by Kage Baker
“It’s the beginning of a new world!” whispered Mr. Morton. “There’s never been money on Mars, but—but—now we can have Centers for the Performing Arts!”
“We can have a lot more than that,” said Manco.
“They could found a whole other settlement,” said Chiring, stepping back. “You know? A city! What a story this is going to be!”
“We could attract artists,” said Mr. Morton, stars in his eyes. “Culture!”
“We could be completely independent, if we bought vizio and water pumps, and got enough land under cultivation. I could grow real roses,” Manco pointed out. A look of shock crossed his face. “If we built a real city . . . we could get more money for terraforming. I could build the canals, at last.”
“You could,” Chiring agreed, whipping out his jotpad. “Interviews with the Locals: What Will Money Mean to the New Martians? By your News Martian. Okay, Morton, you’d want performing arts, and you’d develop Martian horticulture and jumpstart the terraforming effort.” He nodded at Manco and then glanced over at the Heretic. “How about you? What do you hope to get out of this?”
“A better place to hide,” she said bleakly, raising her head as she listened to the rumble of the next shuttle arriving.
“It’s very kind of you to take all this trouble on my behalf,” said Ottorino as he limped along the Tube. He had fashioned a cane for himself out of a discarded iron strut.
“Not at all,” Mr. De Wit replied. “I must say that, in my profession, I don’t encounter many romantics. It’s refreshing.”
“Who wouldn’t be a romantic up here?” said Ottorino, waving his cane at the landscape beyond the Tube. “Such ferocity, and yet such beauty! Like my Rowan. Though perhaps I ought not to call her that just yet. Maybe I presume too much. Do you think?” He held up the courier pouch and peered into it again.
“No, I think you’ll be fortunate,” said Mr. De Wit solemnly.
“She is a little reserved,” said Ottorino. “Which I suppose is to be expected in this wild place. But she likes me, in spite of her modesty. I can tell.”
“What the bloody hell’s wrong with him?” Mary demanded. “He’s polite, he’s clean, he’s a big strapping man of his hands. And he’s clearly smitten with you. So what if he doesn’t speak PanCelt? He’s got money, for Goddess’s sake!”
Rowan set her mouth in a stubborn line and went on polishing the bar. After a moment she said: “He’s got money now. What’ll he do when he’s spent it all? Go out prospecting for another diamond? Get himself frozen somewhere out in Daedalia? Or maybe he’ll decide he wants to be a Hauler. Then I’d see him twice a month, if I was lucky. No, thank you.”
“‘No thank you,’ she says! And what are you saving yourself for, may I ask? Who d’you think’s going to come along that’s any better? I’ve seen you watching him when he was asleep. I know what a girl looks like, when she fancies a man. Why don’t you trust your heart?”
“You always did, didn’t you?” said Rowan. “And look where it got you. When something looks too good to be true, that’s because it isn’t true. Do you want history to repeat itself? If you think I’m going to get married to the first big, good-looking, sweet-talking adventurer without an honest penny to his name, just because of some infatuation I’ll probably regret this time next year—”
“And what about his name?” said Mary. “I’ve been reading up on his people, my girl. Vespucci Imports is one of the biggest employers in Europe. You marry that one and it doesn’t matter if it turns out a mistake; the alimony would be enough to set you up for life.”
“And you could talk him into getting you offworld,” said Alice smugly, as she loaded mugs into the scouring tray.
“You’re being horribly mercenary,” said Rowan to her mother, blushing. “And you stay out of this!” she added, glaring at Alice. “You’ve never loved anybody.”
“I have so!”
“Mercenary, am I?” Mary said. “If you don’t care for that tune, here’s another: get him to set up a branch of the family business on Mars, why don’t you? That way he’d be settled down in a nice steady job and home of nights.”
“You manipulative old bitch!” cried Rowan, turning on her with blazing eyes. “He’s just a means to an end for you, isn’t he?”
“So you do care for him!” said Mary. “And just you think about this: a nice shop is just what the planet needs, isn’t it? Some place besides the bleeding British Arean Company’s PX? Haven’t we been making do with scavenging any old crap from the British Arean Company’s rubbish tips, and ending up with faulty wiring and psuits they’ve thrown out because of defects? But if there was someone up here selling first-class stuff at reasonable prices, now, that might save a few lives!”
Rowan turned away again, too furious to speak. At that moment the airlock hissed, and a moment later Ottorino entered with Mr. De Wit.
