THE CERTAINTY PRINCIPLE by Colin P. Davies Since Colin Davies’ last tale, “Babel 3000,” appeared in our March 2007 issue, his first collection of short stories, Tall Tales on the Iron Horse, has been published by Bewildering Press. Further details, including reviews and excerpts, can be found on his website at www.colinpdavies.com. While Colin’s new story reads like a thriller, it also explores some disturbing and complex moral issues that the future may bring our way. John Hale arrived at the Red Planet Low-Gravity Retreat on a warm sunny afternoon at the end of October, when the hills were brown and bleached with drought and rain was two weeks away. The bus ride from the zipper terminal in Aberystwyth had taken him through slums of steel shelters and gaunt glares—a fact not lost on him when he was welcomed at the gate by Madame Jones and her double-barreled shotgun. Bloodshot eyes peered out from under her white, wide-brimmed hat. “Please bring your bags through, Mr. Hale.” She kept the shotgun pointed at the street kids who had trailed John from the bus stop. The gang of pre-teens stood, wrapped in rags, atop the path that bridged the perimeter ring of super-cooled coils. Beyond them, tall conifers crowded in along the narrow lane where the bus slowly made its way back up the hill. “I don’t expect trouble, but it’s best to be prepared. My word, Mr. Hale! Just the one bag?” “You learn to travel light when you’re fifteen long years in the fleet!” He passed through the gateway and into the low-gravity field. He felt buoyant and his bag lost much of its weight. “I intended no criticism, Mr. Hale.” “Sorry—I’ve been having trouble adjusting to full gravity. I’m twice my ship weight outside that gate.” He noticed her features for the first time—the flushed face-lift that fixed her startled expression, her skin stretched tight over slate-sharp cheekbones, and the tumbling platinum curls that could only be a wig. He wondered at her simple gray Worker suit. Was it a statement about equal rights for the vat-born, or a poor attempt at humor at his expense? “I’ll take that into account, Mr. Hale. I’ve experienced the same on my trips into town.” “Do you welcome all of your guests personally?” “Only the ones that interest me.” With a kick, she closed and locked the gate. “This is the first time the navy has booked someone in, and paid up front.” “It was the least they could do, considering....” Lowering the shotgun, she peered up at him. “Considering?” “My service record.” His shoulders slumped. He was so tired. “Will you be returning to the navy after your rest?” There would be no returning from a dishonorable discharge—no matter how unjust the verdict. She was feigning ignorance through politeness or embarrassment. She didn’t look the sort to be embarrassed. He shrugged. Madame Jones set off down the gravel path through a garden lush with shrubs and green lawns. Sprinklers sent up glittering sprays and fat goldfish gleamed in an oval pond. John followed her past beds of vivid red geraniums and the occasional gnome in a space suit. The building they were headed toward was a colonial-style two-story mansion, with white walls and shingled roof. Red and white striped awnings shielded the windows. To the right of the path, visible through a trellis screen, John spotted a sleek maroon Porsche in the secure parking lot. He’d never seen the car before, but suspected a lingering scent of Chanel Charm and the presence of at least one Louis Armstrong file in the player. He would have put money on it. Madame Jones led the way into the shade of the veranda. She hung her hat on a post, walked to the reception foyer, and squeezed behind the desk, placing the gun underneath and out of sight. “The evening meal is at six. There’s a menu in your room. If you’ve any special requirements, give the kitchen a call. Breakfast is at seven. Now ... just a few details and then I’ll show you to your room.” She turned to a screen and brought up the registration page. “Everything is in order, Mr. Hale. How long will you be staying?” “You tell me.” “The navy paid for two weeks. Will you be leaving earlier?” “I have no idea.” She shook her head. “Next of kin?” She peered up through a hedge of thick eyelashes, as if wary of the answer. “I have nothing worth passing on.” John glanced around the room at the rust-colored