by Kage Baker
“Don’t they want to buy my diamond, then?” Mary demanded.
“Absolutely, yes, Ms. Griffith,” Mr. De Wit assured her. “And they would prefer to buy it from you. I’m here to determine whether or not they can legally do that.”
“What d’you mean?”
“Well—” Mr. De Wit lifted his mug and paused, staring down at the brown foam brimming. “Er—what are we drinking?”
“It’s water we’ve put things in, because you wouldn’t want to drink Mars water plain,” said Mary impatiently. “No alcohol in it, dear, so it won’t hurt you if you’re not a drinking man. Cut to the chase, please.”
Mr. De Wit set his mug aside, folded his hands and said: “In a minute I’m going to ask you how you got the diamond, but I’m going to tell you a few things first, and it’s important that you listen closely.
“What you sent Polieos is a red diamond, a true red, which is very rare. The color doesn’t come from impurities, but from the arrangement of the crystal lattice within the stone itself. It weighs three hundred six carats at the present time, uncut, and preliminary analysis indicates it has remarkable potential for a modified trillion cut. It would be a unique gem even if it hadn’t come from Mars. The fact that it did makes its potential value quite a bit greater.”
He took the buke from its case and connected the projector arm and dish. Mary watched with suspicion as he completed setup and switched it on. After a couple of commands a holoimage shot forth, hanging in the dark air between them, and Mary recognized the lump she’d entrusted to Finn.
“That’s my diamond!”
“As it is now,” said Mr. De Wit. “Here’s what Polieos proposes to do with it.” He gave another command and the sullen rock vanished. In its place was an artist’s conception of a three-cornered stone the color of an Earth sunset. Mary caught her breath.
“Possibly two hundred eighty carats,” said Mr. De Wit.
“What’s it worth?”
“That all depends,” Mr. De Wit replied. “A diamond is only worth the highest price you can get for it. The trick is to make it desirable. It’s red, it’s from Mars—those are big selling points. We’ll need to give it a fancy name. At present,” and he coughed apologetically, “it’s being called the Big Mitsubishi, but the marketing department will probably go with either the War-God’s Eye or the Heart of Mars.”
“Yes, yes, whatever,” said Mary.
“Very well. And Polieos is prepared to cut, polish, and market the diamond. They can do this as your agents, in which case their fee will be deducted from the sale price, or they can buy it from you outright. Assuming,” and Mr. De Wit held up a long forefinger warningly, “that we can establish that you are, in fact, the owner.”
“Hm.” Mary frowned at the tabletop. She had a pretty good idea of what was coming next.
“You see, Ms. Griffith, under the terms of your allotment lease with the British Arean Company, you are entitled to any produce grown on the land. The terms of your lease do not include mineral rights to the aforesaid land. Therefore—”
“If I dug it up on my allotment, it belongs to the British Arean Company,” said Mary.
“Exactly. If, however, someone sold you the diamond,” and Mr. De Wit looked around at the Empress again, his gaze dwelling on the more-than-rustic details, “say perhaps some colorful local character who found it somewhere else and traded it to you for a drink—well, then, not only is it your diamond, but we have a very nice story for the marketing department at Polieos.”
“I see,” said Mary.
“Good. And now, Ms. Griffith, if you please: how did you come into possession of the diamond?” Mr. De Wit sat back and folded his hands.
Mary spoke without pause. “Why, sir, one of our regulars brought it in! An Ice Hauler, as it happens, and he found it somewhere on his travels between poles. Traded it to me for two pints of my best Ares Lager.”
“Excellent.” Smiling, Mr. Dr. Wit shut off the buke and stood. “And now, Ms. Griffith, may I see the allotment where you didn’t find the diamond?”
As they were walking back from the field, and Mr. De Wit was wiping the clay from his hands, he said quietly: “It’s just as well the land isn’t producing anything much. When the diamond becomes public knowledge, it’s entirely likely the British Arean Company will make you an offer for the allotment.”
“Even though I didn’t find the diamond there?” said Mary warily.