Mary watched critically as Ottorino went straight for Rowan, holding her in his earnest gaze. Awkwardly he knelt before her and, placing his hand on his heart, began to utter something mellifluous and fervent.
MOST RADIANTEST OF FLUTE FEMALES, I HAVE REVERENCED YOU FROM THE TIME PERIOD I UNPORTED MY EYES AND LOOKED YOUR FACE. YOUR TENDER ATTENDANCE ON ME WHEN MY RECOVERY MAKE DEEPER MY AFFECTIONS. IF I AM ABLE PULL MY ALIVE SPIRIT OUT OF MY CHEST AND DONATE HER TO YOU, I DO. IF I AM ABLE PULL MY CURE FROM MY CHEST AND TOO DONATE HER, I DO. BUT I AM ABLE ONLY DONATE THIS LITTLE TRINKET YOU. PLEASE TAKE AND LISTEN MY SINCERITYEST QUESTION: YOU ESPOUSE I?
He held up a ring, massy gold, set with an immense red diamond in the shape of a heart.
Mary pressed her lips tight shut. She glanced at Rowan, who looked . . . despairing? Surprised? Resigned? What was the girl thinking, for Goddess’s sake? Mary crossed her fingers for good measure and waited what seemed an eternity before hearing Rowan say: “Yes. Thank you.”
EXCLAMATION. Beaming, Ottorino struggled to his feet. He took her left hand and slipped the ring on her finger. GOOD, EXCLAMATION, GOOD. WHILE MY CURE THRASHES IN MY CHEST, SHE IS YOURS. He kissed her. Rowan returned the kiss, as far as Mary could see, without regret; in fact she appeared to melt in Mr. Vespucci’s arms.
Holy Mother, I owe You one, thought Mary. She glanced across at Mr. De Wit and saw, to her surprise, that he was wiping tears from his face.
“Wait! Wait! Wait!” cried Chiring, running in with his reloaded holocam. “Can you do that again? I just put in a fresh battery.”
The double wedding was postponed only long enough for Mr. De Wit to order a ring of equal but separate magnificence for Alice, though hers was set with a massive star sapphire. It reminded her of Earth, so she didn’t mind too badly that Rowan had gotten a ring first.
CHAPTER 13
Real and Imagined
Barsoom Day came but once a year, at least for those colonists using Earth’s calendar; there was an informal arrangement wherein the twelve Earth months, cropped here and there to balance out, were repeated twice within the Martian year. The years in which December generally fell in summer were called Australian years, and the others weren’t.
This meant that sometimes the annual gathering under Settlement Dome took place at the height of Martian summer, with a pale-blue sky smiling Outside and hardly any winds; sometimes the shrieking gales of winter almost drowned out General Director Rotherhithe’s celebratory speech, and the luckless Hauler chosen to carry a pouch of water out to the original site of the first manned landing arrived there with a lump of ice to set before the commemorative plaque instead, and himself frozen too unless he dialed his psuit’s temperature up as far as it would go.
But Haulers were for the most part durable Outside, and who especially wanted to hear General Director Rotherhithe’s speeches anyway? The cramped Martian gravity cricket match (IT versus Clerical), squeezed in under Settlement Dome, was moderately fun to watch; though nobody really played very well, the betting was energetic. Afterward all parties who were still in a mood to celebrate tramped up the Tube
to the Empress for a few pints and the closing ritual of the day.
“. . . and a big round of applause for the brave lads of Clerical Division!” Chiring shouted into his megaphone, to scattered cheers. “If you’re going to lose, that’s certainly the way to go about it! And three cheers for the brave bookmakers of Clan Morrigan!”
When the wild screams of approval had subsided, Chiring looked over his shoulder and moved a hanging blanket to peer for a moment into the dark recesses of the kitchen. He nodded, turned back and cried: “And now, fellow Martians, the moment you’ve all been waiting for! He’s come all the way from the frosty Artolian Hills in his jolly sled drawn by eight Lesser Thoats! Let’s give a hearty welcome to Uncle Tars Tarkas!”
The blanket was thrown aside and the Brick emerged with a happy roar. He wore an old psuit that had been painted green; an extra pair of arms dangled from his chest, green fabric stuffed out with cotton batting from an old pillow. Perhaps only someone of the Brick’s size and strength could have worn the cast ceramic headpiece, with its staring eyes and gaping tusked mouth, through which the Brick’s little bloodshot eyes could just be glimpsed peering.
