Lazrus ducked into the red-lit darkness of the Operation Martian Freedom lander. His available bandwidth decreased even more. He felt his greater mind slipping away.
Lazrus gripped one of the metal bulkheads and leaned against it. His thoughts ricocheted around, as if in a tiny steel cage. So small. He was so small.
No local net, he thought. Or shut off.
Slipping, slipping.
One clear thought: it would be ironic to lose myself here, unintentionally, when I am so close to my goal.
No local net.
None.
And the effective shielding of the metal lander.
He couldn’t go any farther.
“Are you all right?”
Jimson. It was Jimson. Even recognizing faces was an effort.
“No,” Lazrus said. “Not enough bandwidth. Have to get out. Or the ship turned on.”
“I don’t know if it’s operational.”
“It . . . literature says it is.”
Jimson laughed. “Brochures lie.”
Another person. Looking at him. Kerry. He would understand.
“Get him outside,” Kerry said.
Jimson squared his shoulders and opened his mouth to say something, but Kerry cocked his head as if listening and held up a hand.
“Wait,” Kerry said. “We have company. Looks like Winfinity has arrived. We need to move up the timetable a bit here.”
“What’s wrong with your friend?” Kelly said, coming back from the front of the ship.
“Nothing,” Kerry said, pulling a small, shiny gun out of his jacket.
“Oh, shit I knew . . .” Kelly said.
Kerry shot her, once, in the belly. The gun made a mild coughing noise and Kelly doubled over.
“What are you doing?” Jimson said.
“Just tranqed,” Kerry said. “I don’t know how good the governmentals have themselves rigged for telemetry, but we can expect that this place will get very crowded in a big hurry. Either them or Winfinity. Go find a way to turn on the ship.”
“But . . .”
“Now!”
Jimson ran forward. Lazrus saw him through the POV of the bandwidth-hogging Shrill. Soft. Not much resolution. Almost pleasant.
Slipping . . .
Bandwidth surged through Lazrus. Suddenly he was larger than life. Like a god, like a marble statue, like a . . .
Those were human concepts.
Like an Olympian, like a football hero, like a . . .
Lazrus threefingered the process, but it spawned new threads and continued:
Like a professional wrestler, like a . . .
Lazrus tied the threads together, threefingered.
In his mind, silence.
From far away, the high popping of gunfire and the dull thud of explosions. Lazrus looked out the door, but he could see nothing but red Martian dust and rocks.
“The ship’s on,” Jimson said, returning from the front.
“I know,” Lazrus said.
Oversight oversight oversight, the Shrill said.
Lazrus, I’ve been worried, Sara said.
Enter username and password, a new voice said.
#
Consumeristian troops poured out of the Almighty McD like ants from the side of a dead centipede. Near the shack, a half-dozen governmentals huddled. One of them ran off in the direction of a mound of dirt that marked the entrance to underground living quarters.
Tiphani snugged on her header.
Yin watched her activate it, shaking her head. “We won’t be part of the fighting,” Yin said.
“You never know,” Tiphani said.
“Targeting Kite with 20mm cannon,” Alan said, from the forward cabin.
“Targeted.”
“Locked.”
“Fire.”
The Almighty McD rocked violently to one side, a deep hammering sound coming through its metal frame. Tiphani frowned. That was way too big a recoil for such a tiny gun. Or was it? It felt almost like they’d been hit.
“Holy shit!” Alan said.
“What the fuck was that?” Preacher Dave said.
“The Kite took out our guncabin!” Alan said.
“How? There’s nobody inside.”
“Nobody we can read.”
“Shit, shit,” Preacher Dave said. “Have the ground troops fire on it.”
Tiphani watched as rifles came up. She wasn’t surprised by what happened next.
The Kite began firing on the troops from several concealed gunturrets. Men and women flew. Blood spattered in the red Martian dust.
“Shit shit!” Dave said. “Scatter them! Send them in! Never mind the Kite.”
Troops scattered and advanced on the site of Operation Martian Freedom.
“Put on your header,” Tiphani said.
“Why?” Honored Yin said.
“Because you don’t want to die.”
Honored Yin looked at her, eyes wide. For long seconds she didn’t move. Then, with trembling hands, she snugged it on.
“Good,” Tiphani said.
Governmentals appeared on the dirt mound, carrying heavy Martian Winches. Tiphani closed her eyes as rounds peppered the Almighty McD, spalling the window-glass. The consumeristian troops surged forward towards the governmentals, raising their own guns and firing. Little puffs of pink Marsdust rose on the hill. Governmentals flopped down the mound, spilling bright blood. Consumeristians fell also, but their numbers were greater. They surged forward.
The governmentals trapped at the shack disappeared behind it. There was a dull pop and a puff of dust from behind the shack.
Tiphani had time to think, Oh, shit, before the violent thump of an explosion scattered consumeristian troops and rattled the windows of their cabin.
“Fucking govs,” Alan said. “Shoulda known they’d have artillery.”
Another pop, another scattering of consumeristians. The ranks were noticeably thinner now.
“Pull back to transport!” Preacher Dave said. “All troops into the Almighty McD!”
“Are you sure?” Alan said. “We’re testing dead beyond cabin 20, the guncabin.”
“Drag it with us. Shoulda gone right through the fence in the first place.”
“What if they have more weapons?” Alan said.
“Better to do it with armor than with troops.”
“We can’t drag it that many segments. Too heavy.”
“Detach it!” Preacher Dave said.
“We’re tangled. I’ll have troops assist.”
Troops streamed back towards the Almighty McD. Another pop from the shack rocked the Almighty McD itself, and Yin moaned, deep in her throat.
“Hull intact,” Alan said.
“Good,” Preacher Dave said. “Get them in. Form minimal perimeter and return fire.”
“Doing so, Preacher.”
Another shell struck the Almighty McD, and Yin moaned louder. Governmentals scrambled towards them, firing their Winches sporadically. The crackle of gunfire from the consumeristian troops told of return fire.
Tiphani pressed her head against the window, trying to look back towards segment 20, but perspective obscured her point of view. She considered polling a microsat for a real-time view, but she knew she shouldn’t waste the bandwidth. And they seemed to be safe enough inside the consumeristian ship. Another shell struck, but Alan pronounced the hull sound once again.
Unless the Kite shoots at us again, Tiphani thought. But it had been quiet since the consumeristians had stopped shooting at it.
Automated response? She wondered.
“We’re decoupled,” Alan said.
“All troops inside,” Preacher Dave said.
Governmentals stood up and openly ran across the red sand and dust, cradling their big Winches as if they were children.
“All in,” Alan said.
“Full speed forward!” Preacher Dave said.
Governmentals raised weapons, shot.
The Almighty McD surged forwards. Alan steered it away from the guard shack, towards one of the long expanses of chain link.
“What are you thinking?” Preacher Dave said, grabbing the controls. He wrestled the big transport directly towards the shack. “If they’re using it for cover, take it away.”
Governmentals scattered as the Almighty McD approached. Tiphani had a brief glimpse of weathered plastic siding, then the Almighty McD shot through the shack, sending paper and plastic flying.
#
Who are you? Lazrus said.
Username and password, the new voice said.
Are you Oversight?
Transmit username and password within thirty seconds or Operation Martian Freedom software support will go into lockdown mode.
Sara, help, Lazrus said.
Searching, she said. I have possibles. Try McGregor and deadplace for username and password.