“Yes. And I would take whatever they offered, Ms. Griffith, and I would buy passage back to Earth.”
“I’ll take what they offer, if they offer, but I’m not leaving Mars,” said Mary. “I’ve hung on through bad luck and I’m damned if good luck will pry me out. This is my home!”
Mr. De Wit tugged at his beard, unhappy about something. “You’ll have more than enough money to live in comfort on Earth,” he said. “And things are about to change up here, you know. As soon as anyone suspects there’s real money to be made on Mars, you won’t know the place.”
“I think I’d do smashing, whatever happens,” said Mary. “Miners drink, don’t they? Anywhere people go to get rich, they need places to spend their money.”
“That’s true,” said Mr. De Wit, sighing.
“And just think what I can do with all that money!” Mary crowed. “No more making do with the BAC’s leftovers!” She paused by a transparency and pointed out at the red desolation. “See that? It’s nobody’s land. I could have laid claim to it any time this five years, but what would I have done with it? I might have wells drilled, but it’s the bloody BAC has the air and the heating and the vizio I’d need!
“But with money . . .”
By the time they got back to the Empress she was barreling along in her enthusiasm with such speed that Mr. De Wit was panting as he tried to keep up. She jumped in through the airlock, faced her household (just in from the field of glorious combat and settling down to a celebratory libation) flung off her mask and cried: “Congratulate me, you lot! I’m the richest woman on Mars!”
“You did bet on the match,” said Rowan reproachfully.
“I did not,” said Mary, thrusting a hand at Mr. De Wit. “You know who this kind gentleman is? This is my extremely good friend from Amsterdam.” She winked hugely. “He’s a gem of a man. A genuine diamond in the rough. And he’s brought your mother very good news, my dears.”
Stunned silence while everyone took that in, and then Mona leaped up screaming.
“Thediamondthediamondthediamond! Omigoddess!”
“How much are we getting for it?” asked Rowan at once.
“Well—” Mary looked at Mr. De Wit. “There’s papers and things to sign, first, and we have to find a buyer. But there’ll be more than enough to fix us all up nicely, I’m sure.”
“Very probably,” Mr. De Wit agreed.
“We finally won’t be poor anymore!” caroled Mona, bounding up and down.
“Congratulations, Mama!” said Manco.
“Congratulations, Mother,” said Chiring.
Mr. Morton giggled uneasily. “So . . . this means you’re leaving Mars?” he said. “What will the rest of us do?”
“I’m not about to leave,” Mary assured him. His face lit up.
“Oh, that’s wonderful! Because I’ve got nothing to go back to, down there, you know, and Mars has been the first place I ever really—”
“What do you mean we’re not leaving?” said Alice in a strangled kind of voice. “You’re ruining my life again, aren’t you?”
She turned and fled. Her bedchamber being as it was in a loft accessible only by rope line, Alice was unable to leap in and fling herself on her bed, there to sob furiously; so she resorted to running away to the darkness behind the brew tanks and sobbing furiously there.
“—felt as though I belonged in a family,” Mr. Morton continued.
CHAPTER 6
Losers
Alice might weep, but she was outvoted.
Rowan opted to stay on Mars. Mona w
affled on the question until the boy-to-girl ratio on Earth was explained to her, after which she firmly cast her lot with the Red Planet. Chiring had never had any intention of leaving; his Dispatches from Mars had doubled the number of subscribers to the Kathmandu Post, which was run by his sister’s husband, and as a result of the Mars exposés he looked fair to win Nepal’s highest journalism award.
Manco had no intention of leaving, either, for many reasons, not least of which was that it would be difficult to transport his life’s work back to Earth. This was a shrine in a grotto three kilometers from the Empress, containing a cast-stone life-sized statue of the Virgen de Guadalupe surrounded by roses sculpted from a mixture of pink Martian dust and Manco’s own blood. It was an ongoing work of art, and an awesome and terrible thing.
The Heretic, when asked if she would like to leave Mars, became so distraught that her ocular implant telescoped and retracted uncontrollably for five minutes before she was able to stammer out a refusal. She would not elaborate. Later she drank half a bottle of Black Label and was found unconscious behind the malt locker.