drapes and framed prints of Martian landscapes. One wall was a full height screen showing a “live,” time-delayed image of a Martian sunrise. “Has a Ms. Chekhov—Sadie—arrived yet?” he asked. “I’m supposed to meet her here.” “Yes. Do you want me to tell her you’ve checked in?” “That won’t be necessary.” Of course Sadie would be here first. Wasn’t she always one step ahead of him? Back then, he’d found it endearing, until she’d taken that one step too far—right out of his life. Madame Jones cleared the screen and surveyed him, as though reassessing all her first assumptions. “I’ll show you to your room,” she said. * * * * John fell slowly onto the soft-sprung bed. He was exhausted, but knew he would have trouble sleeping. He hadn’t slept properly since the rescue. There was too much on his mind, too many images and sounds that woke him sweating and gasping for air. He gazed up at the luminaire over his head that emitted both apricot light and the harpsichord music of J.S. Bach. The reduced gravity was set to mimic Mars—and it was effective. He closed his eyes and imagined himself back there in Marineris Port, preparing his team to escort the documentary crew to the Plateau of Shapes, a startling wind-sculpted region of ice towers and tunnels located in the Ghost Mountains near the northern pole. The gravity fluctuation caught him by surprise. The bed pressed into his back—as though he was being sucked into the mattress—and then it was over. His body rose to rest lightly upon the patterned quilt. That was odd. He’d never known that to happen at a retreat before, and he’d stayed at more than he could remember. He waited uneasily for it to happen again, but the world remained steady. Sadie drifted through his mind. Why did she want to meet him again? It could only be bad news, or perhaps her unbalanced emotions had finally tipped the wrong way and she was here to strike a blow for the vat-born. Cupid’s bullet aimed straight for her lover’s heart. John stared at the light overhead. No ... Sadie was no assassin. A neurotic nightmare, perhaps, but what woman wasn’t? She might have sympathy for the vat-grown creatures, might even consider them human, but she would never kill for them. Anger hardened his jaw. How could a thing without parents, without brothers or sisters, be considered human? A clever machine ... an illusion! “Let it go,” he whispered. He was here to relax, to forget, at least for a while. He sighed. This was the most comfortable he’d felt since leaving orbit. He squeezed his eyes shut and let his tension fall away. There was no point trying to guess what she wanted. He’d find out soon enough. It was three days since he’d “gone heavy”—returned to Earth in the Redcap’s shuttle. Three days of aching muscles and sluggishness, as he was taken from one appointment to another. Three days of enduring the questions of reporters and the intrusion of the cameras, the anger of the righteous and the praise of bigots, until finally, his escort sent him out here. This Retreat was Heaven. Right now, he wanted to never leave. * * * * Sadie was beautiful. It annoyed John to admit it—he didn’t like to confirm anyone’s view of themselves. She appeared in the doorway to the busy dining room as he was waiting for a coffee from the vendamatic. She was wearing the cream blouse, russet jacket, and matching trousers that he had bought her during their stay-over in Rio. She headed for the coffee machine and he moved aside with no more greeting than a brief nod. She was a slim, tall woman, only slightly shorter than himself, and radiated a calculated chic that caused him a happy shudder of recollection. She selected her coffee, then turned to face him. “I’m glad you agreed to meet me.” “Why fight it? You always get what you want.” As an operative with Offworld Intelligence, she had the means to make things happen. She pouted moist scarlet. John took a sip of his coffee. “The Porsche ... I imagine that’s yours?” “You know me so well.” “If only that were true.” He glanced around the room. “Let’s find a table.” * * * * “How has it been?” Sadie asked. “Difficult.” John watched her eyes, hoping for a clue to her intentions, waiting for her to get to the point. “Maybe not as bad as I was expecting. The media don’t seem to know whether I’m a villain or a hero.” “And what do you think?” He