by Allen Steele
A wry smile. “I think you know better than that … oh, and you can call me Ezra. I think you’ve earned that, at least.” As he spoke, Ezra sat back in his chair, propped his right leg up on his left knee, and pulled back the trouser cuff from his right calf. From inside the boot came a small silver flask engraved with the IPF seal. “I didn’t think Joan should go off with you without any backup, and neither did the president. So he ordered the Vigilance to shadow the Brackett, and I came along in case Joan needed help. When you got cast away … well, I think you can pretty much guess the rest.”
“So you didn’t trust me after all, did you?”
“Until now, no.” Ezra uncapped the flask, raised it to his lips, and took a long drink. “You didn’t just think we’d cut someone loose like that, did you? Someone we don’t know?”
“Joan trusts me … no thanks.” Curt shook his head when Ezra offered the flask to him.
“I think Joan has a soft spot for you.” Ezra screwed the cap back on and returned the flask to his boot. “Maybe she doesn’t show it, and the good Lord only knows why she would, but she does. I suppose I do, too, now that I know what kind of person you are. Just don’t try kissing my hand—”
“I’ll keep that in mind. So what now? Are we going to catch up with the Brackett so I can transfer back aboard my ship?”
“We could do that, sure. Ol’ Vigilance here has a warp drive, and that means we could beat even a beamship to Mars if we wanted to.” Ezra paused. “But there’s something else you ought to know. I’m not the only one on your tail. Senator Corvo is, too.”
Hearing this, Curt sat up a little straighter. “Corvo is following us?”
Folding his arms across his chest, Ezra leaned back in his chair. “He is, indeed. The day after Brackett set sail, he boarded another beamship … a government ship, not a ferry like the one you were on. It’s scheduled to arrive at Port Deimos the day after the ferry gets there.”
“That’s rather sudden, isn’t it? Did he give a reason why he’s dropping everything to head to Mars?”
“His office issued a press release stating that the senator has gone there to negotiate a trade agreement between the Lunar Republic and certain unnamed Mars-based companies. But that’s just the cover story. It’s a good bet that the reason why he felt it was necessary to drop everything and skedaddle off to Mars was that you shook his tree somehow and he needs to protect his interests there.”
“You think he might be responsible for what happened? Someone trying to jettison the Comet, I mean.”
“If there’s a connection between him and Ul Quorn, yup, I do indeed.” Ezra reached over to the table, pressed the edge of the wood top. “Here … let me show you something I learned just before we picked you up.”
A holo screen materialized above the table. The marshal tapped a few keys to open a display. A man’s face appeared, a scowling aresian whom Curt immediately recognized as the would-be saboteur he’d killed.
“The Brackett’s crew retrieved this gentleman’s body after you blew his head off,” Ezra said. “Didn’t have a face left, of course, but they still managed to identify him from a bank card they found in his quarters aboard the Brackett. His name was Troy Reichard, and according to the IPF Mars database, he belonged to the Sons of the Two Moons.”
“That figures. If Corvo wants to get rid of me and he’s also linked to Ul Quorn, then he’d ask Ul Quorn to send one of his people to do the job.”
“That’s what I’m thinking, too, but it gets even more interesting. We’ve also discovered that, up until the day the other guy tried to kill the president, Reichard had been working as a servant in Corvo’s household. In fact, not only had he been there for a few weeks, he’d twice visited the president’s quarters on one errand or another, even delivering a meal to him.”
Puzzled, Curt raised an eyebrow. “So why didn’t he kill Carthew when he had the chance? If Corvo is tied to Ul Quorn and they were plotting to kill Carthew, why arrange for a sniper to shoot him when they already have someone inside the senator’s mansion who could have done the job?”
“I have no idea,” Ezra said, slowly shaking his head. “Whole thing is a mystery. But I’m willin’ to bet the answer’s on Mars … and this attempt on your life makes you the best man to find out.”
“Why do you say that?”
“No one ’cept the people on this ship and your friends on the Comet know that you’ve been rescued. Far as the Brackett and the other ships are concerned, you were lost in space fightin’ off someone tryin’ to sabotage your ship.”
