Jupiter 39: Hegemone

by Ian Redman

  These days, we don’t sit and wait for heroes to be born. We manufacture them.

  You’ll have heard of that celebrity jerk, Axel Anderson. Noted his perma-tanned presence on all the TV talk-shows. Seen him at A-list parties with a curvaceous starlet twinkling on his arm. Observed his love of fast cars, his recent dalliance with politics.

  You’ll certainly have read his autobiography, Martian Eclipse: it topped the e-reader charts last year. The holo-movie of his life story is eagerly awaited. Leading actors of the rough-hewn type are competing for the role, like ferrets in a sack.

  Right now, Anderson’s probably the most famous person on the planet, next to the U.S. President and the Pope.

  But still, the question needs to be asked: who is Axel Anderson?

  Who exactly is he, and what is he?

  The guy was a nobody astronaut in his earlier days. Just one of the faceless minions labouring for the UN Space Bureau. That is, until the accident in space that made him famous. That lit up his name in garish lights. Now here’s a related question. Can a guy who was once a non-entity, and is now a skirt-chasing egotist, still be a hero: because of the truly brave things he did in one three-hour episode of his life? Believe me, those three hours made him what he is today. They created the phenomenon known as Axel Anderson.

  And now, without fanfare, I need to introduce myself, because I assisted in that creation.

  My name’s Peter Kruger. I’m one of the world’s most successful authors, though you’ve never heard of me.

  I’m a ghost writer.

  My usual clientèle are movie stars, sports champions, the accidentally famous. All manner of people who have achieved fame or had it thrust upon them. I service the inarticulate denizens of the celebrity universe. They share with me their fragmented memories, their muddled thoughts and aspirations. And I mould these disconnected fragments into a slick, readable whole: into autobiographies. (Told in the first person, of course. One must retain the illusion of authenticity.)

  Martian Eclipse is my best-known effort. It was certainly the most lucrative. It helped to make Axel Anderson rich, celebrated and obscenely famous. Me? I settled for just getting rich. The advance and royalties on that book mean I’ll never need to write again.

  Except I do need to write. Not for money. Certainly not for fame. No: I’m writing this piece out of stark necessity.

  Because somebody, somewhere, has to tell the ugly truth about Axel Anderson.

 

  ***

 

  “When calamity struck the Ares IV, it was as sudden as it was overwhelming. One second, our routine Space Bureau mission was proceeding on schedule. We had just entered standard orbit around Mars. Our ship was now invisible from Earth, on the “far” side of the red planet. Radio contact was being maintained, however, through the usual satellite-chain link.

  “I was in the mess-room with the ship’s captain and Natasha Glinka, chief scientist. The three of us were off-duty, grabbing a light supper before some much-needed bunk-time. We were chatting, of all things, about baseball.

  “Next second…

  “The ship careered violently with the force of the explosion. All three of us were flung like rag-dolls from our seats. With sickening force, we were driven head-first against the far bulkhead. I immediately blacked out…

  “… consciousness came back to me in feeble waves, ebbing and flowing. The ship had been plunged into absolute blackness. I called out names: the Captain’s and Natasha’s. No reply. No sound, either, from the adjacent cockpit where the other crew members had been working.

  “The ship was in a terrific state of spin: a crazed combination of pitch, roll and yaw. It was like a centrifuge on steroids. Somehow, my unconscious body had become wedged under one of the mess tables.

  “I glanced at my luminous wrist-watch. I’d been out cold for about ten minutes. I reached carefully inside my overalls for the emergency kit we all carried.

  “My pocket torch illuminated a scene of carnage. Wrecked equipment and crockery cascaded around the room. A human body floated serenely past me, its neck obviously broken. I recognized the face. It was the Captain’s…

  “I struggled into the cockpit, where more bodies were floating around like so much jetsam. I appeared to be the only survivor amongst the crew. The computers were down. So was the radio and life-support. I could make no contact either with the satellites or with the Martian colonies below.

  “My thoughts then turned to the “meat freezer”: our nickname for the cryogenic module. Three hundred passengers lay down there, in their hi-tech sarcophagi. They’d been in deep sleep since we left Earth’s orbit: those men, women and children we were ferrying to a new colonial life on Mars. Their sleeper-tombs, welded in place, carefully padded and sealed, would have cushioned them from the worst effects of the explosion. Almost certainly, those sleeping passengers were all still alive.

