by Pat Mills
"Medusa, please-"
"Call me Mother"
"These killings must stop, Mother. The truce with the extra-martials is holding. Just. But if this becomes known-"
"Let me finish!"
"Tensions are rising. And-"
"Let me finish! May I finish...? May I...?"
"Of course."
"Thank you. You see, the poor girl wanted to die. That's how I was able to lure her here, by singing to her in dreams. There are a lot of humans who have a secret death wish. Particularly amongst the young."
"Hardly surprising on this planet," Deadlock muttered to himself.
"That's why they like to take risks, by driving up the side of pyramids, or undertaking lorries the wrong way or even body swapping. They want to press the self-destruct button. So I oblige. I believe it's called Youthanasia."
"Something like that."
"You see I can identify with them. Young people are fascinated with death."
"Like goths?"
"No."
"Death metal bands?"
"No."
"Tabletop wargamers?"
"No."
She scowled at Deadlock with a "you haven't been listening properly" expression.
"So I give them what they want. I bring them sweet dreams. Oblivion. Peace for all Eternity. The very thing I'm looking for myself."
"But why would you want to?"
"Because," she said patiently, as if she was talking to an extremely slow child, "then I know I'm not crazy when I kill them."
"Right..."
He got up to leave. "Well, I really think I should be-"
"Wait. Wait! Sit! Let's get back to the reason I summoned you here, Norman."
"Pardon?"
"Sorry - Deadlock. Here is a list of my demands."
She handed him some pages that he quickly leafed through. They were surprisingly reasonable, practical and plausible. Her bark was definitely worse than her bite. Particularly in this case - her bite was in a glass of water beside her. The gist of her demands was that as long as humans left her and her kind alone, she'd leave them alone. But he knew they were not ready for the fine-print implications.
"They'll never agree."
"They'd better," she warned. "Or the biol really will hit the fan." She leaned forward menacingly. "It's time to have some finality."
She'd picked this phrase out of the subconscious of a human gangster and thought it was rather appropriate for the occasion.
In a state of deep despondency, Deadlock went back up the stairs.
As he straddled his bike, he thought he saw a menacing horned robot holding a hammer. The figure was watching him from a distant rock. He prepared to convert his bike's wheels to chainsaws, so that he could deal with any threat. The figure seemed vaguely familiar.
The shape watched him for a few moments and then it disappeared. Deadlock had enough on his mind without having to worry about mystery robots. He drove off.
After the wizard had gone, the metallic figure clanked down from the rocks, across the motel forecourt and into the reception. Inside, Google nodded deferentially at the awe-inspiring figure.
"She's expecting you, sir."
"Good."
It went down the stairs to join Medusa in the basement.
Deadlock had put Medusa's "requests" to a senate working party of leading colonists. These requests included no further terraforming on Mars. Zero population growth. Zero industrial growth. Martian life forms to have the same rights as humans. All decisions on the future of Mars to be made jointly by humans and Martians.
Medusa gave them exactly four weeks to agree.
The president, acting on Hoodwink's advice, sent a reply via the Arch-Marzah in Tripolis, saying her demands were being given active consideration. He was playing for time so he could appear to be reasonable to the liberals who still wanted a multi-spatial society.
"I hope to put the future behind us," he said to a reporter, when he was unfortunately caught without a script. "And I look forward to a better yesterday. However, if Medusa decides to take the high horse with us, I'll take the low road and I'll still be in Viking City before me."
But Senator Diaz rejected Medusa's plan outright. His supporters had not forgotten the destruction and loss of life caused by the meteorite storm. Diaz had just returned from honeymooning on Phobos with Juanita. His young wife spoke to a mass rally of supporters, on what would become known as "Human Pride Day."
"We say 'No!' to equal rights for freaks!"
"No," roared the crowd.
(Some were wearing trimorph fur coats.)
"We say 'No!' to giving power to these three-legged monsters!"
"No!"
(Others had Martian redwolf handbags.)