“So…?”
Ezra smiled. “So you’re dead, Captain Future. And if we play our cards right, we can make that work to our advantage.”
VIII
“Brackett to Comet. Stand by for detachment in five on my mark. Mark … five … four … three … two … one…”
A sudden jolt passed through the ship as the ferry’s docking cradle released its grip on the smaller ship. From her seat in the copilot’s chair, Joan watched as Otho fired the maneuvering thrusters and pulled back on the stick. The Comet floated free of its berth aboard the Leigh Brackett; through the bow window, the spar with its other empty docking cradles was visible for a moment before the ferry fell away beneath them.
“Comet detached and in the clear.” Otho’s hands—white as fine porcelain, Joan observed, yet with large tendons running across the backs—moved across the controls with unhurried ease. “Thanks for the lift, Brackett. Sorry for the trouble en route.”
“No need to apologize,” the beamship’s captain responded, her voice coming through Joan’s headset. “We’re sorry for your loss. Hope the cops figure out who was responsible.”
Otho cast Joan a knowing smile. This confirmed that no one except the Comet’s crew was aware that an IPF inspector was already aboard. “So do we,” Otho replied. “Thank you for your understanding. Comet over and out.” He tapped his mike wand and looked at Joan again. “So what are your people going to do now? About Reichard, I mean.”
“Continue the investigation, of course.” Joan continued to watch the Brackett as it receded. Its sail was visible now, still deployed but oriented in the opposite direction, catching the photon pulses from the Mars PLT array that was decelerating the ferry for orbital insertion. “They’ll board the ferry and question the crew, but it’s mostly for show. My people have already figured out what happened. The real follow-up is going to be on the ground.”
As she spoke, Otho fired thrusters to swing the Comet around. The Brackett disappeared and was replaced by a lovely sight: Mars as seen from a distance of about twenty thousand miles, its once completely red deserts now broken by veins of blue and blotches of green, the lights of major settlements glimmering in the night that was falling across the eastern half of the western hemisphere.
In the foreground, only a few thousand miles away, was a pale, oblong rock that looked like a misplaced boulder: Deimos, the smaller and more distant of the two Martian moons. The tiny satellite was orbited by myriad spacecraft coming in and out of its commercial spaceport: hydrogen and helium-3 tankers from Jupiter and Saturn, ore freighters from the asteroid, ferries and passenger craft from Earth and Venus. Just as Mars itself was gradually becoming terraformed into a habitable world, so Deimos had been transformed over the years into an orbital spaceport. And now the Comet was on its way there as well, a tiny teardrop all but lost among the behemoths surrounding it.
“So what’s the plan, anyway?” the Brain asked.
Joan looked over her shoulder. Simon Wright had just come up from below. He was followed by Grag, with Eek happily trailing along behind. The moonpup had no problem with adapting to zero-g; his breed were adapted for low-gravity environments and never succumbed to the vertigo that sometimes upset humans experiencing space travel for the first time. The little dog bounced from bulkhead to bulkhead, propelling himself with his long, swirling tail.
Joan didn’t answer at once. A few hours ago, she’d retired to th
e privacy of her stateroom and had a long wireless-text conversation with Ezra Gurney aboard the Vigilance. She’s shared little of this with Otho, Simon, and Grag, other than to let them know that they were to continue pretending Curt had lost his life defending his ship from an unknown assailant, possibly a hijacker or pirate. In just a few minutes, the Comet would enter the traffic pattern of ships bound for Port Deimos. The time had come to let the others in on what she’d discussed with Ezra and, indirectly, Curt.
“All right, here’s what is going on.” Joan swiveled her chair around to face Simon and Grag; beside her, Otho continued to pilot the ship. “As you already know, Curt is safe and sound aboard the Vigilance. No one is officially reporting that he was rescued, though. Both the Guard and the IPF aren’t issuing any public notifications of his recovery, and in a day or so the IPF will routinely report the loss of an unidentified passenger from a private spacecraft bound for Mars. Foul play suspected but not proven, IPF officers continuing to investigate, and so forth.”
