by Kage Baker
“I have been many things, m’dear,” he informed her, washing down his mouthful with more beer. “And I did take a degree in mineralogy at the University of Queensland once.”
“Then you have a look at it. It was in some clay I dug up this afternoon. Maybe quartz with some cinnabar stain? Or more of the ever-present rust? It’s a funny old thing.” She tossed it over and the Brick caught it in his massive hand, peered at it for a long moment.
Then he unflapped his transport jacket, reached into the breast and brought out a tiny spectrometer mounted in a headset. He slipped it on with one hand, holding the crystal out to the light with the other. He stared through the eyepiece for a long moment.
“Or do you think it’s some kind of agate?” said Mary.
“No,” the Brick replied, turning and turning the crystal in his hand. “Unless this gizmo is mistaken, sweetheart, you’ve got yourself a diamond here.”
Nobody believed it. How could something that looked like a lump of frozen tomato juice be worth anything? A diamond?
Whatever it turned out to be, however, everyone agreed that the British Arean Company must not be told.
“They’ll stiff you of it somehow, darling girl,” said Cochevelou, leaning across the table to gaze deeply into Mary’s eyes. It was his table, not hers; she had been invited to a celebratory dinner at Morrigan Hall, where a piglet had been slaughtered in her honor. Three hours of greasy revelry later, Cochevelou had retired with her to his private chamber, along with a pitcher of cream and honey and a bottle of aquavitae.
“They’ll find a way to take it from your hands, just as they’ve taken everything else,” he said, reaching for the pitcher to mix her another brose. “Drink up now, my heart. I’ll tell you a parable; the BAC’s like the bees we brought up here, ain’t they?”
“Are they?” Mary accepted her drink but did not lift it to her lips.
“They are. Brought up here in great expectation, eh? And lo and behold, they’re all but useless. ‘Ooo, where’s the magnetic field? Oooo, how’ll we fly? Oh dearie me, we’re not going out and pollinating anything up here! We’ll stay in our nice warm hive, thank you very much. Though if you bring us food and such we’ll perhaps consent to make a little honey.’ They get fed, they get cosseted, but who is it does the real work? My Perrik’s biis, that’s who.
“And so it’s us doing the real work of terraforming after all, not those bureaucrats under the dome. But you may lay odds, the minute they get to hear of diamonds in your allotment, out they’ll swarm with their lawyers and sting the living shite out of you until they’ve driven you off your own land!” Cochevelou gulped down his drink. Mary turned the stem of her goblet in her hand.
“What remedy, then, Cochevelou?”
“Why, dispose of the thing first! I’ll trade you Finn’s twenty long acres for the rock outright, dearest woman. I’ll stand between you and the vicious stinging thieves. And into the bargain I’ll—why, I’ll—” He sank awkwardly to his knees, taking her free hand in both of his. Holy Mother, not again! thought Mary.
“I’ll ask you to be my lady wife, which besides being the glory of my days and nights would also make those British Arean drones think twice about slighting you. What do you say, joy of my eyes?”
“Chief, sir?” Gwil Evans opened the door, peering in. “You’d better come look—Ramsay’s in the sewer pipe and his foot’s caught, and we can’t get him out—”
Cochevelou stood, clenching his fists. “What in hell is he doing in there?”
“And we were hoping you’d have some helpful suggestions, like—because he went in there to retrieve Finn’s identity disc, see, which fell in unexpectedly and—”
“I’ll murder the lot of you some day, by the Iron Hammer,” said Cochevelou, and turning to Mary said in a very different voice, “Duty calls, my joy. Please drink up, but linger; I won’t be more than a minute or two sorting this out.”
He climbed to his feet again and went stamping off after Evans, who had prudently retreated down the corridor. Mary rose and went into Cochevelou’s private lavatory, where she poured her drink down the reclamator. It was, by her count, the fifth time Cochevelou had proposed to her. She was thinking very hard about her answer when she returned to his parlor just as someone else entered the room by an interior hatch.
“Dad,” said the boy.
“He’s just seeing to something, Perrik,” said Mary, wondering, for the boy seldom spoke. He spotted her and quickly averted his eyes; then edged forward into the chamber.