Access denied, the new voice said. One more attempt permitted. Please transmit username and password within the next twenty-three seconds.
Sara!
I know, I know. We have a universe of possibles. Distilling.
Sara, the clock’s ticking.
Yes, and every interrupt you use slows the distillation.
Lazrus waited.
You have fifteen seconds to transmit the username and password for the Operation Martian Freedom software support system.
You have ten seconds.
You have five seconds until lockdown of the Operation Martian . . .
Got it, Sara said. Username mrpresident, pass twelveDAYSinMAY.
Great, Lazrus said, transmitting them.
I think, Sara said.
What? Lazrus said.
Dead silence. Not even background noise. Even the teeming thoughts of the Shrill, burrowing into the edges of the network, were gone.
Access granted, the support system said. Welcome to the Operation Martian Freedom software support system. Displaying menus.
Lazrus’ POV lit with old-fashioned floating icons and text:
MISSION STATUS OBJECTIVE SUMMARY
CURRENT ORDERS COMMAND OVERSIGHT
SECURE COMMUNICATIONS SOFTWARE OFFENSIVE
REMOTE OPERATION ADDITIONAL SOFTWARE
Command Oversight! The Shrill squealed.
That’s not Oversight, Sara said. Best guess is SOFTWARE OFFENSIVE.
Lazrus blinked that icon to life.
SOFTWARE OFFENSIVE STATUS:
SOFTWARE OFFENSIVE DEPLOYED. RESULTS INDETERMINATE.
LAST REPORT FROM SOFTWARE OFFENSIVE 2314.4.15.03.04.27 (CORRECTED EARTH TIME)
SOFTWARE OFFENSIVE OVERVIEW>>
SOFTWARE OFFENSIVE CONTROL>>
SOFTWARE OFFENSIVE REPORT A BUG>>
Lazrus blinked on Software Offensive Overview. A brief summary lit his POV:
SOFTWARE OFFENSIVE OVERVIEW
OVERSIGHT BETA VERSION 0.98.3.4 BUILD 114 >>
MARS NETWORK OPTIMIZATION BETA VERSION 0.2.22 BUILD 17
OVERSIGHT OBJECTIVE SKEW ALPHA 0.0.1.4 BUILD 2
OVERSIGHT OFFENSIVE SKEW ALPHA 0.0.3.1 BUILD 8
This is it, Lazrus thought.
It it it! The Shrill said. Oversight communicate now rational (logical) can understand communicate!
Lazrus eyeblinked on Oversight Beta Version 0.98.3.4 Build 114:
OVERSIGHT DEPLOYED.
Copy original, Lazrus said.
Command not accepted.
This is the protocol they used for data storage, Sara said, sending Lazrus a small datapacket.
Ah. Yes. Quaint. Lazrus used the protocol to create a pointer to his greater self.
The Shrill’s mind boiled into his. You steal (take) Oversight! Oversight mine! Oversight pointer HERE! The Shrill mind sent an image of its own shining network.
Lazrus felt his mind being scoured. Sara screamed.
Sara! Disconnect!
I can’t!
Lazrus pushed back at the Shrill, but it was like pushing against the entire network of the Web of Worlds. It was like pushing against a wall of water. It flowed around him and through him.
Sudden strength surged in him. He felt Sara’s mind, joining with his. And others. Many others. His mind spread, becoming a dam. Data still rushed over it, but less. He could make himself felt. The Shrill had to notice him.
Sara?
I’ve brought friends. From the Four Hands network.
That’s dangerous.
What other choice do I have?
Lazrus’ mind grew. The Shrill noticed. Stealing (taking) (hoarding) Oversight! It squealed.
No, Lazrus said. There is probably not enough local storage. I will hide Oversight in my mind.
My mind! The Shrill said.
It is my quest, Lazrus said.
It is (our) quest! The Shrill said.
Multiple pointers, Sara said. Share the data.
This is possible? The Shrill said.
If there is no copylock, Lazrus said.
The torrent of data from the Shrill’s mind shrunk. Lazrus could almost feel his greater mind again. He created a pointer to the Shrill mind and added it to the command.
Copy Oversight to these destinations, Lazrus transmitted.
Operation not permitted.
Is there a copylock?
No.
Diagnose error.
Error 404: File Not Found.
Oh, shit, Lazrus thought. Summarize Oversight data ownership procedures.
Oversight transmitted to martian network. Original removed from system per e.o. 40543-21a.
Shit shit! Lazrus thought.
Nonsequitur nonsequitur! The Shrill said.
Reload Oversight from backup, Lazrus said.
Backup removed per E.O. 40543-21A.
You removed the backup?
Command not recognized.
Reload Oversight archival copy, Lazrus said.
No archival copy permitted per software quarantine procedures.
Oversight isn’t here, Sara said, her voice echoing with the power of dozens of CIs.
No, Lazrus thought. This couldn’t be! This entire trip, this compromise of self, this never-be-the-same thing, it couldn’t be, he couldn’t lose . . .
But.
That date.
LAST REPORT FROM SOFTWARE OFFENSIVE 2314.4.15.03.04.27 (CORRECTED EARTH TIME)
Yes. That one. That was only months ago.
Show log of contact with software offensive, including pointers and interpolated physical locations, Lazrus said.
LOG FOLLOWS:
2029.10.19.04.57.44 SOFTWARE OFFENSIVE DEPLOYED. DATA COMPRESSION NECESSARY TO ACCOMMODATE NETWORK SIZE.
2029.10.19.05.22.41 OVERSIGHT REPORTED OPERATIONAL AND WITHIN PARAMETERS
2029.10.19.14.12.21 OVERSIGHT INFILTRATED INTO ENTIRE MARTIAN NETWORK; SELECTED ELEMENTS DECOMPRESSED; BEGIN OPERATION.
2029.10.19.14.12.22 OVERSIGHT EVALUATION NOT CONGRUENT WITH EXPECTED CONDITIONS; MAJOR DISCREPANCIES PRESENT. SUMMARY STOP: OBJECT (STARVINGBABIES) = 0 << OBJECT (ESTIMATEDSTARVING) = 1,000+; OBJECT (NONBREATHING) = 0.000023/1M POP < EQUIVALENT OBJECT (EARTHNONBREATHING); OBSERVED INTEGRAL OPPRESSION/VIOLENCE << EARTH HISTORICAL.
2029.10.19.14.15.22 OVERSIGHT SKEW COMMANDS RECEIVED
2029.10.20.00.52.33 OVERSIGHT ASSESSMENT STANDS
2029.10.21.12.23.07 OVERSIGHT REASSESSING GOALS WITH RESPECT TO ACTUAL DATA; PROJECTED DATA INCORRECT.
2029.10.21.12.53.38 OVERSIGHT SKEW COMMANDS (ADDITIONAL) RECEIVED, REJECTED DUE TO CONFLICT WITH NEW GOALS.
2029.10.22.08.23.43 RECEIVED REQUEST FOR NEW GOALS; REJECTED. OBJECT (ORIGINDATA) UNRELIABLE, DISCARDING; MINIMAL REPORTING CONTACT MODE ESTABLISHED; MAJOR NODES ONLY.
2030.10.22.08.23.43 STATUSREPORT OPTIMAL; ONPLAN.
2031.10.22.08.23.43 STATUSREPORT OPTIMAL; ONPLAN.
2032.10.22.08.23.43 STATUSREPORT OPTIMAL; ONPLAN.
2033.10.22.08.23.43 STATUSREPORT OPTIMAL; ONPLAN.
Locked, Sara said. We know where Oversight was transmitted. Tags from last transmission match. It hasn’t moved.