smiled—the first in a long time. “I’ve asked myself that question so many times.” Sadie squeezed her plastic cup, watched the liquid rise to the rim. “What do you answer?” “It’s the wrong question. It’s all about circumstances. Things happen. We’re carried along. The river keeps on flowing and, no matter how hard we swim, we can never reach the banks.” Sadie touched his hand. “You should write that down.” John pulled his hand away and drained his cup. “You’re making fun of me.” “No. Believe me, I’m not. It wasn’t me that brought his team home from the crash on Planet Hell.” “Not everyone sees it that way.” A thudding sounded in the dining room. John flinched, then glared at an agitated diner who was hammering his fist on a table. “Are you okay?” Sadie asked. “As I’ll ever be.” She reached forward to touch his hair, but he moved back. “You’re grayer than I remember,” she told him. “Hardly surprising.” “So if it’s not villain or hero, John, what should the question have been?” He shrugged—not an answer, but an attempt to release the tension in his shoulders. “Could I have done otherwise?” “Are you asking me? Or is that the question?” Sadie finished her cup and placed it inside John’s. She slid it in and out, never taking her eyes off his face. “I have another question.” “You don’t need to ask it.” He held her gaze. He wanted her to believe what he said. “My feelings about you ... my anger, frustration ... my disappointment, did not influence my decision in the slightest.” Her tight black curls bobbed as she nodded her head. “I hope that’s the truth. I’d hate to have to feel any guilt.” Could she feel guilt? “I made my decision based on the facts.” “I think you protest too much.” She continued to play with the cups. John snatched them from her. “I was in charge. I had responsibility.” He could not keep the irritation from his voice. Sadie leaned back in her chair. “I didn’t come here to interrogate you. I’ve brought some information about Matt Sparkes.” The smell of curry filled the dining room and the impatient rattling of cutlery reminded John that he had not eaten since Aberystwyth. “Can’t it wait? He’s dead ... and I’m starving.” “It can wait.” John leaned forward for the menu, but sudden weight threw him back into the chair. The gravity fluctuation drew moans and curses from the other diners. In a moment, it was over. Sadie clutched her stomach. “That was unpleasant.” “Slightly.” “The Man of Steel—cold and hard.” “Is that why you left me?” “Amongst other things.” Sadie stood. The cool smoothness had gone. John touched her arm and forced a smile. “Aren’t you eating?” “Suddenly, I’m not hungry.” She left the room and John allowed the smile to slip away. He still didn’t know why she was here. She wouldn’t come all this way just to tell him some snippet of the media star’s life story. Something more was going on. He didn’t trust her. Perhaps he would find out more tomorrow. Tonight, his door would remain locked. * * * * When it came, the crash was sudden and brutal. In the low gleam of sunset, Sergeant John Hale and his crew of marines, together with their passengers, Matt Sparkes and his documentary team, had been speeding across the icy Martian desert in an elderly Lockheed Sprint—an ugly but solid workhorse hover-vehicle ideal for short-duration missions. They skimmed over dunes of dusty snow, throwing up a crystalline spray to catch the dying light—a deliberate spectacle for the camera. John knew something was wrong the moment the interior lights flickered. Seconds later, the lights died to blackness as power failed and the ship dropped. “Controls are dead!” Nakayama screamed. Everything bounced. John’s head slammed back against the restraint and pain lanced through his brain. After a moment, he opened his eyes to darkness and a dull headache. He heard agitated voices. At least they still had air. He had to check the integrity.... He freed his belt and struggled to his feet. “Everyone all right?” A murmur of acknowledgement came back at him. He reached out and found the edge of a seat. Dim disks of salmon-colored sky marked the location of the circular windows and told him the ship was level and not buried. “Sergeant Hale?” He recognized the voice—Alice Carter. “Alice ... are you okay?” “I think so. I can’t feel anything broken or bleeding.” The lights came on as Nakayama