  “Almost certainly, also, they would soon be dead if I didn’t get the Ares IV back under control…”

  Martian Eclipse, Axel Anderson

 

  ***

 

  I had to lay my trap carefully, because Anderson was as wily as a fox.

  I started by calling up his agent, a slime-ball named Guy Steiner. Over the net-phone, his oily face waxed unctuously at me. He looked the very picture of the bloated ten-per-cent leech he actually was.

  “Kruger,” he smiled, favouring me with a glimpse of varnished canines and incisors. “A delight, as always. Is it business or pleasure?”

  “Is there supposed to be a difference?”

  He brayed lightly. “With you, mon ami, no. Not when Martian Eclipse is still the hottest e-book on the planet.”

  I replied, “I’m looking forward to seeing the holo-movie version. It promises to be a scream.”

  He barked again, like a hyena on happy pills. “It’ll be a piece of crud, as you and I both know. But with what they’ve offered us for the film rights…” He shrugged contentedly, went on, “I take it this is no social call, however.”

  “No. Listen, Steiner: I need you to set up another meeting for me with Anderson.”

  “Hah! How about a year’s time next Thursday? He’s solidly booked until then.” His eyes glinted craftily. “What are you planning anyway? Martian Eclipse: The Sequel?”

  “Not exactly. Is it true he’s planning to run for the U.S. Senate next year?”

  Steiner paused, began to fidget with the nanotech toys on his desk.

  “How would I know? I’m his agent, not his political mentor.”

  “Come off it, Steiner. You don’t need to play the virgin with me. Anderson trusts you: you’re his confidante, his big listening ear.”

  He smiled complacently. “I might be, at that. What do you have in mind?”

  “A big re-launch of Martian Eclipse, to coincide with Anderson’s campaign for Senator. It’ll be a special edition, with a new intro and an extra final chapter. Anderson will be reflecting on his new celebrity status since returning to Earth. His personal reaction to fame and so on. Or rather,” I added, “I’ll be reflecting for him, in disguise.”

  Steiner appeared sceptical. “You really think the market can take another new edition? So soon after the antique leather-bound affair, the one we printed on real paper?”

  “If we tie it in with his push for the Senate next year, yes. It’s just a question of timing.”

  “Hmm, I suppose it might work.” His face got serious. The financial computer that was his brain began crunching figures and percentages. “I’ll be honest with you, Kruger. Anderson’s flirting with politics, but so far it’s just a one-night stand. It might develop into something more serious, though. Especially with some gentle nudges from those close to him. Have you approached his publisher yet about this?”

  “No. I thought I’d let you handle that side of things. I need to speak to Anderson first, anyway.
Gauge his reaction to my idea. Try to get at least a semi-coherent account from him of how his life’s been these last two years. Something basic I can work up into a proper text.”

  Steiner shook his head, amused. “I thought you were through with the ghost-writing game.”

  “So did I. I guess even an old hack like me can still get itchy fingers.”

  He shrugged. “Okay. I guess there’s no harm in us exploring the idea. We’re not committing to anything at this stage, you understand?” He was clicking through a laptop diary now. “Let’s see. Anderson’s doing a lecture tour in Europe at the moment. Lessons in Courage and Leadership for the Modern Age, or some such bilge. He’ll be laying waste to the beauties of Paris tomorrow. London and Vienna to follow. Back in California early next week. Supposed to be filming a net-promo for the latest Ferrari jet-car. We can postpone the shoot a day or two, I’m sure.”

  We set up a date, time and place and I signed off. By now, my skin was crawling, and not just because of the glutinous presence of Steiner’s face on my net-phone.

  I was anticipating… the worst? The best?

  Something explosive, anyway.

 

  ***

 

  “… finished wrestling with the manual back-up for the steering controls. I had the ship’s orbit stabilized now, more-or-less. But the radio and life-support systems were still down. Cabin temperature was dropping, the air starting to foul up.

  “I heard a groan behind me, coming from the mess-room.