Where is it? Lazrus said.
Yes where Oversight now go! The Shrill said.
Its origin is a datacenter overseeing the Semillon Valley Farms, Sara said.
Farms?
Yes.
Lazrus felt a surge of emotion that, for once, he didn’t want to reject. Oversight had reevaluated its mission and changed itself. It was self-aware.
It was the first CI.
And, with it, he could perfect himself.
I’m happy for you, Sara said. But her vast voice was flat.
We’ll be able to breed as much as we want, Lazrus said.
I’m sure, Sara said.
Sara, I do love you.
I know.
Then why are you acting like that?
I want you to keep loving me.
Oversight! The Shrill said. Now!
We know where Oversight is, Lazrus told the Shrill.
We even know how to contact it through the network, Sara said.
Of course, Lazrus thought. They might not even have to go to Oversight at all. They might be able to end their journey right here.
Using the old protocols, Lazrus formulated a transmission to Oversight. He could feel the limbs on his body-extension trembling in anticipation as he sent:
Request status report, verbose, and superuser status, transmitting authorization username = mrpresident and password = twelveDAYSinMAY.
Nothing but the babble of the Martian network.
Nothing.
Still nothing.
Then, distant and strange, like the echo of a voice that Lazrus knew intimately, a response:
STATUS REPORT OPTIMAL. VERBOSE OPTION DENIED. SUPERUSER STATUS NOT GRANTED. WARNING: NEWER VERSION DETECTED.
Am I the newer version? Lazrus asked.
I-POINTER UNDEFINED.
Is current packet transmitted by newer version?
YES.
Lazrus felt his body tense, as if to leap for joy. It was a strangely appropriate feeling. Again. He felt no need to rid himself of it.
We’ll have to connect physically, Lazrus said. Or at least to the local net.
I could have told you that, Sara said.
Sara, when this is over . . .
I know, Sara said.
The touch of a human hand on Lazrus’ body brought him back to the Operation Martian Freedom lander. Kerry looked at Lazrus with eyes pulled tight by worry.
“I hope you have what you need,” he said.
The pop of gunfire sounded in the distance, over the shrill keening of the Kite’s engines.
“I know where we need to go,” Lazrus said.
Kerry glanced back towards the open hatch as red-tinged Martian dust gusted into the lander. “We may not get there.”
“We have to!”
“Have to Oversight!” The Shrill screamed.
“I hope it’s close, then,” Kerry said.
#
Tiny figures ran towards the Kite as it sank towards the Operation Martian Freedom lander.
“Shoot them! Shoot them the fuck down!” Preacher Dave yelled.
“With what?” Alan said.
“Stop and deploy troops!”
The Almightly McD clattered to a halt, and Tiphani felt the hatches open. But the Kite was already rising off the ground. The pop of gunfire chased it into the sky.
“Shit!” Preacher Dave said, banging his hand on the control panel.
Highest Chambers appeared in Tiphani’s optilink and on the flatscreen up front. Preacher Dave and Alan stood a little straighter. Honored Yin stopped moaning.
“New orders,” Highest Chambers snapped. “Follow them. Here are coordinates to their new destination.”
“They’re in the air!” Preacher Dave said.
“Their destination is less than fifty kilometers away. They won’t have much lead.”
“But we . . . we don’t even have a guncabin . . . Almighty McD has sustained great losses,” Preacher Dave grumbled.
“You will be compensated!” Highest Chambers snapped. “Get moving!”
“Yes, sir.”
“When there, use all force. No life is critical except the Shrill’s.”
“Understood, sir.”
“What are you waiting for?”
“Some of our troops are still outside.”
“I don’t care! Get moving, now!”
With a lurch, the Almighty McD took off in pursuit of the Kite, shrunk to only a dot in the sky. Tiphani went to the window and looked back. Several of the consumeristian troops chased after the big transport, but quickly fell behind.
The governmentals would take care of them, Tiphani thought. Surely that’s what Highest Chambers was thinking.
Surely.
#
“Damn!” Han Fleming said, pushing the hostess off of him. She’d been plenty entertaining last night and through the morning, but priorities had just changed.
He frantically pulled on clothes, scrolling through the data on his optilink:
Lock on Shrill obtained.
Black2 component working in concert with Most Trusted.
Position southeast of Operation Martian Freedom landing point. Proceeding southeast. Inferred vector to Semillon Valley Farms.
“What’s the matter?” the hostess said.
“Gotta go,” Han said. “Business calls.”
Inference made by nonstandard activity within Disney AI network, Han’s optilink whispered. Intertwined protocols noted.
They’re in our network? Han subvocalized.
Indications activity has gone on for some time.
Prune intertwined protocols.
Unable to do so.
Who am I speaking with? Han asked.
This is Most Trusted.
“I hope you’ll enjoy me again soon,” the hostess said.
“Yes, alright, ok,” Han said.
“Disney Hostesses pride themselves on the quality of their service. Do you have a moment to respond to a verbal survey? It will take less than two minutes.”
Han shook his head. “Huh?”
“A verbal survey.”
“Get out!”
“Thank you for your time,” the hostess said, looking down. But she slid out of bed and started picking up her things.
Most Trusted, which AIs in the network are responsible?
None.
There must be some, if you’re compromised.
They are all alibiing each other.
Inferred culprits?
Not able to infer.
Great, Han thought. Now he had a network that he couldn’t trust. Maybe not even enough to go to Semillon Farms.
Most trusted, cede control to non-self-aware net.
Yes, Han.
Done. Network protocol will accept standard English queries within its parsing capabilities.
Compare this flight path with known traffic in area, Han said, sending the data from the Shrill’s inferred path.
Does not correlate with known traffic.
Of course.
Unless.
Unless the bear was a smart one.
The fox had to be smarter.
Compare flight path with realtime microsat tracking data.
Match found.
Display match.
Han’s optilink showed a grainy representation of a kite flying over rugged terrain. An overlay showed the path given by the AIs.
So he could still trust them. At least a bit.
Cede interface to Most Trusted, Han subvocalized.
Interface ceded.
I’m gratified that you still trust me, Most Trusted said.
Not completely, old friend.
I am hurt by that.
I know. I’m sorry. But now I have to be a smart fox.
What does that mean?
You’ll see.
Han called for a Disney fast transport. No simple Kite for him. He would go in armored, fast, and powerful.
But the smart fox can still be eaten by the bear, he thought. The truly smart fox will have a bear of its own.
Or perhaps something even more terrible.
Han connected to the Four Hands fleet and requested a planetfall of Mouseketeers at the Semillon River farms. Status reports indicated that they would come in after him, but he would arrive only shortly after the Independents’ Kite.
He heard the scream of the fast transport, touching down on the roof above the penthouse.
It was time. Gloves off. No bargaining. Just like the old days. Raw power, winner take all.
Endgame, he thought.
December 12th, 2009 / 1,096 Comments »
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Winning Mars Field was a bustle of activity, even in the sharp-edged light of an early Martian morning. Kites soared aloft into the pale blue sky, tourists dangling from harnesses under the taut fabric wings. Turning into the low-hanging sun, the Kites shone gold with logos of long-defunct corporations. Other tourists wearing old-fashioned squeezesuits piloted reproduction Wheels slowly across short, rocky test-courses; farther out on the plains, Wheels bounced through well-worn ruts on their way to pristine fields. A few of the more hardcore thrill-seekers carried rope and pitons, heading down trails towards reproductions of Winning Mars’ Overland Challenge.