triggered the emergency fuel cells. John squinted against the sudden brightness. The pilot held a bloody handkerchief to his mouth and gave a thumbs-up with his free hand. John took a rapid roll call of his crew: Alice Carter, communications operator; Hugo Nakayama, pilot; Tony Rousseau, corporal; Minnie Yeung, engineer. A fine team with their dark blue uniforms, cropped hair, and intense expressions; sharp and skilled, professional and dependable. Everyone was bruised, shaken, and alive. John nodded at Alice. “See if you can get Marineris.” She moved quickly to her post. He turned to Minnie. “First tell me what works and what doesn’t. Then food, water, power, and air ... how much and how long?” “Yes, sir.” John turned to Alice, who was tinkering with the communicator. “Anything?” “Not yet, sir. I can’t locate the satellite.” John caught sight of Matt Sparkes talking to his companions: Two male, two female, and all of them looking as nervous as John’s own team. Fakes! The thought was so sudden and angry that John wondered if he had spoken the word. Fake humans with fake emotions. John examined his passengers with distaste. Sparkes was dressed in a powder-blue suit and tie with white shirt. He looked sharp, as befitted his status as the most prominent vat-born celebrity on Earth. His companions wore gray Worker suits, even though the Humanoid Rights Act, five years back, had made this unnecessary. A political statement. A stunt for the camera. Sparkes spoke quietly to the bald cameraman and then approached John. “Can we get outside for some long shots?” “Switch it off and sit down.” “But Sergeant....” “Switch that camera off and sit down!” “Very well, Sergeant.” Matt Sparkes nodded to his cameraman. “We don’t want to get in the way. Just relax.” Minnie looked up from a console. “Sir? We’re losing air.” “How fast?” said John. “Not fast, but I can’t locate the breach.” “Tony ... suit up and check the hull. Take the sniffer.” “I’m on it, sir.” Tony spun around, shoved the cameraman out of his way and headed for the suit lockers. The man fell back onto a seat. Matt Sparkes helped his companion up. “Let’s keep cool. I’m sure everything will be fine. You’re professionals, and we’re infinitely patient.” John forced himself to ignore the reference to the thirty years between the first wet steps of the vat-born and their eventual emancipation. Emancipation! The word was a joke. You can’t emancipate a machine! Sparkes crossed to a window and gazed out at the stars. “And besides, I know the back-up hovercraft can be ready in hours.” “We’re a long way from Marineris,” said John. “We’re six days out,” said Sparkes. “So we only have to wait for six days. It will be fascinating to see how we all ... get on.” “Oh, yes.” John glared icily at the celebrity’s immaculately tailored suit. “Absolutely fascinating.” * * * * John topped up Sadie’s glass from the jug of sangria and studied her face. He never could tell when she was lying. “I have no idea who released the crash film to the net,” she said. “But that’s beside the point. Do you really think the Service could have hushed up the incident forever?” “I didn’t ask them to in the first place.” John sat back in his canvas chair, gulped his drink and let his gaze wander beyond Sadie to where the browning forest of spruce crowded in on the perimeter coils. The day was fiercely bright, the noon sun a fuzzy disk through the roof of the green canvas gazebo. A cool breeze stroked the stubble on his cheeks. Elsewhere, residents strolled on the lawns, or huddled in leafy corners with a drink and a book. “I did have a theory,” John said. “Do tell.” Sadie relaxed in her chair. “I thought you might have been behind it.” “What benefit would there be to me in making you a celebrity?” “I said I thought you might. Now ... I’m not so sure.” “Tell me, John ... if you’d known that Sparkes was secretly filming everything, would it have made a difference to your decision?” “No.” Sadie stood and turned her back to him. She stared out at the forest. “How long do you plan to stay here?” “Until Madame Jones kicks me out.” A flickering light, a reflection, caught his attention—past Sadie’s right shoulder, at the edge of the forest and close to the perimeter fence. Sadie turned around to face him and blocked his view. She gulped her drink and looked at him through the