"We say 'No!' to Mars standing in the way of progress!"
"No!"
(A few even had trihimoth boots.)
"Well, that's it then," shrugged Blackblood who was watching the historic broadcast with the other ABC Warriors. "'The Woman From Del Monte - she say No.'"
"Enough, Blackblood," said Hammerstein menacingly.
Juanita continued: "The blood of the Foundation Fathers who first landed on Mars runs through my veins. But they did not come here to be told what to do by a mad hag of a planet. They came to colonise! To conquer! They were not ashamed of their humanity, just as I am not ashamed. They were proud to be human, as I am proud to be human!"
She indicated her awesome chest. "As I am proud to be a woman with... two of everything!"
"Two! Two! TWO!" howled the crowd.
"And I say," continued Juanita, pointing two fingers skywards in time with her words. "Two arms! Two legs! Two eyes! And... TWO FINGERS to the ABC Warriors!"
She stuck them fiercely in the air and the crowd loved it, waving in response giant hands with two massive digits sticking up. They roared their approval: "Juanita! Juanita! Juanita!"
As she continued waving her two fingers in the air, it seemed to Joe Pineapples that she was waving them right in his face. Waving them contemptuously just at him.
Hammerstein watched his friend with mounting concern. When it came to being rejected by a woman, it didn't get any worse than this. He couldn't imagine a more severe slap in the face.
Juanita Perez was the uncrowned queen of Mars. Senator Diaz rose from his seat and kissed his wife to further thunderous applause. "You are my courage, my strength, my dear." He turned to the crowd. "This woman is not afraid to stand up and be counted. To fight against Medusa. And the seven robots that support bioterrorism. She is worth a squadron of Behemeks!"
Once again the vast crowd roared, "JUANITA!"
Juanita looked at him with so much love; tears of emotion streaming down her face. "My man. My lover. My husband."
They were the new golden couple of Camelot. A fairy tale romance come true. The stuff of legend.
But behind the scenes, the truth was very different. Juanita had been love-bombed.
SEVENTEEN
Medusa had been making her plans for the biol to hit the fan for over three years. The unlikely focus of her plans was the Sunset Motor Company, a large manufacturing plant five hundred kilometres outside Viking. If the humans didn't come to the negotiating table and start treating her planet with respect, this was where her revenge would begin.
The Sunset Motor Company once made a wide range of vehicles for the seriously upsized, and the not-so-much senior citizens as post-graduate citizens. There was the three-wheeled Sunset Stroller for the mega-obeast and the coffin-shaped Sunset Saga for the ancients. But the real classic, the car that sold in millions but no one would admit to ever driving, was the one-wheeled Sunset Boulevard.
A Robin Reliant looked cool compared to a Sunset Boulevard. A Sinclair C5 looked cool compared to a Sunset Boulevard. A milk float looked cool compared to a Sunset Boulevard.
No funky spray job, and no amount of time could ever make it retro-fashionable. In a hundred years' time a Sunset Boulevard, with its enormous wheel, its st
urdy cabin and its protective fender would still make you blush. The fender was to stop it running anyone over. Although that was unlikely unless they were already dead.
There was nothing French or sexy about this Boulevard. No chic Parisian would smile admiringly at you as you drove past. It had more safety features than a Volvo. More armour than a Chieftain tank. Its safety sensors would make it slow down if there was a trimite on the road, rather than risk hitting the insect.
If you were ever overtaken by a Sunset Boulevard, your best option would be to leave Mars and not return for at least five years; otherwise you'd have to face the derision of your friends. Not that there were any reported cases of a Sunset Boulevard ever overtaking.
The Botwrights, a family firm, owned the Sunset Motor Company. And they had built it up over many generations. They had been Botwrights back on Earth and had brought their skills to the Red Planet.
Botwrights specialised in bottoms.
"Bot right with Botwrights" was their proud family motto.
