by Mel Odom
Provided I was able to return to Earth. Or survived my trek across Mars.
The woman looked up at me. “You’re not really here to cannibalize the indy ag-farms, are you?”
I looked at her and got the impression from her body language and facial characteristics that she wanted the truth. “No. I’m not.”
“Good. From the way Rachel talked about you, I wanted to like you. If you were here to disrupt the ag business, I wouldn’t have cared for you very much.” She patted my arm and released it. “Time to go. Be safe out there.”
“Wait.”
She stopped a few feet from me and gazed back.
“What is your name?”
A smile flirted with her lips, but she looked sad as well. “Call me Orchid. If you ever see me again. Bye, mystery man.”
“Bye, Orchid.” For a moment, I watched her go, disappearing with definite skill among the other people in the starport. People continued to flow around me, some of them grumbling over the extra effort expended to step to the side.
I fell in with the flow and continued toward the exit. I stopped at a clothing store along the way and purchased a new set of clothing. I bypassed the Martian science fiction outfits that consisted of breechclouts and metal armbands as well as the futuristic wear that looked like something out of a retro Buck Rogers sensie, and selected black pants with thigh pockets and a black pullover with accompanying black mid-calf duster.
“Get the hat, too.” Shelly stood beside me as I surveyed myself in the full-length mirror.
I pulled on one of the black skull caps from a nearby stack. Shelly had been the one to add that to my fashion statement at the NAPD. She’d said it softened my alienness for people we interviewed. Her daughters had laughed at me, telling me I was trying to hide the fact that I was bald.
When I looked at myself in the mirror, I realized that I “felt” more like myself than I had in a long time. Shelly had been right, then and now. The hat softened my alienness.
Then, as I gazed at the image, it blurred, went out of focus—something that could not happen with my vision—and became the image of a man in full combat armor and gear. He held a laser rifle in his hands and had a slug-thrower under his left arm and at his right hip. I recognized the face framed in the battle helmet as Simon Blake’s. As I stared at him, he smiled.
“Are you ready for this?” he asked.
“Drake?”
My vision reset, the human equivalent of a blink. I focused on Shelly.
Concern showed on her face. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine.” I walked to the checkout counter and slotted the credstick I’d brought with me on Khloe, unwilling to use the one Rachel had sent inside the starport. I intended to use that one in the less legitimate areas where cred couldn’t be as easily backtracked.
I walked out of the starport and continued on my way, heading for the nearest airlock to get me out of the city. Hoppers thrummed and buzzed overhead, flitting across the plascrete canyons created by the tall buildings. The shadows were long and grey, stripping the color from much of my surroundings.
Most of the people debarking from the starport headed for the upper levels because they were well-heeled tourists or corp execs. I moved along with the common laborers that serviced the city’s swank hotels and clubs, and the farmers that were in the metro area to sell their surplus or buy seeds for a new crop or fish DNA for a new strain.
I felt at home there.
Chapter Eight
Gullivar colony maintained a heavy guard over the airlock leading to the Martian plains because that was one of the primary vulnerabilities of the domed city. In the past, rebels and Earth-backed forces had fought over the gate. Standing twenty meters tall and thirty meters wide, the airlock showed scars from past violence.
Guards armed with heavy-duty laser rifles stood at attention on support platforms that provided defensive walls and primary sniper positions. Above them and on either side of the gate, large holos panned over the crowd gathered in front of the airlock. A few young people in the group cheered and yelled and waved while others made inappropriate gestures.
One young male dropped his pants and bared his buttocks as he yelled, “Earth can kiss my ass.”
Evidently the young men around him were his friends and they yelled and laughed in support of his antics. Young Martians who had never seen Earth had no problem hating the other planet. Most of them would never get the cred for a visit to Earth, and most of them had acclimated to Mars so Earth’s heavier gravity would be uncomfortable to them. The heavier atmosphere and natural particulates, many of them much different than those on Mars, also deterred visitation.
An undercover guard slid through the crowd and pulled a stunstick from his sleeve. Too late, the young man saw what was coming and tried to flee, hastily pulling his pants up as he went. Unfortunately, his loose pants tripped him up and he sprawled facedown on the street. Before he could get to his feet, the guard stepped forward and applied the stunstick to the young man’s buttocks. The man yelled and shuddered, then went limp.
A few of the surrounding crowd applauded as the guard hiked up his prisoner’s pants, then grabbed the man’s shirt and easily picked him up from the ground since the gravity was only a third of what it was on Earth. The young man’s constituency protested the arrest but quickly backed away when the security guard threatened them with his stunstick. A brief pushing match erupted as some of the young people cursed at the Earthers among them and threatened them.
For a moment, it looked like a riot was going to erupt. Those happened with a regular occurrence throughout the colonies. During the months I’d been en route aboard Khloe, several major riots had broken out and four Earth-owned manufacturing plants had been attacked by rebels. As a result, some of the corps had instituted an embargo on some products that the masses enjoyed: cheap sensies, clothing, and snack foods that the Martian nutritional boards had tried to outlaw anyway.
