“And I thought you had more sense than that,” I say. “You. You are going. To get us killed.”
“Poor baby,” she says, patting my cheek. “Your symbiarmor took the hit. Not a scratch on you. Well, maybe one. On your cheek. Right. There. Want me to fix it?”
She brushes my face with the back of her hand. Then leans in for what I hope is a kiss. I lift myself on an elbow, waiting for her, watching her lips purse, her eyes close halfway, then—
Honk! A truck horn sounds.
She jerks away and stands, aiming her armalite at the Noriker as the Rangers pull slowly up to the barricade on the opposite side of the bridge.
“Jacob Stringfellow!” The gunner climbs out the shattered window and stands on the hood. “You’re under arrest for trespassing, capital theft, and destruction of corporate property! Surrender! Or I’ll blow you both to hell and drag your carcasses all the way back to Christchurch!”
“Ow! That’s harsh,” I say. “Whatever happened to ‘Put down your guns’?”
“I can take the gunner out.” Vienne pulls her weapon. “Just say the word.”
“Whoa.” I block her line of sight. “Let’s discuss this and come to a rational decision.”
Giving me a glare that would melt titanium, she drops the armalite on my shoulder, using it as a gun rest. “A Ranger is threatening to defile your corpse, and you want to be rational?”
“Let me try mediation first.” I carefully move the armalite aside and turn around. “Ranger! My friend wants to shoot you. Personally, I’d rather negotiate. What do you say?”
The gunner jumps into the bed of the truck. He throws aside a heavy tarp, revealing a Seneca gun. It’s the same type of chain gun our old Regulator buddy, Jenkins, liked so much. Only it’s bigger.
And fires faster.
With five times more ammo.
“Negotiate this!” A wild spray of bullets rips through the pavement, tearing up a line of divots.
Chunks of asphalt ricochet off my helmet.
“That’s a little close for comfort.”
Vienne squeezes off four quick shots—one to scare the driver and three to chase the gunner off the gun. “Since you won’t let me actually shoot them,” she says, “I see no point in standing around.”
“But—”
She holsters her armalite, then hops on the motorbike. “Going my way?”
“What way would that be?” I slide onto the seat. “Seriously, we’re in no-man’s-land out here. No food. No shelter. Very little coin to speak of.”
She steers around debris, even as the gunner, cursing, sends a wild volley into the steel framework above the bridge. “You want to go to Tharsis Two and steal the rest of your data, right?”
“Of course,” I say, “but we’re not ready to hit the outpost yet. We still need to scout the area, plan the job—”
“Then this is your lucky day,” she says. “Because I know the perfect place to hide out while you do all that scheming and plotting.” There’s a little glint in her eye that scares me. “Hang on tight. We’re going to meet my family.”
“Fam—?” I realize now that I was right to be scared. “Did you say ‘family’?”
“Unless you’d rather stay here and get shot at.”
“Maybe,” I say to tease her and because, well, it’s true. I didn’t even know Vienne had a family, much less one within driving distance.
“When you meet Ma and Pop,” Mimi chimes in, “make sure you do not mention the phrase ‘well-oiled.’”
“Oy,” I say, after trying to think of a smart retort. My brain, however, is no longer connected to my tongue.
Mimi has a laugh at my expense. “You’re so cute when you’re paralyzed with fear.”
“You’re so not cute when you’re trying to be funny.”
“I am not programmed for humor.”
“And I’m not programmed to meet the parents.”
We’re almost clear of the road debris when the Ranger makes a last-gasp effort to stop us. “Halt!” the Ranger screams. “I said, you are under arrest!”
A Hail Mary of bullets chases us. Several rounds hit the metal decking and one bounces off my shoulder, stinging my skin but not causing any damage.
I turn back, lift my visor, and blow them a kiss.
Poor Rangers. I really do feel sorry for the jacks. They chased us hundreds of kilometers for a bounty, and now they’re going home empty handed, having to explain to their superiors why they’re AWOL. Personally, I’d rather be shot than face that punishment.
