by Kage Baker
So here he lay, halfway down a stony incline, with his gear scattered all down the slope below him and his little Rover on the other side of the canyon. He had tried to crawl for it three times, and blacked out every time. He thought that if he tried again now, he might make it; the pain seemed to have receded. On the other hand, reaching the Rover no longer seemed quite as important.
The glorious stars glittered on, each one opening for him now in a window of memory.
There was little Ottorino at the age of five, escaping from the Importatori Vespucci company picnic. He had sat at the long trestle, looking out at all the bored faces of Papa’s employees as Papa droned on and on. Such a beautiful park all around them, with the green grass and red flowers and the blue lake. The employees in their gray picnic T-shirts with the gray Importatori Vespucci logo had looked like a gray hole in the world. Even the big cake was gray, the logo worked in gray fondant.
But from his place at table Ottorino had seen the orchard on the other side of the old wall, seen the emerald leaves and gold and scarlet peaches clustered on the branches. Nobody had noticed when he’d slid down in his seat between his older brothers; not Papa, not Mamma, who was dandling the baby, not even his brothers who were half asleep. Nobody had noticed when he’d slid all the way down under the table and gone crawling on his hands and knees through the long grass, to escape at last from under the long tablecloth. Then he’d run for the old wall and scrambled over it, ignoring the bellow of wrath from Papa.
And though he’d been terrified, something had pushed him to jump down and run, run through the orchard, pulling off his gray shirt as he ran to rid himself of the grayness. Somehow it had followed that it would be a good idea to pull off all his other clothes, too. So pleasant was the sensation of being naked in the warm air that he’d forgotten he was being pursued, and wandered among the peach trees, eating windfall fruit. He was absentmindedly drawing patterns on his face in peach juice when Papa descended on him, all outrage and retribution.
Why had he brought such punishment on himself? On the other hand, why had Giulio and Giuseppe just sat there looking miserable, watching flies settle on their lunch as Papa orated?
And there was Ottorino at eighteen, supremely happy in his first relationship. Elena was a holosculptor twice his age; he had modeled for her, in fewer and fewer clothes with each succeeding piece: Hercules. David the Shepherd. The Young Mussolini. They had lived together in her garret on ramen and love, and she had taught him a great deal about the latter before his further education was terminated by the abrupt appearance of sour-faced Giulio and Giuseppe, who had tracked him down on Papa’s orders.
After he had been dragged back to Milan, he had sent her many tearful clips promising to return to her. After two months Elena had sent him an apologetic clip back explaining that Papa had paid her a great deal to relocate, and that moreover she had been obliged to employ a new model whose physique, while not as magnificent as Ottorino’s, was still enabling her to experiment with exciting new subjects. She was certain he would wish her well.
Crestfallen, nevertheless he had wished her well. At the next possible opportunity he had moved to Paris, bought a saxophone and gotten a job as a jazz musician, which had seemed an appropriate response to a broken heart. By the time Papa’s long arm snatched him back again, he had even learned to play a few pieces.
Had he enjoyed hearing the thunderbolts hurtling through the air at his head? He must have. His rebellions had never been fueled by anger. He had genuinely loved Papa and Mamma. But he had so dreaded being bored . . .
And there was Ottorino at twenty-five, proud inhabitant of Euro-West, a painstaking recreation of the American Frontier for re-enactors. He had auditioned for the Clint Eastwood parts and been told he was too big and burly, but his handlebar mustache was the envy of his fellow actors. Mamma told her friends he was a scholar of history. Papa ignored him, as long as he flew into Milan once a month to attend board meetings, and wore a gray suit rather than blue jeans and cowboy boots.
So many happy years he had spent in Deadwood Gulch! How many red sunsets had he watched, over its weathered roofs? How many saloon girls had he romanced? How many poker games had he sat in on? He had never tasted real whiskey, but the nonalcoholic stuff the actors drank lingered on the palate, and carried for him its own bouquet of wild nights. The tinkling of a cheap piano backed up his fondest memories. Oh, the bar brawls, the shootouts and deaths and stagecoach robberies!
He had always enjoyed a good dramatic death, sprawling in the dust and clutching at his heart while stage blood spurted between his fingers. There was a moment of bliss in that final moment when he rolled up his eyes to the hot blue sky of Almeria, standing in for Durango or Tombstone. Was that what had brought him here to Mars?