  “Guided by the pencil-beam of my torch, I made my way aft again. To my astonishment, Natasha Glinka was slowly stirring. Like mine, her body had become wedged underneath a table. I examined her again as best I could, shocked to find she was still alive. Her head injuries looked pretty bad, her young Ukrainian features almost unrecognizable. I guessed she must have severe internal injuries. I’m no doctor, but to me she looked like a dying woman.

  “There was just one chance in a thousand to save her. I had to get her down to the meat freezer. Find a spare sarcophagus to preserve her body in deep-sleep, till the medics could get to her…”

  Martian Eclipse, Axel Anderson

 

  ***

 

  Steiner had arranged for me to meet Axel Anderson on neutral territory. It was an exclusive hotel in downtown L.A.: a business suite which took the idea of ostentatious luxury to a level beyond decadence. Of course, Anderson was so thoroughly used to the 5-star treatment that he would have accepted nothing less.

  I prowled around the suite. The wall-clock, an ornate thing of ponderous brass, showed Anderson was already late. I had anticipated this. Celebrities never show up on time, punctuality being a concept for lesser mortals. I didn’t really mind. It gave me more time to rehearse what to say to him.

  There were a dozen ways of broaching the subject, but none of them would be easy or pleasant.

  There was a complementary buffet which would not have disgraced a palace banquet. I poured out a glass of sparkling wine, helped myself to smoked salmon. Then I sank into the cushioned splendour of an antique armchair with brocaded antimacassars. The crystal chandelier overhead sparkled wastefully. The free-form Artframe in the corner morphed liquidly from Van Gogh to Warhol, regressed to Canelletto. I thought of all the things that Anderson had done to obtain this lifestyle, and how I had aided and abetted him.

  The guilt was there again, bubbling up like a reflux in my gullet. I knew my anger towards Anderson was driven, in part, by it. I had that much self-knowledge, at least.

  You can despise yourself only so much, before you start to take it out on other people.

  Twenty-three minutes behind schedule, the door finally opened and Axel Anderson wafted in.

  He had the well-honed smart-casual look today. Sleek and prosperous, like a well-fed lion. His designer stubble was micrometer-perfect. He glanced at me and his teeth flashed a nova-white smile.

  “Hi Kruger.” He waved a nonchalant hand. “How’s it going?” He drifted over to the buffet, not waiting for a reply. “Not bad, huh?” He nodded at the food in grudging approval. His hand hovered over a vol-au-vent, before descending on some glazed affair involving a chicken leg.

  “You’re looking well, Axel,” I observed, giving him a cool once-over.

  “Yeah, I’m terrific,” he yawned. “A little jet-lagged after my tour, but that’ll soon pass. Say, Steiner told me about your latest scheme. A re-launch of our book, or something.” He took his chicken leg over to a sofa and spread himself about. “Sounds like a swell idea,” he said absently.

  “I haven’t really explained it to you yet.”

  “Well, I’m listening,” he grinned.

  I nodded. “First things first. There are a few things that we need to straighten out. For example, what’s this about you running for the U.S. Senate next year?”

  “Oh, you’ve heard about that?”

  “Steiner half-confirmed the rumour to me.”

  “He did, the old leech? Well… yes!” he said with sudden bravado. “As a matter of fact, I am running. Why not, after all?” He gestured expansively. “I already have some campaign themes in mind. Stuff about leadership skills and handling a crisis and, er, so on.”

  “You really think you can win?”

  He swallowed a biteful of food, almost choking with laughter as he did so. “Win? Of course not! That is… well, it would be an unexpected bonus. No, a quick-fire campaign will help to raise my profile, get me more noticed. It’ll be a terrific publicity boost.”

  I shook my head in wonderment. “Axel, you’re already about the most famous person on the planet.”

  “Yeah, but what exactly am I famous for? Beyond the obvious, I mean: my exploits on the Ares IV?” He frowned, suddenly rather serious. “Let’s face it, Kruger, I’m part of the jet-set crowd now. I get to stay in all the best hotels. I rub shoulders with all the beautiful people. But, to most of the public, I’m just a piece of glossy entertainment. A mild diversion in their lives, a source of titillating gossip: nothing more. Nobody really takes me seriously. Oh, they acknowledge my heroism and courage, etc. But even that becomes a ritual chore for them after a while.” He stared moodily around the room. “I want to be respected as a human being again, Kruger. Like I was in the days when I first returned from Mars. Before I jumped on board this silly celebrity merry-go-round.”

