If you have any preferences among the new hires, make them known. In case of conflict, an adjudicator will assign you a mate.

“Then comes a grand wedding night! In two weeks, before we leave the solar system and you go into cryosleep, prizes will be awarded for the first couple to achieve pregnancy. To assure fertility, monitors will visit your quarters to certify that the union has been consummated!”

While she bumped her gums, people were scrambling for the airlocks. Maybe they had some crazy idea they could get back down the ladders.

The redsuit who had my left arm said, “What about the kid? She’s not old enough to marry off.”

“We have orders to take her and her big friend to the Mother.”

I was stone proud of Nanoannie. She went completely global and bashed the other redsuit in the face with her helmet. With her yellow hair all frizzing every which way, she looked one of those Earth lions. Or maybe Albert Einstein on hallucinogens.

She almost got away, but three other redsuits ran over and grabbed her arms. It took four of them, and when they got her in check, she spit in the one guy’s face.

He said, “Does that mean you won’t choose me, pussycat?”

* * * *

Twenty minutes later we were under guard in a Utopia cargo slot that had been converted to a Vivocrypt command center.

“Gray Moon! What a delightful surprise!”

I hadn’t heard that name for awhile, and it took a minute to realize she was referring to me.

“Nanoannie,” I said very calmly, “Let me introduce Crystal Spirit. I thought she was Sphynxeye’s friend, but she’s a Renegade nun.”

“Tut, little Gray Moon. We know you’re actually Kapera Smythe, daughter of Drs. Zora and Marcus Smythe. And we know what they know.”

––—

Chapter 25: _Love and Marriage_

Nanoannie trembled with outrage. “I am not your hire! And you can’t buy my contract.”

“Sorry,” said Crystal Spirit. “Given a choice, I’d send you back to Utopia Limited headquarters. But nobody’s left there to maintain life support.”

Nanoannie was delirious with rage and fear. “You can’t force me to marry somebody! My parents will get you fired!” The predator/prey part of her mind tried to identify Crystal Spirit’s smell. Spice? Hot steel? Blood? “Forced marriages are against transcorp agreements!”

“Right. But we’re not on Mars, and you won’t even be in Mars orbit much longer.” Crystal Spirit adjusted her robe and sighed. “I don’t feel wonderful letting you go ahead with the mass wedding, at your age. But we need young women to offset older ones who might be infertile. Your friend Gray Moon, as she calls herself, is way too young, and she has leukemia, but maybe she’ll survive and grow up. Where’s the Hyper-K, by the way?”

Nanoannie looked at Kapera, who shrugged.

“My emigration facilitators didn’t find it when they picked you two up.” She sucked her cheek. “I hate having you die on me here. You think the stuff helps? Or,” and she impaled Kapera with her gaze, “does it have a different function? Time to come clean.”

Nanoannie gripped the arms of the chair, blood pounding in her ears.

But Kapera said, “I told you, it’s just a tonic.”

Crystal Spirit drummed her nails on the fake plastic. “_Tonic_ is not a very scientific word. We suspect it holds a key role. Utopia Limited scientists may have analyzed and duplicated it, which is why we struck not a moment too soon. Tell you what. Help us out just being your own sweet self. If we can find your parents, that is.”

“Where are my folks?”

“Dear little Gray Moon, you either know or you don’t. But we can find space for you. Singles are against policy, but some of the women who are already pregnant have a cabin with a berth. We sleep in shifts, by the way.”

Kapera was being brave, Nanoannie saw, as they dragged her away. But Nanoannie felt a pang of terror. The Facers were isolating them to break their resistance.

Crystal Spirit said, “Now, Martialle Centime, back to your problem. I could send you back to your parents. Just give you a hopper or plane, and let you find your way. If there’s a Utopia-owned plane still flightworthy after our friendly takeover. What would you tell your parents?”

Nanoannie thought fast. “What do you want me to tell them?”

“See, that’s the thing. They’re going to wonder. Everybody on Mars is going to hear about Utopia falling, and the mass recruitment. The few remaining Utopia corpgeeks and hires might be outraged. Your parents, for example, need supplies and support from Utopia. With Utopia down, somebody will buy their contracts cheap. They’d question you, you’d come up with answers, and you’ve seen my face. Suppose I have to go back to Cydonia to continue my work. Sphynxeye’s faction may regroup there despite his death. You know who I am.” She picked at a nail. “You may know a lot more, too. Other corps might retaliate against the Face on Mars Institute. Or there might be a witch-hunt, and on lawless Mars, who knows what could happen? So you’re safer here.”

Nanoannie locked gazes with the woman. Lions in the Bronx Zoo do that, said the virtual field trip guide. Nanoannie felt like springing. There wasn’t any glass to protect the bitch.

Crystal Spirit suddenly said, “What do you say? I’ll give you first pick of the men. Anyone strike your fancy?”

Holy rocks. “Sekou Smythe,” she said instantly.

Crystal Spirit’s eyes went blank while she accessed a virtual puter list. She frowned. “Nobody of that name on our roster.”

Of course Sekou wouldn’t be here. Why should he be? She stalled. “Maybe you spelled it wrong.”

“I assumed it was spelled as Kapera Smythe and her parents spell their names. Not on the roster. Choose somebody else. I don’t have much time.”

“Sekou or nobody.”

“A love-match, hm? Come on, give me a second choice.”

“No! The only male I know in Utopia Limited is Elvis Darcy, and I don’t — “

“Elvis Darcy? That’s a big order. He’s popular.”

“_No!_ I don’t want — “

“Sure you do. Let my social director see if he’s willing. If not, we have several look-alikes.”

“Please,” said Nanoannie. She flexed her fingers. They felt like claws. “I’ll just strangle whoever it is. Then you’ll be short one more emigre.”

“Yeah, right.” She spoke into her com. “Aquamarine Star, please round up Elvis Darcy and get him up here. No, don’t tell him why. I want to see his face.” She turned to Nanoannie. “We’re not fiends, you know. We do match up pheromones, even personalities when there’s a file available. You two will hit it off — interestingly.”

Another red-clad woman wearing one of those 3-D tattoos brought Nanoannie a cup that steamed with something richly dark-smelling. “For while you wait.” Nanoannie backhanded it against the wall.

Crystal Spirit said, “That’s the last cup of real hot chocolate you’ll ever get a chance to try. We’re not even taking the synthetic on the voyage to Yggdrasil.”

Chocolate, Nanoannie remembered, from a tiny nip at a street fair in Borealopolis, was heaven. Chocolate was also an aphrodisiac. She’d _die_ before she drank it.

Two more red-robed women ushered Elvis Darcy in. A bruise on his throat marked where she’d hit him with the typewriter. He looked disoriented but wary.

“Guess who asked for you, Darcy,” said Crystal Spirit.

He glared. “You little hellcat, if you hadn’t pulled that stunt in the guest house, we might have sidestepped this coup.”

“I’m not going to marry you,” Nanoannie said.

“Or maybe it was too late. Utopia security programming is good, but when humans are distracted — “

Nanoannie repeated, “I am _not_ going to marry you.”

“Well, who asked you? Holy Samoleans, you asked for me, not vice versa.”

“I didn’t. I asked for Sekou Smythe.”

“Some on-line squeeze? Well, have him.” He turned to leave. “Are we through here?”

“I don’t have all sol,” said Crystal Spirit. “You two are getting married this evening, and tonight you’ll to do your damnedest to pork this little tiger kitten. That ought to shut her up.”

Elvis Darcy’s eyes went wide. “This is globally weird.”

“No, it’s galactically right. Get it through your heads you’re going to a new planet to spread the human race to the stars.”

Elvis Darcy looked at Nanoannie. “Oh Mars. If you don’t accept me, they’ll throw you to some nuke-burned gorilla.”

“How romantic,” said Nanoannie. “My heart belongs to Sekou. Try to pork me and I’ll scratch your eyes out.”

Crystal Spirit said, “This has been fun, but I have work to do. Take them to the chapel.”

So the wedding plans had been moved up. Now she was supposed to say _I do_ and kiss in just a few minutes.

* * * *

The chapel was a stale-smelling section of a cargo bay dominated by a huge image of the Face. Croony out-of-date music wailed.

Nanoannie was supposed to marry Sekou! That wedding would be so different from this farce: a ceremony at Venus Rising, a high class Sagan City restaurant which grew real gardenias under its dome. Titanium rings set with asteroid-belt diamonds. A religious ceremony, super romantic. Not a Facer priest. Mormonite Jesuit, maybe. With Zloty as flower girl, Kapera as maid of honor, the bride would wear —

Well, she wouldn’t be wearing the bottom half of a stolen space suit.

The overheated chapel was jammed with ten other couples and a nun wearing a huge Face necklace. Human odors, clean and dirty, hung thick. Nanoannie heard you were supposed to cry at your own wedding, but not because you’d been dragooned into marrying some guy that didn’t even have pheromones.

The other couples looked dazed, frantic, horrified, or (in the case of two of the grooms) lecherous. It was hard to tell which bride went with which groom. An ugly man with a face like a smashed-up rover clutched the arm of a woman Nanoannie suddenly recognized: Madame Shareholder Hang Chung-Cha, who was desperately trying to use some sort of martial arts nerve-poke on the groom’s neck.

Nanoannie leaned over and whispered: “Madame Shareholder? I’m sorry I stole your kimono.”

They stopped and looked at Nanoannie as if they had been interrupted in the middle of a death duel by an playful cuy.

Nanoannie continued, “I’ll give it back. It’s in my suit liner and I can’t get to it right now.” She paused and thought about her wedding night. “I don’t need it anymore.”

“Children of the Universe and those upon whom the Face Smiles,” said the fat little nun officiating. Her ugly Face bindi crossed its eyes. “We gather here to sanctify these unions. In the interests of time, we’ll skip individual names. Another dozen couples are waiting outside. Gentlemen Martial, you are lucky not just to be the future colonists of new world, but also to have fertile brides when there are all too few females to go around. Be good to them and don’t beat them up, because the Face looks upon you.”

Elvis Darcy whispered into Nanoannie’s hair, “Don’t worry, I’m not planning to do anything to you. This is a travesty.”

She didn’t like his breath brushing her hair, even if he didn’t have pheromones.

“Ladies Martialle, you are lucky to be mothers of a new world. Your first children will be born thousands of mears in the future, after you have awakened from cryosleep. But it will be as if no time had passed, and the joy of meeting the Builders of the Face will overcome all obstacles. Oh, I forgot: after the ceremony, the brides will be taken next door to have any contraceptive implants removed.”

Madame Chairman Hang Chung-Cha shrieked and yanked away from the ugly medico. She muscled several other couples out of the way and kicked at the door, yelling, “Come on! There’s twenty-two of us and only five of them! We can take them!”

Nanoannie glanced at Elvis Darcy and they joined the revolt. Madame Chairman Hang was zapped almost immediately, together with her bridegroom, who had actually been trying to drag her back into the room. Another woman was shot with tanglefoam, and the rest looked around for other leadership. Nobody seemed willing to follow Madame Chairman Hang’s example.

“Oh, puke of Olympus Mons,” muttered the officiating nun. “Take those two — the Korean shareholder, what’s her name, and the guy — down to the clinic and revive them. Maybe the social director will match them up with other people. She didn’t seem to like him. Okay. I enjoin you ladies to respect your husbands and not murder them in their sleep. Couple with them frequently, but not so often you deplete their sperm supply.”

Nanoannie would have been hysterical, but she was too fascinated by sobbing sounds — including the sobs of men. She tried to visualize stabbing Elvis Darcy in his sleep. She decided she wouldn’t do that unless he tried to rape her.

“I’m not going to rape you,” he said out of the corner of his mouth.

“Goody,” she said.

How could her mother have suggested a match with him? He was twice her age, and had hair the color of fines, eyes the color of the stuff the deduster washes out of your environment suit, and no smell at all.

* * * *

On the way to the teensy cabin they would occupy in rotation with three other couples, Nanoannie caught a glimpse of Tinquesta and Raddol, arguing, maybe about whether they wanted to get married. They should have been planning escape.

Without meeting his eyes, she told Elvis Darcy, “My mother said you were hanging around the pharm. I thought maybe you were interested. But I’m not. Get that straight.”

He exhaled wearily. “No. Not interested. She was pressuring me to buy your contract, once you pass your ten-mear birthsol. You’re not exactly an heiress, you know.”

Nanoannie’s soul shriveled. They couldn’t! Her mother and father had been trying to make her into a corpgeek before she had even had any fun in life.

Being kidnapped by religiopsychopaths was bad, but it trumped selling your contract to a dumb boring corp that hired people with no smell.

* * * *

In the cabin, strapped into a new-smelling bunk which doubled as an acceleration couch, Nanoannie’s heart pounded with terror, but also excitement.

Engines screamed. Pressure made breathing a struggle. But this was her first time in space. Honeymoon in orbit! If only her on-line classmates could see her.

On the other hand, what chance would she get to brag about the experience? She would be off on some primitive planet talking to wise old aliens that didn’t exist. She would be twenty light years away from Sekou, married to some guy she didn’t love. Her life was being torn apart. Possibly her life would end shortly.

But she was going into space!

* * * *

Her emotions finally ebbing, Nanoannie studied Darcy. “We’re still going to escape, right?”

“No.”

“What?”

He pointed to the ceiling. “You know the expression, the walls have ears?” Then he took her hand.

She tried to snatch it away, then realized he was spelling something in her palm.

KEEP TALKING, he spelled out. ASK QUESTIONS.

“Uh, will they take a trajectory out of the solar system?”

“No, no. This habitat module has to match orbits and dock with the rest of the _Chrysalis_.” She concentrated on what he was spelling. BEST CHANCE = NOW.

She took a breath. “Why did they kidnap us? Don’t they have enough Facers?” The Facer plan seemed safe to discuss aloud, as long as they didn’t mention any escape plans. In his palm she spelled, HOW?

“They wanted more people. Back at Cydonia, their coup may have failed. Maybe Sphynxeye’s faction managed to take back the Institute. So they can’t count on coercing the Facers from the other faction.” CAN OPERATE SYSTEMS HERE. BUT MUST RESCUE OTHERS.

If they had to communicate like this, they’d finish on Yggdrasil. She forced herself to concentrate. “I don’t get it. What’s the big disagreement between the two factions?” WHY YOU?

He took a breath. “A long story. You already know part. Sphynxeye’s group believes that a generation starship is the best way to reach Yggdrasil. Utopia Limited is building the ship. Our research should yield an antimatter drive in sixty, seventy mears. And sixty mears would be needed to outfit a ship with a closed ecosystem to support life that long. We know it’s possible; many private pharms are already almost self-sufficient.” MUST BE ME.

“Yeah,” she said. “My friend Kapera brags about how self-sufficient Smythe Pharm is. We tried self sufficiency, but my mom got problems with her teeth. Miscarriages, too.”

“A corp called Vivocrypt sold one faction of the Facers — the Renegade faction that kidnapped us — a certain treatment, the Cryosleep Protocol, they claim can permit long term hibernation. Thus the ship wouldn’t need a closed ecosystem, would be lighter, and could take longer — much longer — to reach Yggdrasil. Using available propulsion technology, Proton/Boron-11 fusion-fission reaction, it could leave immediately.”

“How long would it take to get to Yggdrasil?” She still hadn’t forgiven Elvis Darcy for locking her up with a typewriter for company, but what he said interested her.

He chuckled grimly. “Well, the bacteria from which the treatment is derived have survived for the better part of a billion mears.”

Nanoannie jerked her hand away and looked at it, imagining it being frozen for a billion mears.

He continued, “It wouldn’t take a billion mears, of course. But the Renegade plan makes it possible to use very slow propulsion systems. Light sails, even. The generation starship, the one Sphynxeye’s faction proposes, would need the development of a compact antimatter drive, and we don’t have that, yet.”

“So they’re taking us with them to make up for the Facers that won’t go? And get three for the price of two if each woman is pregnant.”

“Yupper. If you don’t get pregnant naturally, I suspect they’ll force artificial insemination. They’ll centrifuge the semen so most offspring will be female.” He took her hand again. SEE WHY I WANT TO ESCAPE?

But why him? WHY YOU?

His eyes widened. He said, “I thought you knew. I’m founder and C.E.O. of Utopia Limited.”

“Founder and C.E.O.?” She spoke aloud. What did it matter whether the Facers heard? They weren’t discussing the escape.

“Yes. I’m half responsible for this imbroglio. The war with Vivocrypt has been going on for mears. I never thought the Renegade Facers would take over Cydonia. I didn’t count on Sphynxeye getting assassinated.”

She felt a stab of anger. “Why did you make it shoot down my plane? My beautiful _Origami Firefly_?”

He dropped her hand. “Young lady, do you think because I’m C.E.O. that I can _control_ Utopia Limited? Utopia Limited’s a blasted _supercomputer_. For over two mears, I’ve been little more than a helpless corpgeek.”

_To be continued._

––—

Copyright (C) 2004 by Mary A. Turzillo.

––—

CH002

*Trophies and Treasures* by Jerry Oltion & Amy Axt Hanson

A Novelette

Terraforming can open a new world to human life — but that’s not just a single thing.

––—

The storm shrieked against the pressure bubble. Winthrop Magnus Wellington III, known as “Welly” to his friends, shivered as the red Martian sand battered the double-thick insulated plastic. The dome had been guaranteed to withstand storms such as this, but a manufacturer’s warranty was small comfort when the full fury of a planet’s atmosphere howled only centimeters away.

Bentley, his manservant, turned up the portable furnace a notch. Good man, Bentley. Unobtrusively helpful, yet ever observant. His family had served the Wellingtons for generations, possibly all the way back to the British exodus when the monarchy had removed to Mars, though Welly secretly doubted that. The Wellingtons’ pedigree extended back to a peerage granted by King William in the twenty-first century, but the family fortune had waxed and waned several times since then. Welly’s father would never speak of them, but there were entire decades when the Wellingtons would probably have served the Bentleys if pride had allowed it.

Fortunately, those times were at least two centuries in the past. The terraforming project had provided income and prestige for the family since its inception, and Welly was confident that it would continue to do so long after his portrait began gathering dust in the hall of ancestors.

He was somewhat less confident that he would actually survive to sit for that portrait, but he was working on it. He had spread a map out on the folding table and was expanding the view of their route one section at a time.

“What do you think, sir?” Bentley asked, rattling pans on the camp stove. Always puttering with something, even on a night like this.

Welly zoomed his map back out to an overview again. “It doesn’t look good,” he said. “The weather satellite shows everything socked in from Noctis to the volcanoes.” A green dot on the plains south of Noctis Labyrinthis caught his attention. “I say, this is news: someone’s on top already. Bet it’s Radcliffe — weasel of a racer, that Raddy. Always taking the safe route. Well, he’s getting the full blast of this storm, eh?”

Bentley nodded and handed his young master a porcelain cup full of steaming tea. “Not ideal conditions for the Water Race this year,” he said.

The wind dropped for a moment, and Welly could hear the camels groan. “Oh, but I do love the adventure,” he said, taking the cup and settling back in his folding camp chair. “Battling the elements and all that. A stiff spring gale is just the ticket to separate the sheep from the goats.”

If Bentley had a reply, it was lost as the bubble wall bulged inward and the wind shrieked loud enough to drown out conversation. Mars’s terraformed atmosphere was coming along nicely, Welly noted dryly. Air pressure had risen by nearly fifty millibars in just the twenty-four years that he had been alive. It was even breathable without masks if you felt brave.

He studied the map again. Thirteen green dots were scattered across the terrain. In addition to the one on the southern plateau, four had veered north and seven more were arrayed in various canyons just behind Welly. The way the sand shifted from year to year, there was no single best path through the Labyrinth. Every race was different, and every team searched for a route that would give them an edge over the others.

“You’ll never catch up with me, no matter which way you go,” Welly muttered. “It’s not the route, it’s the camels that matter most, and I’ve got the best camels on Mars.”

Indeed, as Welly’s father often joked, the Wellington family put great stock in the annual Noctis-to-Pavonis water race. It was one of the few opportunities for the twelve great families to jostle for status in the old, time-honored tradition of adventure. Each year when the incoming ice asteroid from Saturn docked with the upper ballast mass of the orbital elevator, all the stockholding families in the Marineris Valley pooled 10 percent of their holdings and raced from the valley floor to the foot of the volcano for the prize: all twelve Saturn-shaped water rings — one from each family — representing not only their winning status, but also a very real and very valuable interest in the water.

Even now, three centuries after the Exodus, water still controlled the economy, if not the lives, on Mars. Welly touched the contoured map, traced his finger along a sinuous channel a billion years old. Some day it would hold water again.

Tomorrow it would hold the winning racers. “I’ve been examining the terrain,” he said to Bentley, “and I believe if we stick to the valleys we can stay below the worst of the storm and still make fairly good time while everyone else waits for it to blow over. We’ll go a bit more westerly than we’d originally planned, but I’ve found a rille that leads northward again and should put us back on the plains just about the time the storm lets up.”

“Let’s have a — “

A bright flash of green light lit up the dome, and a crack of thunder rattled the table.

“Lightning?” asked Welly in an incredulous voice.

Bentley’s eyebrows narrowed. “I’ve heard of it happening occasionally now that the atmosphere is thicker, but the odds of actually being _hit_ by it…” He trailed off, frowning.

Welly slapped him on the shoulder. “Won’t we have a story, then! First the storm, and now lightning on the first night out!”

He looked back to the map, which was now a uniform gray and flat as a piece of paper. “Oh, bother. It’s finished the map.” He tapped the control strip along the side and managed to retrieve the contours, but a warning blinked in the sidebar: “Stored image — not in real time.” The green dots of the racers’ camps were not displayed.

“The map works,” said Welly. “It must be the antenna. Can you dig out a spare?”

“I’m afraid not, sir. We cut it from the cargo manifest to save weight.”

“Then we’ll have some repair work to do tomorrow. We can’t navigate without a real-time map.”

Bentley shivered. “No sir, that would be most unwise.”

* * * *

In the morning, when they donned their insulated coveralls and breathing masks and crawled out of the dome, they saw the remains of their navigation antenna dangling from the bracket they had screw-drilled into the rock beside their dome. Most of the dish was gone, but what remained had been melted — parts of it vaporized — by the blast.

“Incredible,” Welly said when he saw it. “I had no idea lightning was that destructive. There’s no fixing _this_.”

“That was no lightning strike,” said Bentley, his voice sounding tinny over their oxygen masks’ two-way radio. “The antenna was hit with a laser.”

“Laser?” Welly asked. “Are you sure? There was thunder with it.”

“Quite sure,” Bentley replied. “I’ve seen laser damage before, out at the firing range at the club, and this is what it looks like. The noise was probably airborne sand vaporizing in the beam’s path.” He looked out into the storm, and Welly followed his gaze, but he could see nothing beyond a few dozen yards. “It would appear that someone has attempted to put you at a disadvantage,” said Bentley

Welly was shocked to the core. “Oh, Bentley, no one in the Twelve Families would ever stoop to such … ah, yes. Twelve Families. But there are thirteen running the race this year, aren’t there?”

Bentley nodded. “I was thinking the same thing.”

“LeBrue,” Welly said contemptuously. Gordon LeBrue, a recent emigre and gold digger who had charmed Welly’s sister, Victoria, into an unlikely — and decidedly unpopular — engagement. Gordon had been neck-and-neck with Welly since the beginning of the race, and was almost certainly in one of the other camps nearby; he could very easily have sneaked over under cover of the storm and shot out Welly’s navigation receiver.

And what else might he have done while he was at it? Welly peered fearfully through the blinding dust toward the camels, expecting to see empty tethers, but the five Sandship hybrids were still right where Bentley had left them, hunkered down against the wind and chewing their cud behind their face-fitting oxygen masks. Their air tanks still hung on either side of their double humps, and their packs waited on the ground nearby, drifts of red sand in their lee. Apparently Gordon assumed that sabotaging the antenna was enough, that Welly would give up at the first setback. He obviously didn’t know his Wellingtons!

“Pack up, Bentley,” said Welly, “and let’s get moving. We have a race to win.”

“Yes, sir.” Bentley trudged off toward the camels and busied himself with replacing their depleted air tanks and strapping on the mountainous bags of camping equipment. Welly deflated their dome and rolled it up, then helped Bentley strap it onto one of the ungainly beasts.

Bentley had already saddled up Welly’s riding camel, Huntington Overlord Waterford Greene. “I dare say, if we weren’t traveling so light, we’d need an extra hand,” he said as he struggled in the gusting wind to winch the other camels’ bags and panniers in place. At last he got everything tied down, and the two men climbed atop their kneeling mounts. They twitched their quirts and with groanings and remonstrations, the camels rose and padded west along the rocky terrain, their caravan bell clanging out the Wellington family E note. Behind them, empty oxy tanks lay in a heap on the sand, and empty field ration containers skittered and flew in the early morning gusts. Welly felt a brief pang of conscience at the sight, but they could ill afford to pack garbage with them for the entire race.

* * * *

The storm let up by early afternoon, but without a real-time map they were still riding blind, reduced to merely following the canyon’s twists and turns and passing tributaries one after another as the stored map image directed. At least Welly hoped they were following the map; he was learning that one depression in a canyon wall looks pretty much like another when you don’t have a you-are-here marker to refer to.

He turned around in his silver-inlaid leather saddle and held Hunter’s two fat humps for support while he peered back the way they had come. He could just barely see the black dots of other racers far behind them, but he couldn’t tell, even with binoculars, which caravan was Gordon’s.

He took the map from his coverall’s thigh pocket and examined it again. “It looks like once we round this bend we’ve got another two side canyons, plus half a dozen smaller channels to go past, and then we can head up the rille and straight out for Pavonis.” He looked up, hoping for a positive reaction from Bentley, but his manservant just rode along on his own camel, holding the reins of the three gear-loaded pack camels and looking to the far distance.

“Yes, well then,” Welly said. “That’s what we’ll do. Whoa!” A sudden gust of wind blew at the map, nearly tearing the contoured plastic out of his hand. It flapped mercilessly for a moment until he could gather it back again, but by the time he regained control of it, half the map had lost its relief and displayed nothing but static like the surface of a bubbling pan of water. And of course that was the half they needed most.

“Bother!” Welly yelled. “Now we’re in for it. I swear, if I ever get my hands on Gordon, he’ll rue the day he put me in this position.”

“Triumphing against the odds would be the best revenge,” said Bentley. His voice, still tinny through the oxy mask’s speaker, nevertheless carried the tone of gentle reproach that Welly knew from his childhood.

“Quite right,” said Welly. “And triumph I will. But he’ll answer to me personally as well.” He twitched his Sandship’s rein. “Come on, boy! Let’s go!” Hunter turned one eye to glare at its master, spat a line of green cud through its oxygen mask’s mouth opening, and kept to its normal pace. Welly drew his quirt and whipped it into a jog.

He kept a running count in his head of the washes and gullies they passed. Two big ones and six little ones; how difficult could it be to find the rille?

Apparently more difficult than he thought, for they still had one to go when Bentley brought the pack train to a halt as they drew abreast of a U-shaped side canyon and said, “I believe this is the one we want, sir.”

“This?” said Welly. “This one’s a dead end. There isn’t a bit of flood debris at the mouth of it. That means it’s short.”

“Begging your pardon, sir, but it’s a rille, not a canyon. A collapsed lava tube. It never _was_ a water channel.”

“Hmm, perhaps you’re right,” Welly admitted, “but I’ve been keeping count and we’re definitely not there yet. It’s the next one.”

“I think not, sir,” Bentley said.

Welly favored him with a cross look. “Well, I do,” he said. “I’m perfectly capable of counting how many canyons we’ve passed, and the one we want is up ahead.”

Bentley looked at the tiny dots of the riders behind them and sighed. “We had best investigate it quickly, then. We won’t keep our lead if we waste much time backtracking.”

Welly could hardly believe his manservant’s tone. “No, we won’t,” he said coldly. “Nor do we have time to waste on the wrong cutoff.”

He spent the next quarter kilometer anticipating Bentley’s apology when they arrived at the correct rille, but his expectations fizzled when they rounded the bend and saw a debris-choked water channel that not even a Sandship could navigate.

“It must be one farther yet,” Welly insisted. “We have to keep going.”

“No, sir,” Bentley replied, reining his camels to a halt again. “We have already gone too far.”

His tone was definitely not the subservient one Welly was used to. What had gotten into him? “It’s you who have gone too far,” Welly said ominously. “You — “

He didn’t get the chance to finish, because a dust-covered rock beside him suddenly raised up and became a red-shrouded figure who slapped the sand from its robe and said, “On the contrary. You have both gone just far enough.”

Welly lunged for his pistol — a Nodout full-spectrum sonic stunner — but his camel bellowed and danced backward, forcing him to hang on with both hands. He fought Hunter back down, but before he could grab the pistol, two more rocks rose out of the sand. The first figure said, “Don’t be stupid.” The business end of a dark metallic weapon of some sort emerged from the sleeve of his robe.

Welly looked to Bentley. His manservant had already drawn his pistol, but the other two of their three assailants had him in their sights. The third held his gun on Welly.

“Your move,” said the one aiming at him.

The gun looked to be a projectile weapon, and it had a rather … voluminous barrel.

“I think discretion is the better part of valor in this instance,” Welly said to Bentley. “Holster your weapon and let’s reason with these people in a civilized fashion.” He turned to the person holding the gun on him and, shouting to be heard through his mask, said, “If it’s money you want, we don’t have any. We’re on the Water Race; we’re only carrying essentials,”

“Money is little good to us,” said the first hooded figure. “However, you look like a man with too many camels.”

Welly choked off his usual brag, that they were the finest camels on Mars, instead saying, “I’ll have you know we’re winning the Water Race with these camels.”

“Not that way. The only way to Pavonis is back the way you came.”

“And what makes you so sure of that?” said Welly.

The figure reached a hand out from the folds of the robe and pulled back the hood, revealing a woman’s head. Her hair was thick, black, and intricately braided all around her tanned, windburned face. She wore no respirator, Welly noted with surprise. She grinned. “I know because I live out here,” she said. She spoke to the other two figures in a language Welly had never heard before, and they pulled their hoods back to reveal two more women.

“Nomads,” muttered Bentley.

The leader nodded to the other two figures. “Apang, Netia, take the pack animals.”

“No!” Welly shouted. “We need them!”

“Nobody needs five camels. Be glad there are only three of us, or you would be on foot from here.”

Apang and Netia took the reins of the three pack camels from Bentley’s hands, led them a few paces away, and began pawing through the panniers.

“Good grief, Katurah, will you look at all this junk?” one of them said. “They’ve got a _generator_ in here. And enough water and oxygen tanks to supply a city.”

“We need them,” Welly said. “Look here, if it’s supplies you want, I can give you my credit — ” He reached for his wallet, but she fired a shot into the air, spooking Hunter, and the next thing he knew he was on his back in the sand. He hadn’t been hit, but his ears rang like an alarm siren.

“I told you, we don’t want your money,” Katurah said. Her voice had taken on a cold tone that raised the hackles on the back of Welly’s neck.

“Take it all,” she said to her companions. “This one’s too stupid for favors.”

“What about the other one?” asked one of the women. “He’s cooperated well enough.”

The leader spat on the sand a foot or so in front of Welly. “All right, then,” she said. “Leave the old one enough food and water to make it to Pavonis. It’s up to him if he wants to share with his young fool of a companion.”

“You can’t — “

Boom! Sand flew up from right next to Welly’s face. She blew on the end of her pistol. “Don’t push your luck, worm.”

Worm! To think that a Wellington had lived to be called “worm” by a common thief! Welly fumed while the women tossed a paltry half-dozen oxygen tanks and two water bottles to the sand, then led the three stolen camels up the side canyon.

When they were out of earshot he snapped at Bentley, “Some help you were.” He stood up and slapped the dust from his trousers. His face still stung where the bullet had sprayed sand against it, and his ears still rang from the explosion.

Bentley spoke his first words since they had been waylaid. “Those were Matrika nomads.”

“And what’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means we are very lucky to have survived the encounter.” He didn’t say it, but Welly could hear “Despite your best efforts to get us killed” in his voice.

“It would seem the race is over for us,” Bentley went on. “Should I use my emergency beacon to call for assistance? Your father could have a lifter out here in a couple of hours to pick us up. And possibly the camels, too, if he brings enough men, though I would advise against trying it.”

“No,” said Welly, real fear striking him for the first time. “He’d kill me. We’d be the laughingstock of the race. Bentley, can you imagine what would happen if I came crawling back with only two camels and no gear? And if word got out that a trio of vagabond _women_ had stolen them? What the men at the club would say?”

Bentley shrugged. “Perhaps,” he said, “we could tell your father and your friends that the camels got hit by lightning, too?”

It was a tempting thought. Bentley’s wry grin as he suggested it even brought a fleeting smile to Welly’s face, but he shook his head and said, “No, Bentley, we’ve got to go get them back ourselves. We’ve got to finish this race, no matter what. With all our camels.”

Alarmed, Bentley said, “You can’t mean to go after the Matrika?”

Welly reached up to his saddle and unholstered his stunner. “I do,” he said. “They made a stupid mistake. They left us our weapons.”

“They left us our lives, too, but I don’t think it’s wise to press our luck. They won’t be so generous a second time.”

“Bentley, are you afraid of a few desert women?”

“Yes,” Bentley replied sincerely. “And you would be, too, if you knew anything about them.”

“I know that they stole our camels; that’s enough for me. Come on, let’s get moving.”

Bentley continued trying to talk him out of it, but Welly would have none of it. He gathered up the few meager supplies the nomads had left them, helped Bentley tie everything onto their saddles, then together they followed the wide, shallow footsteps of their stolen pack animals into the side canyon.