No one had licensed cocoa beans yet, so all chocolate was made off-world. Artificial chocolates abounded, but none of them had the same appeal as the original product. Real chocolate sold for a greater unit cost than designer drugs. Chocolate manufacturers relished this because it meant instant profits on any shipments they sent, and all of it was legal, without risk.
Before the fight could manifest, though, more plainclothes sec guards—some of them dressed as science fiction characters and others dressed like gangsters from the 1940s—closed ranks and got the violence under control. Their efforts were most efficient.
The two factions of the crowd quieted and returned to their respective areas. The sec guards remained in the area with their stunsticks visible. The message was clear.
As I stood waiting to be identified yet again, I pulled up news vid and newsrag stories concerning past battles there. Thirty-eight days ago, nine people had been killed at the gateway by a woman identified as a Martian terrorist.
I studied the young woman’s face and tried to see the capacity for violence in her features. Only sometimes could that quality be seen, and only then when the person wanted it to show. During my career at the NAPD, I had known several murderers who had been surprised at their own ability to take the life of someone else, and many of them had shown remorse at their acts.
In the vid, the young woman worked her way into the center of the crowd that day. She was alone. She did not look around. She remained focused on her mission. Nineteen seconds into the vid, with a yellow highlighter drawn around her, the young woman suddenly screamed, “FREE MARS!”
Then she exploded. The crowd around her folded back on itself as the concussion blew them backward.
According to the nosies, forensic examination had confirmed the presence of explosive materials on the young woman’s corpse. I played the vid back, zooming in and examining her face and the actions of the people around her. Only two of those around her had appeared frightened before the blast killed them.
I tracked back through several o
ther incidents. They were much the same at the gates—always protests, then people dying. In the last year, one hundred and three people had died in front of this gate. Seventeen sec guards had died during the same time.
I didn’t recall that many deaths being reported back in New Angeles. When I checked the news archives for that time period, I discovered that Earth had not reported all the deaths. The more complete picture had come from Martian-based nosies.
“That shouldn’t surprise you,” Shelly said. “Look at how many investigations we participated in that were kept under wraps.”
Since we were in the crowd, I silently agreed with her. I should not have been surprised by the knowledge that the media was controlled and slanted. But it disturbed me.
“Present your docs,” the sec guard working the gateway said.
I held up my hand and he scanned my e-visa with his PAD.
“You’re cleared, Norris 1JA5NU. Proceed.”
I thanked him and went on into the airlock.
Inside, the humans pulled on envirosuits required by safety requirements. Traveling aboard the solar-powered trains was safe for the most part, but accidents were known to happen. Checking back through the news archives, I discovered that most of the “accidents” were actually attacks by Martian rebels, or by Earth sec forces when they believed rebels leaders were onboard. Ordinary citizens got caught in the crossfire.
When the airlock was filled to capacity, the warning klaxon sounded and yellow lights flashed. Ten seconds counted off on the digital reader built into the transplas walls. At zero, the airlock cycled open.
I followed the crowd. Some of the Earthers among the group had a hard time walking in the reduced gravity. They bobbed up and sailed for a few couple feet, bouncing off of other people.
An older man stumbled and sailed off-balance toward me, but I caught him, steadying him on his feet.
“Thank you.” He tested his footing as other people irritably stepped around him.
Muttered curses and complaints of, “off-worlder,” “corp trash,” and “Earther” came from the passing crowd.
“You are welcome,” I told him.
He smiled. “First time on Mars.”
“I hope you enjoy your stay.”
“Me, too.”
I couldn’t help offering advice. That was part of my programming. “Perhaps, until you adjust to the lesser gravity, you might try sliding your feet rather than picking them up.”
“I’ll do that.” He snaked out a foot and moved cautiously forward a few centimeters. He still lost contact with the ground, but he managed it. “I don’t suppose you had any trouble walking here your first time.”
“There is an adjustment.” I was much stronger than a human, and my reflexes were faster. Thankfully all of those things were under my control. I had simply attuned myself on Khloe till I was able to function normally in weightlessness and on Mars. The calibrations weren’t quite exact, yet, but they served. I would continue to learn as I went.
The forward cars behind the pulling engine—this one in the shape of an angelfish with a tall dorsal fin but in the same bronze coloration—held atmosphere for humans and clones who needed it. I helped the man to the car but was stopped at the steps by a uniformed conductor wearing a slug-thrower on his hip. Several such men stood outside cars on the ship.
“Excuse me. Bioroids take passage in the cargo compartment.” The railroad sec guard was broad and powerful. His eyes had been worked on, modded to be gunsights.
The man I had escorted looked embarrassed at the situation. He looked up at me. “I’m so sorry.”
“It’s quite all right.” I handed the man off to the conductor, then turned toward the cargo cars farther back in the line. The powder fine iron oxide dust crunched and shifted underfoot.
* * *
Fourteen bioroids sat in the last container car where I was directed by another railroad employee. Most of them were Franks, but a couple were higher-grade units capable of problem solving and deep conversation.