Cochevelou’s son was twenty-three by Earth years count, but looked twelve. He had his father’s light eyes but was otherwise a different creature entirely, small-boned and pale. A galaxy of golden motes circled his head slowly, throwing shifting lights across his face.
Mary stood still, knowing that if she advanced on him he’d shrink away. She held up her empty glass and examined it ostentatiously, wondering if he’d come any closer. He did, sidling along until he stood within reach.
“I’m glad it’s you,” he said. To her great delight, he reached forward and took her hand, Perrik who could hardly bear to be touched by anyone. “I was going to show my dad the new biis. But I’d like you to see them, too. Come have a look. Please?”
Mary had seldom seen him so animated; there was a faint flush of color in his cheeks, and he was almost smiling as he glanced at her sidelong.
“New biis, is it? I’d be happy to see them.” Mary followed him out of the chamber and into the room beyond. Perrik slept here, though his cot and trunk took up very little space. The rest of it was his workshop, spotlessly clean, with gleaming tools ranged along the wall and banks of electronics flashing lights. Components were arranged here and there on the tables, aligned perfectly in rows and in patterns that made sense only to Perrik. In one corner was a framework globe, mounted on a stand; the biis swarmed there principally, zipping in and out of the globe or hovering in the air above, so that the whole corner where it stood glowed as though with firelight. Mary turned her gaze there expectantly, but Perrik led her to a table on the far side of the room.
“Extremely new biis,” said Perrik. “Programmed differently from the others.” He lifted a cover from a wire-framed box. Mary saw within four points of blue light, perhaps twice the size of the yellow ones. They circled at a slower speed, emitting a hum at a slightly deeper pitch.
“And what do they do, dear?”
“These will be the drones,” said Perrik. “Just like with real bees. But since there’s no queen, they have to have a different purpose. The yellow pollinators go from plant to plant now, and when they find a weed all they do at present is leave it be. But now they’ll send a signal to the drones. The drones will come and kill the weeds.”
“How practical,” said Mary. “Inject them with herbicide or something?”
“No! That would be wasteful. And dangerous. They’ll eat them.”
“Eat them? But they’re little robots, dear.”
“And each one has a chamber in him where the plant material is converted to a useful polymer. Then it’s excreted in pellets and dropped for the red ones.”
“What red ones?”
“Ah.” Perrik leaned down, smiling at his blue lights, and for a moment looked like a normal boy. “They’re next. They’re a surprise. It’s going to be a perfect society, you see? Members with different functions, all of them working together. Terrifically useful. I expect it will take me days to transmit the patent application.”
“This could make a great deal of money for the clan, you know,” said Mary thoughtfully.
“Eventually,” said Perrik. “They have to be perfected first, don’t they?”
There was a door’s hiss and a growl from the chamber beyond, and a moment later Cochevelou came in. “Mary? What’s this?”
“Perrik was only showing me a new bii he’s designed,” said Mary. Cochevelou gaped at the blue lights a moment, and then grinned wide.
“That’s my brilliant boy!”
he roared. He came at Perrik as though to embrace him. Perrik flinched away and looked at the floor. Cochevelou dropped his arms, coloring, and cleared his throat. “Well! Er. What a fine thing, now! You see, Mary, what a genius I’ve raised?”
“You don’t even know what it does,” muttered Perrik.
“I don’t, that’s a fact, but I’m proud of you anyway,” said Cochevelou apologetically.
“Let’s continue our interesting conversation in the other room, shall we, Cochevelou?” said Mary. “A good night to you, Perrik dear. Can’t wait to see how they turn out!” She led Cochevelou from the room and, settling him at the table, mixed him a drink.
“Well, my own man, I’ve given your gracious offer a deal of thought these last few minutes, so I have. And as for trading the rock for the land, why, I’d hate to see you come out on the wrong end of the bargain, if it should be appraised and turn out to be worth no more than the postage to send it Down Home.