When we reach a clear stretch, Vienne hits the throttle, and the speed needle surges to a hundred kilometers per hour. The road rises to a hill. Beyond the hill, the ground levels out again, and I see a massive cloud bank, black and angry, floating above the valleys.
The air crackles with energy, and I smell ozone on the wind. It’s a weird sensation to watch a storm from above, to see lightning dance through the clouds, chains of yellow sparks that snap the air. It’s an even weirder sensation when the road suddenly veers toward a narrow gap in the rock formations, and we plunge headlong into the tempest.
Chapter 2
The Favela
Zealand Prefecture
ANNOS MARTIS 238. 7. 18. 12:53
Archibald flicks open the lid of the butane lighter and strikes the flint. A spark jumps onto his sleeve. It leaves a pinhole burn in the threadbare jumpsuit he acquired at the poor shop. Just walking into Favela is an assault on his senses and an affront to his dignity, but he realizes that in order to acquire what one desires in life, certain concessions must be made. Although wearing the uniform of a common sewer worker makes him feel tawdry, it’s a small sacrifice to make, and there is the added bonus of being allowed to wield a heavy spanner wrench in public. Imagine the outrage if he carried one of these behemoths into the boardroom. The look on Mother’s face!
He strikes the lighter—flick!
Down a long hill he walks, a handkerchief pressed against his face, more to filter the stench than to hide his features. Above him on a building assembled from random pipes, corrugated metal, and fiberglass, a pink-eyed boy shouts into a megaphone in Portuguese, waving a burnt-out plasma pistol for effect. Other ferals dot the rooftops of other similarly constructed buildings. All of them are armed, and all of them are snarling in Portuguese. Although he doesn’t speak the language, Archibald understands their harsh tone. They are warning troublemakers of the fate that befalls them if they stray into the wrong territory. By troublemakers, of course, they mean CorpCom police, and by territory, they mean the areas controlled by Mr. Lyme and his Sturmnacht thugs, which in essence is the whole of Favela.
Flick!
Archibald reaches an alley marked by graffiti, instead of a road sign. He pauses to make sure that a highly stylized symbol of a scorpion is present on the wall, then takes a left turn. He passes a row of flop rooms built from discarded shipping containers and guarded by squatters carrying stolen blasters. At the end of the flop row, he follows a set of makeshift stairs that leads to a worn path under a highway overpass fifty meters above. Heavy Noriker trucks make characteristic thump-thump noises as they pass over the neglected ghetto below.
Favela was not always neglected, of course. The slum originated as a social program designed to build housing for Christchurch’s poorest citizens. The program fell by the wayside at the start of the CorpCom wars, and soon the poor began building their own homes using any scraps they could steal. As any social scientist knows, when a population of poor reaches critical mass, crime follows as surely as night follows day. And where there is crime, there is Mr. Lyme, ready to bring on the night.
Flick!
Archibald checks another graffiti scorpion and chooses the far right of three tubes protected by chain-link gates. The circular tunnel is two meters high, and he has to duck to prevent his hair from scraping the thick mold growing on the ceiling. The floor is slick with sludge carried in by storm water runoff, muck that seeps over the tops of Archibald’
s shoes, and he finds himself wishing that he had bought a pair of used boots as well.
Halfway down the tunnel, he breaks a flare in half so that the two ends are sparking in his hands. For a moment he remembers last year’s Spirit Festival, when he had the honor of lighting the fireworks display for the closing ceremony. Too bad the fire got a tad out of hand.
A vault door opens to his right. He ducks through, avoiding the lip of the opening, which keeps the sludge from oozing inside. The door is slammed shut by a guard named Duke, who throws a bolt to lock it.
A row of footlights turns on. He shields his eyes while squinting at a shadowed figure behind a desk.
“Archibald, wipe your feet and put the lighter away.”
He cleans his shoes as instructed on a heavy mat on what he now notices is a metal floor. The vault is not so much a room as a bunker. “Lyme?”
“Mr. Lyme.”
“Of course,” Archibald says. “Please forgive my rudeness, sir.”
“Consider it forgotten. Despite my reputation, I am not a man who carries grudges.” He clears his throat. “Forgive my precautions. I value my privacy above all else. Tell me, did all go as expected at the board of directors meeting?”