* * * *

The debris field that had looked impassable from the main canyon turned out to be less than a hundred meters deep, and the Matrika’s trail led through it with surprising ease. Beyond, the canyon became much more hospitable. There was actually grass in the sheltered spots where morning dew could condense and provide enough water to support it. Welly saw from their footprints how the camels had tried to reach it, but each time the women had turned them aside. They obviously didn’t want to waste time letting the beasts eat; that meant they were afraid of pursuit. Hah! Bentley’s paranoia was groundless. Without the element of surprise, these thieves were as vulnerable as anyone else.

They didn’t even make any effort to hide their tracks. Running like scared dogs, they were! They would soon regret their impulsive crime spree, though Welly realized with a start that he wouldn’t be able to bring them in to the authorities. Not and win the Water Race. Prisoners would only slow them down, and Bentley was right about one thing at least: they’d already spent too much time off the right track.

All right, then, he would content himself with taking back what was rightfully his. It was more than these slatterns deserved, but circumstances dictated leniency. Perhaps they would learn some humility from the experience.

Welly and Bentley urged their camels into the rhythmic stride wherein both legs on each side moved in unison. The resultant pace rocked them from side to side as well as back and forth, making Welly a bit seasick, but eating up the kilometers as they raced after the women.

Sure enough, an hour or so later he saw a faint cloud of dust as they rounded a bend in the canyon, and he turned to Bentley. “This is it. Draw your stunner and ride!”

“You can’t mean to attack them head-on!” exclaimed Bentley, his voice even higher-pitched than the radio in his oxygen mask usually made it.

“I do. They’re obviously used to skulking about under cloaks and in shadows; it will be the last thing they expect. In this twisty canyon we’ll be upon them before they know what hit them.”

“But — “

“Don’t hesitate to shoot. The stunners won’t knock a camel out for more than a few minutes, but they’ll put those thieves down for half an hour or longer.”

“And their bullets could put us down indefinitely,” Bentley said, but he was speaking to Welly’s back.

“Faster, Hunter!” Welly urged his camel.

“Sir, this is lunacy!”

“This, Bentley, is bravery!” Welly said without turning around, though in truth his heart was thudding in his chest like a drum bouncing down an escalator. He had no choice, though; it was either take back his honor here or die of humiliation back home, so he nudged his camel with his heels and urged it again, “Faster!”

The beast picked up its pace for a few steps, but immediately slowed to its rocking gait again. “I mean it,” he threatened, and to prove it he drew his quirt from its loop on his saddle and whipped the camel on its wooly flanks. It bawled indignantly, but he quirted it again and again until it began to gallop.

He exulted in the sensation of wind in his face. The camel rocked back and forth as it ran, and Welly hung on one-handed while he drew his stunner. The camel’s wide, padded feet made practically no noise in the sand, and Welly resisted the instinctive urge to howl a battle cry.

He rounded the bend, and just as he had expected, there were the three thieves, riding their stolen camels at a steady walk, talking and giggling and no doubt congratulating themselves on a fine day’s plunder. They cocked their heads at the sound of hoofbeats, then turned, puzzled, as Welly bore down on them. He was close enough to see the priceless look of astonishment in their faces as he aimed and fired his stunner.

“Hah!” he said as one of the camels staggered to its knees, then pitched over sideways, pinning its rider’s robes. “Score one for the good guys. Take this!” He fired again, and another woman toppled off her camel.

Bentley, having no other choice, joined in beside him and galloped straight for the struggling camels and cursing women, his stunner whining as he fired again and again to knock the third woman down.

Welly reined in his mount and leaped off to deal with the woman who had been pinned under her camel. It turned out to be Katurah. She struggled to free her gun from beneath her stunned camel, but had no luck.

“Don’t be stupid,” Welly said to her, laughing at the irony of it. He heard Bentley’s stunner whine, and one of the other women sighed softly as she dropped into dreamland.

“Are you an idiot, or what?” Katurah asked him.

“That would have to be ‘or what,’” Welly replied. “Consider yourselves lucky that we’re also civilized men, or you would never have lived long enough to insult me a second time.” He waited just long enough to make sure she understood him, then he pulled the trigger and she dropped back, limp, to the sand.

“I can’t believe it!” Bentley exclaimed. “We did it!”

“Of course we did it,” said Welly. “Now let’s gather up our possessions and be off.”

“Er, that won’t be so easy,” Bentley said. “We’ve stunned two of the camels.”

That they had. So, since they had a few minutes to kill, Welly dug into one of his recovered saddlebags for something to keep his teeth from chattering from the adrenaline rush. “Biscuit?” he asked Bentley, holding out the plastic package.

Bentley had been tipping a small silver flask to his lips; he swallowed, sighed happily, and exchanged it with Welly for the cookies. Welly took a cautious sniff. Whiskey! And a good time for it, too. He took a generous swallow. The stuff burned nicely on the way down, and he only coughed a little bit when he tried to breathe again.

“By god, that makes a man’s blood run hot, doesn’t it Bentley? Rushing headlong into battle. Makes the race seem a pitiful thing by comparison, doesn’t it?”

“Indeed it does, sir.”

“All for a handful of water rings. Who needs them, anyway, in this day and age?”

Bentley nodded at the unconscious women. “I wager these three could use a few. Water’s a precious commodity in the desert.”

“They could certainly use a bath, at least,” Welly said, laughing.

One of the camels groaned, then thrashed its legs as it tried to right itself.

“Look out there!” Welly said, dropping Bentley’s flask and grabbing the woman he’d stunned just in time to drag her away from the camel’s feet. “Pull those others clear as well,” he ordered Bentley. He dragged his captive out of harm’s way, then came back to help Bentley calm the camels and get them to their feet.

One of the panniers had broken when the camel carrying it had fallen, so they spent a few minutes duct-taping it together. They eventually got it, though, and gathered up the other camels’ reins in preparation to leave.

“Should we drag the Matrika to shelter?” Bentley asked.

“Yes, that would probably be a good — _oof_!” All the breath left Welly at once as one of the women landed a kick to his ribs that sent him reeling backward to land on his butt in the sand. He drew his stunner, but she kicked that as well, sending it flying between the legs of a camel.

“Bentley!” he croaked, but his manservant was already fighting a battle of his own. The women had apparently awakened when they had been moved, and had bided their time until they could once again catch Welly and Bentley by surprise.

The woman who had attacked Welly raised her foot for another blow. Katurah again. He threw sand in her braid-wrapped face and leaped at her instead, grabbing her leg and pulling her to the ground. He tried to pin her arms behind her back, but he couldn’t grab even one of them; she twisted and bit and pummeled him with her elbows and fists faster than he could react. Within seconds, he was the one on his back with his arms pinned. He struggled and broke free, but she jabbed him hard in the side and when he reflexively reached to cover his tender spot, she pinned his arm again.

“You don’t give up, do you?” Katurah said, panting just a bit. Welly wondered how she breathed at all without an air mask. Perhaps she had an inhaler hidden in her braid.

“No, I don’t give up!” Welly wheezed, still recovering from the kick to his ribs. “These are _my_ camels.”

“_Your_ camels? We already went over this. What would a little boy be doing with five whole camels?”

“I _was_ winning the Noctis to Pavonis Water Race. Now I’ll be lucky to finish at all — no thanks to you.”

“Ah, the race,” she said. “Well, you’ll just have to finish it some other year.”

“No, I’ll finish it now,” he said forcefully.

“And how do you plan to do that?”

“By having my manservant stun you from behind while you prattle on. Bentley, if you will.” It was all bluff, but Welly hoped Katurah would look up and give him a moment’s advantage. She did just that, but a moment was all he got, and he barely had time to squirm before she sat down heavily on him again. It wasn’t her weight so much as her powerful thighs pinching his arms to his sides that did the trick.

“Well, that was impressive,” she said, smiling as she mocked him. “Tell you what. How about if _I_ take your camels to Pavonis and claim the prize for myself?”

“You can’t,” Welly told her. “Not unless you hold stock in the Saturn Ice Corporation.” But her threat chilled him to the bone. If these women not only stole his camels but showed up at Pavonis with them, he’d be ridiculed for the rest of his life. He held his eyes tight, lest a tear betray his inner torment.

She missed nothing. “What’s the matter, little boy? Never lost anything before?”

“As a matter of fact, I haven’t.”

She shook her head. “Get used to the idea. I think you’re about to lose this one.”

“It’s beginning to look a bit dicey,” he agreed.

“When the wind sweeps to the south, it carries even the small pebbles,” said Katurah.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Footsteps neared. “It means when your fate blows in the wind, you’d best ride where it takes you,” said Bentley. “Perhaps we should petition to discuss terms with the leader of the Matrika.”

Welly turned his head to the side; his manservant stood near him, holding out a hand to help him up. Katurah rose and let him go. One of the other women stood behind Bentley, holding both stunners on him, while the third one gathered up the camels’ reins.

“Discuss terms?” Welly asked. “You don’t discuss terms with thieves.”

“I’m getting tired of that word,” Katurah warned.

“And I’m getting tired of you taking my camels. It _is_ thievery, and no amount of semantic legerdemain will make it otherwise.”

His words did seem to hit their mark. She said, “All right, call it what you like, but I’m not giving them back. They’re only toys to you, and you’ve probably got lots more at home. If you want to plead your case with the Matriarch, that’s fine with me, but don’t get your hopes up. The tribe comes first.”

Welly looked from one woman to the next, and to the next. Grimly determined, all of them. There would be no more surprising them. And the prospect of a night outside without the dome didn’t appeal to him at all. “All right, then,” he said. “We’ll talk to your matriarch.”

The women allowed the men to climb into their saddles, while they pulled themselves up to sit atop the other camels’ bulky packs. The five of them plodded on up the canyon in the direction the women had originally been headed.

Within half an hour they reached a cave mouth in the canyon’s north wall, and when they approached it dozens of women and children ran out to greet them. They spoke among themselves in their own language, but Katurah said, “Come with us,” in English and led the way into the cavern.

It was an enormous lava tube, one of the few that hadn’t collapsed over the millennia since the volcanoes had been active on the Tharsis plateau. It was easily thirty meters wide and who knew how deep. Some of these things went on for kilometers. The women led Welly and Bentley a good half kilometer into it and it showed no sign of collapse yet.

They came to an area lit with a string of multicolored lights that looked like they might have come off a Christmas tree. In the middle of its circle of illumination sat an old woman, her face weathered from years of exposure to the harsh Martian atmosphere. She looked at the two men and spoke something in that strange language of theirs.

Bentley replied with a hesitant word or two of his own.

“Bentley?” Welly asked. “You speak this argot?”

“A few words is all, sir,” Bentley whispered, “but I shall try to communicate our concerns to her.”

The old woman nodded, and Bentley knelt before her, placing his hands on the sand in front of the woman’s feet. She asked him questions and he answered, relying at times on Katurah to provide words he didn’t know, then he haltingly asked a question of his own. Welly was dying to know what they were talking about, but he kept silent. The old woman spat out a burst of syllables. Bentley nodded. Then she issued a command to the women surrounding her. This set them muttering among themselves, but they eventually gave their assent.

When he saw this happen, Bentley kissed the palm of his hand, then laid his hand on the sand in front of the old woman’s tattered boots. She said one more thing, and Bentley blushed.

The woman laughed. “Dak?” she asked. Around them, the other women smiled.

Bentley, still kneeling, blushed a shade deeper. “Dak,” the old manservant said.

Two younger women stepped into the circle and spoke, then pointed at Welly.

Bentley burst out laughing.

The women turned and glared at him. Haltingly, he told them something. They muttered in disappointment, then, with a wave of her hand, the old woman stood up and walked away.

The old manservant rose to his feet and returned to his master. Welly was abuzz with questions. “What did she say? Are they going to give our camels back?”

“Hush,” said his servant. “We must act with decorum now.”

The women led the two men back toward the entrance of the lava tube, but stopped a dozen yards short of it and led them into a rough-woven tent held upright by spun carbide-steel poles. Welly recognized them as components of a solar panel shielding array. The juxtaposition of technology seemed odd, pointless. Why didn’t they just use a regular tent and be done with it?

At least the floor had been swept clean of rocks, and a layer of soft sand had been spread out for them to rest on. Their captors dropped flaps down behind them once they crawled inside, blocking their view of the camp. There was a single light overhead, competing poorly with the evening sunlight from the mouth of the cavern.

Before Welly could press Bentley for information, someone spoke outside the tent, and Bentley opened the flap. Outside the door lay a hip flask full of water. Bentley said something in their language, then brought the flask inside, took a sip, and offered it to Welly. “It’s a bit mineralized, but drinkable,” he said.

Welly took a big mouthful, then spit it right back out onto the sand. “It tastes _filthy_,” he said. “Tell them to bring us some real water.”

“This is real water,” said Bentley. “And I’m afraid it’s all we’re likely to get. All day.” He looked pointedly at the spattered sand at their feet.

Welly held up the tiny flask. It couldn’t have held more than a half liter. “Oh, come on. You’re joking.”

“I’m afraid not. These people live on the margin here. They’ve hardly enough for their own.”

Welly poked his head out the tent flap and looked around. The nomad’s encampment was alive with people. Outside the lava tube, ragged camels nosed around for the sparse desert grass. Closer at hand, small boys — one of them wearing one of Welly’s shirts, he noted — were practicing their aim with fist-sized rocks against a battered piece of metal that clanked loudly with each strike. Babies and toddlers played in a communal group around their mothers and the older girls, some of whom sat spinning camel wool into yarn while others went through Welly’s and Bentley’s gear. Welly watched resignedly as one woman methodically reduced their inflatable shelter to shreds of plastic. Another pounded apart his silver teapot with the blunt end of an empty air tank. A few yards away, a woman mixed something white and pasty in the bowl of a satellite dish that had evidently belonged to some other unfortunate traveler.

They certainly did seem to live on the edge, as Bentley had said. Perhaps over it, psychologically speaking.

“Where’d all the men go?” Welly asked, pulling his head back in the tent.

“With the caravans, probably,” said Bentley. “Matrika men run a trading route to the far eastern colonies.”

“Well, their women don’t know the first thing about how to survive out here,” said Welly. “They’re hacking our gear to bits.”

“Don’t be too sure about that,” said Bentley. “They just have different uses for the same materials, is all.”

Welly let the tent flap fall down and returned to lie in the sand by his manservant. “Bentley, old man, I’m astonished at you. You speak their language. You seem to know their customs. Wherever did you learn all this?”

Bentley looked away. “Oh, it was long ago. My father was keen on your grandfather’s camel-breeding program. For some reason, he got it in his head that the nomads might know something about camel racing that could serve us in good stead. He hired a tutor to teach me their language — the young pick up languages so much easier than adults, you know. It was all in vain, of course; the few nomads who came to town had little information of value, and I, um, I was never able to procure an invitation to an actual camp.”

Welly laughed. “If only you’d known what we do now, eh? Just take a pack train too far into the Labyrinth, and there you are.”

Bentley shuddered. “Yes, here we are.”

“So, what did that old woman say to you?”

“You don’t want to know.”

“Of course I do. Come on, out with it.”

“No, sir.”

Welly could hardly believe his ears. “Bentley, need I remind you that you were supposed to be negotiating the release of _my_ camels and equipment? I believe I have the right to know how the negotiations went.”

Bentley sighed. “Very well. Begging your pardon, but the Matriarch felt you would be something of a burden if you stayed here even for one night. She wanted you to return home. On foot. Two of the women who ambushed us intervened and offered to act as our guides.”

“Back home? We’re to be led home by a couple of girls?”

“If it’s any consolation, they were most impressed by your tenacity, if not your ability. It appealed to their sense of humor that you continue the Water Race. The Matrika know of a shortcut that might help us recover lost time.”

“Oh,” said Welly. “Well … in that case.”

“We will have to continue, however, using their camels.”

“What? We’ll be disqualified.”

“Perhaps the judges will not be so harsh. Our gear was sabotaged, our mounts stolen. Perhaps if the theft were couched in vague enough terms, and combined with the sabotage of our navigation dish…”

“They’d think it was Gordon,” Welly said. “Brilliant! Then it wouldn’t matter what I finished with, would it? People would applaud me for my resourcefulness. And for my — what did you call it? — my tenacity.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And we can come back later for our Sandships.”

His manservant said nothing, busying himself with smoothing out a patch of sand on the floor.

“Right?”

“These women are most impressed by our camels’ wool.”

“Their _wool_?” said Welly. “Those camels were bred to be the fastest, most durable animals on the planet, and these women want them for their wool?”

“And their stamina, of course. They desire to retain our mounts as stud animals. They were most emphatic about it.”

Welly realized he wasn’t exactly in a bargaining position. “Okay, they can keep them until winter. But we’ll have to have them back by then so we can train for next year’s race.”

“I doubt you’d be able to find them. These people move around quite a bit. I believe their intent is to keep our Sandships for good.”

“They can’t! Father will kill me.”

Bentley chuckled. “No, he’ll kill Mr. LeBrue, whom he will suspect of engineering the original theft.”

Welly cracked a wide smile. “Bentley, you’re a genius.” He heard women’s laughter echo in the cave, and remembered one other question. “What made you blush? Back there when you were talking with the old woman.”

His manservant said nothing. Welly looked up to see Bentley’s face once again a bright pink.

“What?” said Welly.

“They noticed that our camels are male,” said Bentley.

“So?”

“It is not the custom for nomadic women to retain male camels. They’re too much trouble, so they usually sell them to the caravans.”

“And?”

“Obviously, our hybrids are superior to theirs. As I mentioned, they intend to mate them.”

“The thought of mating camels made you blush?”

Bentley cleared his throat. “You see, sir, it is customary among these people that women choose the mates for their camels. When they find a stud that has been well taken care of, they naturally assume the camel’s owner is of rather superior stock himself. He must know the desert, you see, or his camels would not flourish. When she chooses her camel’s mate, the woman usually invites its owner to her own tent for the night.”

Welly frowned. “That old woman wants me to have sex with her? I trust you told her ‘no.’”

“Being only a male, I am not allowed that right.”

“_What?_ Bentley, this is outrageous!”

The manservant’s blush deepened to a dark red. “I managed to get you off the hook, sir. I told her that the camels are mine.”

“Oh. Well, then.” Welly felt a bit of a blush himself. “Far be it from me to dictate what you do on your time off.”

“Thank you, young master,” Bentley said. “Two of the other women were rather disappointed that you weren’t the owner, but I maintained the fiction.”

“Wait a minute,” said Welly. “Those two young ones? The pretty ones?”

“Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, sir, but yes. Those two.”

“Thanks a lot.”

“I was only looking out for your welfare, sir,” Bentley said, but he couldn’t completely hide a smirk.

“I bet you were,” Welly replied, wondering how he could undo the damage Bentley had done. But unless he could learn the nomads’ language, he realized his chances for sexual adventure had been effectively shot down. There was Katurah, of course. She spoke English. But the very thought made Welly shudder.

And unfortunately, that seemed to be the only pleasure the Matrika had to offer. Dinner that night was half a bowl of boiled grain, a single strip of dry jerky, and a half-cup of water.

“Great,” said Welly, sitting by the thornbush cooking fire with all the others of the tribe.

“Yes, sir,” Bentley said, a good deal more enthusiastically. “This is a very exceptional meal.”

“What? This is — “

“Look around you. Do they look like they could do any better?”

Welly looked at their ragged homespun clothes, their chipped bowls, the lack of even a decent chair. “No,” he said. “I guess not. But can’t I get some more water, at least?”

“I’m certain,” said his manservant, “they have given you all they can spare.”

“They could spare some of the water they stole from us,” Welly said, but he didn’t push it. He knew from experience how little good that would do.

Later, after they had eaten, the three women who had captured them got up and told everyone the story of how it happened. Bentley translated as best he could, but caught only snatches. The nomads, though, laughed uproariously. Welly was just as glad he hadn’t understood.

After the story, several women sang a haunting, complicated song that echoed eerily inside the lava tube. Another woman recited a poem. The children did some singing of their own. Long into the night, the group entertained each other. When the stories ran out, they got up and danced. Katurah asked Welly to dance with her, and they briefly became the center of attention as she gyrated around him suggestively and the other women hooted and whistled at them.

He excused himself soon thereafter, and went back to the tent alone. He suspected that he might have had a companion if he’d expressed any interest, but his mind was already reeling with the events of the day; he didn’t think he could pack anything else into it, no matter how pleasant.

He had the tent to himself all night. Bentley didn’t return until just before dawn. “I hope you had a good time,” said Welly, half in jest.

“It was … interesting,” Bentley said. “And now it’s time to be on our way. We have a race to win.”

* * * *

Despite their tussles yesterday, Keturah and one of her companions from yesterday, Netia, seemed perfectly happy to lead the two Englishmen back into their race today. In fact, both women were in high spirits when they first saddled up their camels at the mouth of the great lava tube and Welly automatically urged his out into the early morning twilight.

“Where you going, lost boy?” Katurah asked.

He had long since given up asking her call him “Welly.” “Back into the canyon, I assume,” he answered her. “It would seem to be the only direction available to us, unless you propose to ride into the cave.” He laughed at the absurdity of that notion.

His laughter died when Katurah nodded and said, “Got it in one. Come on.” She clucked “Hut!” at her camel — one of Welly’s camels, he noted — and urged it forward into the tunnel. As agreed, he and Bentley were riding two of the nomads’ scraggly, smelly animals.

“You can’t be serious,” said Welly.

“Never more. This lava tube runs all the way to the base of Pavonis. There are only two breakdowns the whole way, and we can squeeze through both of them. It’s by far the fastest way from here to there.”

“Under … ground? The whole way?”

“Not the _whole_ way. You’ll have a dozen kilometers or so from the other side of the tube to the finish line.”

A dozen kilometers was all? That meant they were going a long ways underground.

“What’s the matter, hero? Claustrophobic?”

Welly shook his head. Enclosed spaces didn’t bother him; in truth he was thinking more of the smell. If his camel had ever been bathed, it must have happened when it was a calf, because Welly was certain it still carried every aromatic moment of its life since then in its wooly hide. Thank goodness the nomads had let him keep his breathing mask!

That was about the extent of their gear. The Matrika traveled light, especially underground. No need for a dome, or even tents; they wore their heavy homespun cloaks, which doubled as sleeping blankets. Besides their lamps, each woman carried only a water bottle and a thin bag of dried fruit and grains tied to their waists. Welly felt woefully unprepared even with his sleeping bag, oxygen tanks, medical kit, extra clothing, flashlight, binoculars, and inadequate water bottle and food bag of his own. Why, all of it fit into two saddle bags, on his own camel! This wasn’t how you ran a water race. If Welly didn’t have the excuse of being waylaid by nomads, the other racers might even accuse him of cheating.

The camels wound their way through the encampment, following a line of lights strung from stalactites — actually just very long drips that had congealed when the lava receded — every twenty meters or so along the jagged ceiling. The lights soon ended, however, and Katurah switched on a single floodlamp which she extended upward on a slender pole until it swayed a few meters overhead, casting shadows that danced and swayed themselves on the walls and floor of the tunnel.

Fortunately the floor was hard clay, and flat as a street. The interior of the lava tube had evidently flooded in some distant past, partially filling with sediment. It made a perfect highway, much better than the surface with its drifting sand and dust storms. The camels made excellent time, and the travelers talked and joked as they rode, forgetting for a while the world above and all its concerns.

Even though the Matrika women used English, Welly let his manservant do most of the talking. Bentley seemed completely at ease with these desert nomads. It was a side of him Welly had never seen before, and Welly didn’t know what to make of it. On one hand, it impressed him to think that someone he had always thought of as an old and rather stodgy servant had this hidden aspect to his character, but on the other hand, it bothered him that he, Winthrop Magnus Wellington III, did not. Katurah, the lava tube, the unfamiliar camel on which he rode — the whole situation made him nervous. He wasn’t in control anymore.

_When your fate blows in the wind, you’d best ride where it takes you,_ Bentley had said. Well, here they were. He hoped it led them somewhere he wanted to go.

* * * *

An endless morning later, Welly thought he could see light in front of them. He shielded his eyes against the glare of Katurah’s single dancing floodlamp and peered again, and within a few dozen more paces he became sure of it.

“What’s that ahead?” he asked.

“That’s the first breakdown,” Katurah replied. “The roof collapsed where a water channel cut through. We’ll have to climb over the debris, but the tunnel continues on the other side.”

Sure enough, as they drew closer they had to detour around blocks of rubble that had washed into the tunnel, and eventually they emerged, blinking and sneezing, into bright sunlight. Fortunately the nomads had cleared a path through the tumbled blocks of basalt, and soon they were back in the mouth of the other side.

Before they continued on, Welly took the opportunity to scan the surface for any sign of the other racers. He didn’t expect to see anyone — he assumed he was still well behind the others and probably far to the west of them anyway — but to his surprise he saw a camel train winding its way down one of the steep walls of the wash that had cut into the lava tube. A closer look with his binoculars revealed four riders, and as he steadied his hand on a rock and slowly increased the magnification he felt his heart skip a beat.

“That cad! That scoundrel. It’s LeBrue and Vicki and their servants! And they’re laughing!”

He handed Bentley his binoculars, and Bentley confirmed his assessment. “They do appear to be enjoying themselves. One could infer from their attitude that they must be in the lead.”

The implications of that took a moment to sink in. The lava tube had brought them even farther than Welly had dared to hope. “They _think_ they’re in the lead,” he said. “But if we caught up to them this quickly, and if this lava tube continues this smoothly all the way to Pavonis…” He looked to Katurah.

“It does.”

“Hah. Then we’ve got the blighter beat already.”

“Indeed, fortune seems to have smiled on us after all,” Bentley said, directing his comment to the two Matrika women.

They tilted their heads in easy acknowledgement of the truth, but Katurah said, “Don’t count your water rings yet, rich boy. Once he’s out of this canyon, he’s got only two more to cross. After that it’s a straight run. He can gallop the whole way if he doesn’t care about his camels. It’s going to be tighter than I thought.”

“Then what are we waiting for?” Welly asked. “Let’s ride!” He urged his camel ahead again, even taking the lead now as they plunged back into darkness.

A kilometer farther they came upon another breakdown, this one much less severe. The ceiling had only cracked, letting in a few shafts of sunlight, and boulders scattered along the floor cast inky black pools of shadow under the yellow glow. Welly picked his way carefully through them, mindful of the camels’ feet and his own legs on the sharp edges of unweathered rock. He stopped when he heard Katurah call out, “Where you going this time, pathfinder?”

He stopped and looked back at her. She and Netia and Bentley had stopped at the edge of the breakdown and were watching him with amusement.

“What now?” he asked. He was growing tired of her mocking tone, for he knew that he had somehow screwed up again.

“That channel dead-ends about ten kilometers up,” Katurah said. “We’ve got to take this side passage over here.”

“What side passage?” Welly asked. He turned his camel around and rode back to where they waited.

“There.” Katurah leaned her floodlamp over to the left, and now Welly saw that one of the inky shadows behind a boulder was in fact the infinite blackness of another tunnel. He would never have spotted that in a million years on his own.

“Oh,” he said quietly. “Thank you.” Ten kilometers of detour, assuming he didn’t get lost in another side passage somewhere farther on. How quickly a person’s fortunes could change, and for such trivial mistakes! “Thank you,” he said again, meaning it.

She slapped him on the back. “Hey, don’t feel bad. Everybody misses it the first time. Somebody even painted the ass end of a camel on the wall where it stops, just to razz people who actually get all the way to the end without figuring it out.”

“I would think you’d post signs,” said Bentley.

“We do.” She pointed to a jumble of sooty black lines across the cave. Try as he might, Welly couldn’t make them resolve into letters.

“It’s in Matrika,” he finally said.

“Right. Why not? We’re the only ones who use the tunnel.”

“Why not indeed?” he asked.

Katurah led the way around the boulder into the side tunnel, but Welly hung back, a delicious thought forming in his mind. “Just a moment,” he said, pausing to think it through. Yes, it could work. If it didn’t, he would waste valuable time, time that might even cost him the race, but if it did … oh, if it did, the reward would be sweet indeed.

“Wait right here,” he said. “I’ve got to go back for something.”

“Go _back_?” asked Bentley. “Now? For what?”

“Revenge,” Welly replied.

* * * *

He found Gordon and Victoria at the bottom of the wash that had crossed above the lava tube. They were eating a lunch of fresh fruit, cheese, and wine in the shade of a boulder while Gordon’s manservant and Victoria’s maid served them. Welly, crouched behind a boulder of his own, surveyed the terrain and estimated their line of sight. If he took his camel past them over there to the right, they would never see him. But if he brought it around to the left, over that pile of rubble there, he would be silhouetted for a moment against the sky. His brief but intense experience with the Matrika had taught him something; even a day ago he would probably never have paid any attention to the difference in cover.

He climbed aboard his camel and urged it to its feet, then took the left path. When he got to the top of the rubble pile, he paused, coughed loudly, then shaded his eyes and peered ahead toward the yawning black mouth of the lava tube.

“There it is, Bentley!” he exclaimed to the empty cavern. “Ha, we’ve found it! A straight shot to Pavonis. We’ve won!”

He urged his camel onward, entered the cave, and — lifting his oxygen mask so it wouldn’t muffle his voice — vented a positively melodramatic cackle of glee that echoed into the distance.

He heard rocks rattle behind him as Gordon and Victoria leaped to their feet, then the clangor of a camp being hastily packed. He laughed all the way back to the side tunnel, then laughed some more when he saw the preparations Bentley had made there. Two empty oxygen tanks lay on the floor of the tunnel beyond the breakdown, looking for all the world as if they had been casually discarded after being replaced with fresh ones during a brief rest stop. LeBrue would have no choice but to follow their trail farther into the tunnel and try to ambush them in the dark. Welly hoped he would appreciate the painting at the end of the tunnel.

* * * *

Katurah and Netia waited for them a kilometer or so down the side passage. The women and their camels were lying on the smooth ground, resting and waiting. At Welly’s approach, his old pack camels looked over in their usual smile-lipped way, chewing their cud with thick, brown-stained teeth. The air was thick with their musty aroma.

“Hello again,” said Welly. He chuckled. “Our friend LeBrue is headed on a wild goose chase!”

Netia muttered something in Matrika. Katurah said, “You do require patience, don’t you?”

“What?” Welly asked.

“Netia says if you were a real man — a man of the desert — you would know better than to impose on the good graces of your hosts. We are demeaning ourselves to take part in this foolish race of yours, and now you delay us for no reason.”

“No reason?” said Welly. “I diverted LeBrue! Lured him right into the tunnel. Now we have a fighting chance of winning.”

“So, you not only travel with too many camels, but you cheat as well.”

“Cheat!” Welly spat on the ground beside her. “A Wellington never cheats. _Never_. Don’t you ever accuse me of that again.”

She seemed taken aback at his outburst. “What do you call what you just did, then?”

“Payback. LeBrue sabotaged our navigation dish. Because of him, we ran into you. And while I appreciate your delightful company, I wasn’t about to let pass an opportunity to even the score.”

“Oh,” said Katurah. She stood up, then slowly smiled. “This one time, we will let your bad manners pass by. In fact, I admire you for taking the risk for your honor. Perhaps there is more to you than is apparent on the surface.”

Welly stood before her, speechless.

She nodded toward the camels. “Let’s go.”

“Ah … yes, let’s.”

The four riders climbed aboard their camels again and set off down the smooth-walled lava tube. This one was much smaller than the other, only a half-dozen meters across, and more sinuous. The flickering shadows from Katurah’s lamp grew hypnotic after a while, and Welly nearly drifted off to sleep. He shook his head to wake up; it wouldn’t do to fall off his camel now, not when this strange woman had finally found something to admire in him.

He decided to risk talking with her; at least that would keep him awake. He hated shouting to be heard through his oxygen mask, so he took a few deep breaths, then took it off, cleared his throat, and said, “So tell me, how do you survive out here? I mean, the air’s barely breathable, and it’s cold as the devil in winter, and I’ve heard the storms can cut your flesh right off your bones. Wouldn’t the cities be more hospitable?”

Katurah looked around at the dark lava tube walls. “Cities. Hah. We have the freedom of the entire planet. We live in caves during the wintertime. In the summer, we roam for food.”

“Where do you get your water?”

“We recycle what we can, and distill what we can from subsurface deposits when we find them. We have to buy the rest,” she said distastefully. “We get water rings for each camel we sell.”

“Really? How much?”

“One-third ring for a four-year-old. A bit more for an adult.”

Welly almost laughed out loud. His father charged one whole water ring just to loan Hunter out to stud for a week.

“It’s a high price, I know,” said Katurah. “But we take care of our animals.”

“I can see that,” he said, wondering who she was kidding.

“How about you?” she asked. “What is your life like, back in ‘civilization’?”

Was she mocking him? Welly almost launched into an indignant defense of the aristocratic way of life, but he didn’t really feel like another argument. So he said, “Well, you already know my family is rich. That defines practically everything about us. I went to school until I was twenty-two, and then I joined my father’s company. I’m executive vice-president of operations for Marineris Investments.”

“And what does this company do?”

“Mostly we just own things. Properties, stocks, whole businesses. We buy low and sell high, or just collect rent.”

“What’s rent?”

Welly laughed. “Rent? It’s when one person sells another person the right to … I mean, suppose you owned … well, I mean…” He stopped. How could he explain “rent” to someone who lived in the wilds and took what they needed from the land itself or from passing strangers? “I’m afraid you’d find it a rather artificial concept,” he said.

“Is there anything about your life that isn’t?” she asked.

“Of course there is!” he said automatically. “Plenty of things.”