“So here’s what I’m proposing: you’ll draw up the papers for transfer of sale on spec, and I’ll pay you ten punts deposit, and ten punts a week, which will be rent for use of the land meantimes. We’ll send the rock back to Earth with Finn and he’ll get it appraised. If it’s a diamond, like what the Brick thinks it is, I’ll pay you six thousand punts for the land, eh, out of my riches? The clan can’t refuse that, surely.” She settled on Cochevelou’s lap and smiled into his eyes.
“And what about making me the happiest man on Mars?” Cochevelou inquired.
“Oh, my dear, can I in good conscience bind you to a poor beggar woman? Which is what I may well be, if my sparkly rock turns out to be a crude old lump of nothing much. And of course in that event you’d have my ten punts deposit for your own to keep, and the land too, and I’d be a regular paying tenant. But if my luck holds . . . well, you know, my heart, I’m bruised in love three times now, and swore I’d never trust myself to marry again. But if I ever should wed again, it’s only you I’d consider. So we’ll wait and see, won’t we?”
“So we will,” said Cochevelou weakly, for she was breathing into his ear.
The transfer of title was registered with the British Arean Company by Mr. Morton, who as a Briton seemed less likely to annoy the authorities.
So on the appointed day the rock was sewn into the lining of Finn’s thermal suit, and he was seen off to the spaceport with much cheer, after promising faithfully to take the thing straight to the best dealers in Amsterdam immediately on arriving Down Home.
The next they heard of him, however, was that he was found drowned and smiling on the rocky beach at Antrim not three weeks after his homecoming, a bottle still clutched in his hand.
Mary shrugged. She had title to the land, and Cochevelou had ten punts a week from her. For once, she thought to herself, she had broken even.
CHAPTER 5
Winners
It was the Queen’s Birthday, and Mary was hosting the Cement Kayak Regatta.
Outdoor sports were possible on Mars. Just.
Not to the extent that the famous original advertising holo implied (grinning man in shirtsleeves with football and micromask, standing just outside an airlock door, the image captioned: “This man is actually STANDING on the SURFACE of MARS!” though without any mention of the fact that the holo had been taken at noon on the hottest day in summer at the equator and that the man remained outside for exactly five seconds before the shot was taken, after which he had leaped back inside shivering and begged for a bottle of Visine), but possible nonetheless, especially if you were inventive.
The cement kayaks had been cast of the ever-present and abundant Martian grit, and fitted at one end with tiny antigravity units. These, like so many other things on Mars, did not work especially well, but enabled the kayaks to float about two feet above the ground. Indoors they bobbed aimlessly in place, having no motive power; once pushed out an airlock they were at the mercy of the driving winds.
But it was possible to deflect or direct the wind with big double-bladed paddles made of scrap pipe and sheet metal, salvaged from the British Arean Company’s refuse tip. It was then possible to sail along through the air, if you wore full Outside kit, and actually sort of steer.
So cement kayaking had become a favorite sport on Mars, indeed the only outdoor sport. An obstacle course had been set up in Dead Snake Field, and four kayaks lurched about in it now, fighting the wind and each other.
“Competitive sport and the pioneer spirit,” Chiring was announcing in Nepali into his handcam, a solemn talking head against a background of improbable action. “Anachronisms on Earth, do they fulfill a vital function here on the final frontier? Have these colonists fallen back on degrading social violence, or is cultural evolution an ongoing process on Mars?” Nobody answered him.
The Tube was blocked with spectators, crowding around the transparencies to watch. They were also shouting, which dried their throats nicely, so the beer was selling well.
“Left, Ramsay!” howled Cochevelou, pointing vainly at the hololoop of Queen Anne waving that served as the midpoint marker. “Oh, you stupid little git, LEFT!”
“A Phobos Porter for you, Cochevelou?” Mary inquired cheerily. “On the house?”
“Yes please,” he growled. Mary beckoned and the Heretic trudged back along the line. She turned to display the castware tank she bore in its harness on her back, and Mary selected a mug from the dangling assortment and drew a pint with practiced ease. Cochevelou took it, lifted his mask and gulped it down, wiping the foam from his mustache with the back of his hand.
“Very kind of you, I’m sure,” he said bitterly. “Given the amount I’m losing today. YOU’RE A DISGRACE TO FLUFFY’S MEMORY!” he bellowed at Ramsay. Fluffy had been the python’s name.
