The Last Campaign (The Near-Earth Mysteries)

by Martin L Shoemaker

  No, I did not particularly like Carla. Maybe that wasn’t fair. I didn’t really know her. But I had heard her speeches, pure Realist dogma. I think what bothered me most was that she made their timid platform sound reasonable, and that made me want to shout at the video screen.

  I glanced back to the row in front of Carla, to a face I had almost missed. Marcus. I had forgotten that he knew Jacob and Adam. I seldom ran into him anymore. Again, fifty thousand people. Plenty of room for a couple of exes to miss each other. Or was it to avoid each other? Not that there were problems there—I didn’t know of any, at least. But Marcus still did not get along with Nick. And the feeling was mutual, and Nick was worse at hiding it. So I hoped he would not notice Marcus back there.

  I need not have worried. Nick was concentrating on the scene ahead. He kept reaching up to touch the yarmulke on his head and to scratch under it. I slapped his hand.

  “But it itches,” he whispered.

  “Scratch later,” I said. “What would Grandma Ruth say?” That was a low blow—Grandma Ruth had been the only family member Nick had loved, and he had run away from home right after her funeral—but it was effective. Nick stopped scratching.

  Then Rabbi Miller strode to the front, and I pressed Nick to sit back in the pew as the rabbi gave the service. I had never been to a Jewish funeral before, so I could not tell if it was Orthodox or not. What did Orthodox even mean on Mars? But it was sincere and moving.

  In the middle, Adam got up and told a few stories from his brother’s life. He ended with, “Today we bury a great scientist and a loving husband. My partner, my friend, my . . .” Adam swallowed. “My brother.” He held a hand out to a camera, which was recording the service for his parents back on Earth. “Mother, Father, I wish you could be here to sit shiva with us. But I feel your love. I know nothing can erase this pain, but please remember . . .” Adam started to cry. “Jacob died doing what he loved. Something important for every life here on Mars. All of Mars will remember him for that. Shalom, my brother.”

  I had told myself I wasn’t going to cry. As a former admiral, I had seen my share of deaths in the line of duty. But Adam’s tribute touched me, and I started to weep.

  Then I looked down, and Nick was holding out a handkerchief to me. I wrapped my arm around him and pulled him close. “Thank you, Nico,” I whispered.

  2. SHIVA

  After the service, we swung by our apartment to pick up Nick’s contribution to shiva: a large batch of kosher Brazilian cheese bread, pão de queijo—or at least kosher as far as Nick knew. It was hard to tell sometimes with Martian ingredients. Nick pulled the pan from the oven and set it on the work top, filling the apartment with the toasty smell of bread and hints of cheese. Once I was sure Nick’s hands were free from the hot pan, I wrapped my arms around his waist, pulled him close, and leaned in. Pão de queijo had been what Mrs. Quintana had brought to Grandma Ruth’s funeral nearly half a century ago. In Nick’s mind, it was comfort food.

  While we waited for the pão to cool, I turned on a news stream. When I saw Carla Grace, I almost turned it off again; but Nick waved a hand. Since Anthony’s call, Nick had paid closer attention to the news.

  From the background, I could see that Grace was speaking from the corridor just outside the Tomb. As I had suspected, the cachorra was using Jacob’s death to promote her campaign.

  “It’s a very sad day for Maxwell City, of course,” she said to the camera. “We can’t afford to lose a good scientist like Jacob Simons.”

  “Can’t afford?” a female voice asked from off screen.

  “We can’t afford to lose any trained personnel. We’re still too small, too interdependent.”

  “And too dependent on the Initiative,” the journo added—a response surely planted by Grace’s campaign.

  “Far too dependent,” Grace continued. “We still have to—” She caught herself, as if choked up. “We can’t even bury our dead. We have to recycle them in the Tomb. We can’t spare the organics. We’re not ready for independence.”

  “Porra,” Nick said, turning off the stream himself. “Aldrin City recycles more tightly than we do, and they’re independent. That’s a phony argument.”

