The Empress of Mars (Company)

by Kage Baker

  “Damned right,” said Cochevelou. He drank deep and pushed his empty pint glass away. He kept his eyes on it, drumming his fingers on the bar. “You know, though . . . There’s talk that diamond you found had a curse on it.”

  “Oh, of all the nonsense I ever heard, indeed! What have I had but excellent luck, ever since it came out of the ground?” Mary cried. “Pots of cash, and two of my girls married off!”

  “True enough, but what’s become of the clan?” said Cochevelou. “Lawsuits to ruin us, and my boy run off into hiding. And what good are we getting out of Celtic Energy Systems, they’d like to know?”

  “A big cut of the profits, once we start developing my mountain,” said Mary angrily. “As you well know, Cochevelou!”

  “I know,” said Cochevelou. “I’m only telling you what they’re saying, is all. And there’s talk of voting me down. Three votes of no-confidence for a chieftain and there’s a new chieftain.”

  “Why, of all the ungrateful, short-sighted—”

  “Treacherous.”

  “Yes, treacherous worthless gossip-mongering fools! You pay them no mind. You’re still chairman of Celtic Energy Systems, whatever those curs decide.”

  “I don’t know that I care anymore,” said Cochevelou. He looked around as the lock hissed and Ottorino and Rowan entered, arm in arm, heading for a booth in which to have a celebratory dinner. “Ah! Where’s my wits? You tell your son-in-law to have a look at the pipe coupling, where it feeds into the wall of his shop. Saw something cloudy from the Tube and thought at first it was a smudge on the vizio, but it wasn’t. There’s a bit of steam coming up off the pipe. A leak in the caulking, maybe.”

  CHAPTER 24

  Wolves on the Prowl

  Ottorino bent down and felt along the floor. It was warm, as it ought to be, here by the sales counter; no problem with the hypocaust system. He tried a few other sections, but they were equally warm to the touch.

  It must be a small leak, he thought with relief. All the same, it’s wasting water. He stood straight and looked around for Rowan, who was arranging souvenirs—little paperweights and novelty figurines, cast by Manco from pink Martian grit—on a display stand.

  “I must go Outside for a few minutes, my dearest,” he told her. She nodded, glancing at the clock.

  “The half hour until she open. Leave yourself the time to change,” she said. Her Italian was improving, but he found her errors endearing. He smiled at her and walked back into the storage room, where he pulled on a heavy-grade coverall over his psuit and masked up. Fastening his Aercapo into place, he took his toolbox and stepped out through the service lock.

  The cold took his breath away for a moment, as it always did, and he regretted not having pulled on his extra-heavy boots. He set out around the curve of the building, steadying himself against the wind with one hand on its outer wall. Within a few paces he spotted the little plume of steam, rising straight from the utility pipes between gusts of wind. Coming closer he saw also the tiny trickle of rusty water, dripping steadily from the hot pipe, already grown with lichen.

  Inspecting the drip, he noted to his relief that the problem was nothing more than a loose coupling. Ottorino set down his toolbox and dug out a wrench. He was stepping close, somewhat gingerly to avoid the little stretch of frozen mire under the drip, when he spotted the footprints.

  He studied them, frowning, as he tightened the coupling. Someone had been walking back here, most likely yesterday evening, after the peroxide had boiled off but before the mud had frozen solid. Clear sharp prints in the pocked mud. Whose? No one had any business to be out here now but he himself. And here was a second set, a little larger; two people had been lurking here, then.

  He did not recognize the sole prints. They were not any brand he sold; they were sharp and new, and so unlikely to belong to most of the Martian population who had been here a few years. It was a very distinctive sole pattern, spiky geometric shapes arranged to form a tribal design.

  Saboteurs? Had they loosened the coupling?

  The train pulls into Dodge, and the gunmen step down from the passenger car to the platform. They are lean, dressed all in black like riverboat gamblers, and each wears a holster with a Colt revolver in it. They look around the main street, exchange a wordless glance, and saunter off to arrange for their trunks to be left at the livery stable. Then they head down the street to find a hotel . . .

  Eyes narrowed, Ottorino put away the wrench and closed up his toolbox. He had seen this movie before.