“We buried evil on Mars,” said the Heretic in a dreamy little voice, and nobody paid any attention to her. “What seedling breaks the dust?”
“It’s not really Ramsay’s fault,” said Mary. “How can the poor man hope to compete with our Manco? It’s all those extra blood vessels in Manco’s fingertips, you know, from being born in the Andes. Gives him better control of the paddles. Selected by Nature, as it were.”
“You must have bet a packet on him,” said Cochevelou, staring as Manco swung round Fluffy’s Cairn and sent Ramsay spinning off to the boundary with an expert paddle-check.
“Bet? Now, dear Mr. Cochevelou, where would I get the money to do that?” said Mary, smiling wide behind her mask. “You’re getting every penny I earn for Finn’s fields, so you are.”
Cochevelou grimaced. “Speak no ill of the dead and all, but if I could ever get my hands on that little bastard’s neck—” he said.
“Beer please,” said one of the British Arean Company engineers, shouldering through the crowd.
“A pint for the English!” Mary announced, and he looked around guiltily and pulled up the hood of his psuit. “How nice of you to come down here to our primitive little fete. Perhaps later we can do some colorful folk dancing for your amusement.” She handed him a mug. “That’ll be one punt Celtic.”
“I heard you’ll take air filters,” said the engineer in an undertone.
“What size, dear?”
“BX-threes,” replied the engineer, drawing one from the breast pocket of his psuit and displaying it. Mary took it from him and inspected it critically.
“Your gracious patronage is always appreciated,” she said, and handed it to the Heretic, who tucked it out of sight. “Enjoy your beer. You see, Cochevelou? No money in my hands at all. What’s a poor little widow to do?”
But Cochevelou had missed the sarcasm, staring over her head down the tunnel.
“Who’s this coming, now?” he said. “Nobody I recognize. Did they bring a passenger on the last transport up?”
Mary turned and saw the newcomer, treading gingerly along in the cat-step people walked with before they became accustomed to Martian gravity. The stranger was tall, and wore a shiny new thermal psuit, and he carried a bukecase. He
was peering uncertainly through his mask at the crowd around the transparencies.
“That’s a damned solicitor, that’s what that is,” said Cochevelou, scowling blackly. “See the skullcap? Five’ll get you ten he’s come to see you or me.”
Mary’s lip curled. She watched as the newcomer studied the crowd. He swung his mask in her direction at last, and stared; then walked toward her decisively.
“It’s you, eh?” said Cochevelou, trying not to sound too relieved as he sidled away. “My sympathies, Mary darling.”
“MS. GRIFFITH?” inquired the stranger. Mary folded her arms.
“I am,” she replied.
“ELIPHAL DE WIT,” he said. “I’VE HAD QUITE A TIME FINDING YOU!”
“TURN YOUR SPEAKER DOWN! I’M NOT DEAF!”
“OH! I’M sorry,” said Mr. De Wit, hurriedly twiddling the knob. “Is that better? They didn’t seem to know who you were at the port office, and then they admitted you were still resident but unemployed, but they wouldn’t tell me where you lived. Very confusing.”
“‘Unemployed!’ I like that. You’re not from the British Arean Company, then?” Mary looked him up and down.
“What?” Mr. De Wit started involuntarily at the crowd’s roar of excitement. The English kayaker had just swung past the midway marker. “No. Didn’t you get my communication? I’m from Polieos of Amsterdam.”
“WHAT?” said Mary, without benefit of volume knob.
“I’m here about your diamond,” Mr. De Wit explained.
“And to think I thought you were a solicitor at first!” Mary babbled, setting down a pitcher of batch and two mugs.
“Actually, Ms. Griffith, I am one,” said Mr. De Wit, gazing around at the inside of the Empress. “On permanent retainer for Polieos, to deal with special circumstances.”
“Really?” Mary halted in the act of reaching to fill his mug.
“And I’m here as your counsel,” he explained patiently. “There has really been no precedent for this situation. Polieos feels it would be best to proceed with a certain amount of caution at first.”