“Very good.” Simon purred over to the bulkhead and used a manipulator claw to anchor himself to the nearest available handrail. “With luck, Corvo will assume that Curt is dead and Ul Quorn will likewise believe that his man was successful.”
“Correct.” Joan was getting used to him; no longer did she shrink away when he came near. “In the meantime, we’re to proceed to Port Deimos, where we’ll dock just as planned. While you and Grag remain there, Otho and I will board a shuttle for Xanthe Terra, where we’ll rendezvous with Curt. If we need you, we’ll get in touch and have you bring down the Comet. Otherwise, you will remain in port with the ship.”
“No.” Grag had magnetized the soles of its feet and was now standing upright on the deck. Eek pushed himself to Grag’s left shoulder, where the pup anchored himself by wrapping his tail around his master’s neck. “I wish to accompany you and Otho when you go down to Mars.”
“No way, iron butt,” Otho said. “You’re too conspicuous.”
“I hate to say it, but he’s right.” Joan was surprised to find that she was talking to Grag like this. Never before had she ever felt empathy for a robot. However, she was coming to realize that Grag was special, just as Simon was and Otho, too, for that matter: perhaps not human, but worthy of human respect all the same. She often wondered why Otho insulted the robot the way he did, or why Grag blandly tolerated it. “Folks don’t often see construction ’bots following people around, and we don’t want to attract attention. When Otho and I go down, we’ll be posing as ordinary travelers.”
“So you’re not presenting yourself as an IPF officer,” Simon said.
“Correct. From here on, I’m working undercover.” Joan looked down at herself. “I’m going to need other clothing. This bodysuit is IPF standard issue.”
“Curt has some overalls aboard he uses for maintenance work. They’ll be a little baggy and you may have to roll up the cuffs and sleeves a bit, but they’ll do until we can get you to a shop. There should be one in Port Deimos. We’ll need to get respirators for you and Otho as well.”
“Thanks.” Joan smiled. “Overalls. Y’know, if I tuck my hair up in a cap, I may be able to pass as a man.”
“Don’t count on it,” Otho said dryly.
“I’ll take that as a compliment.” Joan was becoming accustomed to his sense of humor.
Otho gave her a sly wink and went on. “So where do we go once we hook up with Curt? Mars is a big place. Lots of room for Ul Quorn to hide.”
“We have one clue. According to intelligence reports from IPF’s Section Four division on Mars, Troy Reichard belonged to a Sons of the Two Moons coven that apparently makes its home in a tolou near Mons Ascraeus in the Tharsis region. I figure that, if the three of us can get there without anyone figuring out who we are, we might be able to ask questions that will lead us to Ul Quorn.”
“And if we do? What then?”
“Believe me, Ul Quorn is wanted on enough charges that, if I can pin him down, all I’d have to do is call for backup and we’d have an entire IPS tactical weapons team there in minutes.”
“Uh-huh. Sounds like you’ve got it all worked out.”
“I’m sure we’ll need to improvise a bit,” Joan replied, trying not to be defensive, “but … yes, I believe we do.”
Otho turned his head to gaze down at her for a long moment. He said nothing to her, though, but simply shook his head as he returned his attention to the controls. “Deimos Traffic, this is the Comet, SolCol registry Delta X-Ray one-zero-nine, on primary approach. Requesting permission for rendezvous and docking…”
IX
A hard thump against his back, followed by the dull rumble of a big engine being fired, and Victor Corvo felt the welcome return of gravity. Despite the fact that his travels had taken him to most of the worlds of the inner solar system—Mercury was the only exception, but who the hell goes there?—he’d never enjoyed or become accustomed to zero-g. He hated to admit it, but it almost always made him ill. Sometimes he’d spend days throwing up, and wouldn’t stop puking until his feet were on solid ground again.