“Hello, boys and girls! Happy Barsoom Day!” bellowed Uncle Tars. “Have you all been good children?”
His inquiry was met with drunken laughter and shouts in the affirmative, with one or two incautious cries of “No!”
“Right, then! Well, I brought you all lovely presents in my sled, but on the way over here a Strawberry hit and blew ’em all the way out to the Great Toonolian Marshes. So you’ll have to content yourselves with their astral projections. Where’s little Mona?”
“Here, Uncle Tars!” Mona came skipping forward, pertly proud to be the youngest person on Mars. “Happy Barsoom Day, Uncle Tars!”
“Happy Barsoom Day, sweetheart. Uncle Tars had your present stuck inside his vest, so the Strawberry didn’t get it. Here’s a sock full of Polo mints!”
“Thank you, Uncle Tars!” Mona held up the sock in triumph as she ran back to her seat. There was assorted whistling and stamping as the Brick rubbed his hands together, pulling the other pair of hands with attached strings to double his gesture as he did so.
“Now then! Who have we got nice astral presents for? Ah! Maurice Cochevelou. Where’s the chief? Where are you, little Maurice?”
“Here I am, Uncle Tars!” Cochevelou squeaked in falsetto, waving his hand.
“Uncle Tars has a nice present for you.” The Brick mimed pulling an immense package from an invisible sleigh. “A great big roll of high-grade vizio! And if you look inside, you might find a bottle of Jameson’s tucked in there, just because you’ve been an exceptionally good boy. Think fast!” He mimed hurling the imaginary package at Cochevelou.
“Ow! Uncle Tars, you broke my arm!” chirped Cochevelou.
“Shut your gob, you little pommy bastard, or I’ll give you something to cry about. Now, where’s Tiny Reg the Hauler?” The Brick turned his head slowly, taking in the crowd. “Tiny Reg! Uncle Tars has your prezzie right here!”
“That’s me!” Tiny Reg, very unsteady on his fourth pint, finally got to his feet. “Hi, Uncle Tars!”
“Hi, Reg! Guess what Uncle Tars has for you?”
“Dunno,” said Tiny Reg, swaying. “A new tire for Bouncing Bette?”
“Yeah, and even more inflatable fun! Here’s a life-size dolly with realistic hair and durable pump action, for those long lonely nights out in Mare Boreum!”
“Great!” said Tiny Reg, before he fell over with a crash.
“You’re welcome! Who’s next on Uncle Tars’s list?” The Brick pretended to scan a text plaquette. “Why, it’s our very own Amadeus Ruthven Morton! Come on up, little Amadeus!”
Looking sheepish, Mr. Morton got to his feet and was prodded forward to the spotlight.
“And how old are you, Amadeus?”
“Thirty-seven,” Mr. Morton replied.
“Okay! Uncle Tars reckons thirty-seven is plenty old enough to have had time to learn how to read. You like reading, little Amadeus?”
“I do.”
“Well, that’s good, because what Uncle Tars has for you is a complete set of the printed works of H. P. Lovecraft!” The Brick mimed holding up another huge parcel. “And! Not just any edition. This is the lost Stephen King–annotated version with the illustrations by J. K. Potter!”
“Oh my,” said Mr. Morton, tearing up as though it were true. “Thank you, Uncle Tars!” He mimed clutching something to his chest and went staggering back to his seat. The Brick pretended to scan his imaginary list once more.
“And here’s something new! Why, what’s this? Uncle Tars sees we have not one, but two sets of Martian newlyweds! Mr. and Mrs. De Wit, please stand up!”
Beaming, Alice leaped to her feet, dragging Mr. De Wit with her. He looked around, a little dazzled by the cheers. Mary, watching fondly, thought: I can’t imagine lawyers hear cheering for themselves very often. How nice.
“Guess what Uncle Tars has for Newlyweds Number One!” said the Brick.
“Oh, I can’t!” said Alice, bouncing up and down on the balls of her feet. For the first time, Mary noticed the little bulge of her grandchild in Alice’s profile.
“Sure?” said the Brick coyly. “Well, all right then. Seeing as you are newlyweds, just starting out and all, Uncle Tars thought you’d like this beautiful lounge suite!!” He stood back and gestured as though inviting her to consider the furniture in all its imaginary splendor.