Ottorino at thirty, standing numb with shock at Mamma’s and Papa’s funeral, lined up with the other sons and daughters to receive the condolences of Papa’s employees. Overwhelming grief, when the reality had finally penetrated: the pillars of the world were gone now, and he would never know unconditional love or hear those thunderbolts striking again. Then he had raged, wanting to sue the Suborbital Transit Company for wrongful death. He hadn’t been able to talk Giulio or Giuseppe into it, and had settled for painting MURDERERS in red letters on the front of Suborbital’s Munich headquarters.
Shortly thereafter there had been a private board meeting, wherein his brothers had explained to him just how much they had had to spend settling with Suborbital Transit in order to prevent his arrest on charges of vandalism. His sister Elvira had pointed out that, while the first four years of his annuity should cover the amount nicely, he would be without funds with which to live during that time. She personally was willing to advance him a generous sum to keep body and soul together; on the condition, of course, that Ottorino take himself off to some quiet corner of the world and stay there, away from paparazzi or anyone else in front of whom he might further embarrass Importatori Vespucci.
Had that been the reason he’d come here? Penitence, for disappointing Mamma and Papa and never being able to make them proud of him? Or petulance and self-pity? No . . .
His mood had been effervescent when he’d heard about the diamond strike on Mars. Real adventure at last! His endless childhood over, and no one to comment or criticize out on the cold red plains of the final frontier. Freedom at last, and the beauty of a new world. And he had wept with happiness when he’d seen the scarlet globe looming on the screen of the shuttle, for all the world like a peach hanging in Heaven.
Though he had been a little disconcerted, it must be said, when he had emerged from the transit lock at Settlement Base and discovered there were no amenities for travelers.
He had wandered up to the Transit Officer’s booth while his Rover was being offloaded, and rapped politely on the window. When the clerk looked up at him, he dialed his translator to Inglese and inquired: “Where may I find a hotel here?”
The clerk looked incredulous and replied. The translator had informed Ottorino: THERE ARE NO HOTEL ON MARTE.
“I’m sorry,” said Ottorino, “I must have phrased my request badly. Let me explain: I have just emigrated to your beautiful planet in order to prospect for diamonds. I will require a place to live. Is there a hostel or boardinghouse here?”
Now the clerk had looked annoyed, and responded at length, which the translator rendered as: THERE ARE NO PENSIONI FOR HIRE ON THE PLANET. IMMIGRANTS THERE ARE NOT FACILITIES FOR AND SEARCH FOR DIAMANTI AT OWN DANGER.
“But where do people live?” asked Ottorino, appalled.
The clerk’s supervisor came out from behind a partition and said something that had the tone of a reprimand to the clerk. Then he leaned to the window and smiled at Ottorino, and said something. SEE LOVER THERE ARE ONLY OFFICES FOR KISS PERSONNEL BUT YOU CAN FOREVER SLEEP IN YOUR ROVER TAXI RIGHT. THAT IS WHAT MOST OF THEM DO. THIRD AIRLOCK OFF TUBE THREE.
Ottorino backed off a pace or two. “So then . . . people are living in their ve
hicles?”
YOU HAVE IT.
Ottorino quelled his rising dismay with the thought that it was a frontier, after all; he shouldn’t have expected hotels. He would be like the first cowboys on the range, in a way, the ones who slept in the open using their saddles as pillows. At least he would be in a nice enclosed cab with breathable air in it. Yes! Free to explore the Martian wilderness on his own.
“And are there any saloons?” he inquired. “In which to eat and drink.”
THERE ARE A BISTRO AT THE KISS BASE BOUNDARY. UP THE SUBWAY.
“Thank you very much,” Ottorino replied. “Do you know where I might buy a blanket?”
YOU MAY LOOK AT THE KISS BASE PX BUT I DO NOT RECOGNIZE IF YOU WILL RETRIEVE ANY.
“Thank you.”
IT IS NOT HARDSHIP LOVER.
Ottorino had gone off then and held a difficult conversation with the offloading crew before getting his Rover stored at what he supposed was a sort of outer space livery stable. For a while he walked around Settlement Base, which was dull and bleak and smelled bad. He tried to imagine tumbleweeds rolling across the corridors so as to put it into proper frontier-town perspective.