Archibald stoops to keep his head from banging on the low ceiling. He realizes that it gives the impression that he’s bowing slightly, an impression that he doesn’t like. Keeping me in my place, Lyme? he thinks. Let’s see how long I’m willing to stay there. “My mother was appointed CEO and general of the Zealand Army, yes. But since she was already interim CEO, I don’t see how a formality changes anything.”
Lyme pops a lozenge into his mouth. “Leave it to me to decide how things change. In the meantime, did your mother announce her intention to suppress the insurgent uprisings in the southern territories?”
“She tried to,” Archibald says. “But there was a bit of a nuisance at the meeting. A terrorist interrupted the board meeting with a bomb. Well, she claimed that it was a bomb, yet it turned out to be a satchel full of Desperta Ferro antigovernment propaganda.”
“What,” Lyme says, sounding amused, “did this so-called terrorist look like?”
She was beautiful, Archie thinks, like an angel wrapped in a full-metal jacket. “Tall and blond. She burst into the penthouse and threatened us. But then security arrived, and she jumped from the window.”
“From thirteen stories?” Lyme scoffs.
His tone makes Archibald squirm. “It is assumed she fell to her death.”
“Assumed?”
“Her body has, ah, not been recovered.”
“Of course not.” Lyme nods knowingly. “This young woman, what type of weapon was she carrying?”
“I don’t know guns. It was smallish? Automatic? She certainly was skilled with it.”
“I see.” Lyme taps his fingers on the desk. “During this attack, were you aware of any other unusual events?”
“No, Mr. Lyme. Not at all . . .” His voice trails away. “Well, yes. There was an incident at the Bibliotheca Alexandrina. A dalit forced his way into the Special Collections room and stole some data.”
Lyme seems to catch his breath. “What sort of data?”
So, you can be taken by surprise, Archibald thinks. “I haven’t heard. I’ve spent quite a bit of time in the Collection archives myself, and there is little more there than old corporate records. Minutes of board meetings, earning reports, troop movements and the like. Nothing of any value, I’m sure.”
“You have a young man’s confidence,” Lyme says. “I hope it’s well-founded. In the interim, I’m assigning you to Tharsis Two.”
“But isn’t it deserted?”
“Only by Zealand Corp,” Lyme says. “Which thinks it is a useless piece of property. However, it is of vital interest to us, and it requires the kind of attention that only your unique set of skills can provide. We have plans, Archibald, the scale of which is unprecedented in the history of this planet.”
He unfurls a sheet of electrostat, showing a route marked along the Tharsis Plain, from Christchurch in the north to the Noctis Labyrinthus in the south.
“This is where we will crush them,” he says, tapping on the star labeled “Tharsis Two.” “My operation has built a military force stronger than any CorpCom army, and the time is ripe for a hostile takeover of Zealand Corporation. Its board is choked with corrupt bureaucracy. Its military is aging and suffers from low morale. Its citizens have endured year after year of famine, which has led to the nascent Desperta movement—a movement that we can exploit. In other words, Zealand is low-hanging fruit, and I intend to pick it.”
Lyme’s words were pure venom, but wrapped up inside that poison was a kernel of logic. Since the Bishop’s death, Mars had endured one poor government after another, and the net effect was that the average citizen couldn’t depend on his government. The Mars Constitution promises life, liberty, and equality, but there was less food, less safety, even less air to breathe. Maybe a strong leader could make some changes, but the truth is, under the Bishop, Mars came as close to thriving as it had ever done.
“My mother says that the citizens are not a threat,” Archie says. “She has a solution to the resistance movements.”
“Your mother,” Lyme says with a dismissive wave that both insults and excites Archie, “is a useless bureaucrat. Did you see the agitated crowds in the Circus today? Could you feel the pulse of their anger?” Lyme pounds the desk with his fist. “There is revolution in the air, and all we need is a spark to ignite it. You must be that spark!”
“Yes, sir!” Archibald says, snapping a salute.
Lyme traces a route on the map. “Your task is to march my Sturmnacht army north on the Bishop’s Highway, burning everything from the Labyrinth to Christchurch. Leave nothing untouched.”