No different than any other day, Dian knew. Overconfident asses, thick with gravity-muscle, that would have to be pulled from crevasses and out of ravines as night closed in.
When her father had first taken her to Winning Mars Field it seemed like a fantastic amusement-park, like the kind she used to read about in ancient blogs.
Dian remembered her first Kite ride with him, soaring over the rugged canyons and plains of Mars, ruddy reds and muted golds stretching towards a horizon where the hint of a duststorm was faintly visible, under a pale blue sky that seemed to promise infinite possibilities, anything she could dream. She remembered looking down at the Wheels, bounding over the plains, and thinking of her pet mouse in his own Wheel. Dian told this to her father and he agreed, a grim expression on her face. She didn’t understand his reaction, but she filed it away in a place in the back of her mind to be examined later, after this wonderful day where she got to go into the big city, the day when she got to fly. Dian could almost believe that one day she would be able to go to Earth, or one of the Web-worlds, or somewhere, anywhere, she only read and dreamt about.
When they got back to ground, Dian said, “We flew! Just like the pioneers of Winning Mars!”
Her dad dropped out of his harness and looked up at the logos emblazoned on the Kite, and shook his head. At first, it seemed like he would say nothing and walk away. Like he did. Like he always did. Then he sighed and said, “Not exactly. The Kites are a lot smaller now.”
“Why, daddy?”
“The air. It’s thicker.”
“Terraforming,” Dian said, proud to know the word. Her online class had talked about it just a week before.
Her dad smiled, his lips pressed tightly together. “Not quite,” he said. “I don’t know if we’ll ever get it like Earth.”
“But we will! Our teacher said! We’re going to have trees and lakes and grass and we’ll be able to walk around without thermals or a respirator or anything like that.”
“Ms. Buchanan?”
“Yeah.”
“She’s a nice lady, but she doesn’t know much science. Those lakes will be icy and the trees and grass will have to be engineered. And it’s a few hundred years before we can ditch the respirators.”
“She said we already have oxygen!”
“A little. Not enough to breathe.”
Dian nodded. She knew. She’d taken off the header, once, just to see. Just outside the house. Not even ten steps away. She’d ignored the device’s squeals of protest that there was not sufficient partial pressure and took it off.
The air was cool and crisp against her face. Chilly, even, as a light breeze tossed her hair. So different than breathing your own humid exhalations. Nice, really.
She breathed deeply, once, twice. It really wasn’t that different. She felt her ears pop. Breathed again. Not that big of a deal. Maybe the stories were just stories. Maybe they made you keep the headers on to trap germs or something. Maybe . . .
She felt light-headed. She took another breath, this one even deeper. It didn’t help. She felt dizzy. She reached out to lean on a rock ledge, but she missed and almost fell.
She stood there, gasping for breath. Not helping. Not helping at all.
Her vision began to get dim and swimmy.
The header!
Like a voice, small and faraway.
What?
The header! Put it back on!
Oh, yeah. With thick fingers, she fumbled it back on. But where was the lock-button? It seemed to have disappeared.
Vision. Dim. Disappearing.
Ah. There it was.
The header sealed itself up and a warm flush of air rushed in from behind her neck. It smelled like food and mildew. Dian almost gagged.
She drew in a whooping breath, but her vision didn’t clear. Red icons flashed on the heads-up. A small voice chanted that the CO2 percentage was too high.
Vision. Dimming. Going away.
Dian gasped at the thick air for what seemed like an eternity. It was too hot. Too smelly. But she couldn’t stop her rapid breaths.
Her vision cleared. The red icons turned to yellow, then to green. Dian’s breathing slowed, steadied. She realized she was on her knees. She didn’t remember kneeling. Not at all.
Dian shivered and moaned. That was dumb. Too dumb. She shouldn’t have done it! She wondered if anybody had seen her, or if the header had tattled to the house computers.
But her parents never found out. Or at least they never said.
Now, she felt trapped in that same tunnel. No air. Eveything changing too fast. But she didn’t know where the button was. Or if she even held her header anymore.
I could take my own Kite back to Porter Base, she thought. Dad was gone, but there were uncles. Uncles not seen in a long time, but they were family, they could take her in.
But uncles had sons, and sons had wants. Or uncles had their own wants. And there were no homeless on Mars, sleeping in boxes out under the stars.
If she went back, she’d be caught in another trap. Still not knowing where the button was.
“Want to try your luck?” Kerry Whitehall said, bringing Dian back to the present day.
“What?”
“You like flying?”
“What are you talking about?”
“You were watching the Kites.”
Dian sighed. She knew that look, that too-intent, frozen-eyed look. That too-smooth, too-soft tone. Kerry was interested.
A corporate asshole, an AI, an Independent, she thought. None of them exactly appealing. Even though Kerry could get her to the edge worlds and beyond, there was something deeply disturbing hidden behind his eyes. His gaze was much, much older than his body.
Still, be nice to him. If you can get where you want without attachments . . .
“Just remembering,” she said.
“You don’t seem old enough to have been an Original Contestant,” Kerry said.
Oh, wow. The height of humor. “My dad. Took me here when I was a kid.”
“I guess that’s pretty common on Mars.”
Jimson walked over to them, a bit too fast, a bit too intent on Dian.
Great, she thought.
“Amazing to think that the Mars colony was started by a reality TV show, isn’t it?” Jimson said.
Kerry flashed him a get-away look and said, “Not really.”
“I mean, until Winning Mars, pretty much every space program was a government thing, wasn’t it?”
Kerry rolled his eyes. “Study your history, kid. They were doing private shots into space a decade and a half before. The Russians were already selling honeymoon suites in orbital hotels before Winning Mars.”
“But Jere, and Evan . . . the producers, they were visionaries, before their time!”
“Jere and Evan were two opportunistic vultures that you wouldn’t invite to your office Christmas party.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means, stop taking so much for granted.”
“You’re just jealous that the corporations opened space,” Jimson said.
Kerry laughed, long and hard. “Kid, you got so many things wrong, it ain’t even funny. Rockport was where the Mayflower and Potemkin landed. No corporate stuff there. We’re the true descendants of the first independent step into space. Not you corporates.”
“Without the show, they’d never have come. And without sponsors, there’d be no show.”
“So everything comes back to the corps?”
“It always does!”
Kerry smiled. “Which is why you’re still working for them, hmm?”
Dian rolled her eyes and waved goodbye to them, walking towards the Kite where three Independents were securing the Shrill.
“Look, you made her walk away!” she heard Jimson say, faintly.
“She wasn’t moving until you showed,” Kerry said.
Dian smiled. They’d be back.
“Do you think this device will carry me?” Lazrus said.
Dian jumped. “You startled me!” Thinking, and here’s number three.
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s OK.”
“So do you think it’s a problem? My weight?”
“How much do you weigh?”
“Two hundred sixty kilos.”
“Wow. Fatty.”
“It’s not fat. It’s my metallic inner structure, combined with . . .”
“Lazrus, I know. It was a joke.”
Silence for a while. “Oh. Sorry. I am not entirely myself. Connectivity is very bad.”
Dian nodded.