  “I see. You want gravitas,” I suggested.

  “Well… yes. Don’t get my wrong. I’m not a saint, have never pretended to be. Once a hedonist, always one, hey? But I want people to feel there’s substance and depth beneath the surface wrapping. A few orbits around the Planet Politics should do the trick.”

  I winced at the word trick. It seemed to open up vistas I didn’t care to look down too closely. “Martian Eclipse” I began.

  “Yes!” he cried, excited. “A revised edition would help to get my new persona launched, don’t you think?”

  “It all depends,” I said significantly, “just what kind of revisions we have in mind.”

  “Steiner said something about a new intro, an extra final chapter”

  “That’s what I told Steiner. Actually, I was planning a bigger revision. Much bigger.”

  Something in my tone caught his attention. He looked at me curiously. “You really think that’s necessary?”

  “Yes, I do,” I said with firm emphasis. “That is, if we want to get closer to the truth.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I mean the truth about what really happened on the Ares IV.”

  “What?” For a few seconds, his face was a picture of bafflement. Then he gave a sharp laugh. “Oh, I think I see now. Look, Kruger, we used a lot of artistic license in writing that book, I know. Dammit, you even encouraged me. The literal nuts-and-bolts truth will bore the readers silly, you kept saying. We need to spice up the narrative. Indulge in a little playful ex
aggeration. Never straying too far from the essential facts, of course. But…” he groped for an example. “Look, remember when I told you about the moments before the explosion. I was in the mess-room, discussing orbital vector adjustments with Natasha and the captain. And you said, that sounds too dry. Too intellectual. Why not make it baseball? It adds a human touch. Okay, it’s a little white lie, but it conveys a greater truth. That the crew of the Ares IV were not just faceless technicians, but human beings. So the reader cares about what happens to them.” He paused, than jabbed an accusatory finger. “Well, Kruger? Didn’t we do that pretty much throughout the book?”

  “We did,” I agreed.

  “Didn’t you even tell me it’s just a standard technique? One that you’ve used throughout your ghost-writing career?”

  “That’s true,” I agreed again. “Though I’m not exactly proud of it.”

  “Not proud?” He started to get indignant. “Well, your pride hasn’t stopped you from enjoying your new-found wealth. All from your sizeable take of Martian Eclipse’s profits.”

  “All of that is perfectly true,” I admitted. “I’m not a paragon of virtue. I’m just a hack writer in a cut-throat business. But Martian Eclipse is built on more than little white lies, Axel, as you well know.”

  He didn’t deign to reply. The ball was still in my court. Instead he chewed chicken and practised his best petulant look. So I went on:

  “You said it best yourself, just now. We mustn’t stray too far from the essential facts. Embroider them a little, yes. Exaggerate … maybe. But Martian Eclipse is just one huge deception from start to finish. Isn’t it?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about!” he reacted angrily.

  I shook my head. “I think you know all too well. When we first worked on the writing of that book, I had to trust you, Axel. Trust to your memory. Beyond that, to your basic honesty and decency. The whole world had to. We had no choice, after all. You were the only crew member who was conscious during the Ares IV incident. All the computers had gone down, which meant the vidcams and other ship’s monitors were also down. We couldn’t even see the ship from Earth, not even with the Super-Hubble scope. It was the far side of Mars. We had only your testimony to rely on. Your version of events.”

  “True in every essential detail,” he insisted. “Any slight manipulation that was done, was done with your approval.”

  I shook my head again. “I’m afraid I don’t believe you, Axel.”

  At that moment, right on cue, Natasha Glinka wheeled herself into the room.

 

  ***

 

  “… with Natasha safely entombed, I could focus again on the bigger picture. I made my way from the meat freezer back up to the command module. I was now shivering with cold, my breathing laboured in the foul air.

  “There was one way, and one way only, to reboot the vital life-support, radio and IT systems. The master back-up system for those lay in a special suite located just off the mess-room. But the corridor leading there was now a twisted maze of metal wreckage. Even a mouse couldn’t crawl through it.

  “So I would have to go outside the ship. There was a hatch-cover giving emergency access to the suite directly from the outer hull.