glass. He yawned. “Sorry—I’m tired. You’re not boring me.” Sadie glanced over her shoulder at the trees. “I’m cold. Let’s go inside.” “Okay.” He waited, but Sadie didn’t move and John could see the tension in her face. He stood and headed back indoors. Keeping herself between John and the forest, Sadie followed. * * * * Tony Rousseau struggled out of his suit. “No sign of a leak, Sarge. It must be under the belly.” The dust from his boots smeared across the rubberized floor. John checked his watch. Tony had been outside for two hours. “So we can’t fix it. All we can do is relax and sleep.” He turned to Minnie. “What’s our status?” Minnie drew a finger across her throat. “The relays have failed. I can’t figure out why. Could be a freak. Could be sabotage.” John stared at her. She wasn’t smiling. “We don’t have terrorists on Mars.” Matt Sparkes stepped in front of John. “Excuse me, Sergeant Hale.” John eyed the celebrity with uneasy suspicion. “What do you want?” “You’ve kept my team herded like sheep in a very small pen, Sergeant. The situation’s stable. Is there any reason we can’t at least move around the ship?” “I suppose that’s reasonable. Go ahead, but no filming!” Sparkes opened his mouth, but John jabbed a finger into his chest and cut him off. “This is an emergency situation. Understand?” Sparkes raised his hands in mock surrender. “Would it be a problem if we were to engage in communication with your crew? To pass the time.” John glanced about at his people. “Just don’t get in the way.” Matt Sparkes pulled his golden hair back behind his ears. “Could I possibly have a word with you in private?” John shrugged and moved to a seat away from the others. Sparkes settled himself on the next seat. “Sergeant Hale ... you’re a farm boy. Is that right?” “If you can call thirteen acres of autonomous protein production a farm.” “I’ve heard of these places. Not much of a labor force. Life can be quite lonely for a young boy.” He’s interviewing me! John considered walking away, but what was the point? He had no secrets. “I found things to do. My dad used to let me play chess with the farm’s AI. Running the place took only a fraction of its capacity. I used to imagine it spent most of the time plotting how to take over the world.” “Is it right that when you were nine-years-old you were taken on a fifty kilometer trip by a rogue taxi with a glitched navicom?” “So you’ve researched me.” “It’s part of my job.” Sparkes put on a sympathetic expression. “It must have been quite scary for a nine year old.” “Stupid machines. They’re a pain in the ass.” “Is that how you see me, Sergeant?” “Why do you say that?” “In cadet school, didn’t you support the campaign against integration?” “What of it? I believe we work better separately.” “Don’t you think that if we were facing a big enough problem—a life and death situation, for instance—we might learn to work together?” Before John had to answer, Alice whooped. “I’ve got the satellite! We have a signal.” * * * * John had been watching the Systemwide News on the wallscreen in the dining room for half an hour when Sadie joined him. She passed him a coffee he hadn’t asked for and settled into the seat beside him. “How’s the trouble in Luna Village?” she said. “The senator with shares in the Hollywood whorehouse?” John sipped at the hot coffee. “That’s not what we navy types call trouble.” John glanced around as staff prepared for the evening meal. “Political scandals are my bread and butter.” “Talking of which, I’m getting hungry.” He patted his belly. “I’m sorry. I only thought of coffee.” “Talking of thinking ... what exactly were you thinking when you left me in Rio?” “I was wondering when you’d get around to that.” She rubbed her knee and John sensed a degree of awkwardness he’d never seen in her before. “Not a word ... I just woke and there you weren’t!” He’d been desperate, lost, in free-fall.... “I had some issues.” “Maybe I could have helped. Even an unsophisticated spacer can listen.” “The issues were with you.” “Well thanks for...” John gasped as sudden weight pulled at every part of him. Hot coffee splashed onto his hand. Another gravity fluctuation. Sadie leaned back and drew in breath. “Are you okay?” John asked. She nodded. Gravity settled again to Retreat normal. Sadie released her breath slowly ... took another. “I think Red