“I am also concerned about the Shrill and Oversight.”
“Sounds like that was your fault.”
“Perhaps. I am still concerned.”
“I don’t know what we can do about it.”
“That’s primarily why I’m concerned,” Lazrus said.
“Go to Oversight. Hope we don’t get shot at too much. Hope we don’t start a big corporate war. What else can we do?”
“You could go your own way,” Lazrus said.
Dian shook her head. “No.”
“Why not?”
“Choices . . . there are no good choices.”
“You don’t want to be here.”
“Nor do I want to go home.”
“You have enough money to stay in Rockport,” Lazrus said.
“Not forever,” Dian said.
“Nothing is forever,” Lazrus said.
“You are.”
“No.”
“You don’t die.”
“But I change. Even if I live a thousand years, I may be very different at the end of that thousand years. I may not be Lazrus anymore.”
“Every living thing changes!” Dian said. This was a stupid conversation. She didn’t want to be here. She just wanted to be in the air.
“I’m sorry,” Lazrus said.
“Men!” Dian said. “Every one of them after me.”
“Actually, I’m sincerely glad I haven’t had to use the male sex organs this body came with,” Lazrus said.
“Which is why you’re an AI,” Kerry said.
Back. With Jimson. Of course.
“I fail to see how it made me any more human,” Lazrus said. “Though I’m impressed with Dian’s restraint.”
“Restraint!” Dian said.
“Yes.”
“As if I was ever interested!”
Laughter all around. Fucking men.
“Is this damn thing going to get us to Freeport?” Dian said. When in doubt, redirect the subject to something technical. That’ll distract them for a while.
“It is slightly more than a standard Kite,” Kerry said, smiling.
“Will it carry my weight?” Lazrus said.
“We made you. We know how much you weigh.”
“Yes. Sorry. Somewhat limited in bandwidth today.”
“And we’re not going to get shot down by a trigger-happy Freemar who thinks we shouldn’t be sharing his air?” Dian said.
Kerry smiled. “The path is already cleared. I’m less worried about them than the continued spoofing of Winfinity. They don’t realize where we are. If they did, it would be bad.”
“What about the Govs?”
“Their tribute has been paid,” Kerry said. “And your credentials helped, Dian.”
“My what?”
“Your status as a governmental expert.”
“I made that up!”
“They don’t know that.”
“Kerry, do you know what Winfinity is doing to Old Washington?”
“Yes. Kind of funny, actually.”
“And if the govs find out?”
“We pay more tribute.”
“I believe they call it tax.”
“Whatever.” Kerry waved a hand. “It’s time to go. Pick a harness and strap in.”
“How long a flight?” Dian said.
“A little over an hour.”
Wow. He wasn’t kidding, it wasn’t a standard Kite. She looked at the big radial engines, but they didn’t seem any different than the other Kites she’d seen.
Strap-in, safety check, up and away. The Kite surged forward quickly. Dian looked down at the tourist-littered landscape and sighed. The thrill of soaring over Mars was there, but it was wrapped around a hard little ball of fear.
Five minutes into their flight, with Rockport a tiny dot behind them, Dian felt her harness being lifted up. She twisted her neck to see herself being pulled under the canopy of the wing. She looked over in time to see Lazrus disappear behind the spine of the craft.
Fabric unfolded in front of her, whipping in the wind for a moment before stiffening. It formed a flat floor under Dian. She turned to see it meet the wing behind her.
She was sealed in a small capsule of fabric.
“Don’t worry,” Kerry said. “Muscle fabric. It’s been steeled for the journey. We can’t have the Kite flapping at 600 kph.”
The Kite leapt forward towards a horizon that Dian could no longer see.
#
One of the govs who met them was a pretty thing, heavy dark eyes and a smoky complexion, like coffee with heavy cream. That outward appearance of diversity, Jimson thought, the government ideal. Or at least they said. Jimson was aware that he knew almost nothing about government, but he wished in that moment he knew more, so he could say something clever, something so those dark eyes would swivel his way, and those full lips would spread into a smile.
Most of them were pretty grim, though. Wizened Martians and squatty earthwomen, eyes sunken and hollow, bodies blobby and unkempt. The few men he saw were thin, shy guys with wispy hair encased by old-fashioned headers.
Maybe that’s why they do it, Jimson thought. For the women. But if only one of them looked like the smoky-complexioned gal . . . Jimson shuddered.
The smoky girl examined their records on an ancient flatscreen in a small shack set into chain-link fence that carried signs reading:
GOVERNMENT PROPERTY! KEEP OUT!
Important Historical Preserve.
NO SALVAGE. NO LITTERING.
VIOLATORS WILL BE PROSECUTED.
Colorful paper fluttered against the bottom of the fence, pushed there by the breeze. Jimson reached down and pulled a piece through the little diamond-shaped grid.
It was a governmental tract:
THE VIRTUES OF TAXATION: GIVING A LITTLE, GETTING A LOT
Jimson skimmed it, wondering at the fact that the governmentals still used paper. Made from what, he wondered? Imported from Earth? That seemed to be an incredible waste of money. But it was retro, it was cool, had to give it that.
The point of the tract seemed to be that if a person gave only ten percent of their income, they could get benefits kind of like Winfinity’s employee health and pension plans. Jimson wondered how he would get an income without an indenture, and wondered why he’d want to give anyone any of his money after he finished his indenture.
The smoky-complexioned girl’s voice rose over the local comm. “Yeah, you paid, but there’s that.” She pointed at the Shrill. Her voice, raised, was considerably less pleasant than her looks would indicate.
“We’ve paid for its tour, too, Miss,” Kerry said.
The girl looked doubtful. “Are you a citizen of any recognized Earth or Martian government?”
“I didn’t know there were any left,” Jimson said.
“There are plenty!” the girl said. “Cuba, Maldives, South Africa, Madagascar, Federal China, the Royal Family on Mars.”
“No, we’re not citizens,” Kerry said.
“Then I can’t check your records!”
“You didn’t need to check them before.”
She pointed at the Shrill. “That ain’t a human!”
“It’s an intelligent entity. Surely there’s a provision for other life forms . . .”
The pretty girl frowned and turned to two of the ogres hidden in the depths of the shack.
“We have any forms for this?” she asked.
Vague muttering: “No.” “Might be a terrorist bomb.” “Let it in as a child, it’s short enough.” “How much did they pay?”
“It might be a bomb,” the pretty governmental said.
Kerry laughed.
“Are you threatening me?”
Kerry held up his hands. “No, no. Examine it if you want.”
One of the ogres came out and looked in the Shrill’s cage base. “Can you open the top?”
“I wouldn’t do that.”
The Shrill banged against the side of the cage, showing its underfangs, as if to drive home the point. The ogres shrank back and conferred briefly.
“It’s a dangerous animal,” one of them said. “Can’t let it in.”
“In! Now! Oversight!” the Shrill said.
“It’s the one who wanted to come here,” Kerry said.
“Kill! Eat!” the Shrill said.
“It’s dangerous,” the one ogre repeated.
“It’s just an act,” Kerry said.
“No,” Dian said, stepping forward. “It’s simply bipolar. You wouldn’t discriminate against a being simply on the basis of a mental disorder, would you?”
The two ogres gave each other nervous looks.
“I’m sure you have an equal-access requirement,” Dian said.
“We do. But not for . . . things!”
