Moving Mars

by Greg Bear

  Carter had a population of ten thousand BM members and several hundred applicants, most of them Terries immigrating because of Eloi laws on Earth. It was a big town, yet run efficiently, and the tunnels and warrens were large and well-designed. It didn't seem crowded and haphazard, as did Shinktown, nor cleanly officious, like Durrey; but it certainly wasn't cozy and familiar, like Ylla. The presence of so many Terries — a few of them exotic transforms — at times gave it a very unMartian atmosphere.

  Helen fed my slate background on the subjects to be discussed and filled me in on the itinerary for the two-day visit "Study it later," she said. "Right now, Bithras wants to meet his new assistant."

  "Of course." I detected no envy in Helen Dougal's face. I wondered why Bithras wasn't taking her instead of me — wondered if she thought I was moving in on her meal pan. Since I was a little younger in appearance . . . certainly in age . . .

  With what I had heard, anything might be possible. I must have gone a little distant, for Helen smiled patiently and said, "You're an apprentice. I have nothing to fear from you, nor you from me."

  How about from Bithras?

  "And believe me, a lot of what you've heard about our syndic is pure dust."

  "Oh."

  "Advocates and family representatives meet this afternoon at fifteen. First, however, you're going to join Bithras and me for lunch. Allen Pak-Lee is still in Borealis. He'll be here the day after tomorrow."

  The lunch was held in a dining hall outside Bithras's main office. I had expected moderate luxury, but the setting was Spartan: box nano food, hardly inspiring, and packaged tea served from ancient battered carafes in worn cups, on tables that must have had pioneer metal in them.

  Bithras entered, clutching his slate and cursing in what I first took to be Hindi; later I learned it was Punjabi. He sat peremptorily at the table — it isn't easy to sit down hard on Mars, but he did his best. The slate skittered a few centimeters across the table and he apologized in perfect, rapid English.

  He was dark, almost purple, with intense eyes and handsome features purring in his middle years. His head was topped with a short stiff brush of black hair lacking any gray. Thick arms and legs, well-muscled for a Martian, stuck out assertively from a short body. He wore a white cotton shirt and tennis shorts. Low-court tennis was Bithras's favorite sport.

  "It is pressing. It is pressing very hard," he said, and shook his head in frustration. Then he looked up, his eyes glittering like a little boy's, and beamed a broad smile. "Getting acquainted! My niece, my new apprentice and assistant?"

  I rose from my seat and bowed. He did the same, and reached across the table to shake my hand. His eyes lingered on my chest, which hardly invited scrutiny beneath a loose jumpsuit. "You come highly recommended, Casseia. I have great expectations."

  I blushed.

  He nodded briskly. "I had thought we would have time for a lunch alone, but not so — we start work immediately. Where are the advocates?"

  The door opened and six of Majumdar BM's most prominent advocates and managers entered. I had met four of them at social functions over the years. Three male, three female, they, too, wore white shirts and shorts, and towels draped around their necks, as if they had all been playing tennis with Bithras.

  I had never seen so many crucial characters assembled in one room: my first taste of being at the center.

  Bithras greeted each with a familiar nod. Introductions were ignored. I was here for my own benefit, not theirs. "Now I will begin," he said. "We are an unhappy planet. We do not satisfy Earth. That is sad enough, but actually our progress is slow from any point of view; nobody can agree how to put Humpty Dumpty back together again. It has been more than a year since the end of the Statist government, and all we have managed is to patch the Council back together and hold interim meetings. Economics have slid, and we are in worse condition than before Dauble threw her hammers — this has hurt trade. We do not have a single entity governing trade; Earth organizations must work with every BM separately, and contend with zealous district governors. We still run scared of actually cooperating in our own mutual interests, of being caught again in the Statist trap. So ..."

  He folded his hands. "We are hurting ourselves. There must be an end to recriminations as to who agreed with Dauble and who did not. We must stop punishing Lunar and Earth sympathizers with exclusion from the Council. As you know, I have been meeting with the syndics of the twenty largest Mars-based BMs for the past few months to put together a proposal for Martian unification, working behind and around the Council. I go to Earth with a package to present, and I present it to the Council for debate this evening. You have studied it . . . It is quick, it is dirty, it has handicaps. I'm giving you a final chance to criticize it, from a selfish perspective. Tell me something I do not know."

