When the mission clock counted down to zero, she issued the order.
[Engage.]
One by one, they emerged from behind cover. The constables looked up to see them. All at once, they reacted in what felt like slow motion. A widening of the eyes, pupils dilating, and hands moving frantically to go for their weapons or assume a defensive position.
It made no difference.
Her squad opened fire, and the body of every officer at the checkpoint was riddled with holes. Fast-moving caseless slugs, propelled by electromagnetic force, tore through the constables’ bodies. When their bodies fell, it too happened in slow motion.
They never had a chance.
Saana’s senses slowly adjusted to take in the chaos around her. Behind them, voices cried out as people ran from the sudden burst of gunfire. Behind them, the monitor hovered in place, recording their every movement. They let it watch them for just long enough before Saana ordered Popov to destroy it.
She looked to Okran next and gestured to the nearest section of open wall.
[Paint it,] she ordered.
Okran did as she was told, placing her hand above the wall and uploading the proper icon. Her suit sent bits of nanoware onto the flat metal surface, bombarding individual particles with microwaves and breaking them off in a precise fashion. After a moment, an image was burned into the surface for all to see.
An eagle poised over three circles. The letters CoJ appeared beneath.
As icons went, it was crude and makeshift. But what it lacked in artistry, it more than made up for in clarity.
In Saana’s visual field, a new indicator appeared. This one was their exfil clock, and it was rapidly counting down.
[Engage stealth fields,] she ordered. [Make for LZ and prepare to dust off.]
PART ONE: CYTHEREANS
BEYOND CARBON-BASED products, the chief export of Venus appears to be its people. This should come as no surprise. The people’s focus on the skilled trades - construction, nanofabrication, femtoengineering, etc. - makes Cytherean engineers some of the most sought-after professionals in the Solar System. What’s more, people who grew up on this world tend to develop a wander-lust before long.
-Nevsky’s Guide to the Solar System (3rd ed.)
ONE
A TYPICAL MORNING IN O’Neil’s Reach.
The horizon, if it could be called that, measured a dozen kilometers from one end to the other. Looking straight ahead, it formed a horseshoe of greenery, standing water, and domiciles, all stretching into the distance. At the far end, the massive gyro powering the station’s rotation loomed, obscured by a haze of water vapor and wispy clouds.
Through a series of carefully arranged side-panels, which responded like petals slowly opening themselves up to the Sun, daylight entered. In the center of the Reach, a small ball of light appeared, photons coming from outside being redirected into the center of a gravitational ball to create what would - to all those below - appear like the rising Sun.
Gradually, the ball grew and expanded. Beneath it, the landscape was bathed in sunlight, letting everyone in this hemisphere know that it was time to greet the day.
From a dais overlooking the Reach from a spot in the far north, a lone woman stood and drank it all in.
“My name is Veronika Gallego, engineer of engineers,” she said. “Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair.”
“Ozymandias, by Percy Bysshe Shelley, with some minor adjustments” said the person standing behind her. “And here I thought you usually started the day with Coleridge.”
Gallego turned to see Burhan emerging from the doorway. Like her, he wore a simple silk gown with decorative lace in the shape of a clockwork mechanism. It was tied with a sash at his hip, billowing enough to expose his hairy, olivine legs.
She smiled at his comment and looked back at the landscape. “This one has more appeal right now. It speaks to the inner conqueror in me.”
Burhan’s arms embraced her from behind. Gallego was overtaken by his musk and felt his warmth through her gown. Their lace patterns started to flow in response, the filament receiving energy from contact with their skin and emitting the excess as light. The clockwork mechanisms danced as well, dissipating their heat to ensure they maintained cozy core temperatures.
“So you’re celebrating your latest contribution to the life of the Gyros, hmm?”
“It did work out well,” she replied, eyeing the orb. “Even if it doesn’t underscore a certain point.”
“Oh, what’s that?”
Gallego turned around to face him, adjusting his arms so they now embraced her shoulders. She looked into his dark green eyes, and issued her well-timed barb directly to his face.
“Even Gyros long for the creature comforts of home. Deep in our bones, we’re all still terrestrial monkeys looking for Sun, sky, and some nice land to live on.”
Burhan smiled at her sardonically. “Seriously? Terrestrialism, first thing in the morning?”
Gallego giggled. “Well, if people like you didn’t want your Habs looking more like a planet, people like me would be out of a job.”
“Is that why you keep coming here?” Burhan raised an eyebrow. Gallego ran her hands down to his flanks, letting her fingers caress his hip bones beneath the silk fabric.
“That, and the company’s really nice.”
Burhan sighed happily in response to her touch, but he wasn’t about to let the opportunity to retort pass. In the end, any added animosity would only make the impending sex better.
“Big talk for someone whose feet didn’t touch solid ground until she went off-world. You’d think you were some kind of self-hating Cytherean or something.”
This made her laugh. Pulling her hands from his hips, she beat them playfully against his chest. He cried out in mock pain, then pulled her close. Several seconds of play-fighting passed before their lips locked and their hands began exploring beneath the folds of their robes. Before the rest of the Reach had even risen yet, they found themselves back in bed, repeating the same rhythmic dance they had been doing the night before.