  “EVAs, or Extra-Vehicular Activities, form no part of routine Space Bureau training. Oh, we have some sessions fooling around in simulators back on Earth. But the Bureau no more expects its astronauts to be ace space-walkers than the Navy expects its sailors to be Olympics-level swimmers.

  “In seven years service with the Bureau, I’d never done a space walk.

  “In my case, there was an added problem. I’m agoraphobic. Not enough to fail the basic Space Bureau psych tests. I’d bluffed my way through those. But now my bluff was being called. I was going to have to don a spacesuit and slip through an air-lock and introduce myself to the great immensity of open space outside. Despite the cold, I could feel myself perspiring freely at the prospect. Reluctantly, I opened the suit locker …

  “… the sense of wild panic was now overwhelming. I hung there on the outside of the ship, the tiniest spider on the flimsiest thread. I had nowhere to go, except an infinity of falling in every direction. I held the grip-bar riveted to the hull, felt my breath in the sealed helmet coming in great asthmatic surges. My heart seemed to be thumping its way right through my rib-cage. This was the panic attack to end all attacks. I shut my eyes and, for a moment, I had an impulse to let go of the grip-bar, to let slip my safety-line, and drift off into space.

  “Death would come oh-so-easily, if I opened the air-vents of my suit.

  “In that critical moment, I dug deep down inside myself. There’s an inner core of calmness and wisdom inside us all, waiting to be tapped in a time of crisis. With a supreme effort, I quarried within for that core until I found it…

  “…Cursing again the crude design of my gauntlets, I fumbled over the final adjustments to the back-up systems. The open hatch-cover obscured my view of the hull aft. Mars hung directly underneath me. Its vast arid wastelands were a shock of ochre-red colour in the monochrome of space. As I watched, I saw a blue-green star rise over the Martian horizon. It was the Earth: we were no longer in eclipse.

  “The ordeal was nearly over. A strange sense of calm oozed through me: a benign lightness of limbs, a thrilling glow in my sinews and blood. There were still perils ahead, but I knew now the worst was behind me. I had saved the ship …”

  Martian Eclipse, Axel Anderson

 

  ***

 

  I’ll give Anderson credit: he kept his damned nerve. Natasha’s unexpected entrance fazed him no more than if a maid or cleaner had entered the suite. He stood up slowly and made a slight bow.

  “Hello Natasha,” he said gravely.

  “Hello Axel,” she replied through her voice synthesizer. Natasha Glinka propelled herself further into the room. Her hi-tech wheelchair was virtually a miniature motor vehicle. In it, her broken body sat semi-erect, supported on cushions warped exactly to suit her deformed body-shape. Her left hand, the one that was not paralysed, played expertly over a complex control-board. She flicked a switch and the chair came to a halt.

  Her face, after the ravaging miracles of plastic surgery, looked almost human again.

  I had seen pictures of Natasha taken before the ill-fated Ares IV mission. A young and vivacious Ukrainian, energetic and ambitious, she’d joined up with the Space Bureau when she could have pursued a staid academic career on Earth. Her journey in the Ares IV had been her first trip into space, and her last.

  Axel said, “I had no idea you were out of intensive care, Natasha.”

  “Well, you never visited.” The words, perfectly enunciated by the voice-synth, rolled in a rich contralto through the room. But they lacked nuance. Was Natasha annoyed with Axel? Amused? Merely being factual? It was impossible to guess. Tone of voice, inflection, the subtle melody and rhythm of ordinary speech: all of these were missing. The voice-synth was like a piano that could play only one note.

  “I neglected to tell you Natasha was coming,” I said to Axel. I added, rather acidly: “Actually, I thought it would be a pleasant surprise for you.”

  “It is pleasant,” he forced himself to reply. “I am genuinely puzzled, though. There’s been nothing on the news about this”

  “We chose to keep my recent discharge from hospital a secret,” said Natasha.

  “We?” echoed Anderson. The bland voice-synth words seemed to hint at a teasing variety of inner meanings.

  I crossed over to Natasha’s side, squeezed her hand gently. “Natasha and I have been getting to know each other quite well, these last few months. I started to visit her when she was still in hospital, before her discharge. I was there in a professional capacity, you understand. Natasha wants me to ghost her autobiography, her own account of events. We’ve had many interesting conversations about the Ares IV.”r />
  “That we have,” Natasha agreed blandly.