  "It curtails the rights of BMs to control their own trade," said Hetti Bishop, chief advocate. "I know we must organize, but this is too damned Statist."

  "Again I ask, tell me something I don't know."

  "It gives district governors more power than ever," said Nils Bodrum from Argyre. "The governors are in love with their duties and their lands. Some of them think Mars is a natural paradise to be preserved. We've had six Triple loan deals fall through because we couldn't guarantee quick answers to resource requests. We strangle in conservationist tape."

  Bithras smiled. "So, get to your point. Nils."

  "If governors keep hewing to a preservation line, and we give them more power, we can say good-bye to billions of Triple dollars. Triple money won't back our resource digs. We'll have to curtail settlements and turn down Terrie immigrants. That won't make anybody happy, least of all Earth. Where will they send their seekers after eternity? For each Eloi refugee — "

  "Immigrant," Hattie Bishop said wryly.

  "'Immigrant,' I remind this august assembly, we are paid a million Triple dollars. And that money flows first through Majumdar banks."

  Bithras listened intently.

  "I don't see why Earth wants the governors stronger," Bodrum concluded, folding his hands.

  "They are pushing for a unified government and for BMs to concede power," said Samuel Washington of Bauxite in the Nereidum Mountains. "That's been their goal for ten years. And they're willing to exert considerable pressure."

  "What kind of force can they use?" Hettie Bishop asked.

  Beside her, Nance Misra-Majumdar, the eldest of our advocates, chuckled and shook her head. "Two hundred and ninety thousand Terrie immigrants on Mars have arrived in the last ten years. They've found their way into high and trusted positions in every BM, some work on the council ..."

  "What are you getting at, Nance?" Hettie asked.

  Nance lifted her shoulders. "They used to be called fifth columnists," she said.

  "All of them?" Bithras asked sardonically.

  Nance smiled patiently. "Our thinkers are manufactured on Earth. It may be years before the Tharsis thinkers come on line. All of our nano factories come from Earth, or the designs at least."

  "No one has ever found irregularities in any designs or software," Hettie said. "Nance, we have no reason to be paranoid."

  Bithras lifted his chin from his hand and spun his chair halfway. "I see no reason to anticipate trouble, but Nance is right. In theory, there are many ways we could be undermined without facing a massive military expedition across space, which at any rate has never been feasible, even for so rich and powerful a world as Earth."

  I could hardly believe such things were being discussed. I was at once dubious, repelled, and fascinated.

  Nils Bodrum said, "We have no organized defenses. That much could be said for a central authority — easier to raise an army and defend our planet."

  Bithras was clearly not pleased by the direction the conversation was taking. "Friends, this is not a serious problem, certainly not yet. Earth simply wants us to present a united negotiating front, and they have targeted the largest financial BM — ourselves — to catalyze unificati
on. If you pardon the word."

  "Why should unification be a dirty word?" Hettie said. "My God, as an advocate, I tell you, I'd love to find a way out of the morass of special cases and fooleries we call our Charter."

  "The Moon went through this decades ago," Nance said. "Since the Schism, when Earth could not afford to administer such far-flung worlds and we took our leave — "

  "Sounds a note of history vid," Nils said with a grin.

  Nance continued after the slightest pause for a glare. "We have wrangled and tangled our way into perpetual unrest. The Moon found a solution, changed its constitution — "

  "And was reabsorbed by Earth," Nils said. "Independent in dreams only."

  "We are much farther away," Hettie said.

  Nils would not be swayed. "We do not need order imposed from outside. We need time to find our own path, our own best solution."

  Bithras sighed heavily. "My esteemed advocates tell me what I already know, and they say it over and over."

  "When you take this suggestion for compromise to Earth," Hettie said, "how do you expect them to believe you can make it stick in the Council? Preliminary agreement is one thing ..."