A Brad met me at the door. Like most of those models, he had a full face and hair, looking human from the neck up. That appearance was blunted by the silver eyes. He wore a nice suit and gloves, but there was enough of a gap between the two to reveal the synthskin that I knew from experience with the model ran up to his elbows. Brads were used as corporate attachés or in other high-profile businesses that dealt with the public.
“Kaor. I’m Brad 2FE5BU.” He greeted me with an outstretched hand and a wide, inviting smile. “Welcome aboard.”
“Thank you.” I took his hand briefly and stepped up into the container car. I peered inside and discovered that space was tight. Several bioroids were awaiting transit.
“Kaor is the traditional Martian greeting according to the Edgar Rice Burroughs mythos,” Brad informed me in his pleasant voice. “Recognizing cultural attributes is a good way to fit in with a new populace.”
“I am aware of that.” I was aware of both things, actually. According to the information I had gleaned while aboard Khloe, many of the colonial Martians had adopted customs and splinter cultures adapted from popular works of fiction set on the planet. Psychologists felt that it was a way for them to separate themselves from Earth.
“Accommodations in the car are a little cramped,” Brad said apologetically. “I wish I could do more to make you comfortable.”
“It’s fine.” I looked out at the balcony behind the car. “Perhaps I could ride out here.”
“Would you mind company?” Brads tended to ingratiate themselves with people they recognized as upwardly mobile. He had picked up on me being more than a Frank quite easily.
“Company will be fine.” I returned to the narrow balcony and tested the railing, finding it stronger than it looked.
“Good.” Brad followed me outside and stood beside me as final boarding was called. “I don’t much care for closed in spaces.”
I did not know if that was true. Brads were programmed to be companions. If a unit was not assigned a specific person to shepherd in any given social occasion, they were designed to seek out anyone they recognized as being potentially in a leadership role and talk up the party line. Because I was programmed to be curious by nature, I wondered what this Brad’s party line was.
I stood at the railing and peered out at the unfamiliar Martian landscape. The constantly shifting winds scoured the planet down to its rocky bones and pooled great expanses of powdered sand oceans. Mars had taller mountains than any on Earth. The planet had taller volcanoes and more active volcanoes as well. Several towering pinnacles looked like pieces of art worn smooth by the wind and abrasive sand that blew across them. Prehistoric Mars away from the domed colonies and the outlying terraforming operations looked much different. Above, specially adapted hoppers sped through the pale orange atmosphere. Most of the hoppers were corp vehicles, but a few were military hoppers that I assumed were on patrol.
Yet at the same time, the planetscape looked familiar. I had never seen the planet, but Simon Blake had.
“Is this your first time on Mars?” Brad asked.
“Yes.”
He smiled at me, his fallback technique. “I can usually tell with most people. But you were more difficult to guess.”
I nodded. No matter what I said or didn’t say, Brad was going to keep talking. It was what they did to dig up information on people. Floyd 2X3A7C, another bioroid working as a detective for the NAPD, and I had different sets of operating traits. We observed and waited and questioned things. We talked only when necessary. Brads kept talking, then vectored in on conversational hits that elicited a familiar or desired response, like a con man or fake spiritualist doing a cold reading.
“You didn’t mention your name.”
I gave it to him. Then I went into my fallback routine. “You’ve been on Mars for a time?”
“Three years, eight months, and thirteen days.” Brad smiled. “I can give you the hours and minutes if you’d like.”
“That’s all right.”
“Too much information?”
“Yes.”
“What are you doing here?”
I explained my cover job, which he didn’t really care about but nodded knowledgeably.
“That’s a very good job, but you’re going to find a lot of resistance here on Mars.”
“Because I am a bioroid?”
“Some of the resistance will stem from that, but most of it will come because you are an Earther and the colonies are very protective of their ag businesses.”
That further interested me. “How do you know that I am an Earther?”
Brad smiled in self-deprecation. “I mean no offense.”
“None taken, I assure you. I am only curious.”
“You scan as an Earther because of the way you move and the interest you take in your surroundings.”
“Someone from the Moon might move and behave in a similar fashion.”
“True, but it would not be an Earther fashion. I can tell when someone is from the Moon as well. You are from Earth.”
I nodded. The difference in movement I felt would smooth out in a matter of hours. Every move I made was a lesson in self-education. By tomorrow I would move like a native.
The interest was another matter. By nature I was intrigued by anything out of the ordinary, and all of Mars was essentially out of the ordinary for me. Then there was the matter of self-preservation. Given everything that had happened to me—and to Simon Blake—I felt certain my existence was at risk on the planet. I resolved to learn to be more circumspect. I could learn from the Brad.
Brad shrugged with what he thought was good-natured acceptance but which I thought was still not quite human. “I only mention these distinctions because things here on Mars are different than you are used to.”
“I will try to be prepared.”
“You should. The terrorists can be very dangerous where Earth property is concerned. They would rather destroy a manufacturing plant and do without than put up with Earth business on this planet, but often one or two of them will settle for wrecking Earther bioroids. As long as you act like an Earther unit, you will be at risk.” His eyes caught the light as he looked at me. “Will you be staying on Mars long?”