  “Phony,” I agreed. But I remembered Althea’s face when they had interred Jacob in the Tomb. It carried emotional weight. “We can’t even bury our dead.”

  We left our apartment and navigated the local tunnels to India Tube. Levels 1 to 3 of the city were laid out as discs, each surrounded by a ring tube. Three tubes (Golf, Hotel, and India on our level) ran from the ring to the center, and smaller tunnels divided the cubic between the tubes into neighborhoods and apartments.

  We stepped aboard the slidewalk in India, and it carried us inward to the Concourse, the large commons area in the center of the city. On the levels above, the Concourse was a stack of ring-shaped balconies; but here on level 3 it was a round park a hundred meters across, filled with decorative plants engineered for high oxygen production. Children bounded through the paths in the natural-spectrum light from LED banks three levels up. The youngest wore anchor rings, weighted circles on fabric skirts, to hold them to the ground and keep them from jumping too high and injuring themselves. Those older than toddlers, though, moved with a freedom and grace that Earth-born children might never know, bouncing with ease from ground to trees to walls in what might have been a game of tag. I smiled to see them at play, a little joy in a sad day.

  We skirted the edge of the park to the nearest elevator and punched the button for level 1. We felt a brief increase in weight, almost a full G, as the car sped us to the top. Then we stepped out into the ring-shaped mall, lined with shops and restaurants and VR parlors. A quick turn to our left took us into another residential district between Alfa and Charlie Tubes. It was a more prestigious neighborhood, being just below the surface; but the side tunnels were smaller, and the rents were higher.

  We reached Jacob and Althea’s apartment—Althea’s apartment now; I would have to get used to thinking of it that way. Adam let us in. Nick offered the basket of warm bread.

  “Thank you, Rosalia,” Adam said. “Thank you, Nick. This is a mitzvah.” Adam took the basket. Nick shook Adam’s free hand, and I reached in close to hug him.

  I had done only a bit of research on sitting shiva. I knew it was a seven-day period of mourning; and during that time, the respectful thing to do in the home was to sit silently unless one of the family spoke to you first, and then to share stories of the departed. So I found a corner to sit in.

  The apartment was not large by modern Maxwell City standards. Maxwell is known for having the smallest cubic per person of any planet-bound city in the solar system. It was still that new, and space was still at a premium. This was one of the older apartments; and it appeared that, in preparation for shiva, Althea had borrowed low stools from somewhere to provide plenty of places for people to sit. A center island naturally divided the space into four corner conversation nooks. The island made the apartment even smaller.

  Nick followed Adam into the kitchen. I was sure he would volunteer to help with food. It would give him something to do in a situation where he was powerless to make things better.

  Soon Anthony came in, carrying a clear covered plate with fruit. From my vantage point, I could not tell for sure, but it looked fresh from the hydroponics gardens, not reconstituted. Althea took the fruit off to the kitchen, and Anthony came over and joined me. He nodded silently, respecting shiva, and I did the same. His assistant, Alonzo Gutierrez, stood silently behind him.

  Then to my surprise, a video screen lit up in the wall beside me. On the screen was an older gentleman who looked very much like Jacob and Adam. He spoke in a soft voice. “Forgive the unusual nature of this call,” he said. “We programmed this screen to play this message when someone sat nearby. This is not a normal shiva ritual; but then, this is not a normal shiva. Normally I would introduce myself as Isaiah, Jacob’s father, and share my thanks with you for joining us, taking your ha
nd and thanking you. I cannot take your hand; but please, I would be honored if you would record an answer. Please tell me who you are, and share with me a memory of Jacob.”

  I turned to the screen. The arrangement made sense. The current light-speed delay between Earth and Mars was thirty minutes round trip. Isaiah must have recorded this message fifteen minutes ago. Now, when we told our memories, it would be fifteen minutes before those got back to him.

  “I am so sorry for your loss, Mr. Simons,” I said. “I am Rosalia Morais, a resident of Maxwell City. I was . . .” I swallowed hard. “I was the one who found his body. Along with my husband, Nicolau Aames.” I cringed at that. Nick was famous across the solar system, both for his Mars mission and for his purported mutiny aboard the Aldrin. I did not want Mr. Simons to think I was name-dropping in the middle of his mourning. But there was nothing I could do except continue. “I do not think he suffered.”