“Name one.”

“Why, that’s simple. There’s … there’s…” He had been about to say, “houses,” but compared to a lava tube they were pretty artificial. So was most of the food, clothing, and entertainment that civilization had to offer. Pets? The Matrika didn’t have any pets that he could see. His were genetically modified, as were the camels.

Katurah and Netia laughed as he struggled to come up with an example for them, and their laughter drove away any chance he might have had.

Bentley, however, said simply, “Loyalty, friendship, caring for children.”

“What?” asked Katurah.

“These are not artificial concepts. We have these in our society, just as you do in yours.”

“Good man, Bentley!” said Welly.

Bentley nodded.

The conversation drifted to other topics from there, and Welly was glad to let it go. Katurah’s question had made him decidedly uncomfortable. Hours later he still didn’t have an answer for her, but he realized he wasn’t sleepy anymore, either, even without his oxygen mask.

Finally, many hours after he’d forgotten all about it, they reached a large cave-in. Sunlight streamed in through the roof of the lava tube, and boulders lay in heaps, making a rough stairway to the surface. Katurah’s camel picked its way carefully up the uneven path and onto the sandy plains north of the canyon-laced Noctis Labyrinthis. Welly followed, blinking away the glare. Belatedly, he put on his oxygen mask, feeling it scrape against his day-old stubble, and adjusted its polarizing lens.

“There’s Pavonis,” Katurah said.

Welly looked toward the western horizon, where the huge volcanic cone of Pavonis Mons towered above the plain. To the north lay another, Ascraeus Mons. And to the south, Arsia Mons.

“My god,” said Welly, his voice hoarse inside his oxy mask. “We’re there.”

“I believe we can navigate quite handily at this point,” said Bentley.

“How far are we?” Welly asked Katurah.

She scanned the horizon, then pointed. “If you pass that shallow crater to the south, twelve kilometers. A little more if you go around it to the north, but it’s easier terrain.”

Just at the edge of visibility, the hair-thin line of the diamond-fiber elevator cable stretched from the summit of Pavonis to the infinity of sunlit space. A huge chunk of glacier hung suspended from a cargo carrier about halfway down the rope.

“First bit’s on its way to the base,” said Welly. “We’ll need speed for it now if we’re going to reach the finish line before it touches ground.”

He turned and held out his hand to Katurah, but she sat rock-still on her camel, once more hooded and cloaked, obscure to all.

“Thank you for helping us,” he said. “And thanks for … well … thanks.”

“May the spirits of rock and sand speed your journey,” she said.

“Maybe we’ll see each other again sometime.” He couldn’t imagine the circumstances, but it seemed the right thing to say.

“When the wind sweeps to the south, who knows what it will bring?” she replied. Then, with a nod, she and Netia turned their camels and sauntered away, overland this time, back toward their home.

Welly watched them a moment, feeling an uncomfortable sense of … of what? Must have been oxygen deprivation from not wearing his mask in the tunnel. Yes, that had to be it.

He squared his shoulders and scanned the horizon for other racers. He and Bentley had twelve kilometers to go; a camel just out of his stable could make it in a little under two hours. But theirs weren’t prime-condition Sandships; theirs were old nags with worn-down teeth and sagging humps. Still, they were all he and Bentley had. Welly clicked his camel to a slow walk, letting her stop as needed to graze a few leaves off the scraggly desert sedges in their path. When she seemed strained, he gave her whiffs of oxygen from his mask. Slowly, as the sun set behind the western horizon, they trudged onward toward Pavonis.

Halfway there, they ran out of oxygen and water. Welly felt brief pangs to see his oxygen mask lying abandoned on the red, rocky ground, but it was not to be helped. He couldn’t afford even an extra pound that wasn’t absolutely necessary, for from all points on the horizon, pinpoints of light were converging. And if his bet was any good, everyone else was in far better condition than he and Bentley.

His only consolation, as the others grew closer and their bells echoed faintly across the sand, was that none of them had the discordant tone of Gordon LeBrue.

He and Bentley crossed dune after dune, all lined up roughly north-south with the prevailing winds. They crossed the salt pans, the camels’ feet cracking the white crust. Then around the northern rim of the shallow crater in their path, and it became a straight run across the home stretch to the base of Pavonis.

Onward they rode, Welly wishing desperately for Hunter. That fat old guy had the best sprinting speed of any camel in his father’s stable. He dared not goad this nag even to a trot; already her muzzle was flecked with foam and she was laboring for breath.

“Not far now,” Welly said, patting her coarse hide. “We’re almost there.”

For a time, he and Bentley dismounted and walked alongside their camels. They didn’t last long: both masters began panting hard in the too-thin air.

“I never realized what a tough place this is,” Welly said, once he’d recovered atop the camel.

“It is a very difficult environment, for those not properly equipped,” said Bentley.

“Why would anyone choose to live out here?” Welly asked.

His manservant shook his head. “I don’t know, but they’ve been here for generations. I believe their ancestors were nomads on Earth, back when Earth had room for such people.”

Welly sat up. “They’re amazing, though, aren’t they?” he said. “Can you imagine it? Actually wresting a life directly from this barren planet? Sometimes…” He wanted to say how exhilarating it must be to live and die by one’s wits. He wanted to confess to Bentley what he’d never dare utter: that he would never know, working in his father’s investment firm, how good he really was. But as Bentley had reminded him, his life demanded loyalty, just as Katurah’s did. So loyalty it must be.

“…well, I admire them. I truly do.”

Tinkling bells reached their ears. “You hear that?” he asked. “They’re gaining on us. Come on, it can’t be far now.”

He flicked his camel with his quirt, but instead of increasing her pace, she moaned and sank to the soft red sand. Welly’s first inclination was to force her to rise, but seeing her eyes dull and her coat so ragged, he tried a softer approach. Perhaps it was a woman’s approach; he didn’t know.

He slid off the camel’s back and stroked her head. “I’m sorry you got dragged into this,” he said to her. “I truly am. But we’re almost there now. One short walk and you’ll get all the water you can drink. And the best hay on the planet, too.”

The camel groaned again. He walked off a ways, tore free a tuft of pricklebush, and offered her a branch. Slowly, he got her to stand.

Bentley’s beast, however, would budge no further. She collapsed onto the sand, eyes closed, breathing hard. “You go on,” the manservant said. “I will join you presently.”

“I’ll have my father send someone after you,” said Welly. He turned his mount toward Pavonis and began climbing that one last dune. At the top, he had a commanding vista of these last twilight hours of the race. Before him, a rubble-strewn plain led steadily upward to the base of the volcano. Already he could see the family colors at the finish area, each brightly lit house crawler awaiting their contestant’s return. The king’s crawler, larger than the rest, sat sparkling under purple and gold lanterns. His father’s, green and blue, sat to the north a bit. Welly wondered if his father was looking out a crawler window now, searching through the deepening twilight with binoculars. Pity Welly no longer had his lantern to signal with.

Across the plain, camel trains converged. Welly recognized Radcliffe straggling up from the southern route. Rather predictable and dull, that Radcliffe. Long detour going around all the canyons. He’d never catch up. Montgomery had taken the northern detour, with the same result. Harold, Edmund, and Gilbert were neck-and-neck a couple kilometers back, but gaining fast. Welly looked beyond them. No sign of LeBrue, unless his was one of the light specks far behind in the canyonlands.

“Well then,” he said to his camel. “Let’s show these schoolboys how a desert man does it.” He twitched his camel forward, to skid down the sand dune and out across the rubbly plain toward the finish line.

It was hard going, made even harder without oxygen masks. Welly tried to keep a steady pace. He even slid off his camel and walked alongside her, saving her for the end. Every now and then the thin atmosphere overtook him, and he had to lean against her ragged flank, panting hard. When he’d recovered somewhat, he took his bearings again and headed on.

His mouth had dried to leather. His stomach cramped. But still he kept on.

For what seemed like hours, man and beast staggered forward. Had they moved the finish line back? It didn’t matter. Welly concentrated, paced himself, and kept on walking.

His footsteps slowed. His vision blurred. His camel staggered, sagged, and wouldn’t get up. Having no words in his dried-out mouth to coax her with, Welly left her there and kept on walking.

Sounds grew louder, jumbled and without meaning. No, wait, they were bells. Someone was about to overtake him.

He was panting hard now, trying with all his might to keep on walking, to keep a straight line, to keep from passing out.

He staggered forward. The volcano, ahead of him, was a blur.

Rocks tripped him. Once, falling, he jabbed his knee, but he stood up and continued on. He could hardly walk now; his leg felt on fire.

But still, something in him kept him from quitting. Maybe it was the feminine voice that echoed in his mind: _Perhaps there is more to you than is apparent on the surface._ Perhaps there was. He tottered sideways, caught himself before he could fall. Forward, forward. Keep going. Don’t pass out.

Don’t stop.

Foot by foot, he trudged toward a goal he could no longer see.

* * * *

He awoke an infinity later, lying on a soft bed. An intravenous line fed into his arm; clear bags dripped life-giving saline.

“Bentley,” he whispered through cracked lips.

A woman patted his arm. “Now you rest, young sir. You’ve had a long ordeal.”

Welly looked at the nurse. “Bentley’s camel wouldn’t get up,” he croaked. “Have my father send someone out after him. He’s not far.”

“Oh. Certainly.” The woman got up to relay the message. She returned with Winthrop Magnus Wellington II.

“You’re awake,” his father said, standing by Welly’s bedside. “Not very good time on that run. Is Bentley with the camels, then?”

“Have you sent someone after him?” asked Welly.

“Yes, yes, we’ll pick him up directly. But why were you on foot? What happened to my camels?”

“Did I finish?” said Welly.

“Finish? You won. Staggered in ahead of Edmund Cornwall by a couple of dozen meters. I didn’t think you’d make it; they were riding hard, and you were just about dead. The judges were most disturbed you arrived on foot.”

“I had a camel until the very end — is she okay?”

“That filthy beast,” said his father. “I had her put down.”

“You shot my camel?” Welly said, sitting bolt upright.

“Oh, don’t be a fool,” said his father. “She was half dead. Good thing she wasn’t a Sandship, or there’d be hell to pay, you mistreating her and all. Where are they, by the way? The Sandships.”

Welly sank back into his bed. “They’re lost,” he said. “Sabotage.”

“What? My _Sandships_? Who did it? Where?”

Welly ignored him, sank back down against his pillow, and closed his eyes, pretending to sleep.

Some time later, a doctor came in, checked the instrumentation surrounding Welly’s bed, and pronounced him definitely on the road to recovery. The doctor and Welly’s father remained in the room a minute, discussing the judges’ misgivings over awarding Welly the trophy rings.

“They had damned well better do it,” Magnus said. “My son did, in fact, reach the finish line first. Despite sabotage, I might add.”

“Yes, but he was riding a foreign camel,” the doctor replied. “The judges want to know who assisted him.”

“He’s a Wellington,” Magnus thundered. “He assisted himself. Besides, section 8, paragraph 73 of the rulebook specifically states that a racer may, in certain conditions…”

They walked into the hallway and the closing door mercifully cut off Magnus’s diatribe. Welly lay in bed, thinking about the wrangling over rules and technicalities that surrounded his return. _I almost died_, he thought. _And they don’t even care._

He squinted upward at the IV pole. One saline bag held more than twice the water he’d received from Katurah’s clan the whole time he was there.

It took the entire next day for the rest of the racers to trickle in. LeBrue, Welly noted, was the last to appear. His reception by the family was decidedly chilly, though Welly made a point to express his condolences at the man’s misfortune.

Later, he heard Vicki and his mother arguing in the hallway. The engagement, it seemed, was off. Vicki had not been speaking to LeBrue for quite a while. Still, she was not pleased by the tunnel trickery, either. “You!” she stormed, standing at Welly’s hospital-room doorway. “You … ass!”

Welly smiled. “Is that what you said when you got to the end of the tunnel?”

She turned away and stomped down the hall, pursued by his laughter.

After a day of rest and fluids, he felt almost himself again. He walked to the banquet that night, laid out in a huge purple pressure bubble set up in front of the king’s crawler. The tiny sun threw brilliant orange streamers into the sky as he walked — without an oxygen mask — across the dusty ground to the bubble. He breathed deeply, smelled the rusty Martian sand, the sweaty camels, the oily tang of the crawlers and other machinery. He felt alive.

He sat at the king’s right hand that night, at an immense linen-draped table set up on soft, thick carpets. The winner’s throne was second only to the king’s, and was made of real wood. When all were assembled, the king made a grand show of awarding Welly the necklace of Saturn-shaped water rings. The rings were each a hand’s-width across, their glittering silver bands sweeping around the yellow-orange globes in an oblong like the planet as seen from Mars’s vantage. All twelve of them linked together made a chain that had to be looped twice around Welly’s neck to keep it from dangling into his lap. While he thanked the king for the honor, servants appeared and filled lead crystal glasses with ice chips from the first block of Saturnian ice to come down the elevator. Together, the expatriate families toasted the winner with four-billion-year-old water brought from a billion kilometers away.

Later, the camels got their share. Welly smiled, hearing them bray outside the pressure tents as the servants filled the watering troughs.

As the party progressed, the guests drank goblets of aged red wine, and later, gold-rimmed bowls of thick tomato bisque. Servants arrived with platters of poached fish, plates of salad, and crystal bowls of sliced mangoes. Wild rice was spooned onto every plate. Welly enjoyed the meal thoroughly, but for the first time in his life, he marveled at the amount of water it took to grow such foods.

He recounted his journey endless times that night — a modified version of it, to be sure. By dessert, his voice was hoarse and he had to beg off further conversation. His father sat near Duke Romney, quietly proud. His mother, over by Duchess Blessington, beamed. Vicki, seated way down at the end, seemed a bit surly as she tried conversing with old Baron Pipintott.

Gordon LeBrue was nowhere in evidence.

After dinner, the guests moved to a connecting pressure bubble to sit at a concert by the king’s orchestra. Welly longed to leave, but he was duty-bound, as winner, to stay. His eyes kept straying to the pressure bubble window, to the tiny moons of Mars hanging low above dark dunes.

They were out there, somewhere. Living their lives.

He would never see them again.

He couldn’t sleep that night, but sat staring out his bedroom window in the family’s two-story crawler. Once he got up and pulled his water-ring necklace from the trophy hook in the living area. Each of these iridescent Saturn-shaped rings represented not one hundred gallons, like standard pocket-sized rings, but hundreds of thousands. Quietly, he unhooked his own family’s water ring — then reconsidered and slipped it back on, putting the trophy back on its hook. He went back to bed and slept soundly.

The next morning, he awoke to find servants bustling around, preparing the crawler for its trip back home. Bentley bustled with them, clean-shaven and flawlessly dressed.

Welly, not quite willing to give up his adventure just yet, had put on a fresh riding coverall. “Morning, Bentley,” he said, joining the breakfast table.

“Sir,” said Bentley, handing him a glass of orange juice.

“How do you feel?” asked Welly’s mother, looking up from the day’s news transcript.

Welly smiled. “Better,” he said.

“Good,” said his mother, then turned back to her reading.

Vicki didn’t show up at all. His father didn’t join them until breakfast was almost over. “I’ve contacted the authorities about the stolen camels,” he announced. “If they show up on the market, we’ll know about it. I wouldn’t put it past LeBrue to try and make one last profit off us.”

Welly coughed. “Father? About those camels.”

“Oh, they’ll turn up. You mark my words,” said his father. “Say, doesn’t it look grand to have a new trophy in the house? It’s been far too long, really it has.”

“Yes,” said Welly. He got up and took the water ring necklace off the hook.

“Now don’t finger them too much, dear, they’ll tarnish,” warned his mother.

“Ten percent from each family,” said Welly. “That’s a lot of water.”

“Oh, nonsense,” said his father. “We’re taxed twice as much by the terraforming council.”

“A lot of people could live on this water,” said Welly.

“So?” said his father, buttering his toast.

Welly pulled open one of his coverall’s voluminous pockets and lowered the necklace a link at a time into it.

“Put that back,” snapped his mother.

“No,” said Welly. “All this means to you is prestige. It’ll just hang on the wall forever, getting dusty. But meanwhile, to some people, this water is a matter of life and death.”

“Don’t be daft!” roared his father. “We earned that. It’s ours to use as we see fit.”

“_I_ earned it,” said Welly. “And I nearly bought it with my life. I’ll win you another one next year if it’s so important to you, but this one belongs to someone else.” He marched out of the room, yelling, “Bentley! Saddle up a camel.”

“No!” roared Welly’s father. “Bentley, you do that and you’re instantly dismissed.”

Welly looked into the back of the crawler to see Bentley standing motionless with the other servants. He knew which side of his bread the butter was on.

“Sorry, old fellow,” said Welly. “I didn’t mean to put you in a rough spot. I can saddle my own camel.”

That thought made him smile. He _could_ saddle a camel without a servant. He could do a lot of things — maybe more than he suspected. And he knew who could help him find out what they were. He opened the servant’s door and stepped outside, into the vast opportunities of Mars.

––—

Copyright (C) 2004 by Jerry Oltion & Amy Axt Hanson.

––—

CH003

*Viewschool* by Rajnar Vajra

A Novelette

And you thought teaching was a challenge now!

––—

Ten, nine, eight: my classroom timer blinking away the final seconds. How I loathe what comes next! At this point I always wish I could take Pink Floyd’s old advice to leave kids alone. If those are butterflies in my stomach, the bastards have claws. Three, two, one…

My scalp tingles in what the ViewNet bible refers to so casually as “prelude to visual simulation through direct cortical stimulation.” Prelude to nausea would be more honest. Suddenly the rear half of my skull lights up internally as some electronic demon shoves the equivalent of two lidless eyes into the back of my brain, forcing me to stare into blank brightness where no brightness belongs.

Of course my real eyes take to shrieking that they’re still straddling my nose, still the boss of all things optical, instigating a tug-of-war with the new bass-ackwards viewpoint. The room, as usual, starts twirling despite its drawn shades and dimmed bulb. The trick now is keeping both my balance and my breakfast. Not by accident, I’m sitting down.

Far too gradually, the carousel brakes and finally stops. I rub my jaw, which aches from clenching.

I hear that some people who’ve had no more training than me can see in two directions simultaneously about now. But why risk a brain-hernia? It’s easier to simply switch attention to and fro, from the scene in front to the simulated posterior display: the “occipital subjective presentation.”

If we’re talking theory, an OSP is a fantastic idea, making use of the emptiness beyond the normal visual field and placed so that you’re not tempted to keep turning your head. The practice is something else. I keep hoping that some saint of a technician will invent a way to put all needed information into a standard “heads-up” subjective display without essentially blinding the user. I also keep hoping the White Sox will take the pennant and the Bulls will find another Michael Jordan….

My stomach finally settles. Normally, the worst is over.

* * * *

Monday morning of September 4th, 2034, the worst hadn’t even begun. As the dizziness eased, I inhaled a barrelful of air and pressed a blue-glowing button on the controller. My OSP split into six separate rectangles, two rows of three. A 3D image of each of my new students — matching their real faces and bodies, not their proxies — appeared above each section. Beneath these rotating forms were names, tags, locations, proxy thumbnails, evaluation scores, and the first few lines of detailed, varied, but universally rancid personal histories. I didn’t need to scroll down and read on; I’d already done my homework. Truly, I could’ve made do with nothing but the real-time images, although names and Internet handles are handy because bumping into my mid-forties seems to have dulled my memory.

Dr. Martin Robley, my supervisor, had suggested that I use Internet protocol and refer to these students by tag rather than name. “That’ll show them that you respect their choices, Bill,” he’d said, which convinced me he hadn’t bothered reading their files.

Last year, I’d taught youngsters who were allergic to the universe, or had fiercely communicable diseases, or who were too disabled to be moved. Piece of cake. This year I’d drawn the dregs of the lost souls. Two of these adolescents were hair-trigger violent, one was semi-catatonic, one was brilliantly malicious, one wouldn’t or couldn’t stop grinning, and one shivered in perpetual terror. All were supposedly well above average intelligence, although the IQ tests must’ve been run before they’d rotted on the vine. All had been declared unsuitable for even the most “special” physical classroom. A word any self-respecting dictionary would spit out: “unteachable,” appeared in every report.

Such rejects would never be mainstreamed, but the law demanded an effort, so they’d been “side-streamed,” a term with deliberate Internet connotations. It boiled down to one grotesque fact: I was stuck with thoroughbred losers. I’d done my best, spent months preparing some unique educational materials, but I was sure I’d wasted my time and the time of a lot of good folks at my ViewNet provider.

Releasing the grandmother of all sighs, I focused my fake eyes on the left upper rectangle. His name was Curtis Bouden and his tag was Q-Ball: a skinny black sixteen-year-old with an upsetting resemblance to my older son, Tai. But my son had never glared at anyone or anything that way in his life. I’m sure of it. And Tai lacked a constellation of cigarette-burn scars across his forehead. Q-Ball’s proxy — or “envoy,” “onview,” or “e-con,” if you prefer — was a huge black bouncer-type with a scarred nose and shaved head, vaguely familiar. Maybe a pro football player. I love basketball and baseball but can’t bear football or hockey because they’ve become such a celebration of brutality. Besides, who can stand football commentators?

Below Q-Ball, Madeline Broms gazed at nothing with empty eyes. She’d selected no tag and since she’d requested no proxy, ViewNet had defaulted to one with her own bland features. Broms was responsive enough to make her part of this class, but just barely, as if she’d gauged her evaluation team precisely. She was blonde, tall, solidly built, and might’ve seemed like a young Valkyrie if her face had even a trace of animation. She’d been a very smart, normal girl until eighth grade and then something had happened to her — perhaps only she knew what; her records were incomplete.

The upper middle square contained the other ragemeister, Anthony P. Nakanelua of Honolulu, tagged Kekipi. This one was big, appeared more Samoan than Hawaiian, and in real life his fury was concealed behind a fat and dull facade. He probably wasn’t at his best because it was only 3:30 AM in Honolulu. His proxy wasn’t human. On ViewNet, he was a four-armed, man-sized cobra with a foot-long tongue, constantly tasting the air.

The pathetic boy in the lower middle, Daniel Greenburg, had skipped two grades before he’d been crippled by some experience so hideous, he’d wound up in a nearly constant panic. He was only fourteen and had the full-body cramp of a mouse blinded by headlights — no deer could’ve looked so scared. On ViewNet, he was buried in silver armor and his handle was White Night. Along with Madeline, he was a mystery victim. He wouldn’t tell a soul what had terrified him so much.

Upper right, Chris Lowry’s permanent grin was a rictus of hysteria, sickening to look at. His proxy wore a far more pleasant expression: Jack Nicholson as the Joker. Lowry’s tag was — get this — Buddha.

I’d saved the worst for last. Elaine Carpenter’s green eyes gave nothing away. She was a thin, pale girl with a short nose and wide lips twisted into a subtle sneer. Her proxy was male: Sherlock Holmes with deerstalker hat, pipe, and a sneer that matched her own. Strangely, her tag was Cher.

Q-Ball, Madeline, Kekipi, White Night, Buddha, and Cher. To break up routine, every session they’d be seated in a random order, but the same crew would return day after day. I shook my head. The money that taxpayers were wasting on these sunken wrecks! Hell with it, time to stop procrastinating….

I pressed the controller’s green button and ViewNet obliged by streaming an elaborate image into my optic nerves: a small classroom complete with a wall-clock, a chalkboard, windows revealing someone’s conception of a typical schoolyard, and a row of bizarre students seated at old-fashioned desks. At home or wherever they were incarcerated, my flock was actually seated; I could tell from the postures. I hoped they’d obeyed instructions to be in a darkened room. Kekipi was fidgeting.

Delighted with the image quality, I double-clicked the green button to let ViewNet do its thing for the students and watched their real faces. The Broms girl and Cher showed no reaction. The other kids stared at each other with a mixture of surprise plus individual quirks such as hostility, terror, or contempt. Buddha was the only one smiling.

“Good morning,” I announced with a bucket of fake cheer. “I’m Mr. Phillips. Welcome to Last Chance Senior High School.” Fat Chance Senior High….

“I hear you, but where the fuck _are_ you?” Q-Ball demanded. “And what — “

“He’s in Chicago,” Cher interrupted, exhaling a blue cloud of ViewNet smoke.

How the hell had she figured that out? Being from Shreveport, I don’t exactly have a Windy City accent. “Q-Ball,” I said mildly, “keep it clean. I’ll make myself visible soon.”

I wanted the students to react to each other’s proxies before they got a look at mine. That way I might pick up cues to help me best tailor my appearance for each student.

“Ho, Phillips,” Q-Ball continued, cranking up the decibels and ignoring Cher. “Suppose you say what’s the fuck’s goin’ on. I got no bug hat, so how come assholes like the snake and Sir Lose-a-lot be poppin’ in my hang?”

I frowned. “Someone must’ve explained this setup to you already. Perhaps you don’t know how to listen. Did you hear me telling you to keep it clean?”

“Yeah, I heard. Suppose you come over to my hang right now and say again.”

His proxy appeared calm, but in real life the boy was raging, pacing in circles, punching the air. I kept quiet and waited for his curiosity to build.

“Nobody told nothin’ to me,” he finally muttered.

“Show of hands, everyone,” I announced. “Anyone besides Q-Ball confused?” To my surprise, Buddha and White Night raised their arms. Possibly, Madeline’s hand twitched. An uncomfortable thought lumbered my way: I was just the most recent link in a chain of people who’d written these kids off.

“This isn’t virtual-reality in the usual sense, class. A few weeks ago, some doctor examined each of you, then gave you an injection or maybe something to drink. Right?”

Q-Ball rolled his eyes. “She use a needle long as my dick. I asked what fo’ and the bitch mouth off, said it would ‘improve my attitude.’”

I nodded, although he couldn’t see it. “When you alienate people, guess who loses out? She was supposed to explain that you were getting tailored bacteria designed to carry microscopic transceivers specifically to your optic nerves and slightly larger transceivers to wind up under your skin, all over your body.”

“We’re all on _ViewNet_?” White Night broke in nervously, but less so than his previous evaluators would’ve predicted. That armor seemed to be helping him.

“Exactly. VR isn’t good enough for this classroom.” I didn’t explain. To do my job properly, I needed access to the real facial expressions, voices, and body language of my students. The subcutaneous implants had multiple functions.

White Night’s armored head swiveled around. “I can’t believe this! I can see everyone except you so _clearly_. I thought that companies like Larger Than Life charge a fortune for this kind of — “

“It’s not free, that’s a fact. And I don’t think Larger than Life or Imagine Yourself offers proxies this good. Every one of you has a high-level e-con designed by the top banana: Enhancement Incorporated.” White Night and Buddha glanced around with renewed interest. “And because we need to hear each other, we’ve all been given the _gold_ package…” — at 213,000 bucks a pop! — “… which includes transceivers for our hearing nerves and custom-designed e-cons. If you want, you can make the illusion even more convincing by closing your eyes, or just try to disregard your actual surroundings.

“Of course, we don’t have any kind of ‘feelie’ set-up. But VR touch-back is limited anyway, unless you’ve got the bucks for a full harness.” Enhancement’s gold package was cheap compared to the price of a full harness.

To my surprise, Madeline had frowned when I used the word “feelie.” Coincidence?

“Any questions? No? Then let’s handle the formalities.”

I did an old-fashioned roll call, which seemed silly with only six students, but it introduced the kids to each other without risking potentially ugly interactions. Q-Ball refused to respond when I called his tag, but I was pleased when Madeline managed a faint nod at her name.

Class, I decided, was going remarkably well so far. No one was freaking and I’d only been threatened once, and only by implication.

Pressing the tab key on my console, the OSP shifted to display a submenu of twenty possible e-cons I could use for myself. For Q-Ball, I went with one of my favorites: Joe Louis, the legendary boxer who looked tough as hell, but at the same time had a rather sweet face. For Madeline and White Night, I chose the meekest-looking actor who’d ever lived: Wally Cox. Kekipi would see Bruce Lee; Buddha would be dealing with the sad-faced clown, Emmett Kelly, who’d act as a kind of visual antidote — I hoped.

I had a hard time settling on a proxy for Cher. One idea was calling up a new image: Watson to Cher’s Holmes; I was sure Enhancement had variants of Watson available. But I didn’t wish to appear in any way subservient. Finally, I chose a rather spooky image, a genderless humanoid whose face was gray and smooth with mirrors for eyes and no mouth. I used the keypad to enter my selections and pressed the tab key again to restore the student images.

“Can everyone see me now?” I asked, observing the real faces closely.

Q-Ball grunted, Madeline blinked, Buddha giggled hyena-style, Cher rolled her eyes, Kekipi waved a forked tongue at me, and White Night said “sure,” accepting the Wally Cox proxy with only a few tremors, low on the Richter scale.

“Most of you,” I said, “ah, bypassed Junior High so we’ve miles of ground to cover this semester. Our subjects are science, math, history, English literature, and we’re going to pick out a foreign language to work on. Several of you already know much of the material, but I don’t think you’ll get bored. Turns out that ViewNet has advantages that no normal school can match.”

“Such as?” Cher broke in, squeezing two tons of doubt into two words.

I smiled before remembering that the expression would only come across as a bizarre distortion in the proxy she was seeing. “Patience. Here’s how class is going to work. Every school day, we’ll work on three of our five subjects, dropping one the next day and adding a new one. That way, we’ll keep our topics in constant rotation, but cover each subject three times a week.”

White Night raised a hand and I pointed to him and said, “Go.”

“I want to know about those advantages, too.”

“I’m planning on showing you. For science, we’ll be studying basic physics, paleontology, astronomy, and if we cover enough material, some marine biology.” I glanced at my OSP. If anyone felt the least interest in the fields I’d mentioned, they were hiding it. I chuckled to myself. “All right. Let’s see what ViewNet offers us in paleontology, for example. I wouldn’t lean too far back in your chairs right about now.”

I pressed F1 on my pad, then confirmed with “enter.” The classroom faded out, leaving us in the midst of a foggy swamp, the chairs and desks resting impossibly on the wet surface.

Kekipi half stood, then slowly eased into his seat as if trying to cover for losing his cool. White Night’s helmet was whipping around as if something might be about to pounce on him. Here, his behavior seemed sensible.

“Welcome to the Cretaceous,” I announced. “Anyone care to see some dinosaurs up close and personal?”

“No!” White Night blurted.

“Well, you’re in luck. That thing coming up from behind you is no dinosaur.” I opened White Night’s private channel. “Don’t worry, Daniel. Remember that this is just an illusion. If it gets too intense, give me a wink and I’ll reduce the image-strength for you.”

“You can see my real face?”

Bright boy. “More or less. We don’t have a camera spying on you, but Enhancement has a recent model of your face and several thousands of the implants you took in with your milkshake allow ViewNet to constantly update your expression in a special display I can watch.”

“Wow. Guess I shouldn’t go picking my nose.”

I laughed. “Good plan. Tell you what: let’s give everybody else a real scare, okay? Just wink if you want out.”

“Okay.”

I reestablished the general link just as a long ripple caused by something large approaching from beneath the surface washed past the desks and under my feet. For a moment, nothing happened. Then a head longer than my body thrust its way into the air, swamp-water and muck pouring from its vast open jaws.

Everyone, including White Night and Madeline, jumped up and turned to face the incredible animal. Kekipi tried to pick up his chair, doubtless for use as a weapon, but that wasn’t part of ViewNet programming and none of his four hands could get a grip.

“You lied, Philips,” Q-Ball shouted, his voice fear-transposed up a fifth. “Sure as shit, _that’s_ a fucking dinosaur!”

“Not at all. Keep watching.”

One big green eye gave Q-Ball a hungry glare. The head tilted level and vanished beneath the surface. A moment later, the mottled back of a scaly body emerged briefly, then the muscular tail. A huge air-bubble popped from the slime and the monster was gone.

Buddha stared at the widening ripples. “Christ! What was — was that some kind of giant _alligator_?” For the first time since I’d seen him, his smile had shrunk to a smirk.

I applauded. “You just met _Phobosuchus_, Buddha, the ‘terrible crocodile’ of about 70 million years ago. Fifty feet long! Probably a sea animal, so Enhancement might’ve taken artistic liberties by putting one in a swamp. Kekipi, were you actually thinking about clobbering something like that with a _chair_?”

The snake body twitched weirdly and all four arms lifted and fell. It took me a moment to realize that Kekipi had shrugged. No shoulders. I was pleased he didn’t blow up at me.

“Where’d you get the graphics?” Cher asked. On her real face, the glaze of superiority had been cracked by interest.

“The Discovery Channel made the original animation and Enhancement converted it to ViewNet 3D.”

“Are we going to be working with projections that good in all our subjects?”

“That’s the plan.” Took an entire summer and several dozen people to get these things set up. Maybe I _hadn’t_ wasted anyone’s time.

Cher’s proxy blew out a perfect sphere of smoke. “What do you have in mind for — ” a smoke ring caught up with the sphere and embraced it ” — astronomy?”

I smiled. “Tell you what: if we can get through today’s lesson plan today, or even come close, I’ll give everyone a sneak preview. It’ll be worth it. You should all have a pile of books nearby. Grab the one with the exciting title _Basic Algebra_ and let’s get started.”

By two o’clock we hadn’t gotten halfway through the lesson plan despite the mere half-hour lunch break, but I was getting far better cooperation than I’d expected from everyone but Madeline, who remained a lump. I decided a reward was in order.

“The bell’s going to ring in another twenty minutes,” I announced, “and we’re already working like a team. So I’ll show you another trick I’ve got up my sleeve — part of it, anyway. Sit tight and be ready for anything.”