“So, you see? We’re staying,” said Mary to the Brick, in grim triumph.
“Way to go, beautiful,” said the Brick, raising his breakfast pint of Ares Lager. “I just hope you’re ready to deal with the BAC, because this’ll really get up their noses. And I hope you can trust this Dutchman.”
“Here he is now,” said Chiring sotto voce, looking up from the tap-head he was in the act of changing. They raised their heads to watch Mr. De Wit’s progress down from the ceiling on his line. He made it to the floor easily and tied off his line like a native, without one wasted gesture; but as he turned to them again, he seemed to draw the character of Hesitant Tourist about him like a cloak, stooping slightly as he peered through the gloom.
“Good morning, sir, and did you sleep well?” Mary cried brightly.
“Yes, thank you,” Mr. De Wit replied. “There seems to be some sort of moss growing up there in the loft, did you know?”
“Oh, that.” Mary waved her hand. “An old experiment from my lab days. It’s that stuff that’s growing on the outside too. Some of it got in through the airlock somehow and now it’s all over the walls. We let it stay because it makes a little oxygen. Won’t hurt you, honestly.”
“Oh, good.” Mr. De Wit flicked a few crumbs of lichen from his elbow. “Er—I was wondering where I might get some laundry done?”
“Bless you, sir, we don’t have Earth-style laundries up here,” said Mary. “Best you think of it as a sort of dry-cleaning. Leave it in a pile on your bunk and I’ll send one of the girls up for it later.” She cleared her throat. “And this is my friend Mr. Brick. Mr. Brick is the, ahem, colorful local character who sold me the diamond. Aren’t you, dear?”
“That’s right,” said the Brick, without batting an eye. “Howdy, stranger.”
“Oh, great!” Mr. De Wit pulled his buke from his coat. “Would you be willing to record a statement to that effect?”
“Sure,” said the Brick, kicking the bar stool next to him. “Have a seat. We’ll talk.”
Mr. De Wit sat down and set up his buke, and Mary drew him a pint of batch and left them talking. She was busily sweeping sand when Manco entered through the airlock and came straight up to her. His face was impassive, but his black eyes glinted with anger.
“You’d better come see something, Mama,” he said.
Mr. De Wit turned on his stool. “What’s happened?” Manco looked at him.
“You’re a lawyer, aren’t you? Then you come see, too.”
“I went to replace the old lock seal like you told me,” Manco said, pointing. “Then I looked through. No point now, huh?”
Mary stared at her allotment. It had never been a sight to rejoice the eye, but now it was the picture of all desolation. Halfway down the acreage someone had slashed through the vizio wall, and the bitter Martian winds had widened the tear and brought in a freight of red sand, which duned in long ripples over what remained of her barley, now blasted and shriveled with cold. Worse still, it was trampled: for whoever had cut open the vizio had come in through the hole and excavated here and there, long channels orderly cut in the red clay or random potholes. There were Outside-issue bootprints all over.
She said something heartfelt and unprintable.
“You think it was the BAC?” said Manco.
“Not likely,” Mary said. “They don’t know about the diamond, do they? This has Clan Morrigan written all over it.”
“We can’t report this, can we?”
Mary shook her head. “That’d be just what the BAC would want to hear. ‘Vandalism, is it, Ms. Griffith? Well, what can you expect in a criminal environment such as what you’ve fostered here, Ms. Griffith? Perhaps you’d best crawl off into the sand and die, Ms. Griffith, and stop peddling your nasty beer and Goddess-worshipping superstitions and leave Mars to decent people, Ms. Griffith!’ That’s what they’d say.”
“And they’d say, ‘What were people digging for?’ too,” said Manco gloomily.
“So they would.” Mary felt a chill.
“That was sooner than I expected,” said Mr. De Wit.
“You expected this?” Mary said.
“Of course,” he replied, tugging unhappily at his beard. “Have you ever heard of the California Gold Rush of 1849? I don’t know if you know much American history, Ms. Griffith—”
“Gold was discovered at Sutter’s Mill,” Mary snapped.