  Anthony tapped my arm, shaking his head, and I remembered the tradition. A story . . . “There are many stories about Jacob. He was one of the earlier permanent residents here. I think my favorite story is when Nick and I first arrived. Jacob was one of the first residents to greet us, and he said—Let me think, I want to get his words correct. He said, ‘Welcome to Mars. Your new life begins here. You’re one of us now, and that’s all that counts.’ And he meant it. He helped us find work for a while, helped us find a home, and helped us move into larger quarters once we established our own business and could afford it. And . . .” I had trouble continuing. “And he was so kind to my Nick. You may have heard stories. So many people judge Nick before they ever meet him, based on what they have heard—most of which is lies. They see a revered founder, or a major scoundrel, or a demanding martinet. But to Jacob, Nick was just a friend. We lost touch as the city grew, and our business and his took us in different directions. We saw each other at parties now and then. But I shall never forget. He made us welcome on Mars.”

  Anthony gripped my shoulders, and I leaned into him, sobbing. I knew this was wrong. I knew that I was supposed to help Mr. Simons with his grief, not indulge my own. But I’m only human. It had suddenly hit me how we had let time and business pull us away from a friend, and now we would never have the chance to reach back out to him.

  Then Anthony told a story as well. He had been here longer than Jacob and Adam, from the very first voyage of the Aldrin. He had come down as a spoiled billionaire’s son; but with a lot of determination and with help from Nick and Chuks and Connie, he had turned himself into a damn fine Martian scientist. And that is what he spoke of: Adam and Jacob and how much they had added to the science effort on Mars. Also how sorry he had been to see them take off on their own, but how happy he had been for them as well.

  By the time Anthony was done, Nick had joined us. I introduced him to Isaiah Simons, and I explained that the gentleman was hoping for stories about Jacob. Nick being Nick, he told a work story. It was short, typical Nick.

  “I wish you could be here to hear this in person, Mr. Simons,” Nick said. “My top story about Jacob and Adam is when they formed their own business. That was early in the era of Martian settlement. Independent operations were still rare, not like the numbers we have today, and were considered high risk. Jacob and Adam sought business insurance from São Paulo Mutual, one of the prime underwriters of ventures here on Mars. I often do contract investigations for SPM, and they asked me to audit the facilities, to make sure the business was fit for underwriting. That’s boring work, no challenge at all. I just go through the facility, and I write up all the discrepancies that I find. Then I give a final recommendation of whether the business can remediate the discrepancies and operate in a safe function compatible with underwriting. Can they figure out Mars? Can they survive, and thrive, or will they get somebody killed?” Anthony looked at Nick with curious eyes; but I had heard this story before, and I knew where it was heading. Nick went on, “But with Simons Brothers Labs, I had a challenge all right: finding any discrepancies to report. I looked. I looked hard. I spent extra time. And I always find discrepancies.”

  I added, “He does.”

  Nick continued, “The entire time, they just stood, leaning back against the lab table, arms crossed as they watched me. If they’d had smug looks on their faces, I would’ve made something up, just to shock them out of their complacency. But no: they were patient, they were confident, and they were pleasant. Mr. Simons, in my entire career, I have never given out a 100 percent on an inspection report. Except that one. You raised your sons to pay attention to details. You can be proud of their work. You can be proud of Jacob, and of Adam.”

  I noticed the far corner of the room had another video screen, and Mrs. Simons looked out from there, talking to Alonzo and a couple of researchers. Others had come in while we had been speaking to the video screen. I realized that other people might have stories to tell as well; so I reached out to the screen, touching it as if I could reach through to touch Mr. Simons. “We shall let someone else come talk to you now, sir. Again, we are very sorry for your loss. And Mars’s loss as well.”