I triggered the first astronomy sequence. With no transition, we were seated outdoors at night under a full moon that somehow failed to bleach the stars in the slightest. I smiled at the gasp chorus. These kids, as the cliche goes, hadn’t seen nuthin’ yet.

Then the ground fell away as if our chairs were snubbing gravity. Oohs and Ahs. We sailed up beyond the few scattered cumulus clouds, then past some much higher cirrus. Finally we slowed to a stop, resting on nothing at the fringes of Earth’s atmosphere. We could see from Ecuador to Alaska. Here, during our educational trip to the Moon, I’d pause to lecture about atmospheric layers and composition and even I wasn’t sure what else. Right now, I wanted to show the kids what ViewNet could do….

I waited a moment before speaking. “Pretty as a picture?”

We descended rapidly and I knew the kids were assuming the ride was over. But I stopped us within a few hundred feet of ground level.

In the present mode, my function buttons controlled various plug-ins. I pressed F5, a plug-in developed for Enhancement by the people at Adobe, and the scene transformed into a vast, somewhat cartoon-like painting. The Moon still silvered the trees below, but it had become a crude ball, roughly cratered, impressionistic, surrounded by a swirling aura of indeterminate colors. The stars had grown their own auras, pastel twists suggesting Van Gogh’s _Starry Night_ but smoother and in a thousand tints. The effect was peaceful and beautiful.

We sat in midair and gazed on a world turned to art and no one spoke until the bell sounded.

* * * *

When the student images faded away and my OSP shut down, I stood up and opened the shades. The afternoon sunlight poured into my studio like hot tea and my eyes watered. Without the OSP, I felt half-blind, but I also felt damn good.

My ViewNet link was scheduled to last another hour yet, but without any special feed, the world seemed pleasantly normal. Until I turned around. My supervisor, Marty Robley, was standing there, apparently haunting me.

As used by Enhancement and similar companies, a ViewNet proxy is intended to act as an optical shell around a person’s body, modifying their appearance as they wish for all nearby ViewNet clients. In bright light, a proxy without a body underneath appears vaporous.

“This is a visitation, I presume?” I said, quoting my daughter’s favorite book: Edward Eager’s _Half Magic_.

“Bill, I’m just blown away. How the hell did you come up with those great animation sequences?”

“Thanks, Marty. Stroke of luck, really. Last spring, I met with Teresa Laudy of Enhancement Incorporated to discuss putting more zip into our ViewNet classrooms. I said it was a shame that we couldn’t use some of the audio-video tricks they use on the VR channels.”

“And?”

“Teresa said that Enhancement was working on a big project to compete with VR. Millions of people are on ViewNet these days and they wouldn’t need much extra equipment to play virtual-type games or experience something equivalent to the ‘realies.’ And ViewNet has some plusses. The resolution is finer than human vision and there’s a psychological component: when you’re not wearing VR goggles, everything you see seems more … authentic.”

“I noticed. That monster of yours…. So Enhancement just let you borrow some of their new programs?”

“Not exactly. I told Teresa what I wanted to do. She loved the idea and asked for a list of possible ‘illustrations’ for the subjects I had to cover. Over the summer, she and I chose animations from Disney and the Discovery Channel, got permission to use them, and Enhancement converted them over to ViewNet simulations. This was done just for us. For free. Can you believe the job they did?”

He shook his head. “Incredible! But you know, you’ve got a tiger by the balls.”

A colorful way to put it, but… “Are you suggesting there’s some danger in — “

“Don’t get yourself worked up, Bill. Your idea looks to be pure gold, but you’re a pioneer in this. Pioneers better damn well step carefully.”

“How much of this session did you catch?”

He grimaced apologetically. “I’ve been watching since the beginning. So far, you’re batting a thousand.”

“Not the way I keep score. I didn’t dent the Broms girl. Which reminds me: why is her file so skimpy? She was always a loner, but her schoolwork was top notch until she turned fourteen. I’ve got almost nothing about how she did that year, and bubkis about what happened to make her change so much. Marty, how can I have a decent chance with her unless I understand her?”

He stopped meeting my eyes. “Sure. I’ll see what I can do, but I’ve been told that some of her records are sealed. Meanwhile, keep up the great work.” He vanished before I could respond. Evasiveness wasn’t like him, not at all.

Heavy rumbling and brake-squealing from the street warned me that the school bus had stopped outside my house. I counted to myself and as I hit six, a small tornado hit the front door, hurled it open, and slammed it shut.

“Hey, Dad!” the expected voice shouted. “You home? I’m starving! What’s to eat?”

I hurried out of the room and ran toward the refrigerator, but as usual my younger son, Taff, was there first. I still felt good, but some kind of natural OSP warned me to savor the feeling while it lasted.

* * * *

I had trouble sleeping that night. The air refused to cool off and I was sticking to the sheets. I knew my wife, Dori, was fighting a cold because she kept snoring gently in her whistling way, but the real caffeine was Madeline Broms. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw hers. What had happened to her? I also worried over how the Greenburg boy had wound up so wound up, but at least his file was relatively complete. My clock was saying nasty things about how much sleep I wasn’t going to get, but I lay awake anyway, thinking.

As I get older, I keep getting worse at handling a sleep shortage. The morning alarm was pure bad news and my coffee barely gave me enough energy to finish the cup. By the time Dori and I got our kids ready for school and out the door, I was ready for a real night’s sleep. Dori downed her appalling diet-breakfast drink, kissed me, and scooted off to work. I brewed more coffee and yawned over the day’s lesson plan.

I had an hour to kill and debated taking a nap. Trouble is, naps always leave me groggy to the point of stupidity. Besides, a bee was touring my bonnet.

I pulled out the Broms folder, which had been assembled at Enhancement while they were programming my OSP. Madeline had been born in Santa Rosa, California, where Luther Burbank had tweaked plants for so long. When she was ten, her parents separated and her mother took her to a ranch owned by her grandparents near Westlake Hills outside Austin, Texas. She remained at the Bar Celona Ranch until the age of thirteen, when whatever happened to her happened. Her present residence was a private assisted-living institution in New Hampshire. I went online and Googled the institution. Expensive.

I glanced at my watch. Austin and Chicago share a time zone. I looked up the number for the Westlake Hills Police Department.

Sergeant Lopez was courteous, affable, and unhurried. I volunteered my name, address, telephone number, occupation, credentials and ways to check them. I talked fast but he didn’t ask me to repeat a thing.

“How can I help you, Dr. Phillips?”

I don’t usually wield my doctorate, but thought it might give my request more weight. “I’m trying to get some information about one of my students, Madeline Broms. Two years ago, I believe she lived in your district.”

I could practically hear the click as his attitude shifted. “Tell you what, Doctor: can you wait by the phone and I’ll call you right back?” His voice was a bit too casual.

“Put me on hold if you like, Sergeant.”

“Let’s do it my way.”

“Okay. I’ll be here.” I hung up. He wanted to check me out and then, after confirming that the telephone number I’d given him was in my name, make sure I was actually at that phone. What the _hell_ had happened to Madeline?

Ten minutes passed before the ring….

“Sorry to make you wait so long, Doctor.”

“No problem.”

“I’d like to help Maddie, I surely would. And I’d like to help you help her. My wife’s a teacher.” Long pause.

Maybe a touch of the personal would encourage the man to open up. “Mine’s a management consultant. I’ve never been able to figure out what she actually does.”

He chuckled politely. “All I can say about Maddie is that I can’t say anything.”

Sigh. “I didn’t want to trouble her parents or grandparents, but if I got their permission — “

“Doctor, the case is out of our hands here. And I shouldn’t tell you this, but don’t you go poking the folks in Austin; that won’t buy you squat.”

Well, at least I’d established the existence of a “case,” which had obviously left a big impression on Lopez, since it was two years old. But if Austin was a dead-end…. “Sergeant, are you hinting that the FBI has — “

“I can’t talk ‘bout that neither. But don’t you worry ‘bout the mule, Doc, just load up the wagon. I mean you do your part and others will do theirs. Find a way to do something good for that girl.”

I had to force myself to be civil. “I’ll do my best, but I’m working in the dark.”

“Then you’d best grow a big ol’ sense of touch. Bye now.”

Class went well that day considering that my personal oil wouldn’t have showed up on the dipstick. Q-Ball only blew up twice, Kekipi was a thin skin over magma, White Night had the shakes, and Madeline was a lump. Cher asked if people hooked up to ViewNet audio ever received misdirected signals and heard strange things. I admitted that I didn’t know, but this innocuous question tightened Buddha’s grin into a Charlie horse of the lips.

For years, I’d felt that math and physics would make more sense to students if they were taught as an integrated whole. For this class, the Board of Education had given me carte blanche, so following my “tie it together” plan, I used an animation of a red-haired lady on a vine-covered swing to demonstrate the properties of pendulums and the mathematical definitions of “arc” and “period.” I wasn’t sure how well my students absorbed the lesson, but they were entranced. The lady swung with a dreamlike grace and the distant mountains were as pure as rainbows.

After class, Marty Robley showed up again for what I was beginning to think of as a debriefing.

“Were you here from the beginning again?” I asked.

“Not this round, Bill. Arrived in the middle of that Maxfield Parrish scene — kind of disorienting when you’re not expecting something like that.”

“I’m sure.”

“Did I miss anything important?”

“Maybe. Cher — that’s the Carpenter girl — asked if ViewNet ever gets its audio signals mixed up so that their clients wind up … hearing things.”

“Interesting question, but so what?”

“You should’ve seen Buddha’s reaction.”

“The kid with the grin?”

“Right. Chris Lowry. You know, his previous teachers have described that grin as anything from a hostile act to a bad habit but the way his face froze up even tighter … I’m just thinking out loud. We’ve got three mysteries here, Marty, not two. Speaking of which, did you come up with anything more on Madeline Broms?”

He shifted uncomfortably. “Not really. Well, I’ll be visiting you less frequently from now on. You seem to have it together. Wish I could shake your hand right now. Bottom line: you’re handling a bitch of an assignment with flying colors!”

Two cliches and a sloppy metaphor. I stared at my ghostly visitor for a moment. “Is everything all right, Marty?”

“You bet. I’m just busy right now. Catch you later.”

Apparently I’d found a quick way to get administration out of my hair. Just mention Madeline Broms.

* * * *

I cooked my famous Cajun spaghetti for the family that night and only got one grumble, “Too spicy again, Dad,” from Tendayi, my seven-year-old daughter, who asked for seconds despite her critique. Dori was feeling worse and went to bed early while the boys and I cleaned up. I kept mulling over my conversation with Sergeant Lopez. He hadn’t specifically asked me to drop my own investigation. And his folk-ism about the mule and the wagon could be taken two ways.

The boys hit the books and I pulled out my Last Chance folders and joined my progeny in the living room. Tendayi was watching TV with the headphones plugged in and I put my ear close enough to hers to reassure myself that her volume wasn’t too cranked. My wife refers to such parental tasks as being on “suicide watch.” As to the boys, Dori and I can’t figure out how they can study when the TV’s on, even if the sound is off, but they seem to prefer the, um, ambiance. The flickering kept distracting me, but then the files weren’t telling me anything new.

Until I noticed something peculiar in the Broms profile: Madeline’s mother was only listed under Corinne Broms, her married name, and the grandparents weren’t named at all. Meaningless secrecy. How hard could it be to track down the Bar Celona’s owners on the Internet? I nodded to the TV since it was the only thing in the room asking for my attention and hurried into the study before I could change my mind about calling the grandparents.

The National Telephone Directory had no listing for Bar Celona, likewise the White Pages and the Austin and Westlake Hills directories. Google grabbed a horde of restaurants, several warehouses, and other ends and odds, but no ranches. Someone, or more likely some agency, had deleted every such reference. Several sites keep historical snapshots of the Internet by date and even there, I couldn’t get a hit.

I found a number for Madeline’s father, Robert Broms, without much fuss, but when I began outlining why I was calling, he hung up immediately.

“I’m not cut out to be a detective!” I shouted in frustration.

“Not so loud, Dad,” Tai called back from the living room. “We’re studying in here.” Pause. “And Mom’s trying to rest.”

Ingrate.

Why would Maddie’s grandparents name their ranch Bar Celona, anyway? A pun? Was the family name Barcelo or some variant? Maybe I was getting too fancy. I returned to the Westlake Hills directory and checked the name Celona. Sure enough, I found four listings. I doubted any were the particular Celonas I wanted, but relatives tend to clump. I called the first name on the list. Ten minutes later I was talking with Corinne Celona, Maddie’s mother.

The conversation seemed to have a mind of its own.

“I’m Doctor William Phillips, Ms. Celona, a teacher at Last Chance High School. Your daughter Madeline is one of my students and I’m looking for information that might help me understand her condition.”

A moment of silence. “I know exactly who you are, Dr. Phillips. But I’m afraid I can’t help you.”

I couldn’t hide my disappointment. “That’s a real shame. Sorry to bother you then.”

“Wait! Don’t go ‘way!” Her Texas accent was more noticeable. “I’m not supposed to talk to anyone about Maddie, but don’t you think I’m not watchin’ over her.”

“Of course you are.”

“I hear you’re runnin’ a — a virtual classroom?” She said “virtual” the way Dori would say “Ku Klux Klan.”

“We don’t use normal VR gear, so I wouldn’t call it — “

“No helmets?” she asked, her voice strained.

“None. The class operates strictly on ViewNet.”

“And Maddie’s right with that?”

A weird question considering the girl’s condition. “It doesn’t seem to bother her,” I said dryly.

“Wish I could tell you everything, Doctor. Breaks my heart seein’ her the way she is. You should’ve known her … before.”

Corinne Celona had told me more than she seemed to realize; perhaps she’d done it deliberately. But I needed confirmation. I knew what to ask, but I didn’t feel happy about asking it.

“According to her records, Mr. Celona, Madeline was something of a computer prodigy. I was wondering — “

“I’ve just got to go. Sorry.” Click.

She’d sounded so devastated. I felt sick to have dredged up that much misery.

* * * *

The next morning, Dori “called in dead” and I plied her with everything from Echinacea to chicken soup. She didn’t exactly applaud the soup-for-breakfast motif, but my wife is rarely ill and the novelty of being waited on while horizontal made her amenable. Plus, she wasn’t feeling well enough to argue. Much.

I kept her company while she slurped. She made the mistake of asking how my class was going and I let it all out. When I finished, she hadn’t bought my theory.

“Why so much secrecy about a case of cyber-stalking, Bill?”

I tried to sound as if I knew what I was talking about. “The guy must still be on the loose and is probably some kind of serial abuser. The way these things usually work is that the stalker meets his victim in a chat room, gains the victim’s trust, and eventually arranges a physical meeting.”

“Could a stalker — ” cough, cough, “assault his victim in VR?”

I nodded admiringly. “An excellent question! I’ve been considering that myself, but I don’t see how. VR is mostly controlled on the user’s end and has hundreds of safeguards. But I’m thinking she’s been traumatized by everything connected to her experience, including VR.”

“If you’re right, how can you help that poor girl?”

I glanced at my wristwatch; class would be starting in ten minutes. “I need to make her feel _safe_, Dori. Trouble is, the ViewNet environment probably reminds her too much of VR already. Maybe I can borrow a page from that kid I told you about and give Maddie some form of armor.”

“I’m sure you’ll do the right thing. Now get out of here and let me honk my nose in peace. Some things aren’t fit for company.”

“Okay. Guess what I’m making you for lunch? More chicken soup!”

“Wonderful. Be elsewhere.”

* * * *

For three weeks, I thought Marty was right, that I had everything under control. My only failure was Maddie; every way I imagined to help her could backfire — give her a sense of claustrophobia at best or imprisonment at worst. And I was afraid that if I blew it, there’d be no second chance.

Kekipi, in particular, had grown. He’d lost fifty pounds of sullenness and seemed eager, hungry even, for raw knowledge. Buddha was still grinning, but he was learning; Q-Ball was down to one outburst a day; Cher wasn’t causing trouble and was bright as a star. Even White Night was slowly coming out of his shell, if not his armor. Oddly enough, he and Q-ball seemed to be growing a friendship. Their interchanges were often fascinating:

“Hey, White Kike, why the skinny e-con? Even with that candy shell, you ‘bout thin as a shadow.”

“Got a reason, Q-tip. I’m trying to feel stronger. The idea is that I’m Superman, but real.”

“No way. Superman be ripped.”

“That’s what I’m talking about. How would Superman get enough exercise to grow humongous muscles?”

“Huh. Well, Superman don’t need no armor.”

“You don’t get it. The armor is just a visible symbol. For invulnerability, you know. I don’t really _need_ it myself.”

“Yeah, you do.”

One evening I called up Enhancement’s Teresa Laudy and heaped as much praise as I thought she could stand. She simply asked if I’d come up with any new ideas for next year.

* * * *

October rolled around and its first Monday dented my confidence. White Night glanced around the classroom and froze when he saw Cher. I couldn’t imagine why; her proxy hadn’t changed and she seemed to be minding her own business. I asked the boy privately if anything was wrong, but he wouldn’t answer. Buddha was also in a strange mood. He kept pinching his own legs, moaning, but almost silently. I suppose he didn’t want anyone to know how much it hurt. He wouldn’t speak to me either.

That evening I went out to the South Shore Supermarket and got another shock. Since I wasn’t a paying member, my ViewNet services were supposed to terminate an hour after class. Instead, the supermarket was Hallucination Central. Not every shopper subscribed to Enhancement or the others, but I noticed two Greek gods, a bipedal dolphin, three movie stars, a storm cloud, Mona Lisa, and a miniature giant sequoia. I don’t know what these people saw when they looked at me, but Mona Lisa and the cloud giggled. I got home with groceries and a bag of bad mood. Tendayi informed me that daddy had a black cloud around his head and I remarked that I’d just passed one of those in the store.

While my boys were putting away the perishables, I buzzed one of Enhancement’s service reps, Hero Sugata, and he promised to look into my problem, although he clearly thought I was nuts to complain about getting a free ride. I was upset. Even if I had money to burn, I’d never sign up for ViewNet. I want to see things as they are.

When we got to bed, my wife had a surprise attack of passion — a surprise to me, anyway. Ever since we added Tendayi to the fold, those glory days when we used to make love at least four times a week have gone the way of the Roman Empire. But instead of basking in joy, I was basted with worry, a sense of my world turning sour. When we finished, Dori commented, not unkindly, that it was nice “making like.”

“Sorry, honey,” I whispered. “It’s just that this batch of students has gotten under my skin. I’ve got a bad feeling.”

“You’re a good teacher, Bill, and your students _always_ get under your skin. They’re lucky to have you. But sometimes there’s not a blessed thing you can do and you’ve got to learn to lay back and enjoy the scenery.”

Tuesday’s class was the worst yet. I’d thought White Night was as scared as anyone could be. He proved me wrong. His trembling developed such a rigid intensity that I almost thought he was having a seizure. And Buddha stopped pinching his legs and took to pounding them. He only said one thing to me all day: “I can’t get them to stop!”

“You can’t get who to stop?”

No response.

One other oddity: Maddie wasn’t stuck in her usual manikin mode. She repeatedly shifted in her seat as if she was trying to sit sideways — today facing Kekipi, Buddha and Cher — but during the lecture portion of class, ViewNet was programmed to keep the student proxies facing me. Eventually, she simply kept her head turned to the left, which was fine by ViewNet. I had no idea what it meant.

I tried lifting the mood by showing off a fancy animation, but only Q-Ball, Kekipi, and Cher paid attention. Reluctantly, I concentrated on teaching just those three and by the time school was over for the day I was drained.

Wednesday was Tuesday again, but less fun. Ditto Thursday, Friday, and most of the following week. By the time Friday morning limped around again, I was ready to quit.

“Concentrate on achievable goals,” Marty Robley had advised when he’d stuck me with this assignment. Today, I focused on making it to the lunch break, which seemed barely achievable. I kept watching the clock, so I knew it was 10:45 when Madeline Broms abruptly stood, pointed an accusing finger at Cher, and shouted, “Stop it!”

Enhancement’s implants are sensitive to blood supply. Cher’s real face turned pale, but her proxy merely lifted its eyebrows questioningly. Aside from White Night, who didn’t react, the rest of us were stunned.

“What do you mean, Madeline?” I sputtered.

Maddie sat down and for one electrifying instant met my gaze directly. I actually thought she was going to answer me. Then her eyes slid away and she returned to her semi-coma. But my fantasy of quitting died right there.

And the day hadn’t exhausted its wonders. Shortly after the lunch break, Maddie did it again. This time, however, she told Cher, “Leave them alone!”

Leave who alone? White Night and Buddha? After Maddie and my nerves settled down, I stared at Cher hard enough to peel paint as she appeared in both proxy and OSP. I couldn’t see that she was doing anything special, let alone anything wrong. Perhaps her Sherlock Holmes pipe was slightly larger and whiter than when I’d first seen it, but that hardly seemed suspicious.

After dismissing the class, I sat at my desk and tried to jab my tired brain into coming up with at least one theory. The brain still hadn’t produced when Taff and Tendayi tag-teamed me for hot cocoa-making duties and from then on I was too busy to worry about anything but my family.

* * * *

Sunday night, I got a call from one Jackson Duke, a trouble-shooter for Enhancement Incorporated with one hell of a basso profundo.

“Dr. Phillips, I understand you had a problem last Monday.”

“Definitely. Kept getting ViewNet signals when I wasn’t supposed to. I talked to your technician, can’t remember his name.”

“Hero Sugata. He passed the buck, which kept sliding along until I caught it. I appreciate your bringing this to our attention. We seem to have a problem ourselves.”

“Oh?”

“Your account shows irregularities.”

“Such as?”

Duke hesitated. “User modifications without user consent. Time-code editing and unsigned permissions.”

“Care to translate?”

He cleared his throat. “Someone’s messing with you. We haven’t yet identified your, ah, benefactor.”

I knew who that someone had to be. “So I take it this person hacked into your system?”

“Dr. Phillips, you’re driving under the influence of Hollywood. No one has ‘hacked’ into any major business network for the last decade. Passwords and key-cookies are still used, but only in home and local networks; today, business confirmation is done with biological implants. No, I’m afraid what we have here is administrative abuse.”

“You mean one of your _employees_ has it in for me?” No way that Cher could have administrative privileges at Enhancement. Or could she?

“You may be, ah, exaggerating the viciousness of the attack,” he pointed out. “You’ve only suffered an extension of a rather expensive service for a few hours. Which doesn’t mean,” he added, “that I’m not taking your complaint seriously.”

“I should hope. A free lunch shoved down your throat isn’t so free.”

“Point taken.”

“Tell me something, Mr. Duke.”

“Call me Jack.”

“Jack, does your company always hire people in person? I understand that some businesses use the Internet for — “

“Strictly in person.”

One idea shot to hell. “Have you ever put anyone of high school age in a responsible position?”

“A minor? Certainly not. What are you getting at?”

“I can’t explain how, but I think one of my students is involved in this. If you’ve looked up my account, you must know about Last Chance and how much Enhancement has done to help us.”

He chuckled. “As security chief, I’m one of the people that had to give Teresa Laudy the green light in the first place. Our marketing division was sweating blood that the competition might learn what we’ve been up to. I’m glad I overrode their veto. Terry tells me the program’s been a hit.”

Not lately. “Your people have done a fantastic job for sure. Thank you. But I’m wondering if you could do me another favor.”

“Yes?”

“Go over the accounts of my students. I’d like to know if there are any other ‘irregularities.’”

“I will, and I’ll let you know when we find out who’s responsible for your extracurricular activities. Meanwhile, I’m e-mailing you my phone number. Call me immediately, any time day or night, if ViewNet misbehaves.”

* * * *

Monday, I woke up with a scratchy throat and a matching wooziness. Dori’s fault, I told myself, unfairly since she’d gotten over her cold weeks ago. If she’d felt like this, no wonder she’d played hooky from work! I had no such luxury; we can’t have subs at Last Chance.

When class began, White Night was sitting oddly, his legs hunched to his belly. He kept bringing his right hand up to his visor and then reaching out to make a grasping motion in midair. In my OSP, his posture and performance were the same, except that I could see his mouth open and his throat work after his hand approached.

I watched him repeat the cycle four times before I understood what was happening. He was lying on his side, taking pill after pill.

The class was silent. Everyone was watching White Night. In my OSP, Cher’s eyes were wide and she mimed swallowing each time Daniel took another pill. I grabbed my phone and scrolled down through Daniel’s information until I found the phone number of his home address. I forced my hands to keep steady long enough to push the right buttons.

Only one ring before someone picked up. “Hello, hello?” said an elderly female voice.

“Am I speaking with Daniel Greenburg’s grandmother?”

“Ya, this is Ester Greenburg. Who are you? Do you know where is Danny?”

Damn! “Then he’s not at home? I’m Bill Phillips, Daniel’s teacher.”

“When Ike and I got up, he wasn’t in his room! Can you believe it, mister teacher? Two years, every day we’ve been nudging the boy to leave the house for a minute, maybe two. For a growing boy to get no fresh air, it isn’t right. We were afraid he was kidnapped, so we called the police, but the _meshuganas_ say it’s too soon for — “

“Mrs. Greenburg, I’m sorry to alarm you, but we’ve got to find Danny right away. He wasn’t kidnapped, but he may be in trouble. Any idea where he could have gone?”

“In _trouble_?” Obviously, Daniel meant the world to her. “What trouble? He wasn’t kidnapped? You are sure?”

“Yes. No time to explain everything.”

“Well, do something then! Where he could be, I can’t imagine.”

“I have another way to track him down and I’ll get right on that. Meanwhile, try to stay calm and if you get any ideas about his location, please call me right away.” I gave her my sat-phone number and had to repeat it twice before she got it all written out. “I’ll be in touch. I promise.”

I hung up and clicked on my e-mail account. Had Duke remembered to send me his number? He had. Two numbers and I punched in the first, which had a Chicago prefix.

“Vice-President Duke’s office. How may I direct your call?” an impersonal male voice asked.

“I need to reach Jackson Duke.”

“He’s in conference at the moment. If you leave your name and the purpose of — “

Another time I might’ve been impressed that Duke was such a honcho. “Look, this is an emergency. He said to call him day or night.”

“Your name?”

I supplied it and got put on hold. Within a minute, Duke’s voice was rumbling in my ear.

“Morning, Dr. Phillips. What’s up? I haven’t had time yet to look into — “

“I think one of my students is trying to commit suicide; from his motions, he seems to be stuffing himself with pills. And he’s not where he’s supposed to be.”

“Which student and what city?”

“Daniel Greenburg. Detroit.”

I heard the tapping of fast fingers on a computer keyboard. “I have contacts in the Detroit Police Department. Want me to call them?”

“Yes. But first, can you locate Daniel with ViewNet?”

“Sorry, it doesn’t work that way. Once transmission on demand is activated, the user’s gear makes the demands and any ViewNet repeater will act as a local server. It’s comparable to the Internet in the way information packets go by the most convenient route available at any given moment. We have no way of tracing a user physically.”

“Jack, most of that went over my head. But Daniel will _die_ if we can’t find him fast. Can you help or not?”

“I’m thinking.” He was silent long enough for me to notice how tightly Cher’s hands were clenched. Her eyes were roaming back and forth from White Night to me.

“Tell him ‘handshakes,’” she said.

“Do you even know who I’m talking with?” I snapped.

“Mr. Phillips, we can hear your end of the conversation.” She said this without sarcasm or contempt: more proof she was scared.

“Jack, does ‘handshakes’ mean anything to you?”

“There’s an idea!” he said. “Oh Lord, I’m going to have a million pissed-off customers, but I’ll do it.”

“Tell me.”

“Repeaters and personal implants exchange confirmation handshakes when they make contact. And in a way they’re two sides of the same coin, electronically somewhat reversible. The way a microphone and speaker are reversible. I assume you’re calling from your home in — let’s see — you’re here in Chicago?”

“Right across town from you.”

“Could be worse. We’ll shut off every repeater in Detroit and use your implants to turn you into a weak repeater. So what we’ll have to do — no, triangulation will make this go a lot quicker. I’ll need to get you to Detroit … along with two of your students; adding anyone extra to your school network would take too long. Just a sec. Ah! Curtis Bouden also lives in Chicago and Elaine Carpenter is in Pittsburgh — close enough. I see that your class is in session. Ask those two if they’re willing to help.”

“Jack! Detroit is three hundred miles away!”

“That’s why I’ll be sending out, um, chauffeurs to take you and your students to the nearest airports. We’ll throw you into private jets and you’ll reach Metro Airport in half an hour. Best we can do.”

“Q-Ball, the Enhancement man wants you and me to go to Detroit, meet up with Cher, and go looking for White Night. Are you in?” He nodded. “How about you, Cher?” Another nod.

“We’re all set on my end, Jack.”

“Wait outside and tell your students to do likewise.”

“Thanks!”

After passing the instructions on to Q-Ball and Cher and going over the situation with the class as a whole, I checked my sat-phone’s charge and confirmed that Duke’s and the Greenburgs’ phone numbers were stored in memory. I shoved it into a pocket, chalked “Love you. Back soon — Dad” on the kitchen blackboard, grabbed a coat and house keys, headed out the door, and sat on my front step. After one look around, I dashed back into the house to fetch my ViewNet controller, which fit into a coat pocket. I returned to my post on the step and called Dori. She promised to knock off work early and get home before the kids could burn down the house.

Chicago was living up to its nickname this morning and the air had a premature winter bite. At least I didn’t have to freeze for long. Five minutes later, I heard the sound of an approaching siren, but didn’t think it had anything to do with me until a flashing CPD cruiser squealed to a stop in front of my house. Duke was a man with pull. As I ran down the walk, a cop jumped from the driver’s side and gestured for me to ride shotgun. We took off at about Mach one, sirens wailing.

“I’m Officer Brown,” announced the cop, who didn’t reach word four during our trip to O’Hare. Amazing how fast you can get places in Chicago without speed limits and with a siren to clear the way; but I was too worried to appreciate the experience. And the ride had an eerie aspect: ViewNet class was still in effect. My students were phantoms in the sunlight, but they seemed to surround the cruiser, keeping up effortlessly. White Night was as still as a corpse. Madeline was gazing downwards and I couldn’t see her face. Buddha was wearing his usual rictus, but today he wasn’t torturing himself. You win some, but I sure as hell wasn’t willing to lose any….

“What up?” Kekipi asked, but I shook my head to fend off questions. I didn’t want Brown to think I was talking to myself and I wasn’t in the mood to explain that I was really addressing a mutant snake.

Instead of proceeding to one of O’Hare’s terminals, we roared through a side-gate, which barely opened for us in time. We pulled up to a big Gulfstream waiting on a narrow runway far from the ones used for commercial flights. My wife’s company rented a midsize Gulfstream when they wanted to fly important people to important meetings — they couldn’t afford to buy one outright. Q-Ball was waiting on the tarmac.

Brown deposited me and left without saying goodbye. I hurried towards the jet, but stopped when I got close to Q-Ball. Since we were together physically, he was sheathed in his proxy and I could barely make out the smaller form underneath.

This wouldn’t do. I adjusted the controller to remove both our proxies from each other’s view and made a mental note to do the same with Cher later.

He stared at me for a moment, then we both turned and scrambled up the boarding stairs into the plane. Fancy. Every seat had its own flatscreen and minibar. A pretty white woman dressed for a cocktail party waved us into a spacious pair of seats.

“I’m Tracy,” she said with the sweetness of a Georgia peach. “If y’all want anything at all, let me know. My call button is that yellow square at the bottom of your personal GSP display. Touch it and I’ll come runnin’. We’re jus’ now cleared for takeoff, so y’all please buckle up.” She vanished behind a curtain toward the jet’s cockpit without going through the buckle pantomime act. For that, I was grateful. We started to taxi.

“Shit, Phillips,” said Q-Ball after we’d climbed up a few miles. “You something of a man. And I never figure you truly was a bro.”

Suddenly I was sick of it, sick of us. My people. Why are we still so hungry to fit into some half-assed in-group that we have to talk like our lowest common denominator? And the same damn words keep getting regurgitated, every generation thinking they’ve invented something fresh. Sure, my parents’ “peeps” are today’s “cams” and “cribs” have reverted to “hangs,” but “bad” has returned from the grave, along with “brother” shortened to “bro,” and a hundred others. In six months, white kids in middle-class suburbia will be mindlessly spewing today’s ghetto crap, proving how cool they are.

Q-Ball had a fine mind and did everything possible to hide it. I pulled out my controller, switched our voices out of the common channel and turned, ready to lay into him for the stupidities of the entire human race…

His eyes stopped me. He was watching me with something deeper than respect. I’d become _important_ to this boy. He didn’t need yet another person pushing him away. And you don’t go poking open wounds.

Why had this suddenly pushed my buttons? Because of my fear for Daniel? Daniel wasn’t my only responsibility. I switched gears. “You seem right at home in a jet, Q-Ball. I wouldn’t have expected that.”

“Why not? Growin’ up, my main hang was a New Air 979. My momma — my real momma — was a pilot, you know.”

I didn’t know, but should have. I scrolled through the Bouden file on my OSP. No mention of his mother being a pilot, no mention of a stepmother. Something was screwy here.

“Tell me about your momma. No one else can listen in right now.”

“What’s to tell? She went down in that big New Air fuck-up. Shit happens and mostly to me. I was nine. Poppa went crazy and brought that whore home. That’s when this started.” He pointed to his scarred forehead.

He was sixteen, so he had to be talking about the worst accident in American aviation history: the two-jet collision that ruined New Air. If he was being straight with me, his file had been trashed. How was that possible?

The boy sniffed and a tear eased down his nose. This, too, showed his trust in me.