He rolls up the electrostat and hands it to Archibald. The guard, Duke, swings the vault door open. The meeting is over.
As soon as Archibald steps over the lip of the vault, the door slams behind him. He flicks the lighter, and this time, an incandescent flame erupts. Yes, he thinks as he sloshes back through the tunnel, Lyme is power-hungry and has delusions of grandeur, but this trip was most definitely worth my while.
Chapter 3
Tengue Monastery, Noctis Labyrinthus
Zealand Prefecture
ANNOS MARTIS 238. 7. 18. 16:45
Hours after the last of the Ranger’s bullets hit my armor, Vienne and I are still riding through a thunderstorm into the canyons. The road is twisted up in knots and is so slippery from the downpour, the tires can lose their grip at any second, a fact that I remind Vienne of when we’re about halfway down, rain hitting us sideways in sheets, wind gusts threatening to slam the motorbike against the rock wall of the canyon.
“I’ve got this!” she yells over the howling. “Stop worrying!”
It’s my job to worry. About the weather. About the road. About Vienne’s mysterious family. I even worry about a silver aerofoil flying low through the clouds, its wide, thin wings cutting through the darkness, the crazy aviator’s head barely visible in the cockpit.
“Au contraire, cowboy,” Mimi pipes in, “it’s your job to trust, and as usual, your performance is underwhelming. May I suggest a few breathing exercises to focus your chi?”
“May I suggest you bugger off?”
“Of course you may,” she says. “Not that it will accomplish anything.”
“Just give me a reading on this storm,” I say. “What’s the duration?”
“Did you not just ask for a reading two minutes ago? Did I not just tell you that Noctis Labyrinthus is a particularly unique biosphere and its weather systems are highly unpredictable?”
“Tell me again, what’s the duration?”
“Indeterminate.”
“Arg! Mimi, you make me carking batwŏ kào crazy!”
“Your mental stability or lack thereof bears no causal correlation to my presence.”
“Which means?”
“You were ca
rking batwŏ kào crazy before I got here.” She pauses, which means she’s processing new data gathered by the telemetry functions in my suit. “Good news. Barometric data suggests that the storm is dissipating, for now.”
Right on cue, we round a bend and the clouds break. The green valley is only a hundred meters below us, and I can see farm tracts and clusters of Quonset huts. In the distance, there’s a larger settlement marked by silos and processing machinery.
“Hallelujah,” I say aloud.
Vienne hears me. “Almost home,” she says with a disconcerting lilt to her voice. She takes the next hairpin turn without braking, balancing the bike on her kneecap.
“Where exactly is home?” I say.
“You’ll see.”
“Tease.”
“Whiney butt.”
This time, I decide not to protest. Just close my eyes and try to go with it. “Okay,” I tell Mimi. “Let’s get some work done.”
I tap my temple and wince at the tingling sensation. An aural screen pops up in front of my right eye, which is actually a bionic prosthesis wired to my optic nerve. I lost the real one fighting a Big Daddy, a bioengineered insect that looks like a mix between a crab and a tick. Other than the eye, I lost some skin on my face, leaving a thick purple scar that runs from my temple and down my neck. “Mimi, begin boot protocols on my mark. I need a little information about the situation we’re riding into.”
“Your artificial intelligence tour guide reporting for duty, sir!” Mimi says. “Pardon me for not waving, but I seem to be experiencing a shortage of appendages.”
“Ha-ha. Very funny. When you’re done cracking bad jokes, give me a long-range reading and fill me in on our location, which I’m assuming is our destination, if Vienne is telling the truth.”
“Vienne always tells the truth,” she says. “Unlike some people I know.”
“Ahem. Readings, please?”
“This area is called Noctis Labyrinthus, Canyons of the Night,” she says, finally getting down to business. “It was formed from ancient lava flows and settled by the second wave of Martian settlers, including the renowned Tengu monks, beekeepers who immigrated to Mars to escape persecution on Earth. Once home to massive indoor farmlands that were superseded by the Pure Air farms, communal farms established by the Bishop’s Orthocracy—”
Invisible Sun Page 3