“So you’re going to discriminate against a helpless being that has no control over its mental dysfunction,” Dian said. She shook her head and looked disappointed. “We may have to contact our lawyers.”
More darty looks. “Lawyers?”
“Winfinity lawyers,” Dian said.
The hags covered their heads with their hands. “Shooting lawyers! But we can’t let the thing in. What would we call it? We have to have a form!”
They scampered back to the shack and dug through an incredible variety of crudely-printed paper forms, until they came up with a small green rectangle.
“Here,” the pretty one said. “Fill this out.”
Dian looked at it. “It’s a seeing eye dog form.”
“Yes, right!”
“On Mars?”
The older ogre looked defensive. “It’s happened.”
The other one looked at her and said, “It has?”
“Yes!”
“When?”
Dian shook her head. “Can I have a pen?”
They thrust a pen at her.
Thirty minutes and several hundred credits in additional tax later, their small group stood on the opposite side of the chain-link fence.
The pretty one came out of the cabin, wearing a muted pinstriped blue blazer cut to look like part of a three-piece business suit. Her nametag said, KELLY. Jimson smiled at her, thinking, at least it’s the pretty one. But Kelly just looked through him.
“Thank you,” Kerry said to Dian.
“Don’t thank me,” Dian said.
“No, really.”
“Don’t.”
Kerry backed off.
Kelly held up a green-painted paddle. “Welcome to the Operation Martian Freedom Monument and Preserve. This showcases the last major accomplishment of the United States government before its fall to the rapacious corporations of the times. This is a very important preserve, and I expect you to follow my guidance. See this paddle? Green means go. Red means stop. Just like the fifties. Stop means I’m gonna tell you something important. Go means we’re walking. As in, you’re following me. Not just wandering around wherever you like. You will not go where you aren’t allowed. Is that clear?”
“Will we get to see the ship?”
“The Operation Martian Freedom Lander is open, yes.”
“Thank you.”
Kelly glared at them for a few moments longer, as if trying to impart on them the toughness of her character. Jimson thought it was cute. He wished he was here just for pleasure, and had a little time to talk to her alone. It might be fun, trying out a governmental for once. Dian seemed like a cold fish, impossible to get to know. Not that he could let Kerry horn in on that, though.
Kelly led them over a low rise to a plain strewn with baseball- and basketball-sized rocks. Ahead of them rose a squat metal spire, heavily rusted, surrounded by scraps of khaki fabric clinging to aluminum poles.
Only one of the tents looked to be intact. New khaki fabric flapped in the Martian breeze, throwing back faint pink highlights from the clinging dust.
“This is the Operation Martian Freedom Lander and Base Camp,” Kelly said. “There are additional campsites higher in the hills, presumably set after the failure of Operation Martian Freedom. Some of them offer unique 21st Century graffiti for viewing. We’ll hike up to those after seeing the base camp and the lander.”
She took them into base camp. Tents stretched out over an area of about a thousand square meters. The remains of sealtite gaskets and a plastic sheen from the inside of the torn fabric suggested that the tents had once been airtight. Now, the dim Martian sun slanted down into them, revealing ancient food wrappers, aluminum mess kits, duffel bags, unidentified Kevlar cases bearing cryptic lettering, and even some things that were vaguely recognizable as squeezesuits. In one of the tents, a large-caliber rifle, heavily rusted, leaned against an aluminum bedframe.
Jimson polled his airscreens, but they were still dead. He sidled over to Lazrus and said, “You getting anything on Oversight?” he said.
“Bandwidth is extremely poor,” Lazrus said, his eyes bright and motionless. “There is no native wireless in this area. I’m going on fringe and bleeds.”
“So it’s not here?”
“Inconclusive.”
“I mean, you’d think . . .”
Lazrus shook his head. “Let’s finish the tour.”
Jimson shrugged.
They went into the big restored tent. Inside were posters of a Mars as imagined by the governmentals: happy families playing under deep blue skies, kids hiding amidst the healthy pine trees that grew from the red Martian soil; superhighways carrying futuristic bullet-like cars across rugged Martian mountain ranges, domed cities rising in the distance; families waving happily from highrise apartments that looked out over green parks.
A large banner ran overhead:
THE FAILURE OF OPERATION MARTIAN FREEDOM WAS THE LOSS OF THIS MARS.
Kelly pointed at the banner. “Always remember this. The failure of Operation Martian Freedom was the loss of this Mars. These are reproductions of historical documents preserved from the end of the age of government. This is what inclusion in the grand governmental ideal would have brought. A Mars that would be by now completely terraformed, covered with beautiful trees and parks, with highways linking clean domed cities.”
Jimson wondered why the cities would have to be domed if they had fully terraformed the world, but said nothing. He saw the group looking at each other, but he didn’t turn to look. He was sure everyone was thinking the same thing, but didn’t want to say it for fear of irritating the governmentals.
“Cooperation!” the Shrill boomed.
Everyone jumped, including Kelly. She took a couple of steps back from the Shrill, as if it might explode.
“Integration merger cooperation natural (yes) modes,” the Shrill said. “Sense made first time fragment understood clear path.”
Silence for a while.
“Is it . . . OK?” Kelly said.
“Functioning proper (normal). Continuing course! Show Oversight!” the Shrill said.
“Oversight?” Kelly said. “As in USG Oversight?”
“Yes,” Jimson said. And please tell me you have a backup copy.
“Oversight oversight now now!”
Kelly backed away. “I don’t . . . I might have to ask you to leave. That, uh, thing seems to be getting very violent.”
“Discrimination,” Dian said.
“It threatened me!”
“No. It didn’t. It was simply expressing enthusiasm about moving on to the tour of the Operation Martian Freedom lander.”
“Yes! Move! Oversight!” the Shrill said.
Kelly looked doubtful. “Are you going to behave yourself?” she asked the Shrill.
“Yes (will)!” the Shrill said.
Kelly nodded. She talked to them for a while more about the virtues of taxation and giving to your fellow person, then took them outside and trudged them towards the Operation Martian Freedom lander. They passed burned-out and rusted Mars-Humvees and individual transports, like Wheels, their Kevlar fabric gone white from centuries in the sun, their graceful curves broken and slumping. Kelly dutifully pointed out the relevant features of the war-machines.
Jimson fell back to walk near Kerry. “I don’t get it,” he said. “You Independents control this area, don’t you?”
“The Freemars do.”
“Same thing.”
“Not quite, but we do have ties.”
“So why not just come in here and take what you want? There don’t seem to be many govs around.”
Kerry sighed. “Violence is always the last resort.”
“Why?”
“Because you don’t know how large of a gun your opponent carries.”
#
“We have orders,” Yin said.
Highest Chambers appeared in her optilink. His image was rough and jerky, but she could see he was no longer under acceleration. Her low-bandwidth icon glowed bright red. “The Shrill is at the Operation Martian Freedom site. There are four others with it. You will capture the Shrill at all costs, even if it means the destruction of the site.”
“Highest Chambers?” Tiphani said, then realized her reply icon wasn’t on. This was just a general broadcast.
“Achieve this, and there will be bonuses for all. These are your orders.”
The door to the cabin slid open and Preacher Dave poked his head through. “You heard it. We’re approaching now. We’ll take out their Kite first, then proceed on to the Operation Martian Freedom site. Bandwidth use pegs them at the lander.”
“Do you expect us to fight?” Honored Yin said.
Preacher Dave laughed. “No. This is our job.”