I put an arm around his shoulders and gave him a hug. He leaned against me for a moment.

“We’re going public again, son,” I warned him, then reopened the general vocal link and changed the subject. “You know, Q-Ball, I’m surprised that ViewNet works this far off the ground. Strange, isn’t it?” That was putting it mildly. Not only were five of my students visible both by eye and OSP, what really pinned the needle of the weird-o-meter was that I seemed to see directly through the Gulfstream’s solid wall to where Buddha was floating in midair, drifting along with us like a jet-powered cloud.

“Yeah, this be some crazy shit. Hey! Check out Brunnhilde.”

He meant Madeline and I was surprised he knew the reference. I was more surprised by Madeline. Since class had begun, she’d been slumped in her chair, apparently gazing at the ViewNet floor. All I’d been able to see of her proxy’s head was blond hair, but in my OSP her expression was her typical tabula rasa. Now she was glowering at Cher, eyes blazing … literally. Flames were shooting from her pupils, some a foot long.

I found the implications incredible. Madeline must have thawed enough recently to go online and set up a new Internet e-con using her real face but adding visually emotive powers, then requested it as her ViewNet proxy.

“Are you satisfied _now_, you monster?” she spat.

Cher ignored her. I linked privately with Madeline, although that wouldn’t stop Q-Ball from hearing me. “Maddie, I’m not sure what you’re talking about, but I can see Cher’s real face and I think she’s suffering enough.”

She turned back to face me and I barely recognized her. She was red-faced mad, but she was _awake_.

“Mr. Phillips,” she said, “listen to me.”

The sky became bumpy. The jet lurched up, lurched down, and lurched up again. Usually, I’m a wreck in the air even if the ride is smooth, and my ears were hurting, which went nicely with my increasingly sore throat. Today I had bigger worries.

“I’m listening.”

“Don’t forgive what you don’t understand.”

“Why don’t you explain it to me?”

Tracy chose that moment to check on her passengers. She stopped in the aisle exactly in the spot Kekipi appeared to occupy, which created an effect so outrageous that Q-Ball grabbed my arm and pointed.

We both gawked at a kind of animated totem pole or something from a lost mythology: a four-armed snake with a woman’s head on top. Tracy and Madeline were both talking at once and I missed every word.

“We’re all set, Tracy, thank you,” I said, hoping she’d leave us the hell alone, which she did with some haste, maybe due to the way Q-Ball was pointing at her. Then again, I might’ve been shouting to hear myself over the accidental duet.

“Maddie,” I said, “could you repeat what you just said? I’m on a jet now and someone was speaking over you.”

“It’s the pipe, Mr. Phillips.”

“What about it?” I wanted Cher’s reaction to this, so I added her channel to the mix.

Madeline glanced at her classmate and her face registered so much emotion that I got goose bumps. God had breathed upon shaped clay and it had come alive….

“What does it look like to you?” she insisted.

“The pipe? Just a big white pipe. Meerschaum, I think. What are you — oh.” I’d finally noticed that the pipe’s bowl had a peculiar “u”-shaped rim. “Reminds me of a toilet, I suppose. Is that what you mean?”

She nodded. “That’s how she’s been messin’ with White Night’s head.”

I eyed Daniel’s proxy just long enough to assure myself he was still breathing. “You mean you _know_ what happened to him?”

“I made a good enough guess days ago, but now I don’t have to guess. That bitch has been stickin’ it to him and Buddha and — “

“Wait! Tell me about White Night.”

“You know he skipped two grades.”

“Yes, go on.”

“In high school, three kids crapped and pissed in a school toilet and held his head in the slop. Could be they didn’t mean to drown him, but that’s what happened.”

“Dear God.”

“Some teacher heard laughin’ from the bathroom and went in and pulled White Night out. Had to give him mouth-to-mouth. That must’ve been fun.”

“Maddie, how did you learn all this?”

“It’s in the police report. You were supposed to get it, but the bitch screwed you over, too.”

I stared at her. “How could Cher possibly edit any information coming to me directly from Enhancement? And how do _you_ know about it?”

Madeline sent another flame Cher’s way. “She’s blackmailing someone inside Enhancement: the man who raped her. The latest man, I mean; she had this sick uncle and later a sick neighbor. Now her latest rapist is her bitch. You know, I bet he fixed it so that White Night would see that pipe all the time — maybe even in his _dreams_ — and bigger than we see it. And, of course, stuffed with shit.”

I regarded the pipe again. “Maybe I’m starting to understand you, Cher.”

“No, you’re not,” Maddie snapped. “Some people are rattlers. Just the way they’re born. Step on ‘em and they bite you for sure. Hey nasty girl, don’t you see that what you’ve been doing to White Night and to Buddha is just another kind of rape?”

The comment finally stung Cher into response. “What do you know about it, rich girl?”

“If you’d been able to reach all my records, you wouldn’t have to ask. You’re a smart little critter, but the FBI is smarter.”

“So straighten me out. What’s your big secret?”

“I’ll be sure to let you know when I’m hot to join your victim list.”

I flipped Cher out of the link. “Maddie, Q-Ball can hear me talking, but no one except me can hear you right now. I’d like to know what happened to you if you’re willing to tell me. I’ll watch my mouth.”

She studied my proxy. “That isn’t your real face, is it?”

I adjusted the controller. “This is.”

Her eyes widened. “You’re black.”

At least she was honest. “It comes from having black parents.”

“I’m just surprised is all. Hey, I’m not supposed to tell anyone outside the family, but I think you ought to know. I used to spend all my time online and I talked my mother into buying me a … full touch-back rig.” Her voice had gotten very quiet and she sounded softer and younger. “I mean a _full_ harness, Mr. Phillips. Ma didn’t know what that meant.”

“I do. You don’t have to explain.” Complete “feelie” gear had to be custom fitted and built differently for males and females, because it included mechanisms for sexual satisfaction.

“I met this nice man — they’re pretty sure he was a man — in what was supposed a safe chat room, certified and all. He wasn’t so nice. The FBI still doesn’t know how, but he got control of my harness. He — he — I’ll never use touch-back again.”

I was surprised she was even willing to get near a computer. Virtual rape! And some deviant exploiting a vulnerable teenager and an unknown software vulnerability. Had this girl been his only victim? No wonder the feds wanted to keep this under wraps! If the news got around, copycats could multiply like roaches.

“I’m really sorry, Maddie. No one should have to go through something like that.”

“The FBI figured the bastard might try again. So they set up a ‘soft sting’ with my home computer. Any system pingin’ mine gets pinged. And they’ve got stuff that will crack a home firewall without a trace.”

I was beginning to put it together. “Cher had enough of your records to know your IP address. So you tracked and cracked Cher’s computer when she tried to crack yours?”

“And all by remote, too! The FBI software made it easy. The stupid bitch keeps all sorts of files in a visible folder labeled ‘Viewschool’ and wrote about everything she did and how much fun it was.”

“Hold on. They’ve got a computer for you to use in New Hampshire?” Certainly, the institute caring for her was expensive enough to provide the latest Mac for each client, but considering why she was there….

She blew out her lips scornfully. “I’m not in New Hampshire, Mr. Phillips. Never was.”

Coldness ran down my spine. “I see.” The FBI thought her attacker might go after her _in person_. “Where are you, then?” Maybe they suspected it was someone she knew, someone with physical access to her gear.

“I’m not supposed to say.”

At her father’s house, perhaps. “Have you been faking your … condition all along?”

“No. Well, not completely. I’ve been scared, Mr. Phillips. Too scared to, you know, express myself. But when I saw how Cher was playing with White Night … I could only take so much.”

Tracy called out “Landing in five minutes” from a safe distance. I acknowledged with a salute.

“Maddie, I can’t tell you how much I appreciate your sharing this with me. You’re one brave young woman! What can you tell me about Buddha?”

She shrugged. “If Cher hadn’t cracked his home computer, I wouldn’t know about him. It’s not even in his school records. He’s been hearin’, you know, _voices_ since he was six. His dad died and his mom’s a drunk. When she found out about his problem, she beat him bloody and said he’d get put away for life if he listened to the voices or told anyone else about them. He believed her. Kids are so stupid. But he found out that if he kept his jaw clamped a certain way — “

I looked over at Q-Ball and decided I could speak openly about this. “Christ! The poor kid isn’t _grinning,_ he’s just trying to block out the voices! And let me guess: Cher has been using ViewNet to give Buddha some extra voices to enjoy.”

Our jet was banking in for landing. A storm was coming in, too; raindrops lashed my window, streaking right through Buddha’s proxy.

“Maddie, you’re a wonder. We’re touching down now and I’m opening the general channel. We’ll talk more later.”

As we disembarked, Tracy informed us that “people were already waitin’ on us” and I asked her to thank the pilot, whom I’d only glimpsed through the cockpit window. She wished us goodbye politely enough. Still, I noticed her throat working as we passed by. I suppose we had been acting a bit oddly from her perspective, but her nervous swallowing gave me an idea.

Two police cruisers were sitting to one side of the private runway where we’d landed, each with a cop leaning on the hood like a bad ornament. The officers waved at us, but seemed in no rush. Q-Ball and I hurried down the boarding stairs and toward the cars. Before either officer could speak, I held up a finger in a just-one-moment gesture, pulled out my sat-phone, and recalled Jackson Duke’s number.

Before I could push redial, Duke called me. But not by telephone.

“Dr. Phillips? This is Jack Duke. Can you hear me?”

“I hear you fine. How — “

“I’m patched into your personal audio.”

“I didn’t know you could do that.” The cops were eyeing me dubiously. “I’m on a ViewNet line,” I explained to them. “I need another minute.”

“Those last comments can’t have been meant for me,” Jack said.

“I was talking to two police officers.”

“You’re already at Metro then. Good! Cher will be coming into Windsor Airport; she should be in downtown Detroit before you, but we wanted you approaching the city from the east.

“Here’s the plan. Obviously, we’re going to use three black-and-whites, one for each of you.” These cruisers were actually black and yellow. “My people are working with the local dispatcher to program a three-way search pattern into the GSP units of those cars. When that’s done — should be soon — we’ll shut down Detroit’s repeaters and turn you and your students into third-class repeaters.”

“How will I know if I’m getting close to Daniel?”

“We’ve reprogrammed your implants to add a clicking sound into your audio nerves whenever they get a handshake-request. The clicking can’t kick in until we put your transceivers into repeater mode.”

“So I’ll be a kind of walking Geiger counter?”

“A riding one, and unfortunately the clicking won’t increase with proximity. But any clicking will mean good news. As a repeater, your reception is going to be pathetic. You won’t hear a thing unless you’re within a few blocks. Any questions?”

“Not now, but I had a thought. I assume some of the transceivers you put into your clients wind up near the vocal chords?”

He barely paused. “Absolutely. Otherwise you wouldn’t be hearing my voice right now.”

“Would it be possible to stimulate Daniel’s throat nerves with ViewNet, to make him vomit?”

“Interesting. Hang on.”

He was only silent for about ten seconds. “Dr. Phillips, I’ve got Dr. Leah Silbur on the horn. We don’t have time to hook her up for a, ah, conference call, but I’ve told her what you had in mind.”

“And?”

“It’s never been done, but she thinks it might be possible.” Another short pause. “Damn, she says it’s too risky. We don’t know enough and even if it works, he might suffocate.”

“Oh.”

“But she’ll try to work out a method just in case our tracking system fails. Might be the only chance he’s got.”

“Give her my thanks. Jack, have you ever used this ‘tracking system’ before?”

“No. But I just got word that the GSP units are ready. Good luck!”

With a crackle, the police radios told the cops to get going in stereo. I warned my students that class was going to get interrupted at any moment, then leaned close to Q-Ball.

“You take the car to the right. Anytime you hear a click in your ears, you tell the cop right away. Got it?”

“Yeah.”

“Q-Ball, you’ve been getting better and better at controlling your temper and I’m proud of you. Can you hold it together for this?”

“Shit, yes.”

“Anyone gives you lip, don’t give any back. Just tell me about it _later_. See you soon.”

The boy jumped into his vehicle and I jumped into mine. “I’m ready, Officer. Let’s set the new land speed record.”

* * * *

My current driver, Patrolman Ed Sorenson, seemed committed to utter every word my previous driver hadn’t. He was genuinely friendly and insisted I call him “Eddie,” but between his jabbering and the siren, I was terrified that I wouldn’t be able to hear an internal click to save my life — or rather Daniel’s life. The chatter was particularly impressive considering that Sorenson was wearing an earpiece hooked up to his GSP, presumably giving constant instructions and recommendations.

At least none of my students tried to speak with me. From the way Cher’s head kept turning, I knew she was in her own speeding vehicle and I didn’t bother reinstating Q-Ball’s proxy. Buddha, Kekipi, and Maddie were staring at White Night like a deathwatch. I was grateful that with ViewNet, I could see the boy breathing….

Again, a siren parted the automotive seas, although the system had worked better in Chicago. Every minute or so, we encountered some driver who was either a born anarchist or deaf. Sorenson referred to such fauna as “clowns” without rancor as he was forced to swerve around them.

“Normally, Doc, I work with the best partner in the world. You’d like him. But the captain didn’t figure — would ya look at this clown?”

Mercifully, the trip was brief.

I hadn’t been to Detroit for a decade and its skyline had ramified. Here was a city sprouting back to life. As I recalled, the abandoned Continental Motors site was around here somewhere. I was still trying to find it to use as a landmark when I felt the buzzing of my sat-phone. I accepted the call and held the receiver tight to my ear.

“Hello?” I said.

“It’s just me,” Duke stated. “We’ll be shutting the repeaters down soon and from then on we’ll have to speak by phone until you’ve found the boy. Where are you?”

“Eddie, where are we?”

“Another minute and we’ll hit East Jefferson.”

“My driver says East Jefferson in a minute.”

I glanced ahead at the city. Signs of urban renewal were everywhere. Detroit’s depressed lower east side was cheering up but I wasn’t; maybe it was my imagination, but I thought Daniel’s breathing was getting erratic.

“Dr. Phillips, I won’t be talking unless you have a question, but I’ll be staying on the line. When your ViewNet feed ends, start listening for clicks.”

“I’ll do that. And pray.” As I said “pray,” my students vanished along with my OSP. For a moment, I felt almost as dizzy as when the system cuts in, but maybe that was just Sorenson’s driving.

He barely slowed as we hit the warren of Detroit’s eastern streets. It may have been rude since my driver was still yapping, but I stuffed my fingers in my ears. I even closed my eyes, wanting to concentrate exclusively on my sense of hearing, ready to pounce on the faintest click, tick, or snap. I started to get carsick, but didn’t dare open my eyes.

When it came, the click jarred my teeth. I’d badly underestimated the technicians at Enhancement.

“Eddie, I got a click!”

Sorenson hit the brakes hard enough for us to skid a dozen yards and then pulled over to one side of the road. He turned off the sirens and radioed in the news. Our lights were still flashing; I could see the reflections in nearby surfaces. Faces, mostly black, peered at us out of recently replaced windows.

“What are we doing, Eddie?”

“Waiting. Be quiet for just one minute, can’t you? I gotta listen for orders.”

The radio squawked and a barely comprehensible voice told Sorenson to locate the exact place where I’d heard the click and stop there. Sirens running again, he backed up fast and spun around, but then drove slower than my grandmother on her eightieth birthday.

“Here, Eddie, right here!” I said after we’d gone a quarter block. We pulled over again, lost the sirens again, and I had to fight an urge to jump out of the car and start looking. But this neighborhood was jammed with apartment buildings and I had no clue which direction to look in. I pounded a palm with a fist as Sorenson talked with the dispatcher.

When he was done, he turned to face me. “Settle down, Doc. We lucked out in getting a hit so soon. The sergeant is getting the word to the other search teams, so they’ll be in the area before you know it. Once your helpers get their own hits, we’ll have your boy pinned down.”

Every few seconds, my skull twinged from another “hit.” Rain pelted the windshield from time to time. “How about getting an ambulance here?”

He rubbed his chin. “Bound to be one on the way — probably headed for the best intersection for reaching every nearby street. But I’ll check if it makes you feel easier.”

“Please do.”

Yes, an ambulance was on its way and for the moment, all I could do was sit and chew my lips. Then I remembered that I wasn’t the only one waiting.

“Jack?” I spoke into my phone.

“Right here.”

“I should call Daniel’s grandparents. Can I put you on hold?”

“Hmm. I’ve already got their names and number; I’ll have someone on my staff fill them in. I think it’s best if we don’t lose touch, even briefly.”

“You’re the security expert. After you’ve arranged that call, I want to tell you about something I learned from Madeline Broms. As you thought, you’ve definitely got a problem with one of your employees.”

* * * *

Another fifteen minutes passed before they had Daniel located and my head finally stopped ringing. The dying boy was only a block away, but Sorenson and I were forced to take a half-mile detour to reach the one-way street that was our target. On the way, my students reappeared, but since I didn’t press the ready button, my OSP stayed down.

By the time we pulled up to the right building, Q-Ball and Cher were exiting their cruisers aided by their uniformed chaperones. To me, Cher appeared as Sherlock Holmes, but I let it stand. An ambulance was pulled partway onto the sidewalk and two white paramedics were standing outside, waiting. They were staying close enough to their vehicle to hug it and their medical gear was still packed away. I could see why.

The street was one of the few in the area immune to urban renewal. The filthy and crumbling brickwork, peeling plaster, and cracked or missing windows brought back some hard memories from my childhood. The building we were concerned with looked overripe for the wrecking ball, but it was obviously bulging with families.

At least twenty teenagers, all males and all black except for one Hispanic type who was partly black, were lounging in front of the tenement. Most were slouched on the crumbling concrete steps, partly shielded from the drizzle by a sagging upper balcony. Meanwhile, neighbors were emerging from adjacent buildings to see what the fuss was about. In moments, we were the focus of interest for a crowd of over a hundred people. No one seemed pleased to see us. The air was toxic with cheap perfume, even cheaper aftershave, cigarettes, dope, sweat, and fumes from the idling cars. Our three white cops stepped forward, but I waved them back and they took my point.

I gave Q-Ball a look and the two of us hurried to talk to the doorkeepers.

“What you biz here?” demanded a large kid with three “sidestripes,” shaved stripes running diagonally across his skull.

Q-Ball answered before I could even interpret the question. Unlike me, he could speak their language. “I’m Q-Ball. Got me a blo-cam OD shadin’ in you hang. Gotta touch him quick.” A “blo-cam” I guessed was a comrade, a blood brother, and “shadin” was “hiding.”

“A bro?”

“Jew boy.”

“No Jew in _my_ hang.” A ton of contempt on the word “Jew.”

I could see Q-Ball struggling with his temper, but he won. “He be here fo sho. We got it on _radar_.”

“Yeah? And we give you sez-me and those five-oh hose how many bros?”

Sorenson must have crept up behind me. “What’s he saying?” he whispered.

I’d gotten the gist. “The boss punk,” I whispered back, “doesn’t want police inside. He’s thinking you’ll make arrests.”

“Not now.”

“Our five-oh be tame this fine day,” Q-Ball said. “We not here to hump a primp, jus’ save my cam’s life.”

Sidestripes wiped his nose with one sleeve. “Shit. I think maybe you _sin_cere. Give props and I let you and you Unc T in. No way five-oh. And no whites, period.” More contempt on “Unc T,” which probably meant Uncle Tom and certainly meant me. I was suddenly too aware of my tailored jacket and custom shoes.

“Danny will be in the basement,” Cher called out from behind us. I’d come to that conclusion myself — where else could he hide? I glanced at her. Beneath her proxy, I thought she looked surprisingly small and pale as a corpse. Her hair was slicked down from rain.

Q-Ball turned to me. “You understand ‘props’?”

“Used to mean ‘respect.’”

“Still does, only it comes in green and peach.”

“Oh.” I took out my wallet and opened it so that Sidestripes could see inside. “All I have is three twenties and a ten.”

“That do. Show the way, Curl. Be polite.”

The guardians parted to give us climbing room while a small kid with a shaved head and a missing ear leaped up and opened the door for us. “This way, sirs,” he said, bowing.

Sorenson grabbed my shoulder before I could take a step and handed over a small flashlight. “Might need this.”

“Thanks, Eddie.”

The stink of mildew almost knocked me over as we entered the long hallway. Only one of the light fixtures held a bulb and that one was sheathed in a heavy wire cage further wrapped in barbed wire. Grateful to Sorenson for his foresight, I flipped on the flashlight and tried to ignore the dark stains on the walls, the hanging curls of paint, and the rat droppings and crushed roaches on the rotting carpet. How, I wondered, had Daniel gotten here and why had he come to this particular place to kill himself?

The basement door had a heavy broken padlock that was furry with mold. Curl pointed to the door then backed away as if he wanted nothing more to do with it.

The hinges screamed more than squeaked as I pulled the knob and gagged at the smell of a hundred kinds of garbage capped by raw sewage. Bare wires, live for all I knew, showed where a wall-switch had once resided, not that I would’ve expected a working basement light. The wooden stairs were cracked and warped. They looked slippery and the handrail had long rotted away.

“Danny?” I shouted down. “_Danny_?” Nothing.

“Me first,” I told Q-Ball, “then I’ll shine the light for you.”

“Step careful.”

Trying to breathe only through my mouth without thinking about what I was pulling into my lungs, I got down to the basement floor after a dozen close calls. The “floor” was an uneven pool of muck deep enough to fill my shoes.

“Danny?” I wished that I dared send Q-Ball outside to get his own flashlight, but he might have a problem getting back in. “Q-Ball,” I called up. “I changed my mind. You stay up there unless I need help.”

“Whatever you say.”

Feet making sucking sounds with every stride, I began to explore this unlisted circle of hell. Aside from my light, the only illumination was from the crack in a tiny boarded-up window on a distant wall. I started working my way around the huge piles of trash and rusting appliances, terrified that I’d never be able to find the boy in time.

In the dimness, my students were vivid as they kept pace with me without moving. Only Q-Ball’s proxy was missing.

“I’m in a basement,” I told them, “it’s big and filled with junk and dark as a c — cave.” I’d almost said “coffin.” “Could take hours to search this place. Anyone have any ideas?”

Kekipi waved three arms. “See any light at all?”

“Natural light? Just a dribble from what used to be a window.”

“If it was me, I’d have headed toward that window.”

“I’ll try that.”

“Mr. Phillips,” Buddha said, “I’m online at Enhancement’s website.”

“And?”

“Says right here that when two clients are inside of a hundred feet from each other, their implants talk back and forth. ‘Linking’ they call it.”

I pushed aside what might’ve once been a stuffed chair. “That’s for aligning e-cons with the real bodies.”

“Maybe Night’s implants can tell yours where they are.”

“I doubt it. I don’t see how linking can help us right now.”

“I do,” Jack Duke said. “I’m back on your circuit, Doctor. Give me just two minutes.”

Afraid to strike out in the wrong direction and wind up in some cul-de-sac in this stinking maze, I stood still. “Danny? If you can hear me, try to make a noise.” All I heard were creaks from the floor above, a faint dripping, and muted street sounds.

Suddenly, a silvery light blossomed in one corner of the basement and I squelched off in that direction as fast as I could.

“What did you do, Jack?” I asked on the way.

“Switched his e-con with the first incandescent one I could find.”

An angel was lying on the wreckage of an old furnace, one wing beneath him and the other wrapped around like a blanket. I put my ear on his chest and heard a heartbeat. Slow and faint. My hand brushed against something small next to him and it dropped into the slime. A box of matches, I think. When I picked the boy up, he seemed to weigh nothing.

“Jack, it worked. I found him. But you’ve got to turn off his e-con — I can’t see anything _but_ him. I can’t even see to adjust my controller.”

“Mahalo,” Kekipi whispered like a prayer. Or a blessing.

I started retracing my steps, guided by memory. It was awkward, trying to aim the flashlight while carrying the boy in my arms, but I couldn’t stand the thought of slinging him across my shoulders like baggage. It didn’t matter. For a minute, I was too dazzled to see the beam even when the angelic light died.

By the time I’d navigated the pit, my eyes had recovered. Carefully, carefully, I carried Daniel up the staircase.

* * * *

Last time I’d been in Detroit, they were talking about shutting Mercy Hospital down again. Now the place was freshly painted, refurbished, and buzzing with medicos. In the chair next to me, Q-Ball sat with one arm around Cher, who was still crying and repeating, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” I’d blocked her proxy from my view. The doctors were rating Daniel’s chances at fifty-fifty.

All my students were subdued. Buddha and Kekipi were chatting quietly with each other in the alternate reality of ViewNet and Maddie kept her eyes on me. I hadn’t felt up to the ordeal of rebooting my OSP, so I couldn’t see anyone’s real face, but I knew what everyone was feeling. When the doctors had begun pumping his stomach, I’d disabled Daniel’s ViewNet connection because the effects on his proxy were so grotesque.

I planned on having a talk with Buddha soon. I doubted that the “voices” someone with incipient schizophrenia might hear could be cut off by mere jaw-clamping. And in all other ways, Buddha seemed quite sane. Certainly, he needed some audiological tests and might even need psychological attention, but I could assure him he wasn’t about to be put away for life. Unless he started obeying his voices.

Daniel’s grandparents were somewhere nearby, waiting in an area designated for family members of patients in critical condition. Doctors had been working on the boy for an hour now. He’d swallowed four kinds of pills….

Various hospital personnel subscribed to ViewNet services, so with my class still in session, I’d seen some disconcerting things while we’d been waiting. One nurse appeared as a giant cat, which seemed unsanitary in this context. One doctor had wings on his ankles and if I focused on his proxy, he appeared to flit from place to place several inches off the ground.

When a man big enough and tall enough to be an NBA center stepped into our waiting area, I figured it was just another Enhancement trick. Then the giant walked over to me and offered a hand, a dying custom among ViewNet clients because physical contact tends to puncture illusions.

“I’m Jack Duke,” he said. “I wanted to be here with you.”

I was shocked when his hand felt as big as it looked.

“Thanks, Jack. You’ve been terrific. Invaluable.”

“Least I could do, Doctor.”

“Just Bill.”

He nodded. “Is the staff here putting you in the loop, Bill?”

“They’ve been great, especially considering that we’re not related to the patient. I bet you had something to do with that.” I looked around. Cher’s tears were slowing. She and Q-Ball didn’t need me at the moment. I pulled out my controller and shut off my vocal channel but left the audio open in case any student had a problem.

“Jack, can I speak with you for a moment? Alone?”

“Sure. Any place special?”

“Just a bit down the hall will do.” I turned to my left. “Sit tight, kids. I’ll be back in a minute.” Q-Ball smiled at me, tentatively, but I’d never seen him smile before. Watching him comfort Cher eased my sore heart.

I’m six-three and change and not many people make me feel petite, but Duke sure did. When he and I were reasonably isolated, I kept my voice low. “I don’t know exactly when you hooked into my audio circuit.”

He met my eyes. “You’re asking if I overheard Madeline Broms’s nightmare.”

“I guess that answers the question. So you already knew about Cher’s tricks before I told you?”

“Yeah. Didn’t exactly make my day. I’ll find her accomplice. Count on it. I assume she kept some semen as physical evidence of her rape and was using that for a lever. Which implies that her rapist has much to lose. Hell, that girl probably has a system all set up to deliver the evidence to the police if anything happens to her. Which reminds me, you’ll have the _complete_ files on your students ASAP. Elaine Carpenter is a bright one, Bill. I called up copies of the truncated reports you received. She left just enough honest information to keep you thinking you’d gotten it all.”

“She’s worth saving — they’re all worth saving. Jack, I know it’s a lot to ask considering the way she abused everyone including your company, but I don’t want Cher prosecuted or even hassled over what she did. She went too far and — well, look at her leaning on Q-Ball. She’s not faking a breakthrough; I think this has really gotten to her.”

He glanced down the hall. “I don’t understand her motives. Why was she torturing Danny in the first place?”

“And don’t forget Buddha; I think she would’ve attacked more classmates except that would’ve made her role too overt. As to why, you heard that she was sexually abused as a child.”

“That’s what Maddie said.”

“I don’t doubt it. Different personalities react to traumas in different ways. My sense is that Cher feels helpless and scared unless she can make the people around her feel helpless and scared.”

“She has to be in control to feel safe?”

“Right, and abused people tend to abuse people. But I think she’s just learned that her kind of control has pitfalls.”

He studied Cher for a long moment. “I’ll trust your judgment, Bill. Terry Laudy thinks the world of you and I’m starting to see why.”

“The feeling’s mutual.”

“It’s settled then. Cher won’t get any grief from Enhancement and we’ll try to work out a bargain if any agencies go after her. If she’s willing to give up the name of her rapist and her evidence against him, odds are we can buy her immunity. I’ll do what I can, but she’ll probably have to appear in court.”

“Let’s hope she’ll be willing.”

“Of course, she may also have a civil suit to deal with. The Greenburgs may not want to let this go.”

I sighed. “I know. If Danny pulls through, I’ll try to smooth things over.”

“Good enough. Anything else on your mind?”

“I’m afraid so. Remember that idea I had about using ViewNet to trigger a gag reflex? Add that concept to what happened to Maddie and how easily someone at Enhancement messed up my class.”

Duke looked all around before responding. “You’re worried about ViewNet being used as a weapon.”

“After I stop being worried about Danny, I’ll have the emotional room to be very worried.”

“Me too. Bill, at Enhancement we’ve got people working on incredible possibilities. Think of the potential for, oh, medical imaging. A few years ahead, surgeons may operate while apparently standing inside their patients’ bodies.” He spoke quietly, but passionately. “Or take space exploration. With our gear in the right kind of robot, you could go for a stroll on Mars or hang-glide on the ammonia clouds of Jupiter. How about a hike in the deepest ocean trenches right here on Earth? We’re not talking virtual reality, but _transferred_ reality.

I stared at him. “I had no idea.”

“Any new technology creates new risks and the more powerful a technology is…”

“Jack, you’ve got _millions_ of clients, and the numbers keep growing. And you’re not the only enhancement service around. Back in Chicago, have you noticed how the fancier restaurants have replaced their bathroom mirrors with those stupid ViewNet screens with the built-in camera? As a non-client, all I see in them is a bad cartoon of my face.”

“The idea is — “

“To see yourself as you’re paying for others to see you. Christ, I’ve suffered through enough ads. Aren’t you concerned that your subscribers might be turning into … enhancement junkies? And if the wrong people get their hands on your equipment, can you imagine the level of catastrophe? Terrorism has died down a bit in the last decade, but it sure as hell hasn’t died off.”

Duke gazed off into the distance, or maybe into the future, for a few seconds. “I can’t offer any reassurances,” he admitted. “These days, I spend most of my time trying to make our system more secure, but I keep finding loopholes to plug, which warns me there could be plenty more. Our company is aware of the dangers. That’s why the suits made their security chief a vice-president.”

“Maybe your hiring practices need bulking up.”

“What can I say? We run more checks on our personnel than any other ten businesses, but as you’ve learned, we’re not perfect. But you should know that if I thought the risk outweighed the promise, I’d quit in a heartbeat.”

“I believe you and appreciate your honesty. Let’s get back to the waiting area.”

We sat in a silent row: Jack, me, Q-Ball, and Cher, while Buddha, Kekipi, and Maddie kept us company as proxies. I was thinking about how I’d nearly given up on these kids before I’d met them. And I was remembering my internal tirade in the jet triggered by Q-Ball’s street talk. I had mixed feelings about that, but pride wasn’t one of them. Hell, Q-Ball’s … linguistic expertise gave Daniel his chance to live.

“Q-Ball,” I asked, “what does ‘hump a primp’ mean?”

He looked at me, tilting his head. “Where you hear that?”

“You said it to that sidestriped boy at the apartment.”

“Oh, yeah.” He leaned close to me and whispered. “A ‘primp’ is a mirror. You can’t hump it cause it’s got no holes.”

“Thanks. I was wondering. And I can’t thank you enough for helping out today. You were great.”

A smile spread across his face. He looked like a different person. “You pretty great yourself.” He turned his attention back to Cher who seemed on the verge of falling asleep. For her sake as well as Daniel’s, I prayed Daniel would pull through.

I’d had some rough times growing up, but nothing compared to what these kids had gone through. And I hadn’t even seen their complete files yet! I was almost scared to read Kekipi’s full story.

In my mind’s eye, I saw the faces of my wife and children and sent my love winging toward Chicago. Caught in the gears of the daily grind, constantly wrestling life’s limitations and my own, I’d forgotten something vital: I’m a rich and lucky man.

Humbled by all my unearned blessings, I closed my eyes and concentrated on nothing but willing Daniel to live.

––—

Copyright (C) 2004 by Rajnar Vajra.

––—

CH004

*The First Martian* by Joe Schembrie

A Short Story

They also serve who…

––—

Charlie Swann, resplendent in space suit with helmet tucked under his arm, waddled into the news conference room and promptly tripped over his air hose. He staggered and his helmet rolled toward the feet of the assembled journalists.

Alan Hill, president and founder of the Mars Pioneer Foundation, helped Charlie up and handed him his helmet. Hill’s face showed only concern, but several of the astronaut candidates lined up behind him were rolling their eyes. Not Mark Wilson, however; the ex-NASA shuttle pilot and everyone-but-Alan’s first choice for this mission registered the solemnity of a pharaoh carved in stone.

Reaching the podium, Alan Hill appraised the journalists, flashing the used-car salesman smile that the billionaire media tycoon was infamous for.

“Well, ladies and gentlemen,” he said. “Here he is, for the last time in our presence — Charlie Swann, soon to be the First Martian. I can let him speak for only a few minutes and then he’s got to be tucked into his capsule.”