  Anderson still didn’t take the bait. Approaching the buffet, he poured himself a generous scotch. He sank half of it in one swift gulp. Then he wiped his lips, turned to face us.

  “Alright Kruger. Let’s get to the point. What’s this really all about?”

  “The point,” I said, “is that Natasha’s memories of the Ares IV affair are, ah, somewhat different from yours. In fact, radically different.”

  “Memories?” Anderson frowned, “But she was unconscious all through the incident!”

  I gestured to the wheelchair. “There’s no need to speak of her in the third person. She’s right here. Perhaps you’d like to address your remarks to her.”

  “I’m all ears, Axel,” Natasha said in her neutral synth-voice.

  We both looked at the twisted, grotesque figure in the motorized chair. It was impossible to read anything from Natasha’s frozen face, from the language of her semi-paralyzed body.

  Anderson’s hand wavered again over the scotch bottle, then dropped to his side. “Okay Natasha,” he said harshly. “I’ve never asked for any gratitude from you for saving your life. I was just doing my job, after all. All the same, I expected something better than this.”

  “Better than what?” she rejoined.

  “Questioning my honesty. My integrity, even. I’m guessing that’s what this is all about. Presumably in a squalid effort to promote your own book, once Kruger’s written it. Are you so anxious to jump on the celebrity gravy-train?”

  “Are you so anxious to stay on it?”

  He shook his head. “The lifestyle isn’t all it seems, as I was explaining to Kruger just now. But let’s get down to specifics. Tell me just what you recall of the Ares IV affair.”

  “I will.” With a deft finger-click, she adjusted her chair so it was facing Anderson directly. She looked him straight in the eye, her frozen face quite impassive. “The explosion on the ship happened just as you described it in Martian Eclipse. Only I wasn’t knocked unconscious. In fact, I wasn’t even badly hurt, not to begin with. The rest of the crew wasn’t so lucky, of course. They all suffered appalling injuries in the first few violent seconds, when the ship spiralled out of control.

  “I survived by jamming myself under a mess-table. I watched, helplessly, as our crewmates were all flung to their deaths. All except you, Axel. You’d found refuge, like me, by squeezing under a table. And you weren’t knocked out, not even concussed. You were simply screaming. Screaming in blind, uncontrollable panic. It was like the howl of a frightened animal. I saw your face, in the flash of my torch beam, and I knew you’d be no help to me. I was going to have to rescue the ship all on my own.

  “The Ares IV was spinning wildly out of control, but getting IT and life-support back up was the first priority. I went to explore the corridor leading to the master back-up suite. It was impassable with wreckage. So I knew what I had to do. Like you, I’d never done an EVA for real before. Nonetheless I donned a space-suit, went through the air-lock.

  “I managed, with difficulty, to reach the hatch giving emergency access to the suite. Space was spinning around me every which way: the stars, the planet Mars, all just a giddy kaleidoscope. By the time I’d finished the basic repairs, I was about ready to vomit in my suit. Somehow I made it back through the air-lock, struggled my way to the cockpit. By now, you were no longer cowering in your cubby-hole. You’d managed to crawl forwards into the pilot’s chair. You should have been working the manual controls, getting the ship under proper steerage again. But you weren’t. You were just staring blindly at the instruments and mumbling to yourself.

  “Now I had a real problem. You were the ship’s co-pilot. You had the expertise, which I lacked, to handle the steering override. I had to get you to co-operate, and I wasn’t gentle about it. I slapped you hard a few times, called you some very imaginative names. You reacted by turning on my wildly. You were about ready to throttle me, I think. We struggled together, went head-over-heels with the ship’s crazy gyrations. That’s when I picked up most of my injuries, Axel. The trauma that’s left me a paralyzed wreck of a human being. I was thrown repeatedly against the bulkheads, eventually knocked out cold.

  “By that time, you must have come to your senses. Perhaps it was the shock of seeing me badly maimed. Anyway, you somehow got me down to the meat freezer and safely into a tomb. Then you used your skills to get the ship’s orbit back under proper control. Then, and only then, did you reactivate the ship’s internal monitors.