He found the British Arean Company PX and was able to purchase a sort of blanket made of Mylene, as well as Chlorilar pouches of water and dehydrated food. The cashier stared at his mustache but readily accepted his credit disc, and attempted to sell him holocards and souvenirs as well, before he was able to make her understand that he was not a tourist.
He explored the Tubes and found an enclosed agricultural area that looked much more like his idea of frontier prairie, with what he assumed were fireflies flitting to and fro over the tall barley, though the smell was worse there. He imagined he heard cattle lowing. A quick check of the facts on his buke informed him that cows were indeed being raised on Mars, and that pleased him obscurely. He found the Martian Motel and made a few inquiries about rates, and was pleased to learn that there were none; walked up to the big rig with its flashing colored lights and was equally pleased to learn that there were poker games going on in there, though he refrained from gambling, feeling that he ought to save his money.
At last he wandered up the Tube and found his way to the Empress, where he dined on some rather terrible food while tinkering with the programming on his translator. Nothing he did seemed to make it work any better, so after that he confined himself to smiling and nodding when questions were asked of him. When he emerged to go back to the livery stable, the little sun was setting in a violet pall of dust. His first sunset on an alien world! It only wanted saguaro cacti silhouettes to be perfect, he thought as he drove up to the Martian Motel. Ottorino slept that night, and for many others, curled up on the Rover’s seat.
That had been two weeks ago. His first few days out, he had spent most of his time exploring the Tharsis Bulge, as the one odd little moon hurtled across the sky and returned while the other little moon dawdled its separate way across the heavens. He was diverted to discover what happened to Martian soil when he had to void his psuit’s urine tank into it. He sang as he explored, blissfully happy, and the Rover kept up a companionable drone to his repertoire: Paint Your Wagon (the whole musical), “Clementine” (the original tune as well as the party mix version set to Beethoven’s “Ode to Joy”), and a rousing wordless rendition of the theme from The Good, the Bad and the Ugly.
“Wah-AH-ahhhh!” he had been screaming, when he came across the first stretch of sullen clay. The scanning program he had had installed in the Rover confirmed that this was the sort of place he ought to be searching for diamonds. Gleefully he had masked up, emerged from the Rover with his pick and shovel and the spectrometer he had brought from Earth, and begun his life as a prospector.
And now, countless hacked holes and exactly one diamond later, he was about to conclude that life. Had it all been worth it? All things considered, he felt it had. It was a splendid death, a lonely and heroic death, countless times better than dying in a levitrain accident or expiring in his bed from arteriosclerosis and ennui at an advanced age—
Someone was leaning down to peer into his mask. Someone was speaking gibberish to him. He blinked at them. It was someone in a baggy psuit, one of the older models with the fishbowl helmet. Gibberish came through the translator, too. The person leaned down and twiddled the translator’s dial.
. . . DONATE YOU A RIDE RETURN AND EVERYTHING I AM ASKING IS BUT A CHASTE FEE FOR THE OXYGEN LOOK.
“Okay,” said Ottorino. More gibberish, and then:
MAYBE WE TIN RESCUE YOUR LIMB. The person regarded his bent leg critically. Ottorino replied that he hoped that would be the case. The person went trudging down the slope and brought back some of Ottorino’s gear, with which he improvised a sort of splint. This was painful and Ottorino blacked out a few times. When he was fully conscious again, he was being dragged on a sort of impromptu travois. Just like in They Call Me Trinity!
NICE COGWHEEL YOU OWN, commented the translator. UPON MARS RECENT?
“Two weeks,” said Ottorino.
YOU FINAL LONGER THAN MANY OF THOSE. CONSCIOUSNESS IF I POSSESS ROVER IF YOU EXPIRE?
“Yes, of course, whatever,” said Ottorino.
I BE SEAN MCALESTER OF CLAN MORRIGAN. I NO THINK YOUR TRANSLATOR HAVE PANCELTICA VERY GOOD.
“Is that what it is?”
CERTAIN. NO ANXIETIES DEAR. WE WILL TAKE YOU TO CLINICA QUICKLY.
At the BAC Infirmary they hooked him up to tubes that rehydrated him and fought off infection, and filled him beside with lovely medication for pain that made it all seem like a splendid game. Then they performed surgery on his leg and implanted stuff to help the bone grow back straight. Then they presented him with the bill, which sent him into peals of laughter because he was sure they’d stuck on all those extra zeroes as a joke. His new friend Sean suggested that he would take the Rover in trade for the rescue, since Ottorino would probably need all his ready cash for the bill.