Planet needs to look at its service contract—assuming it has one.” “Certainly we have a service contract.” Madame Jones was standing behind them, a stack of menus clutched to her chest. “I couldn’t help overhearing your conversation. All the guests are concerned about the fluctuations. Rest assured, I’m making every effort to find the cause and get it fixed.” John dried his wet hand on his sleeve “What about vandalism? Those street kids looked pretty mean.” “Kids with the ability to hack into platinum security?” She shook her head. “Unlikely.” “Then what?” “I intend to find out tomorrow, when the service team gets here. But if it does turn out to be deliberate ... well, I take threats to the comfort and safety of my guests personally. In the meantime, try to relax. This is a retreat, after all.” She hurried away, placing menus on tables. “Yes, relax,” said Sadie. John examined the compressed lines on her forehead. Whatever was written in those lines, it was not relaxation. “You know more than you’re saying.” “About the fluctuations? No ... but I have my suspicions.” “Am I in danger?” “John, you’ve been in danger since the moment you set foot back on Earth.” * * * * John listened to the words coming over his headset from the operator at Marineris Port. Faces turned toward him. He released a pent up breath, and smiled. “The back-up is on its way. In six days we’ll be out of here.” He turned to Minnie. “You’ve monitored the leak long enough. When do we run out of air?” Her pale face looked up at him. “If we’re careful, four days.” John’s thoughts were swept up in a whirlwind ... he had to find a solution ... he was in charge.... Somewhere in his maelstrom of memories there had to be an answer. Matt Sparkes glanced around at the others. “There’s air in the suits.” “Not enough,” said Nakayama. “Five hours, max.” Minnie hugged herself tightly. “Is there nothing we can do, Sarge?” John gazed into her huge eyes. The weight of responsibility pressed down on him. “Stay calm and keep on hoping.” “My mother advised me to go into law,” said Tony. “I should have listened.” Matt Sparkes lunged up from his seat and strode forward. “You’re not fooling anyone, son.” He pointed a finger in Tony’s face. “You’re scared, just like the rest of us.” Tony snarled and shoved the celebrity backward into the cameraman. “Corporal!” John snapped. “The highest standards of the Service, Tony?” said Alice. “Get a grip.” “All of you, settle down.” John stepped to a window and gazed out at the night. Featureless black washed out to the horizon, where a sky of sharp stars revealed the swell of the dunes. “We need to save air.” “What’s the point?” said Tony. “There’s no hope.” “Perhaps not much.” John turned to see the terror barely hidden behind Tony’s eyes. “But there’s always hope.” An idea had taken hold of him. Desperate, but it could work. He looked into the fearful faces of his team and knew he had no choice but to try. * * * * John was being pressed down into his bed. He opened his eyes to the peach glare of the bedside lamp and waited for the fluctuation to pass. Nothing changed. Gravity remained at Earth-normal. He sat up, slipped his shoes on, and forced himself to his feet. He pulled back a curtain. It was still night. The door burst open and Sadie rushed in. “Come with me!” “What’s going on?” She grabbed his sleeve in answer and dragged him out of the room. He stumbled after her on leaden legs. As they hurried down the hall, the door directly ahead opened and a man dressed in black, wearing a balaclava and carrying an automatic pistol, stepped into view. “Down here!” Sadie shoved John into a side corridor and they ran. The thud thud thud of bullets shook the wall behind him. John crashed into a small table and sent a vase smashing on the carpet. Sadie took his wrist and tugged him along. As they reached the staircase that dropped to the next floor, Sadie pulled out a handgun, spun around and waited. The corridor remained empty. She leaned close to John and dropped her voice to a whisper. “Okay, let’s head down. And be careful. He must know his way around.” John nodded and started cautiously down the stairs with Sadie close behind. They reached the landing and Sadie shoved in front, raised her gun and stepped through the double doors. John followed. At the end of the next corridor, they entered the