Charlie strode to the microphone, lowered it eight inches, and focused his eyes on the far wall.

“Let me, uh, just, uh, say again,” Charlie said, blinking and perspiring, “that it’s, uh, a great, uh, honor to be here and, uh, I’m very grateful, uh, that, uh, I have the opportunity to go to Mars.”

Charlie stopped. There was silence. Alan Hill whispered, “Ask for questions?”

“Oh — yeah!” The loudspeakers cracked with the impact of his helmet ring against the microphone stand. “Uh, any questions?”

A hand shot up. “Charlie, how do you feel, about to be blasted into space on a one-way trip, like a robot probe?”

“Uh, fine, I guess.”

Another hand. “How do you feel, knowing you’ll be stranded on Mars, forever deprived of human companionship?”

Alan Hill interjected: “The Foundation’s business plan projects substantial revenues from sales of web site advertising, video documentaries, commercial endorsements, and, we hope, government research contracts. That money will finance trips for others. Charlie won’t be alone for long.”

A hand in the back went up. Looking at the hand’s owner — a young man with a gold-skull earring, spike haircut, and huge smirk — Alan Hill shook his head frantically. But Charlie was already nodding.

“One basic question,” the journalist drawled. “Why you?”

“Uh … why me?”

“Yeah. Why you, as the first guy on Mars?” The journalist gestured to the other astronaut-candidates. “Your runner-ups are pilots and scientists. Out of millions of applicants, how did a middle-aged _video store clerk_ receive the honor of being the first person on Mars?”

Head tilted, Charlie stared into oblivion. His forehead wrinkled and he stroked his billowing red beard. “You know, uh, that’s kind of been bothering me too — “

“It’s launch time,” Alan Hill announced.

* * * *

Alan Hill and Mark Wilson escorted Charlie to the gantry elevator alongside the steaming Titan V rocket poised for imminent launch.

“Well, Charlie,” Mark Wilson said. “Sure you want to do this?”

“Yep,” Charlie said emphatically. In one sense, Charlie the science fiction addict was an ideal candidate: he was incapable of doubting that this was a dream come true. But that didn’t distinguish him from qualified applicants like … like Mark Wilson. “Mark, I’ll bet you’d give anything to be going in my place. And I’m wondering why you’re not. You’re a pilot, you’re trained as a scientist — “

“Charlie, I’m satisfied with Alan’s decision.”

The gantry elevator doors parted. The ground technicians entered. Charlie hesitated. He met the eyes of the financier.

“Alan, aren’t you ever going to tell why you chose me — just what you’re expecting of me?”

Alan Hill grew a huge smile. “Why Charlie, I expect you to be yourself. That’s all I ask.”

His harder-than-usual slap on the back staggered Charlie into the elevator. Charlie whirled around quick enough to see the doors closing — and Alan Hill’s finger on the button.

“I must be the guinea pig,” Charlie murmured, while the technicians feigned distraction.

Charlie realized that, on a certain level, it was all right if he was merely an expendable test subject for the Foundation’s untried spacecraft. On Earth, he had no career, no family, no life. Yet if he could just touch Mars — or even if he blew up on the launch pad — he would be immortal.

But to have been solely selected for expendability meant that Alan Hill had less regard for Charlie than any of the other 3.5 million applicants.

_Lord!_ Charlie thought. _I hope it’s not that!_

* * * *

Fitted snugly into the capsule acceleration couch, Charlie listened to the countdown and stared at the control panel facing him. Not a single button or switch controlled anything mission-critical, he realized. Controls for the cabin light, the fan, the video cameras, yes, but navigational guidance was entirely automatic.

_Maybe that’s why Alan chose me_, Charlie thought. _Pilots would go crazy, with nothing to fiddle with._

” — _two — one — zero! _”

The rocket rumbled. Acceleration shoved him into the couch. The panel monitor displayed his ascending, disintegrating totem pole.

“_Godspeed, Charlie Swann! _” Mission Control recited from the Foundation-approved script.

Soon noise and acceleration diminished into silent weightlessness. As his first action beyond the atmosphere of Earth, Charlie vomited into his helmet — witnessed by the cabin video camera and scores of millions on Earth.

The world wanted to talk, and Charlie granted an exclusive interview. He noticed that Alan Hill, again, was jumping in a lot.

After the capsule passed lunar orbit, Charlie turned off the camera and dipped into his flight bag. A finger-sized, rumpled cylinder of paper emerged, filled with brownish granules, a “special gift” from an actor met during a promotional party. Lighting the not-quite-tobacco cigarette, he glanced at the camera and thought about turning it back on.

_Government can’t stop me now_, he thought.

Charlie puffed several times, and frowned. He pressed the rolled paper close to his nose and sniffed.

“Pencil shavings!” he snapped. He threw the phony marijuana joint at the bulkhead. The granules exploded outward, dancing mockingly in zero gee. Charlie shielded his face and cursed.

* * * *

That night, an alarm woke him. Mission Control was sending an urgent signal.

“Charlie,” Mission Control said. “Carbon dioxide content in the cabin is way above safe zone. We need to test the Air Renewal System.”

Charlie rubbed his temples, aware of a throbbing headache. He fumbled for the multimeter, opened the Environmental Control cabinet, and troubleshooted as Mission Control directed.

The electronics checked out. Meanwhile, Charlie’s breathing became faster. The commercial radio station he’d been listening to interrupted programming to report “…the first manned mission to Mars is in trouble. Facing dangerously toxic levels of carbon dioxide buildup due to an unexplained — ” Charlie turned down the volume as black blotches flickered in his vision.

“Charlie,” Mission Control said. “It’s a long shot, but can we visually inspect the ventilator filter?”

Charlie opened the filter cover. The camera gaped at the granules clogging the filter face.

“What the hell is that?” Mission Control demanded.

“Uh, I’ll get it off,” Charlie mumbled.

Carbon dioxide abated, but public interest did not. Back on Earth, the actor responsible for the prank spilled the story and media personalities found fodder for endless jokes. Charlie declined comment.

Alan Hill also said nothing, and nothing could have made Charlie feel worse.

* * * *

Other than a couple more near brushes with death, the trip to Mars was uneventful. Charlie answered avalanching e-mail. He ate and slept, read science fiction books and watched TV. Alan Hill’s one criticism was: “Charlie, don’t send video of your guitar-playing. It’s not boosting web site traffic.”

Six months after departing Earth, Charlie’s capsule crossed the orbits of the Martian moons. Mars overflowed the monitor, an ochre terrain as sheer as lunar cliffs in a Chesley Bonestell painting. Charlie dug into his flight bag and produced a bottle labeled as mouthwash. Eyes on the monitor, he chugged the bottle dry.

It was such a good buzz, he barely remembered to strap in.

His capsule impaled the atmosphere, blazing incandescent white. Triplet parachutes burst open and explosive bolts shed the heat shell saucers. Six miles above the southern plains of Ares Valles, the retros fired. At a hundred feet, the capsule unhooked from the rocket-and-parachute tether and sprouted air bags.

The capsule air bags slammed the surface of Mars.

“SON OF A — ” Charlie screamed into his helmet mike.

The capsule and its terrified occupant bounced seventeen times, then rolled to a stop, upside down.

Blood dripped from Charlie’s nose and opaqued his faceplate. The cabin camera recorded, and minutes of electromagnetic signal timelag later, an audience of millions gasped.

* * * *

Charlie had been given a speech for setting foot on Mars. It spoke of mankind’s destiny, and how space colonization would ensure the preservation of life in the universe. It concluded with a stirring pitch for purchasing a documentary video at reduced price (for a limited time only). Charlie had the speech memorized.

Then his shoulder butted the capsule hatch, and the hatch popped open and he flopped onto the surface, chipping his faceplate on a rock — and he forgot about speeches.

“Shhhiii — ” he began, and then, remembering his audience, finished: ” — eeesh.”

Charlie arose, brushed off rusty sand, and surveyed the broken rockery stretching to the horizon, listening to the wind keen as Phobos and Deimos gleamed in a navy blue sky. Observed by hundreds of millions via the video cameras on the capsule skin, Charlie spoke the first words of humanity on Mars:

“This is so weird.”

Charlie erected the flags of the corporate sponsors (half fell over before he figured out how to plant them right) and then he stepped back to lose himself in the scenery again. Though months of weightlessness had eroded his strength and balance, he was able to virtually glide, in the four-tenths earthgrav, fully-suited, without tripping over his feet. He started humming and soon, subconsciously, his inspection walk around the perimeter of the landing site evolved into a jig. Minutes of radio time delay later, Mission Control broke his reverie: “Charlie, you’d better set up the MSU before nightfall.”

“Oh, uh, right,” Charlie said.

He went to the tetrahedral capsule’s backside, and twisted the knob that should have immediately opened the cover plate of the Mars Shelter Unit stowage compartment. The knob wouldn’t budge. Charlie twisted harder. The knob remained stuck. Gritting his teeth and groaning, he twisted with all his might. The knob snapped off its rod.

“_Charlie! _” Mission Control shouted, several minutes of signal delay too late. “Remove the securing pin!”

Charlie removed the securing pin from the knob rod and contemplated it, until Mission Control improvised new instructions: “Unscrew the cover frame bolts, then extract the cover manually.”

Charlie successfully removed all the frame bolts, but when he yanked the cover, he lost his footing, staggered, and bonked the cover against the shelter-unit release mechanism lever, causing the spring to snap free and careen into the rocks. Charlie searched for over an hour while the sun set, gloom gathered, and temperatures plummeted.

Mission Control finally intervened: “Charlie, you’ll have to release the MSU by hand.”

Charlie sawed through the securing lanyard with his serrated knife. The MSU’s fabric promptly unrolled like a giant, elongated sleeping bag. Charlie activated the inflation pump, but the MSU remained limp.

Mission Control: “Charlie, check for punctures. We think you may have cut the fabric when you severed the lanyard.”

Charlie found the fabric slit and, getting more sealant on his spacesuit than the shelter unit, he patched the leak. By then it was well past sunset, and his suit power was perilously low. Miraculously, he cycled through the airlock before losing consciousness.

Safe at last inside the pressurized shelter, he spent his first night on Mars wide awake, reviewing all the self-inflicted near-catastrophes that comprised not just his first day on Mars, but the pattern of his life. _Of all people, _he wondered once again,_ how did I get picked?_

He resolved he would find out, if it was the last thing he ever did. Presuming, of course, he didn’t get himself killed first.

* * * *

Two years later, a homing beacon led Charlie’s rover across the Martian desert to a second capsule. Charlie arrived just as the impact balloons finished deflating. Mark Wilson climbed out and stood erect on the sands of Mars without mishap. His smile was confident, his handshake firm.

“Good to see you again, Charlie,” he said.

“Welcome to Mars, Mark,” Charlie replied.

Mark opened his stowage compartments — first removing the securing pins from the control knob rods. Charlie attempted to assist, but Mark gracefully blocked. Charlie gave up and video-recorded the Second Martian’s efforts, which quickly had the capsule mounted on wheels and hitched to the rover.

Charlie drove back. At least Mark allowed that. The ride was quiet, Mark living up to his reputation as the Silent Type. _That’ll change tonight_, Charlie thought, suppressing guilt feelings. _I have to know!_

They arrived at Charlie’s capsule/shelter/home after nightfall. Mark inspected the slapdash berming without comment, then aligned the capsules with the access tunnel he’d brought. Charlie quietly climbed inside the airlock. When Mark entered minutes later, Charlie was tending a sizzling frying pan.

“Fresh food!” Mark exclaimed. “Smells great!”

“Chicken,” Charlie said. “Good thing I didn’t kill all the chicks I brought from Earth, like I did the fish when I accidentally unplugged the water tank heater.”

Mark wolfed the chicken and rice, but his highest praise was for the coffee.

“Damn fine coffee!” Mark declared, somewhat loudly. “Didn’t know a Martian hydroponics garden could compete with a Colombian bean field! Must be that underground icewater, eh?” He laughed as if it were an uproarious joke.

Mark finished the first pot. Charlie went to the kitchenette, opened the second pot, and peered inside. It was half full of thick, mudlike brew. He diluted it with a decanter of hundred-and-eighty-proof vodka distilled from the hydroponics garden’s potato crop. Returning to the table, he refilled Mark’s cup.

Mark soon reeled like a reed in a breeze. Charlie flicked the switch that turned off the ceiling-mounted camera. Mark didn’t notice.

“Charlie,” he slurred. “You’re a good man. When Gwen comes next time, you take her. I’ll wait for the next woman.”

“We’ll see how Gwen feels,” Charlie said. “But I do have something to ask, Mark.”

“Anything, my friend. Can I … another cup?”

Charlie poured. “A question’s been nagging me. Of all the more qualified people, why did Alan Hill choose me to be first?”

Mark’s eyes went wide. “Alan will kill if I tell!”

“We’re a bit out of Alan’s reach these days.” Charlie smiled and topped off Mark’s cup. “So … why did I get picked?”

Mark drank deep … then seemed to have trouble focusing. He looked around as if checking to see that Alan Hill was not present. Then he leaned forward, placed a hand on Charlie’s shoulder, and gazed at Charlie straight in the eyes.

“Apollo,” he whispered.

Charlie’s eyebrows furrowed. “Apollo?”

“Yeah. Alan says, Apollo Moon Program was like … television program. Had to be popular, like TV program, so Congress would spend money. Only no one watched. So got canceled.”

“Like a TV program with lousy ratings.”

“Yeah. And Alan, he says, he says … reason Apollo Show got canceled is ‘cause everything went too perfect. ‘Cept ‘pollo 13 — which was when fuel cell exploded and — “

“I was a video store clerk. I saw the movie a hundred times.”

“Well, never made movie about Apollo 11, or 12, or … or … other numbers. Missions went … too perfect. Too smooth. No tension, suspense … no drama. Boring. Why Apollo got canceled. Too boring.”

“What does that have to do with me?”

“_You_…” Mark jabbed a wavering finger at Charlie’s chest. “You … you’re _always_ screwing up! _Always_ tension, _always_ suspense, _always_ drama, ‘cause you’re _always_ creating life-or-death situations!” He nodded. “People like to watch that.”

Charlie’s mouth dropped open. “I’m here to boost ratings — by being a — a — _scatterbrained klutz?_ I was chosen because I’m _incompetent? _”

“No no no!” Mark waved his hands profusely. “Not _in_competent. Alan says, ‘_marginally_ competent.’”

“_Marginally_ competent?”

“Yeah, what psych tests said. Too smart for your own good, Charlie. Get bored too easy. Attention span wanders, you goof around, screw up. Then there’s crisis. Excitement! You pay attention … fix problem. Things go good … get bored, attention wanders, goof around, screw-up … another crisis — more ‘citement. Over and over. You’re one damn thing after another, Charlie. Very… _very_ entertaining!”

“_Entertaining_. As in selling web site ad space, and videos, and news and interview exclusives.”

“Yeah, that stuff.” Mark yawned. “Me … flew shuttle five years, not one crisis … public bored stiff, never learned my name. Just too damn competent. Alan ‘splained: ‘Mark, you’re best, that’s why you can’t be first.’”

“But now that we’ve won some research contracts, he sends you up to do field work.”

“Yep.”

“While I put on a show.”

“You’re good, Charlie! Alan says you’re most marginally competent person psychologists ever saw. Really special talent … like gift.”

“‘Marginally competent.’” Charlie folded his arms. “The rare quality of being able to constantly screw up yet consistently survive. Because if I don’t survive, the show is over. But if I survive too well, the show would be boring and get canceled.”

“Yep.” Mark stretched his arms and yawned again. “Like gift. Past two years on Mars prove it. One damn thing after another! Even make sleep exciting. Really!” His eyelids began to droop. “Like … like ‘member time you forgot to align solar panels … capsule batteries ran down … middle of night … almost froze to death — “

“I remember.” Charlie closed his eyes and sighed. “So — “

He was interrupted by loud snoring. He opened his eyes. His fellow Martian was collapsed over the table, unconscious and drooling.

_Well_, Charlie thought. _You wanted to know._

Charlie poured himself a cup, and went to the tiny shelter porthole. He gazed over the rugged landscape at the blazing stars and hurling moons. He stroked his beard, thinking about the world he had been given to explore, and his place in history.

“_’Marginally competent,_’” he murmured. “Well — better than I thought Alan would say!”

––—

Copyright (C) 2004 by Joe Schembrie.

––—

CH005

*Unbound* by Dave Creek

A Short Story

Human relationships depend on trust and priorities — which can be anything but simple and clean-cut.

––—

“No other galactic species is as unpredictable as Humanity. Their intense emotions lead them to unexpected heights of creativity, but also trap them within a subjective emotional state which prevents them from checking their basest urges.”

_ — Omakuranek, excerpt from_

_report to Arololularian_

_Interspecies Relations Council, 2097._

As Leo Bakri stepped into the small passenger boat, it began rocking in the wake of a much larger freighter craft. The boat’s pilot grabbed Leo’s elbow to steady him. “Easy there, mate.”

Despite his nervousness at what lay ahead, Leo smiled at his clumsiness. Imagine having to find your sea legs within a space habitat! He heard stifled laughter behind him and saw Marie Sovel holding her hand over her mouth. He reached up toward her. “Let’s see if you do any better.”

Marie took that hand and her fluid grace as she stepped into the rocking boat at just the right instant made him realize all the more why he loved her.

Marie Sovel was a star-drive tech aboard the Earth Alliance star-craft _Laika_. Leo was its chief security officer. They’d come to the New Queensland Torus to learn whether Leo would face charges of insubordination under fire. That judgment would come from the Earth Alliance’s Strategic Planning Officer, Admiral Chen Ju. The very name made Leo’s heart race. He rubbed his bare arms against a sudden chill from wind that rushed across the water’s surface. _They’ve started calling this the Great Human War. It’s barely started and I could be thrown out of the service. I couldn’t bear that._

The pilot glanced back and asked, “Alliance mission, is it?” Leo nodded and the boat eased into the channel. A spray of water from a pleasure craft gliding past splashed them all, and Leo was glad he and Marie had been told to wear standard ship’s gear, pullover shirt and shorts, rather than anything formal, despite the seriousness of their meeting.

New Queensland was a donut-shaped habitat that circled a yellowish star, Radiance. It was one of the last outposts of Alliance authority in this region of Human space. The system had no planets Humans could colonize and no wealth of minerals or energy that couldn’t be obtained more easily elsewhere. Its only value was its strategic position near Rebellion space.

The Alliance mission lay on a low ridge on the south side of the Middle River, where it rose upward before them.

“I’ve been aboard ship too long,” Leo said, his voice hushed. “It’s good to be in open spaces.”

“To breathe moist air,” Marie said, “to smell something other than shipboard scents — it’s marvelous.”

The Middle River flowed around the entire circle of the habitat, and was the basis for its commerce. Directly overhead, beyond the glare of the mirrors reflecting the sun’s rays into living areas, beyond the non-rotating core where _Laika_ was docked, the opposite side of the torus was nearly two kilometers away. Leo saw and heard the din and clatter of busy ports, the shouting of merchants in their markets, the laughter of children at play.

He squeezed Marie’s hand. “This is the kind of life I hope you and I can have together someday.” Marie looked at him and offered up a glorious smile. He told her, “I love it when you look at me like that.”

Leo wouldn’t have thought Marie’s features could grow more luminous, but they did. She asked, “What do you see?”

Leo’s gaze fell to the floor of the boat. Nothing in his past had prepared him for such a woman, for the possibility of sustained happiness. And just minutes from now, it might be snatched away. “I see everything that makes you precious to me. Affection. Trust. I think you find me… _fun_.”

Marie hugged his arm and scooted her body against his. She glanced up at the boat pilot to make sure he wouldn’t hear. “Don’t forget that special hint of sexual adventures later on. I arranged to overnight here.”

Leo face grew warm and he pulled Marie closer. “I’ll love just being next to you. And not having to worry about anyone seeing us, or who’s down the hall, or … I just hope we’re still in the mood later.”

Marie held him tight. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

Leo looked upward along the torus’s curve, spotted the Earth Alliance logo on the mission building’s roof. “We’ll see if Admiral Chen agrees.”

The boat thumped against a small inlet at the base of a ridge. The Alliance mission at the top of that ridge was a long, squat building made of the same pre-stressed concrete which formed the torus.

“‘Ere you go, sirs,” the pilot said. “Enjoy your stay. Bikes are on the street for the takin’.”

“Thanks,” Leo said, and he and Marie climbed out of the boat — Leo with a sure step this time — and picked two bikes from several available. Marie swung a leg over and rode confidently up the gentle slope of the paved roadway that led to the mission. He admired the movement of her leg and thigh muscles as she pedaled.

Leo was shakier. “Been too long,” he muttered, trying not to see the bemusement on Marie’s face. _Truth be told_, he thought, _I’m grateful to be the comic relief. I don’t believe in the religionists’ ideas of Heaven, but to see Marie’s smile, to hear her laughter, and to know you initiated it, must be close to what they have in mind._

_Marie’s right. We’ve been shipbound too long. She’s good for me. We’ve got to create something new, just for the two of us. Something solid, where you know there’s more beneath your feet than metal or vacuum._

_Will we have the chance?_

Marie reached the crest of the hill and waited for Leo. They stowed their bikes in a rack outside the mission. Once inside, an ensign took them to Admiral Chen’s office. She didn’t look up as the ensign left them there, closing the door quietly behind him.

Admiral Chen fulfilled the image Leo had expected: the tight bun, the neat uniform, the dour expression. A small, angled desk served as computer library and comlink. The room had no windows, and no personal touches — no artwork on the walls, no cubes of loved ones. The chair and couch provided for guests looked comfortable, but the admiral sat on a stool behind the desk. Neither Leo nor Marie made a move toward them.

Admiral Chen told Leo and Marie, “Sit down. “This won’t be a formal hearing.”

Leo went for the chair as Marie sat in the center of the couch. Best they don’t appear a couple by sharing the couch, even if the admiral knew better.

_Especially if she knew better_, Leo thought. _Throwing that fact in her face — not a good idea_. He kept his hands folded in his lap, tried not to notice them becoming slick with perspiration. Knew to remain silent until Admiral Chen spoke to him directly.

The admiral said, “Lieutenant Commander Bakri.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Let’s establish a few things right away. Perhaps relevant to this proceeding, perhaps not. You’re a New Human?”

Leo felt his face flush. “That’s what some people call us, Admiral.”

“Faster reflexes, stronger than the norm, not as likely to succumb to disease.”

“That’s correct.”

“Better morally?”

Leo blinked and said, “I’ve made my share of mistakes, ma’am.”

Admiral Chen steepled her fingers. “And the incident in the Hackett’s World System? Was that one of your mistakes?”

_Marie would’ve died_, Leo thought. _But that doesn’t matter to an Alliance admiral_.

“Well, Lieutenant Commander?”

Leo felt the same rush of adrenaline pumping through him as when that Star Rebellion craft broke through _Laika_’s defenses and blasted its Alcubierre Module on the propulsion deck. Marie’s station. _I had to do it_, Leo thought. _Run down there and override the corridor lockdown sequence that would’ve trapped her in that compartment. She was the only one in it left alive. I found her unconscious, dragged her out, and canceled my override, much more quickly than “normal” Humans could have done_.

Admiral Chen said, “You risked the _Laika_ and its crew, didn’t you?”

Leo said, “Admiral, I’m here without my advocate, and given the possibility of court martial proceedings — “

“This meeting is off the record, and could _prevent_ a court martial.”

Leo’s lips pursed before he could help it. “I took actions that were risky, yes.” _But Marie is alive_.

“If _Laika_ had blown, it could have severely damaged the other two Alliance starcraft in the vicinity — _Eyes of Justice_ and _Solar Eagle_. Couldn’t it?”

“Admiral, Captain Weintraub of the _Laika_ wanted to recommend me for a commendation. Captain Hendrik from Solar Eagle called to congratulate me and second the recommendation.”

“Their objections to this proceeding have been noted. If _Laika_ had blown, those other two starcraft could have been damaged.”

“Yes, ma’am.” _So that’s how it is_, Leo thought. A quick glance toward Marie, and Leo saw that these proceedings were as difficult for her as for him; she sat on the couch with her hands folded so tightly the blood was pressed out of the tips of her fingers. Her crossed legs, foot gently rocking, and piercing gaze spoke of fear and fury.

Leo said, “Do what you want with me. But none of this was Marie’s fault.”

Despite himself, Leo flinched as Admiral Chen demonstrated some fury of her own. “_I_ will decide what is fair,” she said. “_Eyes of Justice_ and _Solar Eagle_ survived, and went on to crush two waves of Rebellion craft at Hackett’s System. A victory that might never have been, because of your willingness to risk your ship and two others.”

Leo bowed his head. “I can’t say you’re wrong. But everything turned out for the best.”

“What about next time, Lieutenant Commander? You may beat the more severe charges. But don’t discount the lesser ones. Inappropriate relationship between officers in a wartime situation. Detriment to morale. Potential favoritism. You’ll be drummed out of the force. Given the current popular climate, that’s a record that’ll make it tough to find civilian employment.”

Marie looked at him. “Leo. Are you sure — “

Leo told her, “Popular opinion works two ways. If we get our story out — “

Admiral Chen said, “Your story will be a casualty of war. It’ll _never_ get out.”

“Admiral, you can’t — “

“I can, and will. Your feelings for this woman, pleasant and comely though she may be, are dangerous.”

Marie blurted out, “Split us up, then. Put us on different ships. Please don’t court-martial him.”

Admiral Chen said, “That’s the easy solution. But I won’t allow it.”

Leo leaned forward in his chair. “Why?”

“We have an experiment in mind. A form of conditioning. Nanites make the smallest adjustment to the limbic system, which generates strong emotion. They inject drugs, just the right amount, into the pituitary. Tiny electrical discharges make additional adjustments. Soon you forget your feelings for Lieutenant Sovel, and the time you spent together.”

Leo felt as if Admiral Chen’s voice was receding into the distance, as if all of New Queensland Torus had faded away except for this room. All that existed were Marie, the woman he wanted to spend the rest of his life with, and Admiral Chen, who wanted to take his love away from him, literally. He muttered, “Why do this? Why can’t we take the ‘easy solution,’ as you call it?”

“If this technique works, we’ll also create troops who don’t feel fear, and starcraft commanders without emotional ties to their crew.”

Leo said, “I thought we were fighting to preserve freedom.”

Admiral Chen folded her hands on her desk. “Millions have offered up their lives for that cause. This is certainly a lesser sacrifice. You and Lieutenant Sovel are competent officers and work well together. I’d like to prove our conditioning concept in a benign setting aboard _Laika_, which is, after all, a support ship. If we are successful in unbinding your emotional ties for a while, we can experiment further on personnel aboard starcraft constantly on the front lines.”

Marie said, “What do you mean by ‘for a while’?”

“The process is completely reversible. Think of what it means. Neither of you will be demoted. You can remain together, though neither of you will possess the feelings for one another you have now.”

Marie looked at Leo with a hopeful expression. All Leo could hear was his own rhythmic breathing. “Sorry, Admiral,” he said. “How do I know this process is everything you say it is? That it really can be reversed? That you really _will_ reverse it when it’s time?”

Admiral Chen place her hands flat on her desk and gave Leo a glare that he suspected could have annihilated a Rebellion starcraft. “You’re questioning the word of an Alliance admiral?”

Leo shot his best imitation of that glare, inferior though it was, back at her. “No, Admiral, I’m questioning the information you’ve been given.”

“If you doubt my information, you’re doubting me. Don’t you think I’d check it out?”

“If you’re so certain this will work, why not just order us to undergo the procedure?”

Admiral Chen took a deep breath. “Even military discipline has its limits. To be allowed to test the procedure, we had to agree to use volunteers.”

_Some volunteers_, Leo thought. _Let doctors into your brain to play with your deepest, most personal memories, or face court-martial_. “Sorry, Admiral. No deal.”

Admiral Chen didn’t respond at first to Leo’s refusal of her offer, and Leo was determined he wasn’t going to speak again until she did. _Let her make the next move_, he thought.

Admiral Chen said, “Lieutenant Commander Bakri, I’ve no choice but to schedule an immediate court-martial.”

Leo said, “I understand, Admiral.”

“I’m not sure you do. You won’t be the only defendant. Lieutenant Sovel will join you.”

Marie gasped, and the fear Leo saw in her face struck at his heart. He said, “She was a victim in all this — “

“But also a perpetrator,” Admiral Chen said. “All the lesser charges apply to her, and all the penalties. I think you know which way a military court I convene will decide.”

Marie’s features stilled, and she looked at Leo with a determined expression as she addressed Admiral Chen. “Then that’s how it’ll be.”

_This is why I can’t spend my life with another woman, Leo thought. I’ve never known anyone, within my family or among my closest friends, who would make such a sacrifice_.

Which is why I can’t let her do it.

Leo stood to give his decision, and as he spoke his consciousness narrowed again — he heard his voice grow louder over Marie’s protests, felt his arm twisting from her desperate grasp, and watched her fall from his field of vision as he turned away from her and toward Admiral Chen.

It was as if he’d already lost her.

Security officers escorted Leo and Marie to a waiting area in a medlab next door to the Alliance mission and told them they’d have a few minutes alone before the procedure.

Leo held both his hands out toward Marie. She stepped into his embrace and they held one another without speaking for a time. Finally Leo said, “I’m sorry. But I couldn’t let them charge you when you weren’t at fault.”

Marie took a step back and looked at Leo. Moisture glistened at the corners of her eyes. “It’s not permanent. We’ll be together after the war.”

“If we both survive. If the admiral’s telling the truth.”

“It won’t work, you know. Trying to make me stop loving you. We’ll have that life together.”

Leo took her hands in his. “You have to be right. It can’t work. I _know_ it can’t.”

Marie stepped into his arms again and kissed his cheek. “Then we don’t have anything to worry about.”

“It’ll be our secret.”

Another kiss then, on the lips, and longer. Then the techs arrived to escort them to separate exam rooms.

Leo’s room was filled with polished metal surfaces, bright lights, and polite, professional doctors and technicians. Off with the uniform, a detailed physical, a quick injection, and the lead doctor pronounced himself done and dismissed the techs.

Leo rubbed his bare arm, though the injection had been painless. “So when will it take effect?”

The doctor flashed him a bland smile. “It should have already.”

Leo started dressing. “I’m supposed to report back to _Laika_ when I’m done here.”

The doctor said, “Then go report.”

Outside the medlab, Leo met Lieutenant Marie Sovel. They retrieved their bikes and headed back toward the dock. The boat pilot was waiting for them, and soon they were sailing on the Middle River toward the large passenger lift that would take them to the hub of the torus and the waiting _Laika_.

The boat trip was pleasant, though he sensed the trip toward the mission had been more enjoyable. The more he tried to recall why, the farther away that memory receded; instead, images rose up of a day back on Earth when he was nine years old, memories of a rare north Georgia snowstorm and how its beauty had entranced him. _Odd_, he thought, as the boat continued down the Middle River. _I haven’t recalled that day in years_.

He glanced over at Lieutenant Sovel. She sat with her legs crossed away from him, elbow on her armrest, slender fingers beneath her chin, taking in their surroundings. She hadn’t said a word since they’d boarded the boat. Not rude, just … aloof.

Leo turned his attention away from his colleague and toward his surroundings. Din and clatter of busy ports. Merchants shouting. Children laughing.

––—

Copyright (C) 2004 by Dave Creek.

––—

CH006

Science Fact: *The Fifth Biorevolution* by Stephen L. Gillett, Ph.D.

And guess who the revolutionaries are!

––—

Of course all _Analog_ readers have heard of _Frankenstein_, the archetypical science-fiction story. Even in the mundane world, the story of the monster that turns on its creator is a cliche. “Frankenstein’s monster” has often been seen as a metaphor for technology, and that may very well have been Mary Shelley’s original intention. In recent years, though, it’s become a metaphor for humanity itself, a monster unwittingly begotten by a biosphere it then turns on and destroys! For example, a paper in the biological trade journal _BioScience_, about a decade ago, likened humanity’s explosive growth to a metastatic cancer (Hern, 1993).

This view, to be sure, is not entirely silly. The sixth mass extinction (Okay, since you asked: I’ve listed the five big Phanerozoic extinctions in the Appendix.) in the Phanerozoic seems to be under way right now, and it’s unquestionably due to human activity (see Ward, 1994). (The Phanerozoic is the last 530 million years of geologic history, when there’s an abundant fossil record of multicellular creatures with hard parts — bones, shells, and so on — that can fossilize.) Human-caused extinctions are also not just a product of _industrial_ human activity. Pre-industrial peoples were remarkably adept at ecologic devastation, too. Islands around the world are greatly impoverished in flora and fauna, and in all cases that impoverishment results from recent extinction events — events that, not coincidentally, follow closely upon the first arrival of humans in the islands. The extinctions don’t just come from hunting of naive or clumsy fauna like flightless birds (the dodo, the moa), either. Activities such as farming, clearing, grazing — and the activities of the fauna that people bring with them, such as rats, pigs, and dogs — are even more destructive. (Again, see Ward’s book for details.)