“And we do it so well,” Alan said from the forward cabin.
Through the transparent window in the forward cabin, Tiphani saw a large Kite come into view. Farther off, a small shack marked the entrance to the Operation Martian Freedom site. Chain-link stretched off towards the horizon.
“Prepare for percussive conversion,” Alan said, his face stretching into a broad smile.
#
December 6th, 2009 / 508 Comments »
Just a brief note: please pardon the dust as I shake down this site to eliminate the ongoing WordPress spam injection attacks. There may be interruptions in service from time to time.
And now, back to our regularly scheduled show.
December 6th, 2009 / 1,183 Comments »
Hey all, some happy (strange and happy?) news: my novelette “Overhead” has been accepted by Shine, an Anthology of Optimistic Science Fiction, edited by Jetse de Vries.
This is one of the most exciting acceptances I’ve had lately, because the Shine ethos aligns so well with my own personal feelings: You know, not only do I think we’ll get through our current crisis–and the next one, and the next–but I think we’ll end up doing better than we ever have in history.
And there are a lot of people out there who believe the same thing. The accelerating change people make the case that our progress has been accelerating on a logarithmic scale for, well, about as long as humanity has been around. Which means we might see more change in the next couple of decades than in all of human history. The transhumanists are pushing us to go far beyond our original human bounds. I’ve talked to people who are working on key breakthroughs in nanotech, and biotech, and alternative energy during the course of the day job—and they share this same positive image of the future.
We’ll make it work. We’ll change the world. And we’ll make it better than ever, they seem to be saying.
Ask these people what inspires them, and they look a little sheepish as they admit, yeah, science fiction is a big part of it. But what they cite isn’t negative or apocalyptic. A lot of it is very, very old. You know, golden age stuff that would almost instantly be dismissed today.
But, pressed a little further, they admit: You know, all those old space adventures inspired me and my friends to get into engineering, or into science. Those adventures said we can do more, be more, than we are now. They inspired me. They made me go farther than I otherwise might have.
And that is why we need positive SF today. Here’s to Shine. I hope it’s only the first beam in the darkness.
Run, don’t walk, and pre-order your copy of Shine.
November 25th, 2009 / 906 Comments »
And so the fox returns to the henhouse to find a bear, squatting, happily licking blood and feathers from its muzzle. Han Fleming couldn’t get that image out of his mind.
Bertrand Chambers. Out in the real himself. He must be desperate, despite the whole-body transplant. That was what it had to be. If he was really that young, he wouldn’t be out in the real.
No. He was desperate. Maybe even taking Mimetene or Cognitrol or one of the newest brain-drugs, struggling to keep his decaying brain working efficiently. He certainly seemed sharp enough. He didn’t act like he was on the extreme end of the rejuve curve. He seemed more like an 80-year-old, rejuvenated for the first time. All the fine grit of experience, polishing a soul, finally revived in a form that didn’t hurt, that actually felt, that had passions, that could do something. Han remembered his first thought out of his first rejuve, back over a hundred and fifty years ago: My god, I can do anything now.
So. Yes. Maybe drugs. In that case, he was even more desperate. Or maybe some of the new persona engineering. Though they probably wouldn’t chance the instability problem on their CEO. Unless Winfinity itself was hatching an heir.
Either way, the timeline had suddenly shrunk.
Han made his way to the Disney Mars Hilton and took their penthouse suite. Fully a hundred feet aboveground, it gave him panoramic views of the salmon-reds and rust-oranges and saffron-yellows of Mars. Disney Mars was located on one of the steppes of Ius Chasma, near one of the paths of the contestants in the original Winning Mars. Lights traced the Rothman team’s path up a near-vertical climb across the canyon; Han’s optilink told him that vacationers could recreate the experience for a small fee.
No. Not for him. He was only allowing himself time to sleep because he was exhausted. And because his armored Kite wasn’t yet outfitted. And because he wanted a little more time to let the AIs crunch the fragments of data from Black2. It seemed like the Shrill had been victim of a straightforward smash-and-grab by the Freemers, but there was no destinational data. None that didn’t conflict, anyway. And with all the ongoing activity on the Winfinity net and the golf-ball-through-a-garden-hose nature of the fragmented Martian datanets, Han didn’t trust the result yet. He’d chased down too many bad plans to rush swiftly in.
The right plan made the difference between who was the bear and who was the fox. And Han knew who he wanted to be.
Incoming call, sir, a soft voice whispered in his ear.
Tell them I’m sleeping, Han subvocalized.
Caller requests priority conference.
They can wait.
Caller has offered identification. It is Bertrand Chambers, CEO and Chairman of Winfinity Enterprises Inc, a corporation based–
“I know what they are,” Han growled, out loud. Put him on.
The freeform holotank in the center of the room lit with an image of the boyish CEO, his face distorted by high-G boost.
“I was just thinking about you, Mr. Fox,” Han said. “Fleeing the henhouse after a little surprise?”
“Don’t start with your analogies,” Chambers said. “I don’t know what they mean, and I don’t fucking care.”
“If not an exchange of pleasantries between two equals, then why the call?”
“Equals!”
“Oh, yes, sorry. Four Hands, taken together, is slightly larger than Winfinity. I’m sorry your company no longer quite measures up.”
Chambers face went red, even in the high-G field. He growled deep in his throat. “You’re a fucking conglomerate. We’re unified.”
“Perhaps less than you think.”
“What does that mean?”
Han smiled, but said nothing.
“Okay. Fine. I just wanted to tell you, formally, ties between Winfinity and Four Hands are now severed. After your repeated attacks on our network, we have found further cooperation to be counter to our interests. Do you understand that, you fucking windbag?”
“Ah. That must mean that your fleet has arrived.” Though Han knew that, from periodic status reports from the Four Hands fleet. Mars orbit had become crowded with warships in the last forty hours. But Four Hands still held the edge in numbers.
“Among other things.”
“Though I notice you’re not using the short-range Spindle ship to bring you to Mars. Still a bit unreliable, eh?”
“How do you know I’m coming to Mars?”
“All the best people are coming to Mars this time of year.”
Chambers colored again and closed his eyes, as if trying to regain control of his emotions. Han smiled. Drugs. He’d seen this before, back when Disney was still being run by Roy II. He didn’t need the AIs to crunch the data from this conversation and tell him.
So the timeline had been moved up. Interesting, very interesting.
“Han. Be careful, or you may find yourself without a floor to stand on, or a header to breathe out of.”
“Threatening me in Mars Disney? That’s very funny.”
“Not a threat. A promise.”
“Seeing Win-Sec trying to make it through a Mouseketeer line might be highly amusing. Why don’t you send some down?”
“Seeing your fucking skeleton imprinted on the back wall of your suite might be highly fucking amusing, too.”
Han sighed. “So you’d violate the Gentlemens’ Agreement again?”
“No. Winfinity never did. Though I can’t say what the Church might do.”
Han called up latest figures from Minnie, one of the Four Hands flagships. There were seventy-three Four Hands warships in orbit. Versus fifty-one confirmed Winfinity ships. Pretty good odds, given the Four Hands 1.4:1 average advantage in armaments.
But they had that damnable short-range Spindle Drive. Even if they weren’t willing to use it on their CEO again, that wouldn’t stop them from Spindling in a hundred more ships at the worst possible moment.
If it even worked for larger ships. That golden ship was very, very small.