  Bithras's features expressed extreme distaste. "I am going to tell Earth," he said, "that Majumdar BM will put a hold on further Triple dollar transactions for any BM that does not sign."

  Nils exploded. "That is treasonous! We could be sued by every BM on this planet — and rightly so!"

  "What court would hear them?" Bithras asked. "We have no effective court structure on Mars, not since Dauble . . . Our own advocates pressed suit against Dauble on Earth, not Mars. What court on Earth would hear a suit pertaining only to Mars?" Bithras stared at them sternly. "My friends, how long has it been since a BM sued another BM?"

  "Thirty-one years," Hettie said glumly, chin in hand.

  "And why?" Bithras pursued, slapping his palm on the table.

  "Honor!" Nils cried.

  "Nonsense," Nance said. "Nobody has wanted to prick the illusion. Every BM is a rogue, an outlaw, and the Council is a polite sham."

  "But it works!" Nils said. "Advocates negotiate, talk to each other, settle things before they ever reach court. We work around the governors. For Majumdar to put the very existence of other BMs in jeopardy is unconscionable!"

  "Perhaps," Bithras said. "But the alternative is worse. Earth will doubtless make many threats if we do not act soon — and one of them will be complete embargo. No more designs, no more technical assistance. Our newer industries would be badly damaged, perhaps crippled."

  "That we could sue them for," Nils persisted, but without conviction.

  "My friends, I have offered you a chance to make comments on this proposed constitution," Bithras said. "You have until sixteen this evening. We are all aware of the dangers. We are all aware of the mood of Earth toward Mars."

  "I had hoped to persuade you to drop this farce," Nils said.

  "That is not an option. I am only a figurehead on this would-be ship-of-state, my friends," Bithras said. "I go to Earth hat in hand, to avoid disaster. We are only five millions. Earth is thirty thousand millions. Earth wants access to our resources. She wants to control our resources. The only way for us to maintain our freedom is to put our house in order, concede to Earth enough to put off the next confrontation a few more years, perhaps a decade. We are weak. Buying time is our best hope."

  "They'll force a Statist government on us," Nils said, "and then mold that government to their own ends, and when we're done, they'll own us body and soul."

  "That is a possibility," Bithras admitted. "That's why we must stab ourselves in the back, as Nils would call it, first."

  Bithras went to the Council alone and presented the proposals he had worked out with the five top Martian BMs. The debate was furious; nobody liked the choices, but nobody wanted to be the first to attract Earth's anger. Somehow, he managed to glue together something acceptable. Bithras sent Alien and me messages after the session concluded.

  My dear young assistants,

  All Martians are cowards. The proposals are agreed to.

  Salve!

  The trip began with a farewell dinner in the departure lounge of Atwood Star Harbor near Equator Rise, west of Pavonis Mons. Friends, family and dignitaries came to the port to see us off.

  For security reasons, Bithras would board the shuttle at the last minute. There had been threats against his life planted anonymously in family mailboxes for the past few days, ever since the announcement of his departure to Earth. Some suspected disgruntled Statists; others looked to the smaller BMs, who had least to gain and most to lose.

  My mother, father and brother sat in a corner of the lounge, near a broad window overlooking the port. Blunt white shuttle noses poked up through half-open silo hatches. Red flopsand formed smooth streaks across the white pavement. Arbeiters engaged in perpetual cleanup roamed the field.

  We spoke in bursts, with long moments of silence in between: Martian reserve. My mother and father tried not to show their pride and sadness. Stan simply smiled. Stan always smiled, in good times or bad. Some misjudged him because of that, but due to the shape of his face, it was easier for him to smile than not.

  Father took me by both shoulders and said, "You're going to do great."

  "Of course she will," my mother said.

  "We'll have to adopt someone while you're gone," Father continued. "We can't stand an empty house."

  "The hell we will," Mother said. "Stan will leave in a few months — "

  "I will?" Stan said. His protest carried an odd note; surprise beyond the jest.

  "And we'll have the warren to ourselves for the first time in ten years. What should we do?"

  "Replace the carpets," Father said. "They don't groom themselves as well as they used to."

  I listened with a mix of embarrassment and grief. What I wanted, right now, was to retreat and cry, but that was not possible.