dining room. The wall lamps had been dimmed and the tables set ready for breakfast. In the subdued lighting, the shadows were deep and threatening. “Is he after you or me?” John’s voice was hushed, but carried in the silent room. Sadie slid along, back to the wall. “You’re many things, John. Stupid isn’t one of them.” “An assassin?” “Vat-born and feeling very righteous at the moment.” “How do you know?” “It’s what I do ... remember? Find things out. I suspect they aim to make an example of you.” A table lurched up on end and toppled toward Sadie. She threw herself to the side and crashed into another table, falling in a jumble of cutlery and cloth. Her gun skidded away. The black-clad assassin loomed up from the floor. Sadie lunged for him. He slammed his gun down on her head, grabbed her wrist and spun her around, throwing her into John, sending both of them crashing to the floor. John rolled and scrambled to his feet, and froze. The man had his gun aimed at John’s head. The assassin tore off his balaclava to reveal a headcam. “I’m not going to beg ... if that’s what you want,” said John. “Begging would change nothing,” said the assassin. “You know it would change nothing.” * * * * For two more days, John watched the tension build in his crew and passengers. When he judged that they were desperate enough to go along with anything—and he knew he could wait no longer—he told them his idea. They were going to try to lift the craft. Tony stared at John in disbelief. “It’ll never work.” “There is a slim chance,” said John. “With the lightweight alloys used in this craft, and the aid of Martian gravity, we might be able to lift her high enough to get under and repair the leak.” Tony shook his head. “What if the thing falls on me?” “Minnie’s going under the ship, not you. We need your strength for the lift. Now, suit up.” Fifteen minutes later, everyone was fully suited and crowded around the airlock. John saw Matt Sparkes staring at him, eyes wide and fearful behind the visor. “Engineer Yeung will lead you out,” he told Sparkes via the radio. Minnie opened the inner airlock door and entered, followed by Matt Sparkes and his team. With the airlock packed full of bodies, the rest of them would have to wait. The door closed. John waited until the warning light showed the outer door was open, then took off his helmet and put it down on a seat. He crossed to a window and watched the suited figures step down onto the dusty nighttime surface, their shadows cast long by the light from the open lock. Sparkes moved away from the others and turned slowly to scan the sky. Before Minnie could close the outer door, John grabbed a headset and adjusted the radio to the crew’s private frequency. “Minnie. Get back in here.” “What is it, Sarge?” “Get back in here. Just you. That’s an order!” Minnie stepped back up into the lock and closed the door behind her. When she arrived inside the ship, John went to the control panel and locked the outer door. “All right, let’s get out of these suits. We’re done.” Alice pulled off her helmet. “What’s going on?” “I’m conserving air and saving your lives.” “You can’t just leave them out there!” Minnie’s voice squeaked in protest. “I can’t?” “It’s not right!” Alice yelled in John’s face. Tears spilled down her cheeks. He grabbed her shoulders and locked eyes with her. “Get a grip! They’re vat-born! They’re machines!” John’s reset the radio to hear Matt Sparkes calling through. “What’s going on? Why aren’t your crew out here?” “They won’t be joining you.” There was silence. Then a broken voice said, “Sergeant Hale ... do you realize what you’re doing?” “Yes,” said John. “I’m switching you off.” He killed the radio link. Tony stepped out of his suit. “Sarge is right. They’re just clever machines and you all know it.” Being right did not make John feel good, but he had no other choice. He was certain of that. He tried not to question himself, just as he tried not to hear the hammering of desperate, begging hands upon the hull. Five hours passed before the silence outside the craft matched the silence inside. * * * * “Survival!” Sadie yelled. “The only law of life is survival.” The assassin’s eyes widened. “The password...” He turned his gaze toward Sadie. A thunderclap echoed through the dining room and the assassin flew forward onto a table. His body convulsed, then