One of the most spectacular pre-industrial extinction events was that of the Pleistocene megafauna — the saber-toothed cats, mammoths, dire wolves, giant ground sloths, glyptodonts, and all those other animals familiar from museum dioramas. Not so coincidentally at all, in the Americas these extinctions occur about 11,000 years ago, right after humans first invaded the New World, when the glacial retreat opened up a dryland corridor from Alaska down to the Great Plains. Some folks _still_ try to argue for climate change at the end of the Ice Age as the killer. But that strikes me as wishful thinking. It turns out that there wasn’t just _one_ “Ice Age.” Over the last 2 million years or so, the ice has chugged down from the pole at least half a dozen times; but none of those earlier advances is associated with a major extinction. In fact, we also have abundant evidence, at least in the Sierra Nevada, that some of those earlier glacial stages were a _lot_ more severe than the most recent one. A huge blanket of glacial debris about 800,000 years old, called the Sherwin Till, extends for miles beyond the younger glacial deposits at many places along the eastern Sierra (for example, west of US Highway 395 between Bridgeport, California, and Conway Summit). What’s now the Sierras must have largely been an icecap. In fact, the most recent glacial advance is one of the smallest in the Sierras that’s left a record; we only see it ‘cause it _is_ the youngest, and thus its deposits haven’t been clobbered completely by a subsequent advance. All in all, at least in the Sierras the record is pretty clear that the latest glacial advance was _un_remarkable; yet that’s when the extinctions happened.

Nonetheless, although “humanity as Frankenstein’s monster” has elements of truth, it’s also seriously incomplete. Evolution — like any other contingent historical process — makes abrupt turns now and then, making the future not only utterly unlike the past, but utterly _unpredictable_ from the past. A crucial evolutionary innovation causes turmoil that sometimes even leads to mass extinctions. Out of that turmoil, though, arises a much greater elaboration of the biosphere, with suites of new organisms with new capabilities and new potentials expanding into new environments. These transitions, caused by life itself, I’ll call “biorevolutions.” “Revolution” suggests both the complete overturning of “things as they were” _and_ the potential for rebirth and renewal. In traditional geology, too, “revolution” also meant a time of major mountain-building, so that’s certainly got a flavor of renewal.

The evolution of intelligence, particularly _technical_ intelligence, is just the latest such biorevolution — and its effects are not likely to be less far-ranging than the others.

––—

*The Biorevolutions in Earth History*

Biorevolutions probably come at all scales, but here are the four pre-eminent ones:

_1. The emergence of life (>3.8 billion years before present (BYBP))._ This, of course, is the critical biorevolution, but perhaps it’s not such a big step as has been traditionally thought. The earliest preserved terrestrial rocks, almost four billion years old, are highly metamorphosed _sedimentary_ rocks, implying that liquid water was already present. Recent data also indicate that life was already present in those sediments (Mojzsis et al, 1996). Carbon flecks associated with tiny phosphate grains have a ratio of carbon isotopes typical of carbon compounds that have been processed by life. Carbon has two stable isotopes, C12 and C13, and living things invariably enrich the carbon in the light isotope. (The reason is that the chemical bond of the lighter isotope is slightly weaker and so reacts slightly more readily. With all the bond-making and bond-breaking that takes place in a living organism, you can build up a significant fractionation of the isotopes.)

This result is especially remarkable because the Earth was repeatedly clobbered by gigantic impacts during the first half-billion years of its history (see “Worldlets in Collision,” _Analog_, Feb. 1990). The largest impacts would have repeatedly sterilized the planet by boiling the oceans, and the last such event is at most only about 100 million years older than these sedimentary rocks. Evidently at least simple life forms arise easily if conditions are right.

Of course, maybe it didn’t _all_ have to arise on Earth. Perhaps some of the raw materials for life came from the impacting bodies themselves. Or perhaps the origin of life was shared across the Inner System. Mars and Venus were probably a lot more Earth-like at the birth of the Solar System (not that _Earth_ at that time was very Earth-like!), in that at least they probably had liquid water. Primitive life forms arising on one body could then have seeded the others, through meteorite pieces passed back and forth, so that even if life was later killed off in one place it could have been re-introduced.

Certainly by about 3.5 billion years ago there was life on Earth. For one thing, a type of thinly layered sedimentary rocks called “stromatolites” are reasonably common by then. Most stromatolites appear to be formed by microbes growing in mats in shallow seawater, layer by layer. But modern stromatolites are extremely rare. Today they’re only found in unusual environments where no higher life forms exist. The reason is that in the modern world microbial mats can’t exist, because they’re grazed on by such things as snails. We also even find probable microfossils in some rocks, like the Gunflint Chert of Minnesota, about 3.5 billion years old.

This was all microbial life, to be sure. Indeed, it was not just microbial; it was _prokaryotic_. Living things can be divided into two great groups, eukaryotes and prokaryotes, on the basis of their cellular structure. Eukaryotes have large cells with a distinct nucleus where the cell’s DNA resides. They include all metazoans (multicelled life forms: plants, animals, and fungi), as well as protozoans like amebas and all algae (except the blue-green “algae” I mention below). Despite their obvious differences, all these living things run on fundamentally the same oxygen-consuming biochemistry.

Prokaryotes have small cells with no separate nucleus; the DNA is just distributed throughout the cell. They also lack the organelles that eukaryotic cells have. They comprise all the bacteria, and despite their small size and seeming simplicity, their biochemistry is vastly more diverse than the eukaryotes’. Hence, even prokaryotic life has had an utterly profound effect on Earthly processes, making the Earth vastly different from the other inner planets.

The character of the very rocks we stand on, for example, owes much to prokaryotes’ activities. Take diagenesis, for example. Diagenesis (stress the third syllable) is the general term for the host of chemical and physical changes that sediments go through after they are deposited, the changes that begin turning sediment into sedimentary rock. Bacteria make a living by catalyzing many diagenetic reactions. Without the prokaryotes little would happen even though the reactions are energetically downhill. The activation energies, the “kicks” needed to start the reactions (like the match needed to start a fire), are just too large. Such processes are highly important in forming economic deposits such as petroleum and certain metal ores.

Biomineralization — the precipitation of minerals due to the activities of living things — also got its start around this time. The stromatolites are probably examples of “passive” mineralization: organisms change the local chemical environment such that minerals can precipitate. Later on, though, active biomineralization emerged: crystal structures deliberately precipitated by cellular activity. On the modern Earth, carbonate minerals — such as make up limestone — and phosphate minerals are largely deposited by biological activity.

But there was _lots_ more to come. That’s the next story.

_2. The invention of oxygen-releasing photosynthesis (>2.5 BYBP)._ This remains the most catastrophic pollution event in Earth’s history. (“Oxygen-releasing” isn’t redundant, by the way: early versions of photosynthesis, which are still used by some bacteria even on the modern Earth, did not release free oxygen.) Some primitive cyanobacterium (cyanobacteria, formerly called “blue-green algae,” are prokaryotes that carry out oxygen-releasing photosynthesis) “learned” to extract hydrogen from water, and dumped the toxic, highly reactive waste product: oxygen. As this deadly gas built up in the atmosphere, corroding rocks beyond recognition and slaughtering all life forms that could not adapt or hide, the consequences for the future of Earthly life and Earth itself were momentous!

For one thing, sweeping changes in ocean chemistry ensued. Before oxygen, dissolved iron seems to have been a major component of ocean chemistry. Iron has two stable oxidation states, Fe++, which has lost two electrons, and Fe+++, which has lost three. Without much oxygen around, most iron is in the Fe++ state, which is highly water-soluble. Fe+++, by contrast, is nearly insoluble.

Why do we think this? Before about 2.5 billion years ago, iron was precipitated into so-called banded-iron formations (affectionately BIF), vast layered deposits consisting of little but iron oxides. Photosynthetic microbes living in shallow water may have been the cause. As they released oxygen, it immediately combined with the dissolved iron to make Fe+++ oxides — which then settled out. Although small iron formations are found in younger rocks, nothing on that scale has formed since (the huge iron deposits of northern Michigan are BIFs). Once oxygen built up in the atmosphere, though, virtually all the iron in solution went away — and so did the BIFs. Now we have what a geologist calls “redbeds” — sandstones stained red by a little Fe+++ oxide, like all that spectacular scenery you see in _Arizona Highways_. Redbeds form slowly as iron in minerals is oxidized by oxygen dissolved in groundwater.

We’re still living with the consequences of this change in marine chemistry, too. In the modern ocean, iron is often a limiting nutrient, a nutrient whose scarcity limits organisms’ growth, simply because iron is so insoluble in an oxidizing environment.

Ultimately this air-pollution event also caused global refrigeration. The first known major glaciation occurred about 2.2 billion years ago, after the BIFs had dwindled away. As the cyanobacteria extracted CO2 and released oxygen, the greenhouse effect decreased and Earth got cooler. (A “greenhouse effect,” of course, is the trapping of solar heat through absorption by certain molecules in the atmosphere.) Finally, snow started falling and glaciation ensued. There might even have been oscillations of icehouse/greenhouse conditions such as occurred around 600 million years ago (as I discuss below). In this case, though, the glacial ages finally went away, probably due to continuing continental drift. Continental drift sets the stage for glaciations. If the continents are distributed in low latitudes, such that there’s free exchange of equatorial and polar water, ice caps can’t form. Conversely, if the poles are largely land, or (as is the present north pole) largely land-locked, warm-water circulation is blocked and polar ice can form. In a real sense we’re in an “ice age” right now, because Earth has polar icecaps. Through much of geologic history there is no polar ice at all.

In particular, ice ages are unknown before this 2.2-billion-year event. This is curious because, according to the astrophysicists, the Sun has increased its luminosity by about 30% over the 4.5 billion years of Earth’s history. (As helium “ash” accumulates in the Sun’s core, the pressure rises, and hydrogen fusion proceeds more quickly.) Yet as far back as the geologic record extends there is evidence of liquid water at the Earth’s surface. Presumably a large greenhouse effect, probably from an atmosphere richer in carbon dioxide, kept the young Earth warm. And then the cyanobacteria come along and start clobbering that CO2….

Who would have thought the havoc wreaked by green growing scum could be so profound? Yet we now think of the Earth as “green.” Our fundamental characterization of our planet as a “living” world is intimately tied up with the consequences and elaborations of this biologically self-inflicted catastrophe.

There may be a moral here.

_3. The emergence of metazoans (latest Precambrian, ca. 600-550 MYBP)._ “Metazoans,” as I mentioned, are multicelled living things, and if you take the geologic record at face value, making a bunch of cells work together as a single organism is a much harder problem than was even making the first living cell. It took almost 4 billion years on the Earth; and even now it’s not perfect — cancer, of course, occurs when the cellular cooperation mechanisms break down.

Presumably metazoans are the critical step on the way to technical intelligence, because it’s hard to imagine intelligent microbial mats. Before we get too cocky about this critical step to us “higher” life forms, though, let’s remember that we’re _still_ living in the Age of Bacteria. Most of Earth’s biomass remains microbial.

At the beginning of the Phanerozoic, in the Cambrian period, metazoans with abundant hard parts also appear. Because things with skeletons or shells fossilize much more readily, this point marks the beginning of the classic fossil record. It also marks another big step in the takeover of geochemical processes by living things: most Phanerozoic limestones are made of biological debris.

If the emergence of metazoans led to mass extinctions among microbial life, we have no record of them. Curiously, though, metazoans may have helped _stabilize_ Earth’s climate, by tempering the catastrophic refrigeration that followed the photosynthetic revolution.

By the late Precambrian, about 600-800 million years ago, glaciations had returned in a big way. An intimate association of glacial and tropical rock types is found all over the world. Typically a stack of glacial strata is overlain by a thick dolomite layer, a carbonate rock related to limestone that indicates very warm (and possibly CO2-rich) conditions. The association of these wildly different rock types has been a puzzle ever since it was recognized. A now trendy model for their occurrence is “icehouse/greenhouse” oscillations, in which heavy-duty global glaciations oscillated with globally warm conditions (see Hoffman et al, 1998.) During the warm times, dolomite was laid down under an atmosphere rich in CO2 while photosynthesizers grew furiously. In so doing they drew down the CO2, which eventually triggered glaciations that then grew through a positive feedback of their own. Because ice is white, it reflects solar energy very effectively; so things get cooler, so that _more_ snow can fall and more ice can grow … etc.

Of course, as the globe becomes enshrouded in ice, most of the photosynthesizers die. Once the Earth is completely covered with ice, too, the ice won’t melt on its own, because the Earth’s reflectivity — “albedo” — is now so high. Climatologists used to worry, therefore, about a “runaway glaciation,” in which the Earth would freeze over permanently. However, the freeze-over isn’t permanent. Plate tectonics continues its inexorable pace, driving volcanism at subduction zones, and hotspot volcanoes (like modern Hawaii or Yellowstone) also don’t care about the ice cover. With the photosynthesizers killed back, carbon dioxide from the volcanic activity would accumulate in the air. Eventually — maybe after a few tens of millions of years or so — the new greenhouse melts the ice. A global greenhouse, warm pole to pole — it’s paradise for those few surviving photosynthesizers, who now start growing furiously again….

Evidently the cycle occurred at least twice, and probably several times. How did metazoans stop the oscillations? Probably through the invention of grazing; if the photosynthesizers are eaten fast enough, they can’t draw down the CO2 fast enough. Although there have been severe glacial ages in the Phanerozoic, the Earth has never been completely ice-covered again.

_4. The colonization of the land (Silurian-Devonian, ca. 400 MYBP)._ The last biorevolution is the rapid colonization of the continents by plants, which exploded onto the land in late Silurian and early Devonian time. It’s now extremely hard to visualize a pre-Devonian landscape in a humid climate. We’re so conditioned to forests and prairies and jungles it’s not at all clear what the land looks like if there’s _nothing_ to grow, no matter how much rain. The colonization must have had major effects on such things as terrestrial weathering mechanisms, stream morphologies, and sediment flows. It seems, for example, that the meandering rivers so characteristic of modern humid climates were extremely rare before this time. With lots of sediment available and nothing to hold it down, rivers tend to develop a “braided” pattern instead, with many channels intricately dividing and rejoining. Braided drainage channels are now restricted to low-vegetation areas, such as deserts and the immediate vicinity of melting glaciers.

Several authors (Algeo et al., 1995) have recently suggested that plants’ colonization of the land also may have led to another of the Phanerozoic mass extinctions, the late Devonian or “F-F” extinction (Frasnian-Fammenian, from the two subdivisions of the Devonian period where it occurs). First, global cooling would result, not just from enhanced photosynthesis (in an area so far free of grazers!) but also from enhanced weathering, which would consume yet more CO2. Not only would the ensuing climate changes stress the biota, but these authors then go on to suggest that the F-F extinction followed from ocean anoxia. Algal blooms from enhanced nutrient runoff consumed dissolved oxygen in the oceans, just as happens on a small scale now when nutrients in sewage effluent cause “eutrophication” of lakes and reservoirs.

Eutrophication on a global scale … Once again, life creates its own crisis.

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*The Fifth Biorevolution — And Its Consequences*

This is the one that’s happening now. It’s the appearance of technical intelligence, and I suspect it’s another evolutionary wild card fully comparable with the previous ones. For one thing, this is the first innovation that will allow Earthly life to escape from its home planet, at least in a big way. Space colonies of all descriptions, terraformed worlds, space-borne life, and finally the colonization of worlds around other stars — it’s an utterly unprecedented increase of range for Earth-spawned life. Even the invasion of the land pales by comparison.

A further possibility is what Cathcart (1983) calls a “megastructural end to geologic time.” Perhaps humanity’s descendants will dismantle the Earth itself for structural material, to build a Dyson sphere or some such. Such megathink is hardly unfamiliar to the SF community!

But a nagging doubt is now probably stirring: just how robust is technical civilization, anyway? Perhaps it’s just a flash in the pan, destined to overshoot and collapse, of no more long-term significance than this year’s Super Bowl winner. Certainly there’s a huge mainstream literature that claims industrial civilization is headed off a cliff — though there may be more than a smidgen of wishful thinking in some of those scenarios. After all, some folks profess to _like_ the idea that civilization will collapse; cf. that metaphor above of “humanity as metastatic cancer.” Of course, the “post-collapse world” is a classic theme in SF, too.

In a now-classic study, Joseph Tainter (1988) studied the collapse of complex societies. In pre-industrial cultures, the ultimate energy supply comes from agriculture; that is, from sunlight converted into useful forms of chemical energy by natural, self-replicating nanosystems. Agriculture requires (well-watered) _soil_ [Deserts get lots of sunlight, but natural nanosystems (i.e., crops) can’t trap that energy because they require abundant water due to the way they’re structured. Water isn’t just a raw material for photosynthesis; it’s also a plant’s “blood,” needed to move nutrients and waste products around.]_;_ it requires _people_ to work that soil; and it requires _organization_ to build infrastructure, direct planting and harvesting, and so on. This is nothing more than the classic economic triad of land, labor, and capital. (Toward the dawn of industrialization in Europe and elsewhere, the energy supply was supplemented by such things as windmills and water wheels.) In Tainter’s view, societies become prone to collapse when investment in additional social complexity, to manage the agricultural system, yields diminishing returns. In other words, the societies become overwhelmed by their overhead. Tainter claims that industrial society has managed to stave off this fate, so far, by exploiting alternative energy sources, fossil fuels in particular — not, to be sure, an utterly unreasonable notion.

Nonetheless, I’ve recently grown suspicious of the notion that industrial civilization is all _that_ fragile. Ecology (the academic discipline, not the pop buzzword!) furnishes an interesting contrast: an ecological truism is that complex _ecosystems_ are more stable. It’s simple ecosystems that are most subject to wild fluctuations of overshoot and collapse: wasps feeding on beetles in grain elevators, lynxes feeding on hares.

So complexity can be a source of strength rather than weakness.

Why can this be? Because of the way the complexity is organized. In Tainter’s scenarios, complexity implies _centralized_ information overhead. In a traditional civilization, for example, you need accountants to count the harvest; tax collectors to seize a portion for the government; architects and builders to construct public works such as roads, irrigation works, and so forth; and soldiers to make sure the peasants follow orders. And, last but not least, you need some sort of organizing ideology, whether religion (many examples), nationalism (cf. Rome), or whatever. Priests, astrologers, or other such specialists may even have to decide when to plant and when to harvest. The late Roman Empire fell in the west, in Tainter’s view, because the agricultural base could no longer support the infrastructure of empire. In some cases, landowners and peasants even welcomed the barbarians as a relief from crushing taxes!

Furthermore, all this activity is largely if not completely centrally directed. Sure, the (say) proconsul of a province had a great deal of local authority; but he nonetheless had to report to the Emperor, and execute the orders returned.

Ecosystems (and, I suspect, modern civilization) aren’t organized like that. They’re not a hierarchy but a web. It’s the difference between the centralized computer systems of not so long ago and the Internet. Information doesn’t merely flow upward from local authorities to the center, and then back in the form of commands or directives. Kazillions of feedback loops transmit information sideways, downward, upward, every which way. Consider a market economy: prices, of course, are information signals about relative scarcity and abundance, and they’re not set by any central authority. They’re epiphenomena that result from lots of individual transactions. The mass media (and not-so-mass media, e.g., trade journals) not only disseminate information downward but also receive it upward; and that in turn influences the actions of the leaders as well as the mass of citizenry. Even elections can be regarded as a mechanism by which the leaders receive feedback(!) from that mass of citizens. Tainter acknowledges that participatory societies may have evolved as one response to forestall collapse; by providing the “masses” with a bigger stake in the system, they’re more likely to actively support it rather than cut their losses.

Perhaps the Soviet Union provided an example of Tainter collapse of an industrial society. A highly hierarchal, inflexible, centralized organization that suppressed information flows: as many have noted, it paid the price for that inflexibility (see Shane, 1994, for example).

Another weakness of the Tainter thesis is that it’s highly linear. To use an overworked word, it ignores synergies among different activities in a highly complex industrial society. For example, he presents data suggesting that there are at present diminishing returns on research and development; but he ignores the fact that research ramifies in unexpected ways. A modern automobile contains dozens of computer chips; but automotive manufacturers didn’t invest in the R&D to invent those chips! Microchips were developed for very different purposes, using very different sources of funding; but once developed, they proved to have a staggering number of applications — as is hardly news.

There’s nothing new here, either. Steam engines were invented to pump water out of mines, not to revolutionize transportation — but that was a far more important consequence. (_Analog_ readers, of course, are well aware that research pays off in utterly unexpected ways.)

Christensen (1997) even speaks of “disruptive technologies”: technologies originally restricted to a niche market, where they quietly improve until the point they can “come out of left field” and displace established technologies in established applications. PCs supplanting mainframes is a familiar example. A less familiar one is in excavation equipment. Power shovels and such used to be driven with cables, a highly mature technology. Hydraulic excavators were weak and unreliable, although they potentially offered distinct advantages in safety, flexibility, and ease of maintenance. So, for many years hydraulic excavators were restricted to niche markets, such as residential construction. As hydraulics improved, however, their manufacturers realized that the large “traditional” excavation markets were now accessible; and so they invaded them in a big and profitable way. Conversely, few of the companies that had made cable-based excavators survived this technological transition.

Of course, all this implies that science-based technology is critical to the health and survival of industrial civilization. It ensures that alternatives are available and that re-invention of infrastructure can continually occur. Railroads can boom, then bust, and then even be torn up; a frenzy of highway building can then follow, to slack off in its turn; copper wire can be laid for telephone service, then be replaced by fiber-optic cable (the latter often following railroad grades or highways!); a power distribution grid can be built at great expense, perhaps in turn to be “obsoleted” by cheap photovoltaics or fuel cells….

And so forth and so on. By contrast, a preindustrial “hydraulic” (i.e., irrigation-based) civilization, once it’s irrigated all it can irrigate, has painted itself into a corner. It can’t suddenly start investing in solar power instead, particularly with no clear idea of what “energy” is or how it’s critical in maintaining a society! Once the traditional agricultural route to energy is exhausted, that’s it.

To be sure, _paleo_technical civilization — the one we’re living in now — probably isn’t very robust because its resource base, fossil fuels used pathetically inefficiently as _heat_, is seriously unsustainable. (See “Beyond Prometheus,” _Analog_, Dec. 1993.) But alternative energy sources are certainly abundant; heck, we _live_ next to a star putting out 4 x 1026 watts! It’s just a matter of directing some of that R&D.

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*A Cautionary Note*

And all that said, though, it doesn’t _hafta_ happen. The Fifth Biorevolution might fizzle. The first four biorevolutions also indicate that life can stumble around quite a bit in finding and elaborating that “next step.” It’s easy to imagine settings in which (say) the “invention” of photosynthesis _destroys_ the global environment — for example, if volcanic action wasn’t vigorous enough to replenish the CO2 photosynthesizers destroyed. Maybe this happened to Mars: it froze up permanently once photosynthesizers began drawing down the CO2. Perhaps the planet’s current red color isn’t all a result of oxygen released from water molecules split with solar UV. Maybe some of the iron oxides reflect an ancient — and aborted — photosynthetic bloom, BIF writ large across the whole planet. (Conversely, maybe Venus arrived in _its_ present hellish state because photosynthesizers never arose; and so CO2 couldn’t be sequestered away fast enough.)

Maybe the exhaustion of fossil fuels will do us in after all. Back in the 1980s there was talk of a “millennium project,” a demonstration solar power satellite by the year 2000. Well, 2000 has come and gone, global oil production is likely to peak within this decade, and we _still_ don’t have an SPS — it’s not an encouraging development. If there’s a mad scramble to replace fossil fuels over the next few decades, as is increasingly likely, the collateral damage to the biosphere is likely to increase. Species preservation will not be a priority.

It’s particularly disheartening because, unlike the instigators of those earlier biorevolutions, human beings are not merely mechanical agents. We can foresee the consequences of actions, and take steps to ameliorate them; we can also judge from the historical and geologic record what has happened in the past, and use it as a guide to the future. With modern information technology, we even have the capability of determining the results of our actions in some detail. With all those advantages, it would be a sad comment on humanity if the Fifth Biorevolution peters out in unmitigated disaster, particularly after having caused so much damage.

We can even minimize the collateral damage. We don’t _have_ to drive so many species to extinction. From enlightened self-interest if nothing else, having a larger reservoir of genetic variability for the future, for that off-planet expansion, would be valuable. But, of course, that’s a shallow view: what makes intelligence an experiment worth preserving is that esthetic and moral considerations also count.

Let’s make sure the Fifth Biorevolution _doesn’t_ fizzle. We owe it to ourselves, not to mention the rest of the biosphere.

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Copyright (C) 2004 by Stephen L. Gillett, Ph.D.

*Appendix:*

*The Phanerozoic Mass Extinctions.*

From oldest to youngest, these are:

_1. The end-Ordovician (ca. 450 million years before present (MYBP))._ This one may result from climate changes caused by continental drift. Major glaciation began in the great ancient southern continent of Gondwanaland, in what’s now the Sahara (!), causing catastrophic cooling of the oceans and also global sea-level drop. The presence of polar ice utterly reorganizes ocean circulation because cold water at the poles sinks, so that the deep ocean becomes very cold (as is the modern ocean, by the way).

This is also the first major glaciation in the Phanerozoic.

_2. The late Devonian or “F-F” (Frasnian-Fammenian, ca. 350 MYBP)._ As discussed in the text, this may be a consequence of the conquest of the land by plants.

_3. The end-Paleozoic extinction (ca. 245 MYBP)._ This is the “mother of all mass extinctions” in Erwin’s (1996) words. Perhaps up to 90% of then-extant species died. Several things apparently went wrong all about the same time. The continents all coalesced into the supercontinent Pangea, leading to ecosystem collapse even as sea level dropped to its lowest Phanerozoic level, which obliterated most of the previously abundant shallow marine environments. Oxidation of exposed organic matter may also have dropped atmospheric oxygen levels to the point that widespread anoxia occurred, at least in the oceans. To make matters worse, enormous eruptions of flood basalt in what’s now Siberia probably dumped vast amounts of greenhouse gases into the atmosphere….

This is an example of why most geologists think “Mother” Nature is an oxymoron.

_4. The late Triassic (“Norian”) extinction (ca. 210 MYBP)._ A paleontologist friend of mine calls this major extinction the “double whammy,” because it came so soon(!) after the end-Paleozoic catastrophe. It was just possibly caused by impact. The Manicouagan crater in northern Quebec, about 100 km across, is about the right age.

And, of course:

_5. The Cretaceous-Tertiary (K-T) extinction (ca. 65 MYBP)._ As _Analog_ readers are well aware, this is now widely thought to result from a gigantic impact in Yucatan (see “Chicxulub: The Smoking K-T Gun?”, _Analog_, March 1992). It’s now also evident, though, that lots of organisms were already in decline, due to climate changes caused by shifting continental positions. So the impact was a _coup de grace_.

*References Cited:*

Algeo, Thomas J.; Berner, Robert A.; Maynard, J. Barry; Scheckler, Stephen E.; 1995, “Late Devonian Oceanic Anoxic Events And Biotic Crises: ‘Rooted’ in The Evolution of Vascular Land Plants?”, _GSA Today_, 5, 47 ff.

Cathcart, R.B., 1983, “A Megastructural End to Geologic Time,” _J. Brit. Interplan. Soc._, 36, 291-297.

Christensen, Clayton M., 1997, _The Innovator’s Dilemma: When New Technologies Cause Great Firms to Fail,_ Boston: Harvard Business School Press, 225 p.

Erwin, Douglas H., 1996, “The Mother of Mass Extinctions,” _Sci. Am._, 272(1), 72.

Hern, Warren M., 1993, Roundtable: “Is Human Culture Carcinogenic For Uncontrolled Population Growth and Ecological Destruction?”, _BioScience_, 43(11), 768.

Hoffman, P.F.; Kaufman, A.J.; Halverson, G.P.; Schrag, D.P., 1998, “A Neoproterozoic Snowball Earth,” _Science_, 281(5381), 1342-44.

Mojzsis, S.J.; Arrhenius, G.; McKeegan, K.D.; Harrison, T.M.; Nutman, A.P.; Friend, C.R.L., 1996, “Evidence For Life on Earth Before 3,800 Million Years Ago,” _Nature_, 384(6604), 55-9.

Shane, Scott, 1994, _Dismantling Utopia: How Information Ended the Soviet Union_, Ivan R. Dee, Chicago: 325 pp.

Tainter, Joseph A., 1988, _The Collapse of Complex Societies_, Cambridge; New York: Cambridge University Press, 250 pp.

Ward, Peter Douglas, 1994, _The End of Evolution: On Mass Extinctions and the Preservation of Biodiversity_, New York: Bantam Books, 301 p.

(What Ward calls the “third event” I’m calling the sixth extinction. He mentions the other mass extinctions [and they show up nicely in his figure on p. 21], but he focuses just on the end-Paleozoic and Cretaceous-Tertiary events, evidently for dramatic effect.)

*About the Author:*

Till recently, Steve Gillett was a research professor at the Mackay School of Mines, University of Nevada, Reno, where he’d worked on Paleozoic paleomagnetism, lunar resources, and seismic risk at Yucca Mountain, Nevada, the proposed high-level nuclear waste repository. He also taught intro geology classes, including one on planetary geology. He is now involved in several start-up ventures involving applications of molecular nanotechnology in the environment and resources. He has a white paper on this topic online at the Foresight Institute (www.foresight.org). His book, _World-Building_, a how-to guide to designing a planet, was published by Writer’s Digest Press in spring 1996. He has also written fiction, often in collaboration. Gillett has a B.S. in geology from Caltech and a Ph.D. from SUNY Stony Brook.

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CH007

*The Alternate View*: Problem Is…?

Jeffery D. Kooistra

Where will new Science Fiction readers come from?

Given how hyper-saturated modern popular culture is with the (stereotypical) trappings of science fiction, it is doubtful that the average adult will ever feel any need to seek out Science Fiction as literature. Simply channel-surfing through the stations available on any cable or satellite affiliate in the country, at any time of day, will provide the average man or woman with his daily dose of robots, monsters, spaceships, exotic beings, futuristic or horrific settings, and what have you. Nowadays, science fiction (lower case), in some form or other, is impossible to escape.

This isn’t a bad thing. I’ve wanted to see _The Lord of the Rings_ brought properly to the big screen for a long time, and Peter Jackson and company have pretty much done this. Purists may complain, but for the average Joe who never read the books in the first place, the movies are a wonderful means to be exposed to Tolkien’s vision. Problem is, most of those viewers will never go on to read the books. Also, I find it delightful that the various science channels can transport me through time to science-fictional worlds loaded with dinosaurs fighting and biting each other better than I could ever have imagined in my youthful fantasies. Problem is, why would anyone read stories about dinosaurs when he can watch what looks like the real thing on TV?

Now don’t go running off to send me an indignant e-mail answering that last question — I already know the answer. Problem is, those of us who already know the answer are already readers of SF, and have been since we were kids. We discovered that Science Fiction filled a void in our lives that “real life” couldn’t, and we discovered this early on. But how is the child of today to even recognize such a void, or for that matter, can such a void even exist today, when cartoons and video games and the movies are so soaked in the stage props of science fiction?

We’ll get to that in a minute.

My biggest self-indulgence of late has been to collect old library copies, usually hardcovers, of the Science Fiction books I read as a kid. Sometimes I prefer the paperback if it has special significance (like the Groff Conklin anthology discussed below). The idea is to recapture the experience of that first reading. I like the smell of those old library books; I don’t care if some pages are a little ripped, or if the call numbers are still on the spine. (I will admit to being annoyed by seeing “Discard” stamped inside the front cover — what fools were responsible for discarding such treasures?) Though I can’t relive the original sense of wonder those books brought, I can enjoy the memory of it.

So what are some of these books that forever made me a fan, not just of things science-fictional, but also of Science Fiction itself?

_The Wonderful Flight to the Mushroom Planet_ by Eleanor Cameron first caught my eye sometime around fifth grade, I think. I remember that a girl in my class did an oral book report on it, and once I heard the words “flight to” and “planet,” I knew this was my kind of book.

_Mushroom Planet_ is actually the first in a five-book series, the others being (in both publication and timeline order) _Stowaway to the Mushroom Planet_, _Mr. Bass’s Planetoid_, _A Mystery for Mr. Bass_, and _Time and Mr. Bass_. I only knew about the first two when I was a kid, and having reread them just recently, I think these two carry the lion’s share of the magic. (I did discover the third book when I was still technically a kid, but I only discovered the last two books last year. Don’t get me wrong — the last three are still each an interesting read. They’re just not as wonderful as the first two.)

_Mushroom Planet_ is as delightfully improbable as a great deal of ‘30s and ‘40s era SF. It begins with an ad in a newspaper asking for a boy to build a rocket and bring it to one Tyco M. Bass at 5 Thallo Street. This fires the imaginations of David Topman, age eight, and his friend Chuck Masterson, and they build a rocket, or at least its shell. Now, anyone who has had access to eight-year-old boys knows the chances of them completing anything on their own are about nil. But Eleanor Cameron had an eight-year-old of her own once, and so she adds in some “magic” that has the boys work harder than ever before and with a sense of urgency the likes of which they’ve never known.

They bring their rocket to Mr. Bass’s house, a round home with an observatory on top, which makes it look rather like a mushroom. Mr. Bass turns out to be a quintessential lone-genius-type scientist. He is ecstatic with the rocket the boys bring him. Indeed, due to that magic, it is far better than anything real boys would have produced. He goes about installing the engines (which run on a secret fuel he made himself), and paints the rocket with a special sealant (made from a formula only he knows), and makes the rocket spaceworthy.

Mr. Bass has a mission for the boys. He’s discovered a new planet, or rather, another moon of the Earth, which he has named Basidium. How did it go unnoticed all these years when it only orbits 50,000 miles out? Well, to see it, Mr. Bass needed to invent the Stroboscopic Polaroid Filter, and once he did, he found the Mushroom Planet right away. He needs for the boys to visit the planet immediately, for he has an intuition that the people who live there are in dire straits. He’s confident that David and Chuck, somehow or other, will go there and save the day.