Which was the reason why he preferred beamships. For almost half of the way, while the ship was outbound and under thrust, he had at least partial gravity, and that was enough to keep his stomach under control. And while the big ferries like the Brackett depended on another PLT in Mars orbit for deceleration, smaller vessels like the Lowell, the government passenger ship that he’d requisitioned for this trip, used nuclear fusion engines for braking maneuvers. So even though he’d have to spend the rest of his time aboard strapped into his couch in his private cabin, it was a small price to pay for not having to barf every time he saw someone or something upside down.
But gravity’s pull lasted only half a minute or so, then the engine was turned off again. Once more, Corvo felt himself gently rising from the couch. Wincing, he grasped the armrests and rigidly held his body in place. His mouth tightened with exertion and he had to close his eyes for a second.
“You seem a little pale,” Ul Quorn said. “Is anything wrong?”
Corvo opened his eyes to gaze at the com panel on the bulkhead before him. Its camera was active, but the person on the other end had deliberately turned off his own video feed. A wise precaution; anyone intercepting and unscrambling this signal might recognize the individual at the Martian end of the comlink as the most wanted man on the planet. If that happened, there would be many uncomfortable questions about why a member of the Solar Coalition Senate was in contact with the Magician of Mars.
“No … only a little motion sickness, that’s all.” Corvo raised a hand to his mouth to cover a nauseous belch. “Pardon me … you were saying?”
There was a short delay while the radio signal traveled to Mars and a reply was received. “I was saying that it’s unwise of you to come here. We have the situation well in hand, no matter the outcome of events aboard the Brackett.”
Again, Corvo checked the readouts below the blank screen. The scrambler was still active; no one should be able to eavesdrop on this exchange between the Lowell and an undisclosed location somewhere on Mars. “You know how it came out. Your man knocked off the Newton kid. He may have failed to get everyone else on the ship, but at least he killed Newton.” A laugh found its way up his throat. “Or Captain Future, as he called himself—can you believe it?”
“I can believe anything except what you’re telling me,” Ul Quorn replied a few seconds later, his voice becoming noticeably colder. “According to my sources—who are quite reliable—my associate was killed while spacewalking. Since it’s unlikely that he would’ve lost his life to a dead man, the most reasonable explanation is that he was dispatched by this Captain Future.”
He spoke the name without any sense of irony. Before Corvo could respond, Ul Quorn went on. “The plan called for you to remain on the Moon while I continue my operations here. The assassination failed and this same individual was responsible, but that’s not sufficient cause for you to come here.
It may attract further IPF attention and therefore jeopardize everything we’re trying to accomplish.”
Corvo glowered at the blank screen. “Twice already I’ve trusted you to do this on your own,” he said, matching Ul Quorn’s frostiness with his own, “and both times you’ve failed. It’s pretty clear to me that, if I want things done right, I have to see to it myself. The IPF suspects that I’m involved in the assassination attempt. I’ve given the public a legitimate reason for making this trip, but that’s only a cover. I can no longer stand by and let you do things by yourself. Obviously that’s not working.”
A pause, longer than necessary by the time delay. Without realizing it, Corvo anxiously tapped his fingers against his armrests. He’d never liked these abrupt silences during conversations with Ul Quorn. He knew what they meant: the Magician of Mars was thinking, and seldom did his thoughts bode well for the people who heard them. It had been Corvo’s idea that they go into business together, but he hadn’t realized Ul Quorn would become as powerful a force in his world as the senator was in his. They needed each other in order to be successful in their mutual objectives—and besides, there was another reason—but on Mars, Ul Quorn had the upper hand.
“Very well,” Ul Quorn said at last. “It means I’ll have to adjust my plans somewhat, but I’m sure my people and I will be able to accommodate you. Once you’ve arrived on Mars and have settled in, I’ll have someone collect you at your residence … where will you be staying?”
“The Viking Inn in Xanthe,” Corvo supplied.
“A good choice. My representative will contact you there and surreptitiously transport you to my current whereabouts. If your staff has any questions, inform them that you’re meeting with a business partner who doesn’t want his identity known until an arrangement has been formalized.”
“Sure. So what about Newton’s people? And Newton himself, if he’s still alive?”