They'd begun by supplying car modes and dumper trucks for obeasts. It was not the most appealing of businesses and they had few competitors. They then expanded into the ancients and general market. The Sunset Boulevard was their biggest success. On a dangerous planet it offered a real sense of security for obeasts, ancients and ordinary people alike.
But they were always adapting to new trends in the market. When daily anti-gravity pills made the obeasts' burdens easier to bear, and they became even fatter and yet lighter, Mr Brian Botwright, the managing director, ordered his designers to work on the Sunset Zeppelin - an inexpensive propeller and harness.
This converted the obeasts into dirigibles. But gas was still a problem. They hoped to solve the threat of explosion by adding a pill to flyers' in-flight meals so that the gas became less inflammable.
Mr Brian's design team were also working on a new Strider designed for obeasts and ancients that looked a little like an enclosed mobile high chair. Available in a number of heights and sizes, it had three elongated, jointed telescopic legs that enabled the driver to effortlessly walk through the city and go places a Sunset Boulevard could not go.
The standard Strider was suitable for one obeast or three ordinary people, or one ancient with a life support system. The feet were equipped with suckers and grabbers that enabled them to climb from one level of a city to another. This replaced the need for an obeast to wait for a crane to winch him up.
At one stage, the designers produced an advanced prototype that could scurry up the side of a tower block and even leap across onto other buildings. But, as Mr Brian rightly said, this was far too exciting for their market. So the prototype was put into storage and the designers concentrated on more conventional and sedate aspects of the Strider. Like the table an obeast could eat from while driving.
Mr Brian's twenty-one year-old son, Michael, however, was embarrassed to be a member of the family firm.
He just couldn't seem to take the job seriously and had been caught a couple of times undermining the business. There had been that unfortunate incident where he had been discovered in a car showroom window - horizontal jogging in a Sunset Saga with one of his girlfriends. And another occasion when he'd written the introduction to a book of Sunset Boulevard jokes.
Mr Brian felt that if he made Michael the head of marketing, he might become more responsible and settle down. He put him in charge of the Strider project. He asked him to come up with a name and advertising campaign for the new vehicle. Their first marketing strategy meeting did not go well.
"Well, Dad," said the young man, showing a dynamic vid to compliment his words. "I thought we'd show a Man in Black in the vehicle as it leaps from one building to another. Clambering down the side, then bursting into his girlfriend's apartment. 'If you're looking for action, it has to be a... Sunset Spider.'"
"Michael, I thought we'd already agreed to play down that whole exciting aspect of the Strider." Mr Brian made "exciting" sound like a swear word. "Many of our customers are several hundred years-old, that's why they need a Strider. The name of the vehicle should reflect this."
"It does, Dad. 'It creeps, it crawls. It's the Sunset Spider.'"
"Let's get off spiders. Stay with ancients. What other names have you got?"
"Sunset Kerb Crawler."
"No. That doesn't sound right either."
"Sunset Street Walker."
"Michael, you make it sound like an ageing hooker."
"Street Cruiser."
"Definitely not. Look, you need to show the new opportunities our vehicle gives our three hundred year-old customers-"
"Old Sparky?"
"something that suggests getting them out of the house. Going to the shops. Chatting with neighbours. Visiting great, great grandchildren. That sort of thing."
"Sunset Daywalker."
"Vampire angle not wanted, Michael."
"Mobile Throne."
"I don't think so."
In the end, Mr Brian decided to call it the Sunset Solid which he thought was far better than any of Michael's names. Those who would criticise the name should bear in mind Mr Brian knew his market. He was, after all, the man behind the Sunset Boulevard.
There was an enthusiastic response when they road-tested the Solid: journalists spoke favourably after test walks, and there was a positive reaction from dealers. People were contacting them asking "Any Solids?" even before they were in the showrooms.
Accordingly, the Sunset Motor Company went into mass production. Naturally the Solid was launched at the National Motor Show where thousands flocked to see the latest cable cars, skips, automobins, ski-bikes, one-wheelers and Striders.