Ottorino graciously bestowed the Rover on his new friend and pulled out his credit disc to pay the clinic. Some of his wits were shocked back online when the clinic’s finance officer returned, after an hour, with the disc held gingerly between fingertip and thumbtip. In flawless Italian the finance officer informed him that Importatori Vespucci had declined to pay for his treatment. Stammering, Ottorino had asked about options, and was informed that he might pay off the sum in installments. And what about his hospital care to follow? Oh, there were no hospitals on Mars; and bed space in the clinic was only available to British Arean Company employees with medical benefits.
Quite sober now, Ottorino had paid out what remained of his cash on the first installment and, borrowing a sort of wheeled chair, had followed Sean out to the main concourse outside the clinic.
“What should I do now?” he asked. “Where am I to go?”
Sean had considered that, tapping thoughtfully at his mask. INFORM YOU HOW: YOU MAY GO TO THE IMPERATRICE. MAYBE MARIA REQUIRE ANOTHER LINGERER. I WILL DONATE YOU A DRIVE THERE.
With great difficulty they got Ottorino back in the Rover, for his leg in its cast stuck out like a terracotta sewer pipe. Groping to haul himself in, Ottorino’s hand encountered the diamond he had dug up, down by the pedals where he had dropped it. With a sigh of relief he closed his fist on it again and gripped it all the long way up the Tube to the Empress, as Sean fought with the Rover’s gears.
At the lock, Sean got out and helped Ottorino inside, and had a long rambling conversation with the bosomy lady who ran the place. Ottorino meanwhile took off his mask and gulped in the warm steamy air. He became a little light-headed once more. His translator was only picking up bits of the discussion: GORY INFERNO, DO YOU CONSIDER I AM SPRINTING A CONVALESCENT PLACE and HIM FAMILY HAVE MUCH CURRENCY BELOW HOUSE and CISTERN, I IMAGINE IT WILL NOT BE FOR EXTENDED TIME. Ottorino collapsed into a booth and lay back, staring up at the dark curve of the ceiling above him. The unintelligible conversation went on. The woman sounded grudging. The tips of his mustaches, just at
the corners of his vision, were trembling. He must be tireder than he thought.
Someone had come to gaze down at him where he lay. He lowered his eyes from the ceiling and beheld surely the loveliest girl he had ever seen. Soft slate-blue eyes, ox-eyes like the goddess Juno’s, skin that held the kiss of the distant sun with the wholesome colors of autumn, firm red mouth. She looked strong. She looked wise. He felt the golden arrow entering his heart, as surely as a bullet from a six-shooter.
“Most beautiful of divine girls, you are the fairest sight I have seen in this whole world,” he said fervently. She frowned, said something.
WHAT RAGATSA MEANING?
“No, no, girl, beautiful girl, exquisite sexy maiden!” Ottorino explained, feeling tears well in his eyes. “This lost cowpoke offers you his soul and his heart, worthless as they are. And, in his supplicant hand, he offers you this!” He held up the diamond.
Wondering, the girl accepted it. She peered at it a moment, turning it in her little shapely fingers; pulled over a half-empty mug of beer that had been left on the table and dunked the diamond in it, to wash away the clay and better examine it. Her eyes widened.
MOTHER COLLOQUIAL!
The bosomy woman, yes, yes, obviously the mother of the beautiful brown girl, left off talking and came to look too. She seized the diamond from her daughter’s hand and stared at it. She shouted something.
MISTER OF HUMOR!
She turned aside to look over her shoulder and Ottorino caught a glimpse of a lean, bearded man with a girl—paler, not so pretty perhaps as his brown one—sort of hanging about his neck. She released the man now and he stepped forward and examined the diamond. He nodded. With an ironic smile, and in perfect Milanese, he said: “Welcome to the Empress of Mars, Mr. Vespucci.”
Another man, an Asian, jumped up and, producing a handcam from nowhere with a conjurer’s flourish, trained it on the diamond and then on Ottorino. The bosomy lady—Mamma Griffith, that was her name, Ottorino remembered now—turned and looked meaningfully at her daughter, and then at him.