And they do, but I don’t want to give the whole thing away. Suffice to say, though, that I checked that book out quite a few times — the Mushroom Planet was one place I wanted to revisit again and again.

Another book I remember vividly, and eventually tracked down once used book searches on the Internet became easy, is _The Beyond_ by Jean and Jeff Sutton. This is something of a mystery story. The Federation police have rounded up the telepaths in the galaxy and exiled them to various concentration planets, one of them Engo. But a rumor springs up that amongst the telepaths of Engo is a “beyond,” a person who can do telekinesis. Alek Selby goes to investigate this rumor, and finds out along the way that he is a telepath himself. He eventually helps the exiles on Engo as they escape to a planet in the Magellanic Clouds via teleportation.

What originally attracted me to the book was its garish cover. A huge orange moon hangs in the sky, and there are people being chased by others along a cracked, Monument-valley landscape, as a really, really cool spaceship hangs in the sky. The ship had a pointed ellipsoid main body, some short wings attached to the stern, and on the ends of the wings, cigar-shaped outrigger rockets even longer than the main body of the ship. On the ship were glass domes and blisters through which you could see people watching the activity below.

But the story itself contained deeper mysteries. In _Mushroom Planet_, the reader is left with the mystery of just whom this Mr. Bass _really_ is — he blows away into the sky at the end of the story. _The Beyond_ has wheels within wheels, with people who are not whom they seem to be, discovering they can do things even they never suspect they could.

One glorious day in Junior High, my English teacher Mrs. Frens got in a shipment of paperbacks. No treasure chest ever held gold or jewels enough to equal the value of that box of books. It contained a wide assortment of titles from most genres, but there was Science Fiction in there. There was H.G. Wells’s _The War of the Worlds_. There was _The Mysterious Island_ by Jules Verne. And there was a Groff Conklin-edited anthology called _Great Stories of Space Travel_.

With the possible exception of Alfred Bester’s _The Stars, My Destination_, nothing science-fictional means more to me that that little Tempo Books paperback, with the title printed against a purpley-pink background on top, and a rather puffy-looking rendition of the Milky Way on the bottom. Inside were stories by Lester del Rey, Jerome Bixby, Ray Bradbury, Jack Vance, A. E. Van Vogt, Murray Leinster, Damon Knight, Arthur C. Clarke, Isaac Asimov, Poul Anderson, and Eric Frank Russell (and, I might add, seven of those stories were from the pages of this magazine, back in her _Astounding_ days). The one glaring omission from this list is Heinlein, but by the early ‘70s, he was pretty hard to miss elsewhere, so it was an omission easily made up for.

And what stories they were. The puns in Bixby’s “The Holes Around Mars,” and the shaggy-dog humor of Russell’s “Allamagoosa.” The mind-expanding vision of Van Vogt’s “Far Centaurus,” and the air of the utterly alien in Knight’s “Cabin Boy.” The creepy horror of Clarke’s “A Walk in the Dark,” and the poignancy (unworkable orbital mechanics notwithstanding) of Bradbury’s “Kaleidoscope” (wherein an astronaut returns to Earth as a shooting star, which I couldn’t help but recall as I watched the disastrous reentry of the Space Shuttle _Columbia_).

Ahhhhhh … the memories, the memories.

Was there something extra special about these particular books that made me a fan? No, they were just good. Would they still have done the trick if I’d been born thirty years later? I think so, and here’s why.

It’s not like my own youth wasn’t saturated with science-fictional props. I had several battery-operated robots. I had a spaceman set with guys in spacesuits operating missile launcher trucks. My lunch box was covered with spacemen and spaceships. My favorite toys were the Major Matt Mason toys. I had model dinosaurs, and futuristic toy guns, and a plastigoop mold set for making miniature monsters.

Science fiction was also prevalent on TV. One of my favorite TV shows was _Lost in Space_ (Okay, it had a flying saucer in it, and the first episode premiered when I think I was six). Almost every episode of _Voyage to the Bottom of the Sea_ was science fiction. There was _Star Trek_. For time travel buffs, there was _The Time Tunnel_. Anthology SF was available to all on TV via _The Twilight Zone_ and _The Outer Limits_. There was _Bewitched_. There was _I Dream of Jeannie_. For cartoons, I always watched _Space Ghost_, _The Fantastic Four_, and _Jonny Quest._

Nevertheless, I found Science Fiction, or maybe it found me. We fans always were a pretty select lot, not to be grouped with average Joes or Janes. So where will new Science Fiction readers come from? Same place as always. They’ll gravitate toward good Science Fiction if we make it available, and they, too, will make memories to last a lifetime.

— Jeffery D. Kooistra

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CH008

*The Reference Library*

Reviews by Tom Easton

*Powers of Two*

Tim Powers

NESFA Press, $24.00, 292 pp.

(ISBN: 1-886778-51-5)

It’s January as I write this, which means I’m just back from Arisia and Boskone is just around the corner. Arisia’s guest of honor was Tim Powers, the deservedly popular writer of science fiction and fantasy novels, often with an occult flavor.

Boskone celebrates its guests of honor with books from NESFA Press. Arisia does likewise for the first time with *Powers of Two*, which returns to print Tim Powers’ first two novels, first published by the late and unlamented Laser Books. _The Skies Discrowned_ is a tale of survival and the pursuit of vengeance on a world where space travel is routine, guns are rare, and swords are the weapon of choice. _An Epitaph in Rust_ deals with crisis and riot in a grim future Los Angeles. Both show the promise of future success and are sinewy, entertaining adventures in their own right.

The first, Powers reveals in his introduction, saved him from a career teaching creative writing.

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*The Hunters of Pangaea*

Stephen Baxter

NESFA Press, $25.00, 362 pp.

(ISBN: 1-886778-49-3)

The celebration tome for Stephen Baxter, Boskone’s Guest of Honor, is also at hand. It’s *The Hunters of Pangaea*, a collection of nineteen short stories (including two published here for the first time) and five essays that amply explain why he was chosen. Several of the stories presage novels such as _Raft_. All are well worth reading.

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*Forge of Heaven*

C. J. Cherryh

EOS, $24.95, 405 pp.

(ISBN: 0-380-97903-9)

C. J. Cherryh’s _Hammerfall_ gave us a desert world threatened by the aftermath of a long-gone war. Proponents of nanotechnology and human modification (the Movement) had been beaten by the alien ondat, the purity-obsessed folk of Earth and the Inner Worlds, and the more pragmatic Outsiders. But one world remained, where a Movement immortal, Ila, had seeded nanisms and people. And Marak Trin Tain was being drawn eastward by voices and visions that proved to be due to a new breed of nanotech designed to pull people into a refuge where they might survive the ondat-induced bombardment of the planet by asteroids. The ondat don’t like the Movement and its works! But Outsider humans have negotiated a compromise by which they will be permitted to save as many of the people as possible and try to prove that a contaminated world can heal.

The tale was a dramatic race against catastrophe, and I wondered when I reviewed it in October 2001 what Cherryh might do for a sequel. Now, in *Forge of Heaven*, she provides the answer. The time is ages later. Concord Station orbits the hammered world. Outsiders use the nanotech-based “tap” as a means of communication amongst each other and as a way to maintain contact with Marak (he too is now immortal) and others down below. An Earth-provided governor, Setha Reaux, presides over infrastructure and trade. An Outsider chairman, Antonio Brazis, runs the Planetary Office that handles contact with the world below. Individual “taps” work for the PO and in shifts track every move of Marak and others. An ondat observer, Kekellen, occupies a special enclave, sends robots out to explore and retrieve goodies that catch its eye, and scares the dickens out of humans because the ondat have the weaponry to destroy human civilization, are quick to take offense, and are very difficult to communicate with.

Procyon is one of Marak’s taps, chosen by Marak himself. Fascinated by and committed to his work, he quite resents it when an unscheduled Earth ship arrives bearing an ambassador, Andreas Gide, who claims that Movement tech is somehow being smuggled offworld, announces he is there to stop it, and insists on interviewing Procyon. The boy is pulled off duty just when Marak is getting into a jam down on the surface, and after an inadequate briefing must go to Gide’s quarters to face the strange device that Gide cannot leave (Horrors! He might get contaminated!). Unfortunately, when he opens the door to leave, someone fires a missile which breaches Gide’s containment and Procyon flees, confused well beyond what one might expect.

What’s going on? Reaux suspects a plot to trap Gide on Concord so he can set up a competing Earth-based power. He sends Kekellen a call for help. And then the tap goes wild. Something quite weird and unprecedented is happening!

Not that that’s all. There’s Marak’s adventure down below. There’s Reaux’s teenage daughter, who chooses just now to rebel against parent-imposed conformity and run away to the glamorous world of the Trend (where Procyon’s sister is a major figure). There is politics galore, in a vein familiar to readers of Cherryh’s _Foreigner_ trilogy, though the ondat are a stranger breed than the atevi.

There is also a happy reader. Spend your money. You’ll be glad you did.

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*White Devils*

Paul McAuley

TOR, $25.95, 464 pp.

(ISBN: 0-765-30761-8)

Genetic engineering, which Paul McAuley calls “gengineering” (a contraction I have long thought inevitable), scares people. It is perhaps the technology that most threatens to put the power to do war-scale damage to people, nations, and the environment in the hands of individual terrorists, fanatics, and madmen. Some fear that, applied to people, it will turn us into monsters. Some fear that (mad) scientists will make mistakes. More noise is made by activists who fear that gengineering will get out of control and unleash plagues of superweeds, will poison people with unsuspected “unnatural” toxins, or will give megacorporations patent control over the living world and destroy the world’s poor (see Jerry Cayford, “Breeding Sanity into the GM Food Debate,” _Issues in Science and Technology_, Winter 2004). Those concerned about rationality fear that fear of gengineering could make us respond to a new but natural disease (think of the 1918 flu, or Mad Cow Disease, or AIDS, or Ebola) with a leap to the conclusion that someone is to blame, followed by immediate over-reaction and the destruction of nations (think of what we have done to Iraq out of fear of more conventional weapons of mass destruction).

It’s all there in McAuley’s *White Devils*. The background is disaster: The “Black Flu” swept across the world some years before the tale. Governments assumed it was a gengineered plague and attacked the apparent source in Africa. The results included the release of the “plastic disease” (a virus that turns tissue to polymer) from a bombed lab. Now Africa no longer has a population problem, but the colonialists are still at it: The megacorp Obligate, which makes a very big thing of how green it is, has bought the Congo and is busily eliminating gengineered creatures (such as butterflies with logos on their wings) and turning natural rainforest nuts, oils, and saps into product. They also use a mind engineering technology to turn all their employees into happy members of the corporate family.

That technology was developed by Matthew Faber, who now occupies an isolated island with the Gentle People (result of an attempt to recreate Australopithecines). His wife stole the tech when she left him to join Obligate. And here is Nicholas Hyde, part of a team employed by the humanitarian agency Caritas. They are studying the site of a Rwandan-style massacre, collecting bones and DNA and other evidence, preparing to speak for the dead. A call comes in reporting a fresh massacre, and they scramble. But hardly are they on the scene before white-skinned, toothy demons erupt from the brush, kill most of the team, and devour their guts and brains. Nick escapes and soon finds government soldiers telling him he did not see White Devils. They were really just child soldiers. No monsters, not really.

Nick doesn’t like the cover-up (partly because he has a pretty well-covered secret of his own). So he starts pushing. Soon more people are dead and, accompanied by Matthew Faber’s daughter Elspeth, he is on the track of a secret lab deep in the heart of the Dead Zone. But so is the crazed religious zealot, assassin, monster-slayer, and eco-wrecker Cody Corbin. In due time, there will be a rousing climax.

The book is billed as a biotech thriller, and so it is. I would like to be able to say it is quite unlikely, but so many of the pieces are straight out of the headlines that I cannot. As is McAuley’s way in such previous books as _The Whole Wide World_ (reviewed here in the October 2002 issue) and _The Secret of Life_ (November 2001), he is quite unreasonably plausible. He remains concerned with the commercialization of science, and as I said about _World_, “By the time you read this review, some of his tale may already have made the papers.”

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*Alphabet of Thorn*

Patricia A. McKillip

Ace, $22.95, 314 pp.

(ISBN: 0-441-01130-6)

It was a pleasure to spend a few evenings with Patricia A. McKillip’s *Alphabet of Thorn*. Not only is she a gracefully transparent writer of young-adult fantasies, but her tales are invariably charming. This one is no exception. Here is the Kingdom of Raine, whose past rulers have conquered a dozen neighboring realms, now known as the Twelve Crowns of Raine. The palace is carved into a mountainside, delving so deep that rooms and hallways can be forgotten for generations. A coronation is imminent, though the queen-to-be is a mere slip of a girl without much interest in the royal role.

Meanwhile, deep in the bowels of the royal library, Nepenthe, an orphan taken in as is the librarians’ custom and trained to translate the myriad tongues of the world, past and present, has been brought a book whose letters look like fish. She has never seen such a thing before, but her talent is up to the task. Then a fellow transcriptor asks her company on an excursion to the Floating School (which any fan of Harry Potter must love). They are to pick up a book, which the school’s mages cannot translate. As they approach on horseback, her companion balks, for the school terrifies her. Nepenthe goes on alone, and when Bourne, one of the School’s young students, hands her the book, she opens it to find an alphabet of thorns. Instantly, it speaks to her; when she returns to her companion she claims the mages changed their minds and denies having the book. It will soon be her secret obsession.

What is going on? The book proves to be the tale of Axis, an ancient king, and his conquests, written by his lover, Kane, a sorceress of such power that no realm can stand before her. Mysteriously, many of the realms they conquered did not exist until centuries after their time. But Nepenthe’s friend Laidley (who is rather jealous of her growing relationship with Bourne) does a bit of research and finds that no one ever recorded their death.

Meanwhile, the young queen is crowned. The delegations of the Twelve Crowns linger, gauging her youth and inexperience. Her advisers worry that one or more will rebel, attack, and lay waste to them all. Bourne’s uncle, who sent the boy to the Floating School in hope of developing a weapon, turns out to be an active plotter. The Sleeper, ancient ruler entombed in a cavern beneath the palace, awakens to warn of danger but can only say “Thorns!”

And Nepenthe’s translation continues apace, revealing ancient hearts, minds, and schemes. The tale told in thorns develops in parallel with McKillip’s own until catastrophe looms.

What saves the day? The queen has little interest in the royal role. Nepenthe quite loves working with books. Bourne is happy as a student. The secret of happiness is not, says McKillip, to be at the center of great events, not to be a mover and shaker, but rather to be deeply involved in smaller things.

I was quite pleased with the ending.

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*Glass Dragons*

Sean McMullen

TOR, $27.95, 495 pp.

(ISBN: 0-765-30797-9)

If you thought that Sean McMullen was capable of no more than tales of great calculors with human beings used as components that we today think of in electronic terms, take a look at his Moonworlds Saga. It’s sheer fantasy, for it features sorcerers who can wrap themselves in strands of etheric force so thoroughly that they become as of glass, and if they take the form of dragons, well…

You get *Glass Dragons*, sequel to _Voyage of the Shadowmoon,_ which begins as several sorcerers begin the rebuilding of the Dragonwall, a world-girdling etheric structure founded on the ruins of a predecessor which made men as gods but was cataclysmically destroyed thousands of years before. The ostensible aim is to tame the enormous storms that followed the destruction of the island realm of Torea. Yet the sorcerers seem to have other aims in mind as well. Certainly they have scores in plenty to settle.

So an emperor is assassinated. The royal chief musician, Wallas, flees the blame and displays a much grander talent for lechery than for music, at least until he acquires a Willy with a bite. The sorceress Terikel, on a mission to halt or destroy the Dragonwall, staggers off a ship so battered by Torean storms that it barely survived its crossing of the Strait of Despair. So does Andry Tennoner, press-ganged as a carpenter’s assistant, but now — despite falling in with the lecherous Wallas — free to develop his innocence into remarkable heroism. Here too are the ancient and chivalrous vampire, Laron, and his friend, the dangerous Velander, who drinks the blood of drunks and yearns to be alive once more.

Andry turns out to be an appealing chap. Women keep telling him he’d clean up well, though they tend to let Wallas have his way. The result is an interesting relationship with the ferrygirl who transports souls across the river — who has a tendency to abuse the spirits of those who tried to kill Andry before they died — and in due time an intriguing immunization against dragon-hunger. And when Andry and Velander grow affectionate (though they can’t do much about it — you really don’t want to get a vampire too excited, do you?), the result has a good deal to do with bringing the tale to a satisfying close.

As you might guess from my hints, McMullen has a great deal of fun here with low humor, but that is the flavor, not the theme. The tale moves briskly and amusingly. I enjoyed it, and I was not disappointed to note that at the end there seems to be sufficient hook upon which to hang a sequel or two.

Enjoy!

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*The Hunger of Time*

Damien Broderick and Rory Barnes

E-Reads, $17.95, 254 pp.

(ISBN: 0-7592-5512-1)

Some time back, agent Richard Curtis founded his own publishing outfit — E-Reads (www.ereads.com). Its chief mission was to make older books available once more in both electronic and print form, but it also is “committed to introducing new titles by established writers and talented newcomers.” If you haven’t heard of it here before, that’s because they’ve never sent me anything.

But now here’s one of those “new titles,” *The Hunger of Time*, by Damien Broderick and Rory Barnes. The mode is a bit retro, it owes more than a little to honored predecessors, and the characters are rather cartoony, but it’s perfectly readable. The protagonist, Natalie, is home after the collapse of a romance. Her father Hugh is a bit of a mad scientist, muttering about the coming disaster and pottering about the garage workshop until one day — thoroughly locked inside — he manages to vanish for almost a month. And then a new plague hits the headlines. Hugh and his wife Grace bundle Natalie and the dog — but not Nat’s sister Suzanna, who cuts and runs — into the garage and through what looks for all the world like a massive boulder. But it’s a 6-brane vacuole, and at the press of a button, it’s a year later.

Zanna’s still there, but older, tougher, and armed with a crossbow. The world is ruled by fear, and the Pox Cops panic at the sight of strangers. The family barely makes it back into the garage in time to press the button again. Then it’s a fifteen-year hop, and there’s no one around at all. Did the plague get everyone? Next hop is 200 years, and where the house used to be there’s a giant statue of Zanna — which moves, and talks, and scares the billy-be out of everyone. Except that it’s benign. The Spike (discussed by Broderick elsewhere, and by Vinge as the Singularity) happened, and technology has gone berserk.

You get the picture. Hop by ever-longer hop, the family explores time all the way to the end and beyond. Omega Point, anyone? That’s passe, you know. No more Big Crunch. But perhaps there is still a way to seed a new universe.

Want to read it? You can find an excerpt on the E-Reads site. If you like that, you can buy a download immediately. For paper copies, go online to Amazon or Barnes & Noble.

What else does E-Reads have to offer? Under the sci-fi (sic — an agent should know better!) heading, you can find titles by Goldin, Effinger, Carver, Bear, Gunn, Leiber, Lynn, Moffitt, Tiptree, Coney, Silverberg, and more. Under “fantasy,” there are Leiber, Norman (yup — Gor novels), MacAvoy, Springer, and so on. There are also categories for mystery, horror, romance, historical, and so on.

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*The Rebellion of the Beasts or, The Ass Is Dead! Long Live the Ass!!!*

Leigh Hunt

Wicker Park Press, $21.95, 151 pp.

(ISBN: 0-89733-520-1)

Here’s something from Ye Olde Curiosity Shoppe: Leigh Hunt’s *The Rebellion of the Beasts or, The Ass Is Dead! Long Live the Ass!!!* Hunt is perhaps better known today for his verse, for you may have encountered “Jenny Kissed Me” in a college lit class. But he was also a social critic who anticipated Orwell’s _Animal Farm_ by over a century.

_Rebellion_, first published in 1825, tells the tale of a Cambridge student who discovers a potion that lets animals communicate. The result is rule by beasts, with the ass chief among them (the anti-monarchial flavor is hard to mistake; see the book’s subtitle!).

In his introduction, Douglas A. Anderson (scholar of Tolkien and fantasy) assures us that there is no reason to suspect that Orwell knew of this book, much less plagiarized the basic idea. Nor do we need to doubt his assurance, for Hunt’s target was European royalty, which at any time easily draws a cynical eye, while Orwell’s was Soviet Communism, and the animal fable has a very long history (which we can glimpse in Mother Goose, Grimm, and even Disney).

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*Greetings from Lake Wu*

Jay Lake, illus. Frank Wu

Wheatland Press, $19.95, 246 pp.

(ISBN: 0-9720547-2-3)

The author is Lake and the illustrator is Wu, so the book looks like a fat picture postcard and it’s called *Greetings from Lake Wu*. The contents are less cute, for Jay Lake publishes in such places as _Bones of the World_ and _Strange Horizons_. Yet I detect no sign of any incompetence that would bar him from more major markets. His skills are quite polished, and the reader has no trouble at all following him into Earths visited by an alien anthropologist who plays a flute made from a human thigh-bone, or plagued by Cavity the Clown, who comes to town to punish sins (until he encounters a true Innocent), or blessed by a boy who plots the precise angle he must run in order to fly just as in his dreams, or cursed by tall spirits, or haunted by the devil confined to a school bus, as long as the goats are properly sacrificed.

If there is a weak tale in the collection, it is the longest, “The Murasaki Doctrine,” in which the alien Segrethi descend unannounced from the sky to lay waste a colony world, but the doughty Wanda Murasaki survives the attack and goes on to play what strikes me as an unlikely role in their defeat.

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CH009

*Upcoming Events*

Compiled by Anthony Lewis

2-6 September 2004

NOREASCON 4 (62ndWorld Science Fiction Convention) at Sheraton Boston, Marriott, and Hynes Convention Center, Boston, MA. Guests of Honor: William Tenn, Terry Pratchett, Jack Speer, and Peter Weston. Registration until 31 July 2004: Attending USD180, Supporting USD35, Child USD105. This is the SF universe’s annual get-together. Professionals and readers from all over the world will be in attendance. Talks, panels, films, fancy dress competition — the works. Info: Noreascon 4, Post Office Box 1010, Framingham, MA 01701. FAX: (617) 776-3243; info@noreascon.org; www.noreascon4.org

10-12 September 2004

COPPERCON 24 (Arizona literary-oriented SF conference) at Embassy Suites Phoenix North, Phoenix, AZ. Guest of Honor: Alan Dean Foster. Artist Guest of Honor: Todd Lockwood. Local Author Guest of Honor: Catherine Wells. Music Guest: Leslie Fish. Registration: $35 until 27 August 2004, $40 at door. Info: CopperCon 24, Box 62613, Phoenix AZ 85082; (602) 973-2341; cu24@coppercon.org; www.coppercon.org.

17-19 September 2004

FOOLSCAP VI (Washington state SF conference) at Bellevue Hilton, Bellevue, WA. Guest of Honor: George R.R. Martin. Info: Foolscap, Box 2461, Seattle WA 98111-2461; (206) 938-2452; chair@foolscap.org; www.foolscap.org.

24-26 September 2004

FENCON (Dallas area SF conference) at Holiday Inn Select North Dallas, Dallas, TX. Guest of Honor: Larry Niven. Filk Guest of Honor: Michael Longcor. Fen Guest of Honor: Jim Murray. TM: Elizabeth Moon. Registration: $25 until 30 June 2004, $35 at door. Info: FenCon, Box 560576, The Colony, TX 75056-0576; info@fencon.org; www.fencon.org.

30 September-3 October 2004

ARCHON 28 (Illinois area SF conference) at Collinsville IL Gateway Center/Holiday Inn, Collinsville, IL. Guest of Honor: Alan Dean Foster. Artist Guest of Honor: Vincent DiFate. Gaming Guest of Honor: Shane Hensley. Costuming Guest of Honor: Jacqueline Ward. Fan Guest of Honor: Mike Glyer. TM: Ben Bova. Registration: $40 until 31 August 2004, $45 thereafter. Info: Archon 28, Box 8387, St. Louis MO 63132-8387; (636) 326-3026; archon_hotline@archonstl.org; www.archonstl.org/28.

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_Running a convention? If your convention has a telephone number, fax number, email address, or Web page URL, please let us know so that we can publish this information. We must have your information in hand SIX months before the date of your convention._

_Attending a convention? When calling conventions for information, do not call collect and do not call too late in the evening. It is best to include a S.A.S.E. when requesting information; include an International Reply Coupon if the convention is in a different country._

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CH010

*Upcoming Chats*

*I, Robot*

July 13 @ 9:00 P.M. EST

Cory Doctorow, Geoffrey A. Landis, and Wil McCarthy chat about robots and the fiction of Isaac Asimov.

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*Books for the Beach*

July 27 @ 9:00 P.M. EST

Sara Ash (Prisoner of the Iron Tower), Steven Erickson (Gardens of the Moon), Elizabeth Haydon (Elegy for a Lost Star), Alex Irvine (One King, One Soldier), and Tom Piccirilli (AChoir of Ill Children) chat about their hot new books.

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Go to www.scifi.com/chat or link to the chats via our home page (www.analogsf.com). Chats are held in conjunction with Asimov’s and the Sci-fi Channel and are moderated by Asimov’s editor, Gardner Dozois.

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CH011

*Brass Tacks*

Letters from Our Readers

Dear Stan,

It was great to see the article about Robert Winglee and his mini-magnetosphere plasma propulsion (“M2P2”) system [_Analog_, Jan/Feb 04 fact article]. As it happens, I was the first one to invite Bob to NASA — he visited NASA Glenn (then Lewis) back in 1997, when he was first developing his concepts, and I invited him to come give a lecture on his ideas for a seminar series I was running. The NASA Institute of Advanced Concepts (NIAC) also deserves a lot of credit for funding the M2P2 from the idea stage into a practical concept.

The relationship between the M2P2 sail concept and the magnetic sail proposed by Robert Zubrin and Dana Andrews (_Analog_, May 1992) ought to be clear to most readers. Winglee essentially came up with the idea of “inflating” a small magnetic field with a torus of ionized gas to make it a large magnetic field. The result is that a quite small magnet can sail on the same amount of solar wind as the many-kilometer superconducting loops proposed by Zubrin and Andrews.

The concept that I am intrigued by, however, is to go beyond just sailing through the solar system, and head for the stars. This might be done by combining a M2P2 sail concept with a particle beam. A practical interstellar system has been the holy grail of propulsion science for years. If you could focus a high-power particle beam onto a M2P2 sail, the beam could do the dual task of both providing the ionized gas to inflate the M2P2 sail, and simultaneously pushing on the sail. The result would be a true interstellar propulsion system, suitable for pushing small probes toward the stars at a small fraction of the speed of light.

Reference:

G. Landis, “Interstellar Flight by Particle Beam,” Space Technology & Applications International Forum Albuquerque NM, Feb. 2001. AIP Conference Proceedings Volume 552, pp. 393-396.

Geoffrey A. Landis

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Dear _Analog_,

The story “Weapons of Mass Distraction” by Richard A. Lovett in the Jan/Feb 2004 issue didn’t go far enough.

Already the prestigious IEEE, in it’s November 2003 issue, in a fact article called “Engineering Appearance,” described and assessed favorably the feasibility of visually and behaviorally profiling engineers!

Further, reportedly commercially-sold software for PCs — for automatic spam detection/deletion using Baysian filters with neuron net learning — had been reported as ditching 100 percent of all incoming email because over 90 percent of the email received had been identified by the PC user as spam. So the user reverted to manual spam deletion.

Hal Gale

_The author replies…_

How interesting! (And a bit scary.) So could we say that the neural net program “rediscovered” Sturgeon’s Law (“90 percent of everything is garbage”), then erred by figuring that the other 10 percent didn’t matter? That fits beautifully in the context of the story.

As for visual profiling software, when I wrote “Weapon of Mass Distraction” early in 2003, I knew I was dealing with presently feasible technologies. One of the adrenaline rushes of writing near-future stories is waiting out the publication delay, wondering whether, in the interim, some tech genius is going to convert your story from SF to mainstream.

Seriously, my experts tell me that pattern-recognition is increasingly frightening simply because our ability to design pattern-recognition software already outstrips our ability to determine whether those patterns *mean* anything.

Thanks for pointing out two really interesting tidbits of information!

Richard A. Lovett

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Dear _Analog_,

This is addressed to Grey Rollins, author of the novelette “Private Eyes” in the January/February 2004 issue.

On the first page, you have your main character state that all religions are tautologies in that they use circular logic to prove the existence of their god(s). This is not necessarily true of all religions, since not all religions are theistic, in that many don’t have a god(s). Other than this I really liked your story.

Stephen Charchuk

_The author replies…_

Ah … and just how many angels can dance on the head of a pin, anyway?

One of the salient characteristics about religion is its very inability to be pinned down. Put any ten people in a room and ask them to define religion and you’ll get twenty different definitions. Consensus on any but the most fundamental points will never be achieved. (The fact that they inevitably draw weapons and fall upon one another shortly thereafter is another topic for another day.) One thing that you’ll find in common though, is that the vast majority of people will insist that religion involves one or more deities. That someone might feel that they have a religion that doesn’t have a god is all just part of the fun. For my money, a religion that doesn’t include god(s) is more accurately defined as a philosophy.

Grey Rollins

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Dear Stan,

“Private Eyes” by Grey Rollins (January/February 2004 issue) contains a factual error. Synesthesia isn’t the replacement of one sensory mode by another, but the addition. For example, people who see music as colors still also hear it.

(See Sean Day, synesthesia researcher and synesthete: http://home.comcast. net/~sean.day/Synesthesia.htm)

Note that there’s at least one partial exception: human echolocation (“facial vision” is the term of art) can be sensed as touch, without conscious awareness of the echoes — which are usually below the human conscious-hearing threshold.

So, the story’s neurological rerouting of pain to pleasure isn’t really synesthesia.

Dan Goodman

_The author replies…_

I’m not clear on how Dan Goodman got the idea that naturally occurring synesthesia was supposed to be the wholesale replacement of one sense by another. Towards the bottom of page 50, left-hand column, Jack Sawyer says, “Hearing colors, smelling textures — crudely put, the senses are cross-wired so that synesthetes might not only hear a musical note, but associate it with a specific color, for instance.”

To hear a musical note and associate it with a color doesn’t imply the exclusion of either one.

To more clearly draw the distinction between the two, Bruce Masters then says, “…[Surgically-induced synesthesia is] only a rough approximation of naturally occurring synesthesia…”

For the purposes of the story, the surgically-induced version was never meant to be an accurate reproduction of the naturally-occurring kind. However, people frequently use a term for something that it is similar to, or perhaps in the idealistic sense, that it will someday become. As a concrete example, I just got power back after a severe ice storm. The “weather predictions” were, to say the least, inaccurate in the days leading up to the storm. Yet people still call them predictions … perhaps in the hope that one day the computer models will become accurate enough that the predictions will actually amount to something.

Hopefully, this will help clear up any confusion.

Grey Rollins

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Hi Stan,

A neuroscientist (or former neuroscientist) should never read a story involving neuroscience. Consequently, I generally avoid such stories. But I read and enjoyed Marie Ming’s “Swings” in the January/February issue. The story was nicely done, but quite dreadfully wrong in the details. I lost considerable tooth enamel — gritting one’s teeth is not recommended — when I read things like “ions of sodium chloride” and “lithium carbonate ions.” In aqueous solutions, these compounds dissolve into separate ions — in the case of sodium chloride, for example, sodium ions and chloride ions — each of which have different effects on the nervous system. Furthermore, if you want to talk about the size of ions in solution, you must consider their “hydrated” radius — that’s because in solution an ion binds to a number of water molecules (which are polar molecules and electrically attracted to an ion). Indeed, lithium may be a smaller atom than sodium but in solution it has a larger hydrated radius. Furthermore, the real reason that ion channels are selective for certain ions is because … no, forget the rest. Please don’t construe this as an attack on Ming’s fine story; neuroscientists are hard to please. (One of whom once dared to scientifically criticize one of _my_ stories — oh, the nerve of some people!)

Kyle Kirkland

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Dear_ Analog_,

Why not publish one book a year?

It’ll be fun, as a new subscriber, to watch this publication crash and burn right beneath my eyes.

Here’s an idea for money-making/cost-cutting: Have a centerfold, with a nude alien each month, uh, issue. Hell, I’d be willing to pose in the buff if it would get me more _covers_ a year.

What about the cover artists who’ll be getting one less loaf of bread?

That’s my rant, take it or leave it.

Have I mentioned I love the stories? And, of course, the cover art. Maybe trimming the number of issues down will keep those damn ads out of the mag.

Yes, that would make all this a little easier to bear.

Peace until war, war for peace,

Victor Olivas

PS. I hope the issues are printed on recycled paper.

_Your comments, even rants, are always appreciated. Actual constructive suggestions are appreciated even more, and if you ever think of one, I hope you’ll be sure to share it. A word of warning, though: coming up with one may require first learning something about the actual economics of magazine publishing._

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CH012

*In Times to Come*

Our October cover story could be considered a little something for the season. “Layna’s Mirror,” by Rajnar Vajra, starts out sounding decidedly odd, then reminds you more and more of things you thought you knew, and then reveals things about them that are not at all what you thought. As you’ve probably come to expect from Vajra, it’s colorful, thought-provoking, and full of surprises — and ideas.

Catherine H. Shaffer, who has already made quite an impression with her fact articles here, makes her fiction debut, and Mary A. Turzillo continues her tale of _An Old-Fashioned Martian Girl_. And this time the fact article comes from Laura M. Kelley, a writer new to our pages, offering a provocative expert view of the global implications of the AIDS epidemic — which are only partly medical.

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