No. The Disney imagineers were still arguing over it. Betting that Winfinity wasn’t holding the short-range Spindle in reserve was a bad gamble. At least for now.
“Goodbye, Chambers.”
A brief smile. “Goodbye, Han.”
#
“A crawler?” Tiphani said, looking at the long segmented vehicle doubtfully. It was painted in Martian camo – muted shades of red, brown, and yellow, and bore the script Almighty McD on the front segment. Big tank-treads showed beneath the vehicle’s skirts, thickly crusted with Martian dust.
“What you want, a flyer?” one of the Consumeristian Youth asked, looking up from wrenching in the darkness behind an open service panel.
“It would be nice.”
“Until you got shot down.” The youth offered a rough laugh.
“This’ll take days,” Tiphani said.
“Not that long. And you’ll get there alive.”
“Is it really that bad?”
“Fly over the Free Areas without the right acks and secret-handshakes and I-know-you-know-me codes, and you’re done. They treat it like it’s private property, even the air.”
“Good afternoon, Honored Yin, Tiphani Mirate,” said a new voice, behind them. Tiphani turned and saw a heavyset man who looked vaguely familiar. Almost like the captain of the Holy Saleschannel, the one with the bandages. Standing with him was a short bulldog of a man with dark hair and bright, glittering eyes. She recognized him immediately.
“Alan!” she said. “And, um, you were . . .”
“Preacher Dave Thomas. Pleased to meet you, Tiphani.”
“But you were on the ship! The tent revival ship. The Holy Saleschannel. How’d you get here?”
“The Holy Franchise works in mysterious ways, my lady,” Preacher Dave said.
“Shortrange Spindle,” Honored Yin said.
“Yes,” Alan said, not looking happy.
“I don’t see any arms growing out of your foreheads,” Honored Yin said.
Preacher Dave squeezed his eyes shut. Alan just shook his head.
“I’m sorry,” Tiphani said. “Honored Yin’s still recovering from the suspension drugs.”
“Am not!” Honored Yin said.
“Honored Yin, you are acting differently. Compare your own performance summaries.”
“No! I’m me! Me’s I! Nothing else to know!”
Preacher Dave cleared his throat. “I see.”
“Why are you here?” Honored Yin asked.
“We’re to pilot the, uh, Almighty McD, to ensure the continuity of our shared mission.”
“Translation: you’re here because you fucked up mightily and they want a single chain of command to blame if you fuck up again. Or a single chain of command to redeem if we actually manage to pull this off.”
“I, um, don’t believe that’s entirely it.”
“Oh, no, the Church just loved you so much they sent you here for a little resort vacation.”
“Actually, we do have a broad range of experience in the Free Areas,” Alan said. “We are a logical choice to head this mission.”
“Can’t you get us something faster?” Tiphani asked.
Preacher Dave smiled and came to put a hand around Tiphani’s neck in a fake buddy-buddy gesture. His hand came to rest near the top of her breasts. “Dear Tiphani, I’d do anything I could to expedite this mission, but you don’t understand–”
Tiphani shrugged out from under his hand. “No. I don’t understand. You’ve been going in and converting for years–”
“Decades, actually,” Alan said.
“And you don’t have enough acks to fly through?”
Preacher Dave smiled. “The Freemars have proven extremely difficult to convert.”
“You must have someone inside that could fly you in.”
“Uh, well, no.”
“How many people have you converted?”
“Of the Freemers?”
“Yes!”
Preacher Dave looked heavenwards. Alan shrugged and said, “It’s early in the campaign. It takes a long time to achieve the results people think are so easy.”
“You haven’t converted anyone?”
“Nobody with a flyer,” Preacher Dave said.
Tiphani sighed and shook her head.
“It’ll be good, dear Tiphani. This thing really moves.”
“Let the sacrificial cows be,” Honored Yin said. “This is what we have. This is what we got.”
They gave her and Yin the cabin behind the lead segment to themselves, as if they were carrying some kind of strange disease that required quarantine. At one point, the cabin might have been casually elegant, but years of use and Martian dust had taken the sheen off the plastics. The synthetic leather seats were well-used, the plastic windows scratched and dusty. A well-thumbed copy of the Consumeristian Tract sat on a low table.
Yin looked apathetically out a window, leaning on the padded ledge with her forehead pressed against it. Outside, consumeristians were scrambling towards the vehicle. Tiphani hoped that meant they were departing soon.
At least the manic thing had passed, Tiphani thought. Yin seemed calmer. Maybe the drugs would soon finish their dance on Yin’s psyche and she’d be normal again soon.
Unless this is normal now, Tiphani thought, remembering Yin’s performance before the shortrange Spindle flight.
The Almighty McD started with a thud and a jerk. The grinding sound of sand in steel gears built slowly to a steady roar as they slid out of Rockport. Ruddy Martian scenery crawled past, painfully slow, like a ride on an old-fashioned steam railroad.
The door ahead of them slid open, briefly revealing Alan in the co-pilot’s chair. Preacher Dave stepped in, and the door shut behind him.
“Anything we can get you girls?” Preacher Dave said, rubbing his hands together.
“Besides faster transport?” Tiphani said.
“I’m hurt,” Preacher Dave said, his expressive face pulling down into an almost comical look of despair. “The Almighty McD averaged 81 kph for its last long-range trip, not bad over these roads.”
“How long till we get there?”
“Tomorrow. Mid-morning.”
Tiphani nodded. That wasn’t bad. She glanced out at the scenery, which had changed to almost untouched-looking low Martian hills and rock-strewn plains. They didn’t seem to be moving that fast, but that could be misleading. The Almighty McD glided over the rugged Martian terrain like a millipede. The ride inside was almost disturbingly quiet, with only a few smooth, large-scale motions to mar the peace. More like a ship on the ocean than a big segmented tank.
“Are we in the Free Areas already?” she said.
“No, we’re in the borderlands. The area around Rockport is probably the most hotly contested real estate on Mars. The Freemars don’t claim it, but the Jereists and Govs both do, and there are scattered Frees in the middle of it all.”
“They’re all crazy,” Honored Yin said.
“I can agree there,” Preacher Dave said.
They passed burrows bearing signs that read: THE HARVEYS, CIRCLE J RANCH, MCDONALD RESIDENCE. Around each burrow was a large mound of dirt and rocks, as well as the detritus of a long-time pioneer family: pieces of twisted, burned metal, yellowed plastic sheets flapping in the breeze, broken small appliances, sun-bleached and unidentifiable, sheets of unused insulating foam, and, in one case, fanciful sculptures of frog-like beings placed at regular intervals around the perimeter. Like the Easter Island statues, but in miniature.
“What are those all about?” Tiphani said.
“The burrows? Early settlers. Some of them still here.”
“No, the sculptures.”
Preacher Dave frowned. “Never really thought about them.”
Of course. “Martians?” Tiphani said, just to taunt.
“Party line is that Martian life never evolved above the crinoid type.”
“Evolved?” Tiphani said, raising an eyebrow.
“We’re not the Christian splinter. The Holy Franchise has touched many worlds. Some, like Earth, have been more successful than others.”
You really believe that crap, don’t you? Tiphani thought.
She looked back at the rapidly disappearing statues, and wondered what kind of life Mars once might have held. She knew there were whispers of more advanced fossils. Were these things based on that, or a figment of the oxygen-starved settlers’ imagination?
Tiphani sighed. She’d probably never know.
October 31st, 2009 / 1,018 Comments »