And it was there that young Michael Botwright did the unforgivable. He bit the hand that fed him.
He publicly criticised the drivers of the vehicles his company manufactured.
It happened during his speech at the televised launch dinner. He'd been drinking all day, building up to it. He spent hours ranting about the other members of the family firm. "They're the Old Guard. I'm the Vanguard. When am I going to get my place in the Sunset? Why won't anyone listen to my ideas?"
He kept on putting it away, trying to drown his anger.
Then he lurched into the dinner and his impromptu speech. It was a dinner at which, apart from the media, there were many obeasts and ancients with the usual three-chair settings for the former and coffin couches for the latter. These were important people: main dealers, fuel suppliers and representatives from motoring organisations.
Michael lurched and swayed his way around the table as he made his speech. He came out with many gems, like: "Our cars are for fat bastards. Really fat bastards," as he leaned forward into the face of a shocked obeast. Three-chinned, biol-bloated, fat bastards!"
Then he turned his attention to the ancients. "And geriatrics. Trikey-necks." He waved a reprimanding finger at a sweet little two hundred and fifty year-old lady. "You wouldn't be seen alive in a Sunset Saga. It felt like necrophilia when I gave my girlfriend a seeing-to in one."
Mr Brian tried to get him out of the hall, but Michael pushed him away. He couldn't hold his tongue. He turned to the cameras.
"And as for the Solid. As for the Solid. What a stupid name and what a stupid vehicle. You've got to be mental to drive one. They should call it 'Bark and Ride'. Although a dog wouldn't cock his leg on one of our Striders."
It was at this point Michael realised he couldn't hold his liquor either. So did the guests who were within range.
The official receiver was called in four weeks later.
The receiver was surprised to find a potential buyer for the factory so soon after the debacle. The man who turned up was a Mr Le Guerre, who represented an anonymous private buyer. He seemed very respectable and had good credentials. He was immaculately suited and had a Mephistophelian appearance: jet black hair, a small goatee beard and piercing dark eyes. And he smiled a great deal.
But there was no smell of sulphur and brimstone abou
t him. Rather, there was an odour of marshrooms and mouldy cabbage.
After he had been shown around the factory site, Mr Le Guerre professed himself well satisfied. It was exactly what he was looking for. Or rather exactly what the lady who owned his company was looking for.
"Would I know her?" asked the receiver curiously.
"She prefers to remain anonymous, but she has planet-wide interests."
Mr Le Guerre seemed particularly interested in the Sunset Solid and was pleased that thousands of Striders had already been produced. He wanted to see all the blueprints and had a lengthy discussion with Fred Ravine, leader of the design team, about ways they might be adapted to different uses and new marketing requirements. He was particularly impressed by the high-speed advanced prototype; the Spider Strider that could leap from building to building.
Mr Le Guerre made an offer for the company. A very generous offer, given the low esteem the Sunset Boulevard and the Sunset Saga were now held in. The receiver received a black bag of cash which, officially, did not exist on Mars. And he also received a black bag for himself. A very large black bag.
This took care of awkward questions when it came to signing contracts. Few of the original human staff were kept on. The factory was fully automated, in any case. It used nanobots, "universal assemblers," as was standard practice in the manufacturing world. But Fred Ravine and his designers were kept on and given large salary increases. Given that they had been facing long-term unemployment, as the inventors of the Boulevard and the Solid, this was an incredible stroke of luck. They enthusiastically switched their allegiance to their new proprietor; they worked long hours, seven days a week. They discussed and developed new variants on the Strider so that it had longer telescopic legs and a larger cabin with additional features.
Mr Le Guerre also brought in his own people. They seemed to have a smell of mouldy cabbages and marshrooms about them, too. They all looked remarkably similar to each other. They wore the same suits, white shirts and ties. They smiled a lot like Mr Le Guerre and they went around in threes, as if they were in a religious cult. Fred noticed they also carried copies of the Trible around with them, which seemed a strange thing for humans to do.