slid to the floor and lay still. At the door stood Madame Jones, gripping her shotgun in both hands. She strode across the room to the edge of the spreading bloodstain and prodded the body with the barrel. “Like I said ... I take it personally.” John dropped to his knees beside Sadie. “Are you okay?” She rubbed her head and checked her fingers. “I seem to be all right.” Madame Jones gazed down at her two guests. “I’d better call the cops.” She winked at Sadie. “In about fifteen minutes.” “Thanks.” Sadie smiled at John’s puzzled expression. “My superiors prefer that I don’t socialize with the police.” John waved a hand at Madame Jones. “But how does she know?” “I made a large contribution to the Red Planet Benevolent Fund in exchange for a little cooperation.” “But she wears Worker suits! I thought she was a sympathizer!” Madame Jones arched an eyebrow at him. “You’ve been away far too long. This isn’t politics, it’s fashion!” Grinning, she left the room. John took Sadie’s hand. “You knew this was going to happen. You could have warned me.” “I didn’t know. All I had were suspicions.” She squeezed John’s fingers. “Matt Sparkes was the head of an underground organization dedicated to putting the vat-born on an equal footing with everyone else. The crash was no accident. Matt’s friends arranged for the Sprint to lose power over the dunes.” “Matt? You were on first name terms?” “Yes. I liked him. His ideas had potential, but he went about things the wrong way. He wanted the incident to show mother-born and vat-born working together to survive, an extreme exercise in bonding, captured on film. But he reckoned without the air leak.” “You can’t bond with a machine.” “You’re very sure about that.” “It just ... wouldn’t work.” He allowed his hand to slip from hers. “You knew the password just now ... did you infiltrate their organization?” Sadie simply smiled. John narrowed his eyes. “It’s easy to check who’s human, and who’s not. The DNA test is simple ... didn’t they test you?” She did not reply. “Tell me!” he demanded. “Are you mother-born, or not?” “First, you have to decide whether it matters.” She waited for his answer. He felt numb and confused. “But that would mean...” He got to his feet. “How could you bear to be with me? To you, I’m a killer.” His legs trembled. “Maybe the capacity to understand and forgive is not dependant upon how you arrive in this world.” He grasped a table for support and stared at her, trying to mesh memories and chaotic emotions with preconceptions. “You’re not mother-born!” He could hardly believe he was saying the words. She stood and straightened the lapels of her jacket. “No. Do you know whether it matters?” “Yes...” What did she expect from him? “Yes, it matters.” Her face fell. “What now, then?” He looked at the blood pooling beneath the twisted body of the assassin. Did machines bleed? Everything was twisted, upside down, crazy. He needed time—to see with new eyes, to examine with new knowledge. “Now?” he said. “Just get me out of here.” * * * * John settled into the deep seat of the Porsche and watched the gate to the parking lot slide open. Louis Armstrong began to sing “Wonderful World.” John turned it off. Sadie’s wry smile told him she had ribbed him deliberately. She hadn’t changed. “The police won’t be too happy I left the scene,” he said. “I have friends who can sort that out. My concern is to protect you. You’re a celebrity ... and a target.” John closed his eyes. “So I need to stick with you.” “It wasn’t so bad last time.” “Beauty and the Bigot. The press will love that.” “If we can get along together—if we can be seen to get along—then maybe that will teach people something.” “You sound like Matt Sparkes.” “I told you, Matt went about things the wrong way.” John turned to look at her. “Do you realize what you’ve done to me? I was certain that I’d done the right thing on Mars. I needed that certainty.” She fired the engine, turned on the head lights and started toward the gate. “I’ve given you an opportunity to see things differently. Only you can say if you did the right thing.” “All I know for sure, now, is that I’m not certain about anything.” “Maybe that’s the best any of us can hope for.” She took the car out of the gateway and up the narrow lane that climbed the black hill. By the time they hit traffic, John was asleep.