  "You will make us proud," Father said, and then, to make his point, in a louder voice, he said it again.

  "I'll try," I murmured, searching his face. Father and I had never quite communicated; his love had always been obvious, and he had never slighted me, but he often seemed a cipher. Mother I thought I knew; yet it was Father who never surprised me, and Mother who never failed to.

  "We won't drag this out," Mother said firmly, taking my father's elbow for emphasis. Mother and I hugged. I squeezed her hard, feeling like a little girl, wanting her to sit me on her lap and rock me. She pulled back, smiling, tears in her eyes, and actually pushed me away, gently but firmly. Father gripped my hand with both of his and shook it. He had tears in his eyes, as well. They turned abruptly and left.

  Stan stayed longer. We stood apart from the crowd, saying little, until he cocked his head to one side, and whispered, "They're going to miss you."

  "I know," I said.

  "So will I."

  "It'll flash," I said.

  "I'm going lawbond," he said, sticking his jaw out pugnaciously.

  "What?"

  "To Jane Wolper."

  "From Cailetet?"

  "Yeah."

  "Stan, Father hates Cailetet. They're pushy and Lunar. We've never been able to share with them."

  "Maybe that's why I love her."

  I stared at him in astonishment. "You're amazing," I said.

  "Yeah." He seemed pleased with himself.

  "You're going over to their family . . . ?"

  "Yeah."

  "I'm glad I'm leaving now."

  "I'll keep you informed," he said. "If Dad says nothing about me, you'll know it went badly. I'll give you the details when the dust settles."

  I specked him running down the tunnel between our rooms when he was five and I was two and a half and adored him. He could leap like a kangaroo and wore rubber pads to bounce hands and feet down the tunnels. Athletic, calm, always-knows-where-to-go Stan. Never said boo to our parents, never gave them pause. Now it was his turn to aggravate and provoke.r />
  We hugged. "Don't let her push you around."

  Stan made a petulant face, wiped it with his hand like a clown, and smiled sunnily. "I'm proud you made it, Casseia," he said. He hugged me quickly, shook my hand, gave me a small package, and left.

  I sat in a corner and opened the wrapper. Inside was a cartridge of all our blood family docs and vids. Stan had paid extra for the weight clearance of one hundred grams; the box was marked with a cargo stamp. I felt even more empty and alone.

  I faced the crowded lounge with a kind of luxurious dread. The shuttle would depart in two hours. I'd be aboard the Tuamotu in less than six hours. We would rise from Mars orbit and inject Solar in less than twenty hours . . .

  I pocketed Stan's gift, squared my shoulders, and entered the crowd with a big, false smile.

  Even at its most opulent, space travel was never comfortable. The shuttle to orbit was a rude introduction to the necessary economies of leaving a planet: shot out of your planetary goldfish bowl on a pillar of flaming hydrogen or methane, in a cylindrical cabin less than ten meters wide, everyone arranged in stacked circles with feet pointing outward, seventy passengers and two shuttle crew, losing Mars's reassuring gentle grip and dropping endlessly . . .

  Temp bichemistry helped. Those passengers who had installed permanent bichemistries to adapt to micro-g conditions spent the first hour in orbit asleep while the boat swung carefully to mate with Tuamotu. I had refused such a radical procedure — how often would I travel between worlds? — and chosen temp. I spent the whole time awake, feeling my body smooth over the deep uncertainty of always falling.

  Some things I didn't expect. The quick adjustments of temp bichemistry caused a kind of euphoria that was pleasant and disturbing at once. For several minutes I was incredibly randy. That passed, however, and all I felt was a steady tingle throughout my body.

  Bithras and Pak-Lee had arrived at Atwood after I was seated, and were in the shuttle somewhere below me. Alice Two was in the hold in a special thinker berth.

  Being away from net links was like sensory deprivation for a thinker; less than a tenth of Alice Two's capacity would be engaged while we were in space. The bandwidth of space communication was too narrow to keep her fully linked and employed. She would not sleep, of course, but she would spend much of the journey correlating events in Earth and Martian history drawn from her large data store.