  I stood up and moved to the third corner, the one opposite the kitchen, and Nick and Anthony followed me. As I passed through the room, I saw Althea standing by the kitchen door, talking to . . . The woman turned, and I saw that I was right, it was Carla Grace. I did not think she had ever met Jacob or Althea, but I could be wrong. I hoped that the woman had the class not to be politicking here; but after her tactless interview . . .

  Beside Carla stood her campaign manager, Françoise Merced—though he usually went by Francis here on Mars. He was watching the conversation carefully, and unobtrusively making notes on his comp as he did. So maybe politicking, maybe not: Merced was not the type to let any information go to waste if it might prove useful to the campaign. Oh well. Jacob was dead, Althea was in mourning, but life on Mars went on.

  We sat. Shortly Adam came by to join us. We told him more stories. I was surprised to find how few stories were only Jacob stories, and how many were Adam stories as well. The two had been inseparable through much of their time on Mars.

  But that had changed when Ilse had left, and Adam had thrown himself more into the business, heavily marketing their services while Jacob did solo missions that they never would have taken before. They had gotten overconfident; but that was not something to bring up now.

  So instead I told of the time I drove Jacob out for a core sample survey where some new settlements had been proposed. Anthony told of the time that Jacob had run against him for mayor. It had been the most unusual election Anthony had ever sat, because they had been such good friends that neither would speak out against the other. It was also the closest race Anthony had ever run on Mars—until this one.

  Nick told a brief story about introducing Jacob to caipirinhas and how they had had so many, Jacob had ended up sleeping on our couch. In the morning, Jacob had insisted on repaying the hospitality by making an incredible breakfast. A better breakfast than Nick makes, and Nick is a pretty good cook.

  Adam smiled weakly, and we sat in silence for a while until he drifted away. I wondered how mechanical this whole process felt to him and Althea: us moving from station to station in the room, like a choreographed dance, to wait our turn to pay respects to each surviving family member. I wondered if we had been in a house on Earth, with more rooms and more conversation nooks, would it have had the same choreographed flow? Or would it be more random?

  But then I thought that in this case, “mechanical” might be a synonym for “ritual.” The purpose might be to let the visitors comfort each mourner in their own time, but organized so that that time was today, the day of the burial.

  Whether by design or not, eventually we drifted over to the corner where Althea sat. Her eyes were dry now, but red and weary. We sat silently as she reached over and took my hand; but she said nothing, and so we honored the ritual in that respect as well. Until she chose to talk, we would sit in silence.

  But others we
re not so observant. From the corner over by Adam came voices—not raised voices, but too loud for this occasion. Peering around the center island, I saw someone I did not recognize: an older man, gray haired, wearing expensive, well-tailored clothes. I heard him say, “We have to have those reports, Adam.” Adam murmured something, and the man replied, “What do you mean a week?” Again Adam kept his voice low, and he waved his hand to try to get the speaker to lower his voice as well.

  I gently pulled my hand free from Althea’s, I strode across the room, and I put my hand on the large, loud man’s shoulder. The fabric felt like silk. Who wears silk on Mars? “This is a day of mourning,” I whispered. “Lower your voice! Show some respect.”

  “I don’t give a damn about respect,” the man said. I glared at him. When I had been an admiral, that glare had silenced many a junior officer. It was nice to see I still had the touch. The man lowered his voice before he continued, “I don’t care. I need those reports. Adam promised me I’d have them by today.”

  “And you are . . . ?”

  “Philippe Trudeau,” the man said.

  I did not know his face, but I recognized the name. “Trudeau Labs.” Trudeau was a leading scientist and a vocal Saganist.

  “Yes,” he answered.

  I glanced at Adam. “Adam, do you want him to leave?”

  “Yes.” Adam’s eyes were moist, almost ready to tear. “Please, Philippe, please leave. Come back in a week.”

  “I don’t have a week,” Trudeau answered.

  “They are sitting shiva, Monsieur Trudeau,” I said. “That is a seven-day ritual. They cannot transact business during those seven days.”

  “Preposterous!” Again his voice rose. “We should let the scientific exploration of Mars fall behind for some primitive superstition? The body is buried, man, move on.”