There was riotous applause and laughter. Alice giggled and kissed Mr. De Wit, who smiled shyly. Then Mary, watching, saw him look up with a puzzled expression. He turned his head slowly, for all the world like a tracking radar dish. His gaze fixed on the lock entrance. Mary was just wondering why when the lock opened and admitted a stranger.
“. . . Italian gentleman adventurer and his blushing bride!” the Brick was shouting, as Alice tugged Mr. De Wit by the hand and led him back to their seat. Mr. De Wit let himself be led, but never took his eyes from the stranger; and Mary saw a moment’s alarm on his face, recognition and something powerfully negative. Anger? Dislike? She looked back at the stranger, who had proceeded into the room with a confident stride.
His psuit was new and fit him well; he looked young, strong, and indefinably aristocratic. He paused for a moment, turning his head to survey the crowd in just the way Mr. De Wit had done. He spotted Mr. De Wit and, smiling, advanced on him.
Some instinct made Mary rise and follow, to be within earshot of their conversation over the Brick’s bawling.
“. . . as every successful prospector knows, is a complete set of monogrammed bath towels by Mumbai Platinum!”
“Eliphal De Wit, I believe?” said the stranger, reaching out and shaking Mr. De Wit’s hand. “William Nennius. I believe we have friends in common. So nice to meet you.”
“A pleasure,” said Mr. De Wit warily, disengaging his hand. “To what do I owe the honor of your visit?”
“I simply thought I’d touch bases with a fellow member of the legal profession. And, I confess, I wanted to have a good look at the more colorful members of Martian society.”
“. . . now, tell Uncle Tars what you really want. A new sump pump? A crate of air filters? Or . . . an all expenses paid trip to the posh Luna Sands Resort?”
“Eli, dear, won’t you introduce me to your friend?” said Alice.
“Of course. Mr. Nennius, this is my wife. Alice Griffith De Wit.”
The stranger grinned, with more teeth than Mary would have thought quite friendly. “So you’ve married one of them, have you? But who hasn’t heard of the Griffith girls? Madam, I’m enchanted.” He took Alice’s hand and bent over it for a kiss. Alice colored, abashed, and pulled her hand away after. The two men stood regarding each other, and Mary thought that she would not have been surprised if they’d suddenly leaped at each other’s throats like wolves, so tense with inexplicable animus they were.
But all that happened was that the one called Nenni
us laughed. “Actually,” he said, “I am here on business, too. I’m working for the British Arean Company, as it happens; Mr. Rotherhithe needed an assistant. The Company’s quite impressed with the progress Clan Morrigan’s made up here.”
“I daresay the Company would be,” said Mr. De Wit.
“So I’ll need you to introduce me to their chief. Maurice Cochevelou, I believe, is the name?”
The same warning instinct sent Mary shoving through the crowd then to Cochevelou, where he sat chuckling, watching the Brick present Chiring with an imaginary Greater South Asian Journalist Society Alok Award. She caught hold of Cochevelou’s arm as he was in the act of raising a pint.
“Stop drinking,” she hissed into his ear. “Someone from the BAC’s here to see you.”
“What?” Cochevelou looked around, scowling. He got to his feet and Mary took his arm, in a proprietary sort of way, as the stranger Nennius pushed his way through to them.
“Mr. Cochevelou?”
“Who’s asking?”
“Bill Nennius, Mr. Cochevelou. May I buy you a drink?”
“You’re that clerk who was wanting to talk to my Perrik the other day, aren’t you?” demanded Cochevelou, thrusting his face close to Nennius’s. Nennius, smiling, held up his open hands.
“Yes, I’m the clerk. Here unofficially. Happy Barsoom Day! And you’re Mary Griffith, of course.” He inclined forward in a bow from the waist. “What a pleasure to meet with you both at last! Might we sit down? I was hoping we might have a little confidential chat, to our mutual advantage.”
“Certainly,” said Mary, and steered them to a far booth. Passing the Heretic, who was bussing tables, she said: “Bring us a pitcher of batch and three mugs, straightaway.” The Heretic telescoped her eye in surprise but nodded, and brought the drinks when they had seated themselves. Mr. Nennius drank, looked into his mug with disgust, and set it aside.
“Let me say first that I’m impressed, really impressed, by what you people have accomplished up here. And I’m well aware—” He held out his hands in a placatory gesture, for Cochevelou had begun to rumble like a wrathful volcano going active. “—very well aware that you’ve done it largely on your own. So far from having help from the general director’s offices, you’ve actually had to struggle against impediments he’s placed in your way. Am I right?”