  “Who?” Mr. Rotherhithe, who had been dozing in his chair, sat up.

  “The authorized spokesperson of the Martian Agricultural Collective, sir,” said Mr. Nennius. “He demands to see you.”

  “What for?” Mr. Rotherhithe looked around wildly, searching for his shoes. He pulled them on.

  “A grievance of some kind, I should imagine, sir,” said Mr. Nennius.

  “Well, can’t you handle it? I’m not quite up to speed—”

  “He’s asking for you specifically, sir. Shall I show him in?”

  “Wait! Wait!” said Mr. Rotherhithe, and just managed to get behind his desk and strike an attitude of efficient serenity before the MAC spokesperson came striding in.

  He was another of the same rawboned, shaven-headed type, with angry glinting eyes. “You’d be the general director, then?”

  “I am he,” admitted Mr. Rotherhithe.

  “Roscoe Ditcher, speaking for the Collective. We’ve been testing the soil on that land you’ve allotted us, and it won’t pass muster. You’ve tried to fob us off with a bloody sterile desert!”

  “I beg your pardon, but that’s simply not true,” said Mr. Rotherhithe. “When the surveying was first done for projected settlement, that portion of the land adjacent to the base was tested and found the most suitable for agriculture. That’s why it was reserved out for preferred settlers! Better soil and a higher water table than elsewhere. It can’t have changed in ten years.”

  “Bollocks,” said Mr. Ditcher. “It’s those medievalists on the other side of the base must have got the good land. We’ve been over and seen it. You can’t tell me a bunch of nutter Celts with a king or chief or whatever he calls himself could have got results like that on their own! They’re bleeding feudal! No agricultural science at all. Someone mixed the map up, I’ll bet.”

  “Not at all, sir,” said Mr. Nennius, to Mr. Rotherhithe’s great relief. He stepped forward and punched in a few commands at the general director’s desk. The screen shot up and began to display images captured ten years past. “Here are the original survey pictures. Here’s Settlement Base, you see? And this wretched-looking bit of rocky desert over here is what we granted to Clan Morrigan. They were only allotted land as a concession to the Edinburgh Treaty; of course we expected more desirable settlers would follow soon. As, in due time, you have.”

  Mr. Ditcher stared at the images, unconvinced. “What the hell did they do? It’s a stinking paradise now. Don’t tell me that’s all down to cow manure.”

  “That and a judicious use of treated sewage, yes, sir,” said Mr. Nennius. “Among other things. Imagine how the same land would bear under a proper political system!”

  “I expect that’s true.” Mr. Ditcher gnawed his lower lip. Mr. Nennius leaned close and spoke soothingly.

  “Confidentially, we don’t expect the clan to stick it out much longer. I have inside information that they’re going to give it up in the near future and head back to Earth. That being the case . . . I’m sure we could cede you their allotments as well.”

  “That might be acceptable,” said Mr. Ditcher. “Have to take that up with the Council, naturally.”

  “Would you?” said Mr. Nennius, with a slightly reptilian twinkle in his eye.

  “Can’t promise anything, of course,” said Mr. Ditcher by way of parting salutation, and turned and left.

  “What dreadful people,” said Mr. Rotherhithe, rising from his desk.

  “Don’t take your shoes o
ff just yet,” advised Mr. Nennius. “Mother Willow from the Ephesian Mission is out there, too.”

  “Bugger,” said Mr. Rotherhithe. He sat down again, just as there came a coy knock at the hatch.

  “Yoo hoo? Director General? May we come in?’

  “Of course, ladies,” said Mr. Nennius, admitting them. Mr. Rotherhithe’s spine stiffened in expectation of Mother Glenda, but she had not come; instead, Mother Willow was accompanied by a pair of sisters, alike enough to be literal sisters, even twins. They were young, big, robust, blonde, with blank blue eyes and a generally muscular air of having been members of a Girls’ Athletic Association.

  “General Director, Mr. Nennius, so nice to see you again,” said Mother Willow. “May I present Sister Morgan-le-Fay and Sister Lilith? They too are here to fight the good fight in making Mars the sort of place in which we can all live.”