  “You played your part in the end, Axel. You helped to save the Ares IV and all of its passengers. And I would have been happy to give you credit for what you did. I might even have been willing to gloss over some of your shortcomings. Perhaps not to mention your frightened hysterics. But, dammit, you insisted on monopolizing all the credit for yourself. You had to pose as the big almighty hero. You had to strut the world stage like a celebrity colossus. Well, I hope you’ve had some fun these past two years. Because when I get to write my own version of events, with the help of Mr. Kruger here, I’ll not pull any punches about your true role in the affair. You’d better believe I won’t.”

  Anderson had listened to Natasha’s lengthy speech in complete silence. He stood there stony-faced for a few seconds. Finally he gave a nervous chuckle.

  “You don’t seriously believe a word of that fairy story, do you, Kruger?” When I made no reply, he went on, “Look, Natasha, I’m willing to be charitable. You’ve been through a terrific ordeal. Quite possibly you’ve been hallucinating. Dreaming strange dreams during your long coma. Perhaps your memory is playing tricks on you. Any or all of these I will accept, if you withdraw these slanderous accusations. Otherwise,” he drew himself up to his full height, his tone darkening, “you’ll force me to believe the worst. That you’re driven by simple envy at my lifestyle. That you want a big slice of it for yourself. Well, just go ahead and try. Tell your lies and half-truths. My agent Steiner knows some very successful libel lawyers.”

  “You can’t suppress any of this, Axel,” I said. “If you fight us through the courts, you’ll just give Natasha’s book even more publicity. Go right ahead. We’ll enjoy it.” I grinned maliciously. “Of course, the book’s not actually written yet. But we already have a title: Martian Revelation. Quite neat, don’t you think?”

  The look he gave me was pure poison. “Okay, Kruger. You set me up like a patsy for this meeting. You’ve had your kicks. You and Natasha have both made your points. But I don’t have to listen to any more of this cripple’s fantasies.”

  With an air of aggrieved dignity, he stalked quietly from the room.

  He did slam the door rather hard behind him, though.

  Natasha and I stared at one another. Natasha said, in her monotone voice: “That was a most unpleasant experience, Mr. Kruger.”

  “No worse than I expected.”

  “I’m not sure this confrontation with Axel was such a good idea.”

  I shrugged. “I wanted to observe his reactions first-hand.”

  “Was he bluffing with his talk of libel lawyers?”

  “I don’t know.” I sank down into my chair. I felt suddenly tired and deflated. “The Ares IV was in eclipse behind Mars. The ship’s monitors were down. Basically it’s your word against his. I think I know who the public will believe. They’re bound to take your side out of sympathy with your injuries, for one thing.”

  Natasha’s frozen face glowed harshly in the light from the candelabra.

  “And who do you believe, Mr. Kruger?”

  Without waiting for an answer, she wheeled her chair around and motored slowly from the room.

 

  ***

 

  I sat marooned in the antique chair, lost in my thoughts. The hotel suite around me stank of luxury and indulgence. In the cloying warmth, the banquet food was beginning to reek, the expensive wine turn slowly s
our. Yet still I could not summon up the energy to rise from my seat.

  Whose account of events did I actually believe? Axel’s? Natasha’s?

  Neither?

  The real truth, I decided, was probably some strange admixture of the two. Truth and lies, so intricately interwoven in both versions that the real story could never be properly unravelled.

  The Ares IV had been in eclipse. Hidden away, like some mysterious quantum event. There were an infinite number of ways the incident could have played out.

  Maybe they all happened. Maybe they were all true.

  Or perhaps there could be no truthful version. Only a series of subjective interpretations: each one manipulated by ego, self-interest, false memories.

  Perhaps all such narratives must be unreliable. Even mine.

  When a writer has ghosted for long enough, the truth becomes a slippery concept. It almost ceases to be.

  I roused myself, with some effort, from the fog of metaphysics. I cast a look of quiet loathing around the hotel suite.

  I was a wealthy man. I would go on being wealthy. I knew I wasn’t strong enough to give this lifestyle up.

  I walked slowly from the room, revolving in my mind the best way to spin Natasha Glinka’s narrative.

  For the waiting world, a brand new heroine was about to be made.

 

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