“Yes, and do you know what happened to Mr. Sutter? Prospectors destroyed his farm. He was ruined.”
“I won’t be ruined,” Mary declared. “If I have to put a guard on this field every hour of the day and night, I’ll do it.”
“It’s too late for that,” Mr. De Wit explained. “The secret can’t be kept any longer, you see? More Martian settlers will be putting more red diamonds on the market. The value will go down, but that won’t stop the flood of people coming up here hoping to get rich.”
“What should I do here?” Manco inquired.
“Seal up the vizio with duct tape,” Mary advised. “Then get the quaddy out and plow it all under.”
“Quaddy needs a new air filter, Mama.”
“Use a sock! Works just as well,” said Mary, and stamped away back up the Tube, with Mr. De Wit trailing after her.
Manco surveyed the ruined allotment and sighed. Resolving to offer Her another rose of his heart’s blood if She would render assistance, he wrestled the rusting quaddy out of its shed and squatted to inspect the engine.
He had had an office, once. Once he had worn a suit and had a gold bar on his desk with his name on it, and a string of initials after his name to signify that he had taken multiple degrees in agricultural engineering at the La Molina National Agrarian University Extension at Cusco. He had won an award for innovative designs for improvements in high-altitude agriculture. The British Arean Company had approached him about becoming part of the terraforming team on Mars. Manco had accepted their offer gladly. In those days he had been ambitious, eager to make a name for himself, and he had no family ties on Earth, his mother having died the year previous.
The arrival on the new world had been a shock. Mars was nowhere near as Earthlike as Manco had been led to believe by the smiling British Arean Company executive who had recruited him. He had spent a week in his new office, sunk in gloom as he studied the facts and figures. A frozen-fossil aquifer, deadly winds, punishing UV . . . and the British Arean Company seemed to have no terraforming plan more complicated than planting a few domed-over fields and sitting back to wait for them to vent oxygen into the starved atmosphere.
The design of the Areomotor pumps had impressed him, however, and when he realized that it was, indeed, possible to pull thawed water to the surface, Manco had psuited up and gone Outside for a walk. He had wandered through the few and pitiful acres the clan had managed to put under cultivation, because while the earthworms they had brought with them were working dutifully, the b
ees refused to fly and therefore to pollinate anything. It was not a sight to inspire much hope.
But Manco had taken samples of the soil, taken holoshots of the terrain, stared for hours at the Martian landscape and, finally, carried melon-sized rocks back to his office. There he had cut the Martian stone into a variety of shapes. He had ordered a cement-casting unit at his own expense and experimented with the properties of Martian grit as a construction material. He’d had a brief but insightful conversation with a young architect named Morton, who had designed most of the existing shelters on the planet.
Electrified by possibilities, obsessed with hope, Manco had locked himself in his office with his buke and spent days drawing up elaborate plans. Then he had called a meeting of all department heads.
And everyone in the conference room, himself included, had had clean hands, neatly manicured nails, and the faces there had been optimistic, and the air had smelled sweet because the British Arean Company had still been able to afford things like air fresheners. He had set up his buke’s holoprojector and shown them his renderings for the canal and aqueduct system.
“We bring the water to the surface and we keep it moving in enclosed canals,” Manco had explained. “We’ll need a network of them, circling the planet, extending up to the poles. Here and there they’ll feed into artificial ponds, domed over with vizio. I thought we’d just use craters for ponds, maybe line them with concrete shells, see? And when there are accessible water sources everywhere—”
“But we won’t be farming the whole planet for centuries,” Sub-Director Thorpe had objected. “Why waste all those resources delivering water to the uninhabited parts now?”
“Because this isn’t just a water delivery system,” Manco had explained. “It’s part of a terraforming machine. The ponds will be used to grow algae.”
He had looked along the row of faces, trying to recognize one he had noted in the personnel files. Far down the table he had spotted a younger and more shapely Mary Griffith, and in those days she had still owned things like lipstick and perfume, its floral scent dissipating quickly in the thin air.