  “How nice,” said Mr. Rotherhithe. “What may I do for you, ladies?”

  “Well, we rather thought you’d appreciate a progress report,” said Mother Willow cheerily. “The mission is up and running, and there’s been an immediate positive response from the good ladies of Clan Morrigan. We were somewhat less successful with those poor lost souls in the squatters’ camp, all except one very nice young gentleman who offered to arrange Bingo nights as fund-raisers. We’ll get through to the others in time, I’m sure. We do have a concern, however . . . and we thought you might be able to assist us, in your official capacity.”

  “Yes?” Mr. Rotherhithe eyed Sisters Morgan-le-Fay and Lilith and wondered if they’d ever needed to be disciplined. He decided they probably hadn’t, and lost interest in them.

  Mother Willow gave a delicate cough. “We have reason to believe,” she said, “that a person of diminished capacity is being held against her will at the Empress of Mars.”

  “Eh?” Mr. Rotherhithe’s attention snapped back to the moment. “Who?”

  “In fact, one of our own,” said Mother Willow. “A poor Daughter of Holy Mother Church. Her Goddess name was Sister Amphitrite, but she may have used the name Doris Stubb when emigrating.”

  “Never heard of her,” said Mr. Rotherhithe.

  “But, you see, we suspect she’s been a virtual prisoner in the tavern these last five years, and so of course you wouldn’t have heard of her,” explained Mother Willow. “A tragic story, really. The poor creature wandered away from one of our Compassionate Care centers and somehow or other got on a shuttle that brought her here. According to the ladies of Clan Morrigan, she’s been kept working as a cook at the tavern. One of our first priorities was rescuing her, so she can have the care and medication she needs, but . . . well, I’m sure you can imagine the lack of cooperation we had from that Griffith woman when we asked. We weren’t even allowed to see her!” Mother Willow wiped away a tear.

  “You have proper documentation for legal custody?” asked Mr. Nennius. In response, Mother Willow lifted a tote bag and drew forth a dense sheaf of hard copy. She plonked it down on the general director’s desk and looked at him expectantly.

  “Medical records. Brain scans. Psychiatrists’ testimony.”

  Mr. Rotherhithe reached out and prodded the sheaf with a hesitant fingertip. He was in a quandary. On the one hand, an accusation of slavery would be just the thing to put the Empress out of business. On the other hand . . . one didn’t just hand people over to huge and politically powerful institutions who had a way of not being accountable to civil law.

  “Let me consult the immigration records,” he said. Popping the datascreen, he punched up the records and scrolled through on an alpha search. “What was the name? Stubb?”

  “Doris Stubb,” said Mother Willow. “Age thirty-five, one eye replaced with a Sydow implant, medium build, average height, no other distinguishing marks.”

  “Stubb? No one by that name in the record, I’m afraid,” said Mr. Rotherhithe.

  “Well, perhaps she used her Goddess name. Try Amphitrite!”

  “No . . .”

  “Then she must have used some other alias. Look for a female immigrant with one eye, for Goddess’s sake!” snapped Mother Willow.

  “Yes, Mother,” said Mr. Rotherhithe. He called up the list of registered cyborged personnel, and ran his finger down it. “No . . . no women on this list at all, and no one with an eye replacement. I’m sorry. Perhaps there has been a mistake of some kind.”

  “I don’t doubt it,” said Mother Willow, with a sniff. “Because she is working in the Empress. Dozens of people have seen her there.”

  “But what do you want me to do, Mother?”

  “Issue a warrant for search and seizure allowing us to take her back by force, if necessary,” said Mother Willow.

  “But . . .” Mr. Rotherhithe rubbed his temples. “I can’t do that. This person doesn’t even legally exist.”

  “But there are the documents!”

  “But they don’t prove that particular individual is on Mars.”

  “May I offer a possible solution?” said Mr. Nennius.

  “Please do,” said Mother Willow. Mr. Nennius leaned down and spoke close to Mr. Rotherhithe’s ear.

  “If this person has no legal existence, you cannot sign a warrant demanding her return to her legal guardians. However! Since this person does not legally exist, you may make the case that anyone attempting to retrieve her by force is breaking no law. Therefore you could be construed as unaccountable should such an attempt be made. You may, in short, turn a blind eye to anything Holy Mother Church does in this regard.”