Gallego woke again a few hours later. Burhan was sleeping on his side next to her, a pillow wedged between his shoulder and ear and a ridiculous smile plastered on his face. She felt vaguely hungover, the combination of endorphins and physical exhaustion.
Her stomach was grumbling, and her body was demanding an infusion of caffeine.
But this wasn’t what had stirred her.
Her comlink was chiming, an overlay coming up automatically to notify her of the call she was receiving, a call that came all the way from Venus. She frowned as she noted the routing number of the call.
It was using the Council’s official server, which meant it was something other than official business. The fact that they knew how to get in touch with her on her direct line meant it had to be something serious.
She took another look at Burhan and quietly slipped out of his bed. She made her way to his kitchen, just beyond earshot of his bedroom, before replying to the signal.
“Nika,” the familiar face said. “You’re not an easy woman to track down. I was beginning to think you might have left the System.”
Gallego needed a second to process. It had been years since she had spoken to her old mentor, Xenia Elenko, the woman who had schooled her in the fine arts of diplomacy and intelligence-gathering. Despite the passage of time, the woman she was looking at appeared not to have aged at all. But Gallego knew to expect as much from her.
“Xee,” she replied. “It’s been so long. How did you find me?”
“Remember who you’re talking to, Nika. The day I can’t find my way to an old friend or grease a few palms to get the requisite comms for them - that’s the day you should be worried.”
“Indeed. So, what can I do for you?”
“Well, while tracking you down, I learned you were working on a project for the Gyros. Something to do with upgrading their environmental systems.” Gallego smiled sarcastically. It was cute tha
t Elenko was being deliberately vague, but she imagined all the details of her work were known to Elenko at the moment. The woman had never been one to take an interest in something and not learn all she could about it first. “In any case, as I understand it, your contract with them is about up. I thought perhaps you might be looking for a new project.”
“You heard right. The project wrapped up a few days ago.” She paused before asking, ignoring the instinct that urged her not to. “So, what did you have in mind?”
“As it happens, the Commons will be meeting soon to discuss a few developments. I can’t really speak too openly about it here and now. But if you’re interested, I’d like for you to attend. You still have the necessary clearance, and I think there will be a few people in attendance who would like to meet you again.”
Gallego frowned. Vagueness appeared to be a trend with her mentor this morning. She made her way over to Burhan’s cabinet and produced some cups and dishes. She placed them in the alcove of the dispenser, located in an island in the middle of the room. She prompted Elenko to continue while manually putting in an order for coffees and some breakfast snacks. “Go on.”
“The long and short of it is, there may be an opportunity for some freelance work. It would be quite lucrative and would definitely endear you to a lot of people back home. It even entails a little travel, which I know you’re rather fond of.”
Gallego emitted a thoughtful noise. The alcove opened to reveal two cups filled with coffee and a plate decorated with fruit and baked goods. She removed them, one by one, and started searching for a tray with which to carry them back to the bedroom.
“I don’t suppose you can be more specific about where this job would take me?”
Elenko smiled. “To the Jovian system. Ganymede for sure, but with the possibility of an extra hop or two. It will depend on how the situation evolves.”
Gallego peered around the corner into the next room. Burhan was beginning to stir. The smell of coffee and hot croissants was likely waking him. She sighed, knowing what her decision was and resenting herself for it, and not only because she knew how Burhan would react.
“When’s the meeting?”
TWO
EMILE LOOKED AROUND. Checking the status readouts in his overlay, he confirmed that the signal strength was optimal and the transmission wasn’t experiencing in any dips in fidelity. He also looked down at his hand and shuffled his feet a little, making sure his image was coming through clearly.
A flawless representation. He needed it to be so for his virtual meeting with the Councilor. Given the tone he was expecting, he didn’t want technical issues to get in the way.
Emile cast a look around the foyer, his lip curling with the slightest feeling of contempt. While he didn’t hold his surrounding in low regard, he knew his counterpart had selected them to make a point. How else was he to punctuate the gulf that lay between them? The geo-location and name of the place were included in his overlay as an unfriendly reminder.
Zubrin Museum of Martian Colonization.
Attendance was a bit sparse at this time of day. A few families wandered about, their physical presence indicated by the way their feet occasionally tapped or shuffled across the floor. A few others were also walking about, but they were clearly porting in from various locations. While they looked real enough, their footfalls made no noise, and they never touched anything. All in all, a typical midweek afternoon.
Emile looked to his right and spotted one of the alcoves, a recreation of early settler habitats. Inside, arranged in a horseshoe configuration, were a series of scaled-down simulations showing the different kinds of structures that once housed the early settlers. In the first, under the heading of “Frontier Epoch” - and corresponding dates placing it in the early/mid-21st century - a cluster of pods sat against a red landscape.