  “I may?” said Mr. Rotherhithe.

  Mother Willow exchanged glances with Sister Morgan-le-Fay and Sister Lilith. “How very nice,” she said.

  CHAPTER 25

  Wolves in the Night

  “We need to set a watch again,” said Ottorino to Mr. De Wit. He spoke in Milanese, leaning forward over the booth table.

  “What’s wrong?” Mr. De Wit inquired, and Ottorino told him about the strangers’ footprints in the mud around the Emporium. Mr. De Wit nodded thoughtfully. “I was expecting this. Well, what should we do? Now that the building’s up, we can’t see much from inside the Tube.”

  “We will have to watch from Outside, by night,” said Ottorino.

  “And we won’t freeze solid because . . . ?”

  “I have heavy-duty psuits in the store, rated for the arctic,” said Ottorino. “What the Haulers use. I have infrared goggles too, and flare pistols, and a holocam. And there is a good place to watch concealed, just up the mountain above. We can take it in shifts, the way we did before. I’ll take the first watch, you can take the second, Mr. Inca the third. No one will freeze that way.”

  “And if we catch anyone?”

  “We catch them,” said Ottorino soberly. “If they let us. I would like to have them arrested, but it’s very easy to die out there.”

  “So it is,” said Mr. De Wit with a sigh.

  ______

  Two hours later Ottorino was climbing the slope behind the Emporium, burdened by expensive hardware and the memory of Rowan’s expression when he had told her he was reinstituting the guard watches.

  “But she the shop is now builded!” Rowan had exclaimed. “The thieves are not to get inside possible, she is sealed.”

  Ottorino had wondered whether to tell her what he had found and decided against it, lest she worry, settling only for telling her that he had reason to be suspicious. She had then said a great deal very angrily, though because it was in PanCelt he could only make out a few worlds like adventure and excitement and bored and freeze to death. Then she had stormed off, with Mamma Griffith after her demanding to know what was going on, and then she and Mamma Griffith had had their own quarrel, under cover of which he had slunk out through the lock.

  He found now the ledge he had had in mind. It was a cluster of boulders on the mountainside from which he could look down on the back wall of the Emporium, as secure as though he were in a box at an opera house. Ottorino sat down there and made himself
comfortable, turning up the heater in his psuit; lifting the visor of his Aercapo he strapped on the infrared goggles, taking some while to seat them over his mask. He checked his holocam, loosed the flare gun in its holster, and sat down to wait.

  The silver moon rose over the mesa, silhouetting a coyote, who turned its pointed muzzle up to the sky and howled. Now and again the night wind gusted through the sagebrush and mesquite, bringing him the faint sound of raucous merriment from the saloon far below: the tinkle of the piano, the breaking of glass, occasional gunfire. The vast night sky opened above him, silver stars like sheriff’s badges. He waited, tense, straining his ears for the stealthy sound of boots crunching on the trail . . .

  But the reality was that he would not be able to hear even that, could hear nothing now in the not-quite-vacuum of Martian atmosphere but his own breathing and the beating of his heart. No sagebrush, probably not for centuries; only the distant bubbled-over rows of sugar beets and cabbages, the fields of oats and barley, and any stray wind that gusted through those fields would leave them blackened and shriveled. The saloon—to be exact, the Excelsior Mobile Card Room and Painless Dentistry Parlor—blinked its garish lights far down there in utter silence. Not a sound from the faint glow within Settlement Dome. Nothing but night, and time, and silence . . . and bitter cold, as frost formed on the rocks around him.

  A wind full of ice, flowing straight off some far northern glacier, and a long, long night so far north. Now and again the wind gusted through the heather, bringing him a thin sharp perfume but no rank scent of painted bodies, though he knew they were out there somewhere. And they were not making any sound; not even the moorhens were calling, no night birds at all. He’d have welcomed an owl’s cry, however ill-omened, because this deathly quiet was suspicious. He shifted his grip on his pilum and turned his head to look along the Wall, peering to better focus his eyes, praying to the immortal gods for enough warning when the attack should come—