Unostentatious and simple, these basic communities consisted of little more than landing craft. These were the same vehicles which had deposited the first settlers, now connected by pressurized collars to create a community. From these, the Red Pioneers had set out to construct more permanent settlements, and begin the hard work of transforming the harsh landscape into something livable.
Next door, in the center of the horseshoe, three displays sat side-by-side. The header indicated this was the “Settlement Epoch”. These showed the rather eclectic way in which early settlers lived, before large-scale construction began. On the right, a display showed a typical setup of ice structures that once dotted the lower latitudes. Set against a background of Martian twilight, they looked like glass houses, opal in color and glowing from within.
In the next, “sinterblocks” were the feature. These consisted of spaceship components which formed the structure of the houses. These were covered in molten regolith to create a ceramic shell. The backdrop was again the familiar hazy red that indicated a location within the equatorial latitudes. And last, there was a recreation of a settler colony that had been built directly into one of Arsia Mons’ extinct lava tubes.
Life had been a significant challenge for people in these humble epochs. Every aspect of life involved struggle, and comfort only came with hard work. But the rewards were obvious. By ensuring that humanity established a presence on the Red Dunes, more settlers had been able to come. When they arrived, they found a world where much of the hard work had already been done, and their presence allowed for further expansion.
While Emile hadn’t been there personally to witness it, he had been raised by those who had. More importantly, he had seen the transitions that followed. When the time came, he took up the mantle his own father couldn’t. Emile had committed to the great work the first settlers had dreamed of, one day turning the Red Planet into a green one. Even his great ancestor, who had taught him of this dream, was no longer standing in the way.
This brought Emile to the left end of the horse shoe. In this final display of the alcove was a representation of the “Belle Epoch”. This one showcased the construction of Pavanopolis and the Drift, the great capital and the space elevator that established Mars as its own civilization.
Emile lingered here for a moment, waving at the display to trigger the time-lapse animation. The simulation was entertaining, with work crews, robots and assemblers all building the domed structure and the long thread connecting the surface to orbit. Decades of work played out in mere seconds.
Looking upon these displays and reminiscing about the old days successfully used up the last of his spare time. According to his chrono, it was now time for the meeting. He had arrived early to get his bearing on the place the Councilor had chosen. No doubt, the Councilor had assumed the nostalgic and historic nature of the place would be off-putting to him.
Nothing could be further from the truth. When Emile had become leader of the Formists, he had inherited Mars’ past and become guarantor of its future. To him, remembering the early days was entirely necessary. It served as a reminder of what he and his colleagues were working towards. But letting the Councilor think he had the advantage of being on home turf was in Emile’s best interests. As long as his adversary felt secure, Emile would have an easier time outmaneuvering him.
“Emile. Good to see you again.”
Emile bristled at the voice. Placing a smile on his face, he turned to greet the Councilor, who was now standing behind him, looking entirely at ease.
“Alastair,” said Emile. He took an appreciative look around the room. “You’ve chosen an interesting location for this meeting. Then again, I suppose some people prefer the familiar in their lives. After all, change can be frightening.”
“And I see you’ve chosen to port in from Sarak Lovelock rather than come in person. Of course, I imagine you prefer to remain above the planet, rather than spend time down here with the rest of us.”
They both smiled at each other. Things were off to a predictable start, Emile condemning Fionn for his pedantic traditionalism, and Fionn condemning Emile for his arrogant determinism. It was a dance the two
had fallen into long ago, and which they had become rather accustomed to.
Having established their mutual distaste for each other, Fionn moved on to other pleasantries.
“I would like to convey my condolences, Doctor. Pinter Chandrasekhar was a great man. His loss was most unfortunate.”
“Indeed,” replied Emile. “The entire facility has been in mourning since we learned. I imagine his absence will be felt for some time.”
Fionn looked down at Emile’s hands, which were folded in front of him.
“I notice you aren’t wearing the ring anymore.”
Emile held his right hand up to show the bare finger where the jeweled platinum band used to live. “Yes, I couldn’t bring myself to wear it anymore, knowing what it once represented.”
There was a brief pause. As expected, Fionn was probing into the death of Pinter, and was making little effort to hide his suspicions. His next question came as no surprise to Emile.
“Has there been any progress into learning what caused the malfunction?”
Emile recited his prepared response.
“Our chief of security is still investigating that. But it’s become obvious at this point the program had become a touch... unstable in recent years. The cascading failure that took him was almost inevitable, in hindsight.”
“Strange,” said Fionn. “I would have thought your people would have noticed if any bugs formed in his system over time. Weren’t you the one maintaining his program over the years?”
Emile feigned the look of a mourning man, glancing down at his feet and trying to appear angry and remorseful at the same time.
“His program was rather antiquated, and Pinter was used to having a certain degree of privacy and autonomy. Quite frankly, he resented anyone looking at his programming code or taking too much of an interest in his health.”
Fionn hummed thoughtfully. Emile’s explanation appeared to have brought this line of inquiry to an end. Fionn had nothing with which to accuse him, and could only play the part of the concerned friend. Emile, for his part, could only play the role of the grieving relative. Both had played their parts to completion.
The Jovian Manifesto Page 2